“Are you sure you feel like sitting up?” Leander asked for the third time.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go.” Shivering, Sander zipped up his coat and brushed a gloved hand at the sweat on his brow. His legs felt annoyingly weak, his body as sore as if he’d been run over by a truck. A few suspicious bruised spots went unquestioned by Sander; after all, there had been no one to help Leander hoist him from the sled to the back of the truck. Sander expected a bump or two.

“I’ve got enough food loaded onto the sled to see us through a week.” Leander stepped to the door and glanced back. A pair of clear goggles hung around his neck.

“I wish we could take more, but I know we can’t,” Sander said. The heavier the load, the more gas they would burn. Leander had refilled the snowmobile from the truck’s reserves, but even a full tank would only get them so far. Sander had no doubt that any families they came across would be desperate for food, and leaving so much behind in the truck sat ill in his gut.

Leander muttered epithets about storms and snow and the weather in general. He took a deep breath and said, “Be careful. I parked as close to the truck as I could, so it’ll be a little treacherous getting down.”

Sander came behind, pulling up the second pair of goggles Leander had brought from the farmhouse. Covering his eyes, he followed Leander through the open door and down to the ground. The snowmobile sat mere feet from the back of the vehicle, sled hooked up and food supplies already loaded. Much to Sander’s surprise, the blizzard had lessened to a steady snowfall. Guessing visibility to be around a hundred yards or so, he closed the door to the truck and climbed onto the back of the snowmobile behind Leander. The wound on his leg throbbed, but the pain was an afterthought. He’d endured worse.

While Leander started the engine, Sander cast a look over his shoulder, hoping to see another snowmobile or two approaching from the direction of Valder’s farm. He hated leaving Mattias and Gunnar without knowing their fate. Without knowing if they’d gotten out of the farmhouse alive.

Part of what made him and Mattias work so well together on missions was trust. Trust that the other could do the job set before them, could get out of tough scrapes and live to see another day.

This was the creed by which Sander and Mattias had lived all their lives. It was the same creed he fell back on now, allowing him to go forward while trusting Mattias to do what needed to be done.

Within a half an hour of departing the truck, the steady snowfall increased. Visibility dropped to less than a hundred feet. Leander threw a curse at the wind and slowed his speed. Sander cursed under his breath at the same time, frustration mounting over the weather. He knew it was useless to berate the relentless snowfall, the back-to-back storms, but that didn’t stop him from wishing every kind of vile hell upon them.

It took all the willpower and determination Sander owned to stay upright on the machine. The fever worsened for a short time, sending him into a brief period of confusion and incoherency. Luckily, the haze lifted and, by degrees, he felt a little better.

Leander brought the snowmobile to a halt some minutes later and pulled up his canteen for a drink.

Sander mimicked the motion, tipping the frigid container against his mouth. Snow started to blow sideways. The sky looked ominous. Impossibly, it seemed another whiteout was about to move in.

“Looks like we’re headed straight into it,” Leander said, turning his head toward Sander.

“Yes. Right into another blizzard.” Sander couldn’t keep the bitter disappointment from his voice. Capping the canteen, he shifted the strap and bottle under his coat so the water didn’t freeze.

“How are you holding up?” Leander asked.

“I’m fine. We should keep going,” Sander said. He didn’t like their odds from here on out, didn’t like that the vague trail they’d been following would all but disappear in the increasing fog. Even the few landmarks they’d used to help guide their way would be impossible to see.

“Give me your best guess at the heading,” Leander shouted.

“Straight about two hundred yards, then curve east.”

“Tell me if you think I’m taking a wrong turn. I don’t want to wind up in Russia.” Leander eased the snowmobile forward, heading into the wind.

The weather deteriorated with incredible speed. Snow fell faster, as if the sky had split open like a pinata. An obliterating fog swirled closer—sinister white tendrils that reminded Sander of a living, breathing thing. Visibility dropped to fifty feet. Twenty.