The Great Hot White

CW: Brief descriptions of violence

The harsh winter wind had deepened in severity, the gushes feeling colder, and gaining force, each blow by feeling like a scorned slap against the boys now ruddy cheeks. He sniffed, pulling the snot back into his nose before it became icicles. He couldn't see ahead of him, or behind him, a raging tempest of white encompassing him. A faint orange glow emerged out of the white behind him, with it talk that was muffled by the wind. The boy knew he had to go faster. The boy looked at his father, who laid on the sled he pulled, his skin sickly and almost as white as the snow. The father muttered words, faint, and incoherent. The boy hastened his stride, gripping the rope with his skinned palms and pushing further out into the cold.

The men had first arrived several months ago. They were like aliens, carrying strange items, and donning strange garb. Their tongue was guttural. They had emerged from the woods like folk creatures, venturing into the tribal camps. The boy was first at awe. They left, and returned just a few days ago, this time death with them. The boy had escaped with his father, the rest of his family taken or killed. His father had tried to rescue the boys sister, but the men had attacked him with strange weaponry, and now his father laid near death with his chest agape.

The boy continued to walk, no longer feeling sensation in his feet. He dared not glance at them least he see their condition, and it sour his resolve. The orange glow grew closer, and the words carried on the wind clearer. Speech. Guttural speech. The very sound of it strangled the boys chest, and his heart became tight, fear gripping his body. The boy quickened his pace, tugging at the sled. Before him, he could slightly make out the vestige of the landscape. Snow covered plains stretching for miles, beyond that, towering mountains.

The boy continued with his hastened pace, breath ragged and lungs raw, tissue being clawed at by the bitter wind. He continued 'til he slipped, falling down a small slope, the sled falling with him. He rolled until momentum judged he need roll no longer, but his father went into a stone, covered in snow. The boy ran to his father, and after making sure his father was not injured, profusely apologized.

The wind was sinister, the harshness of its cold, and of its force, almost malevolent, as if alive and seeking vengeance against man. What made it even crueler was the sound of howls which now rode it, coming down from the mountains. The boys fear was doubled, but he knew they couldn't turn back. So he kept forward. They made their way onto the great and snow covered plain, the boy now almost running. Across the white land, shadows flew across it, silent and strange. They disappeared, only to reappear feet ahead. They howled, and their howls intertwined with the wind, a symphony of dread. Their bellies were empty, and they ran with hunger, their eyes set on violence. They knew this land, better than man. Eyes adapted for the dark, and a world without light. Across the plain they spotted the boy and his father. And with the turn of the howling in the wind, the boy knew this also.

The boy ran, his hands clenched to the rope like the fists of a newborn. The wolves ran, more so appearing to fly, over the plains. With each new leap, each new jump, they seemed to disappear like jinn, only to appear moments later in the fog of the cold. The boy had doubted his belief in the great spirit, and in things that lie beyond this earth, as of late. It seemed as if there was nothing more than the dirt, and the violence, and the misery, and the pain. But he had now regained an ember of his once held conviction, as the wolves had now took note of the men that were pursuing him. Once more, the howls upon the wind turned, and the wolves turned from the boy and his father, and instead pursued beast like themselves.

The boy chuckled as he heard the burst of yells, gunshots and howls. The laugh though was tainted by a spray of blood, the boy falling down face first into the snow.

When the boy was asleep, he could swear he had a conversation with someone. He couldn't remember who, but he knew he did.

The boy had now awoken, when he pried his face up from the ground some of his already maimed and bloodied skin peeling, sticking to the ice like honey. A few drops of blood fell from his face to the ground, but froze within seconds and soon after that covered in snow. It was painful and he cried for a moment, but not for long. He checked on his father, who looked like a snowman, his moccasins and feather headdress peeking through the snow that had covered him, and realized he was dead. The boy cried, but quickly stopped and wiped his cheeks, the tears freezing as they rolled down. He also stopped because he finally looked at his feet, and realized he was also soon to die. So he lied next to his father and looked at the sky. Beyond the storm, you could make out the black canvas, specks of white spotted around. The stars and black canvas began to become more visible, the haze of the storm lessening.

A shooting star blew by. A strange coincidence, a chalk up to luck, that the boy would see such a beautiful sight before his departure. Then another one flew by. Then another. Then another. Then multiple ones at once. It grew, and grew, until the sky glowed, becoming a sea of hot orange and red as celestial objects propelled through the void. They grew until the sky, the firmament, the void itself became a great, hot white. The white grew, in intensity, and in light, and in warmth, and seemed to be closing in on the boy. He welcomed it though, it felt like a warm hug, a loving embrace from someone you've never known, but could swear they've known you all your life.

A deep, thundering rumbling emitted from within the white, the force of it seeming to shake the very ground. A presence was behind the light, the very vestige of its size and scope immeasurable. The rumbling grew into bellowing, a thundering holler and yell. The boy closed his eyes as the thunder washed over him, and warmth wrapped around his body. He felt as if his soul was being tore out of his body, and went unconscious.

The sky was blue. Light blue, with a few, odd clouds spotting the canvas. The boy leaned up, surveying the scene. The plains were still covered in snow, but the storm now gone. The boy looked at the sun, his yes squinted. Morning. He should be dead by now. He looked at his feet, the skin no longer peeling off them. The soreness of his traveling had left his body, and he felt rested for the first time in days. His father still lie dead in his sled a little aways from him, his corpse looking more like a ghost than the man who raised him. Across the plain lie scattered dead men, their bodies maimed and bloodied, the snow around them flushed with red.

The boy stood, and went to his father. He spoke a short prayer over his spirit, for peace and safe travels. He looked around, unsure of where to go, or what to do. He looked up at the sun, his eyes closed. It was warm, so he decided to follow it, and embarked eastward for the mountains.