Whiteout

by 

NSandIK

    The snow fell all around them in a silent shifting curtain of cold. Napoleon knew Illya was only six feet away, but he could no longer see him. They were dressed in white, and Illya had turned his face away for a moment, listening.

When he turned back, Napoleon felt relief. He could once again make out his partner’s goggles.

    
As if sensing Napoleon’s discomfort, Illya side-stepped closer on his skis. He leaned in and said softly, “I’m not hearing anything.”

    “Me, neither,” said Napoleon. “Do you think we lost them?”

    “I think they went over that drop off and are somewhere at the bottom of the crevasse.”

    Napoleon grinned beneath his woolen balaclava. “My, my, aren’t we optimistic.”

    “Come. Let’s head for the trees and set up our shelter.”

    Napoleon let Illya lead the way. Snow and skiing were things the Russian was much more familiar with. Their packs and parkas were white, everything was white, white, white, even their ski boots. Perfect camouflage for eluding Thrush in a wintry setting. 

    No one had counted on the blizzard, though. 

    The good news: No one could see them well enough to catch them.

    The bad news: They couldn’t see anyone either, and if some Thrush goon stumbled upon them in the storm, there would be no sound, no visual clue to warn them of an approach.

    A few minutes later -- or was it an hour? Napoleon couldn’t tell. But some time later, as trees became more frequent on either side, he skied into his partner’s back. 

    Illya’s chuckle told him he had stopped abruptly on purpose.

    “Very funny,” said Napoleon. 

    Illya’s amusement was evident in his voice. “Over to the right. A copse of birch. We’ll set our tent among those trees. More camouflage with their white trunks.”

    “Copse? What have you been doing? Studying your Berlitz again? How come you know words even I wouldn’t think of?” Napoleon had already turned and was making his way toward the birches.

    “PhD,” said Illya. “All those books I had to read.”

    “Yeah, but weren’t they in Russian?”

    Illya laughed again. Feeling confident. The snow was still falling heavily, but the tree branches above shielded them from some of it. It didn’t feel as blizzardy here.

    “Blizzardy,” he said aloud.
    “What about it?” asked Napoleon, shifting out of his pack.

    “That is the kind of word I learn from you, moi droog. Blizzardy.” Blee-zar-dee.

    “You make it sound like frozen Italian food,” quipped Napoleon. 

    A branch cracked in the stillness.

    The two men froze, waiting, listening. 

    A moment later, a deer appeared. It had been using their ski trail for a path through the woods. When it saw them, it stopped and stared. Half a moment later, it bounded away.

    Napoleon and Illya shared a sigh of relief. Then they fell silent, working together to set up the white tent. They anchored it to the slender tree trunks with white rope. 

    Once they stopped skiing, the cold began making headway. No longer moving and producing their own inner warmth, they needed to get into the tent and out of the falling snow.

    A breeze had come up. The snow was now blowing sideways. Good for hiding. Bad for getting out.

Napoleon chided himself silently. ‘One thing at a time.’ First you hide and survive. Then you worry about the trip back.

    “After you,” said Illya, holding the tent flap.

    Napoleon tossed his pack inside, then entered. Illya did the same. Once inside, he zipped the double flaps closed and stayed busy for a few minutes, arranging the packs, laying out sleeping bags. White, white, white.

    “Keep your goggles on,” said Illya. “We could go snow blind in here almost as fast as out there.”

    Napoleon dug through his pack and pulled out a handful of rations. He opened one and his jaw dropped.

    “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

    “What?” Illya sat down beside him and peeked into the bag. 

    Sugared flakes of white coconut.

    They stared at each other. Illya’s eyes sparkled with fun. Napoleon’s were flat and bleak. 

    “If we survive this,” he said quietly, “we need to paint the living room a different color.”

    Illya laughed with silent, body-shaking mirth.

    “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I think I have chocolate in my pack.”

    “Not white chocolate, I hope.”

    “Nyet. The brown variety. And Ritzie crackers.”

    “Ritz,” said Napoleon.

    Illya wagged his brows. “Pull that sleeping bag around us. We’ll stay warm and have a lovely meal.”

    “You wouldn’t happen to have any liquid refreshment, would you? My canteen is almost empty.”

    “I know. You have been sharing your water with me. But mine is full. And,” he added, “my second canteen is full of vodka.”

    “You clever Russian, you.”

    After a few sips of vodka, a chocolate bar and some crackers, Napoleon began to think he might live to see a greener day. 

    “One more toast,” said Illya. “Then you have to put this in your pack and sleep on it.” He lifted the vodka canteen in the air.

    Napoleon knew why he would be sleeping on the vodka. It was their little secret. Instead he asked, “What’s the toast?”

    “February 2,” said Illya. “Happy Groundhog Day.”

    Napoleon’s face brightened. “I see no sun at all.”

    “Exactly,” said Illya. “Early spring.” He took a healthy swallow, then passed the vodka to Napoleon.

    Outside, the storm was letting up but night was falling. They would stay overnight, then hopefully ski out in the morning.             
They lay their sleeping bags side by side, arranged their weapons for easy access, just in case their pursuers had climbed out of the crevasse, and settled down for the night, fully dressed. 

    “So,” said Napoleon, “you think they’re dead?”

    “Frankly, I am more worried about wolves than Thrush.”

    “Well, there’s a lovely thought. Thanks for planting that in my brain.”

    “We have guns,” said Illya. “Good night.”

    “G’night.” 

    Napoleon lay awake for a while. He could hear Illya’s breathing ease into sleep. He allowed himself a smile. Lost in a snowstorm with a friend was an adventure, not a disaster. He closed his eyes and murmured in the dark.

    “Sky blue,” he said. 

    Illya hmphed. “Yellow.”

    Then they chorused, “Anything but white.”

End