Chapter 9
Chapter 9: The Tundra
The cold hit Jacob like a wall of glass. One moment he was descending from the last hill, the next he was stumbling into a world of white that stretched to every horizon. The wind howled across the frozen plain, carrying ice crystals that stung his exposed skin. He pulled his jacket tighter, but the fabric was thin, meant for the mild climates he had crossed, not this.
The tundra was a wasteland of snow and rock. The ground beneath his boots was frozen solid, crunching with each step. The sky above was a pale, bruised gray, and the sun—if it could be called that—hung low and weak, casting no warmth. Jacob's breath plumed in front of him, and within minutes, his fingers began to ache with cold. He had to keep moving. That was the only rule now. Keep walking east.
But the cold was relentless. It seeped through his clothes, into his bones, into his thoughts. He began to shiver uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He thought of the gas station in the desert, the bunker with its supplies. He should have taken more. He should have been prepared. But the journey had lulled him into a false sense of progress. Now the wilderness was reminding him that it was not a path—it was a test.
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