by Scott Reeves
Buffeted by the blowing snow, the freezing wind biting at his skin even through the multiple layers of heavy-duty winter clothing, Jason slogged up the snowy slope. He had no way of knowing whether there was an actual hill beneath the slope, or if this was merely a huge snowdrift.
Siri trudged along in his wake. She was six months into her pregnancy, and that made her seem even more bulky in her winter clothing.
They had come to the coldest place on Earth, at the coldest time of the year. From the intense heat of Hell, they had come to the Fimbulwinter of Norse mythology, from one extreme to the other.
They crested the snowy slope and looked out over a flat wilderness of white that stretched from horizon to horizon, an immense plain of snow and ice cowering under a perpetually overcast, leaden sky.
Far out there across that sea of snow and ice stood a lone stone edifice, looking small and fragile in the midst of the vast frozen wasteland. It was a gothic church, up here at the end of the world where no man lived.
Jason started down the other side of the slope toward the distant church. Siri followed. With luck and quick feet, they would reach it by nightfall.
Something was calling to Jason from far below that church. Something called, and he would answer.
