Page 28 of One Last Storm
Axel swung his leg over the machine. Pulled out his handheld radio, ice crystals already forming on the metal surface. The cold bit through his insulated gloves, making his fingers clumsy on the controls. Around them, the landscape stretched empty and hostile—rolling hills covered in snow that reflected the fading aurora borealis like a mirror.
“Echo, this is Axel. We’ve got a problem.”
Static crackled back, then Echo’s voice, thin but clear. “Go ahead, Axel.”
“Fuel situation. We’re stranded about a half mile from the highway.” He checked the GPS coordinates on his watch, squinting at the small screen through the condensation forming on the inside of his visor. “Maybe ten miles south of the city.”
“Copy that. Let me see what I can?—”
“Axel.” Shep’s voice cut through the radio chatter. He and London had pulled up beside them, their snowmobile idling but showing the same signs of fuel starvation. “We’re running on fumes too.”
Shep shut off their engine. Mountain silence pressed in around them. No wind. No traffic noise. Just the vast emptiness of Alaska wilderness at five in the morning. The aurora borealis was fading overhead, green curtains dissolving into the approaching dawn.
“So we walk.” Moose was already stripping gear from the snowmobile, his movements sharp and aggressive. He yanked the emergency pack free with enough force to send snow flying, then slammed shut the center console. “Half mile to the highway, flag down a ride.”
“In this weather?” London’s breath steamed as she spoke, her cheeks already showing the pink flush of wind burn. She pulled her scarf down, revealing lips that were starting to turn blue at the edges. “It’s twenty below, and there’s not going to be much traffic at this hour.”
The cold was seeping through their gear now that they weren’t moving, through the thermal wear and even into Axel’s boots. Sweat from the ride formed a thin layer of chill against his thermal layer. The silence of the wilderness pressed in around them—no traffic noise, no civilization, just the vast emptiness that could kill you if you made the wrong choice.
Axel’s radio crackled again. “Axel, this is Echo. I’ve got Deke Starr on the line. He’s got some news.”
Something in her tone made Axel’s chest tighten. “Patch him through.”
“Axel?” Deke’s voice was grim. “Where are you folks?”
“Stranded about ten miles north of Anchorage. Why?”
A pause, then, “There’s been a shooting in the city. Officer down. Heard it on my scanner about twenty minutes ago.”
The words hit Axel like a physical blow. What?—?
His hand moved to his pocket where the ring box pressed against his chest. “Which officer?” His voice came out rough.
“Don’t know. Just heard officer down, shots fired, requesting medical assistance.”
Moose had stopped packing. Was staring at Axel. “Flynn?”
He asked. Closed his eyes as he waited.
Finally, “Shasta put in a call to dispatch. Axel—it’s a detective on the scene. That’s all we know.”
Now his knees did buckle. He sat hard on the seat of the snow machine. Flynn had been at the hospital with Tillie and Dawson. If there was a shooting, if she’d responded...
“We need to get to that highway. Now.” Moose shouldered his pack, the weight of emergency supplies making him lean forward. He set off through the snow without waiting for agreement, his legs punching through the crust with each step.
They abandoned the snowmobiles where they sat. Fuel gauges reading empty. Started the half-mile trek through knee-deep powder toward the snowy ribbon of asphalt visible in the distance. The landscape around them possessed a lethal beauty—rolling hills dotted with stunted spruce trees, their branches heavy with snow that sparkled like diamonds in the fading aurora.
The cold bit through their winter gear, his face mask was already stiff with frozen condensation. His boots crunched through the snow crust, sending up small puffs of powder that caught the light.
“How long to walk half a mile in this?” Shep asked, his voice muffled by his face covering.
“Thirty minutes if we push it,” London replied, already breathing hard from the exertion. “Longer if we hit any soft spots.”
Axel refused to do the math.
The highway stretched before them. A thin line of civilization cutting through the wilderness.
They had to summit the tall drifts that edged the road, but at five in the morning on Christmas Eve, it was empty in both directions—no headlights, no taillights, just endless asphalt disappearing into the darkness. A plow had come by, maybe a couple hours ago, scraped it down, salted, but snow frosted.
