Winter’s Mercy: A Story of Survival
Chapter 1: The Frozen Tomb
The air inside the Honda didn’t just feel cold; it felt heavy, a physical weight pressing against Elena’s lungs. It was the smell of old upholstery and the metallic tang of a cooling engine that had finally surrendered. Every time she exhaled, a thick plume of white mist escaped her lips, swirling in the dim light before vanishing into the frost growing on the dashboard.
She looked down at her chest. Two bundles. Sophia’s lips weren’t just pale anymore.
They were the color of a bruised plum, a terrifying violet that stood out against her translucent skin. Miguel had stopped his rhythmic whimpering minutes ago. He was terrifyingly still.
Elena pressed them closer, her arms trembling so violently she feared she might drop them. She was wearing a coat meant for a Phoenix winter—thin wool that the Montana wind sliced through like a razor. “Stay with me,” she whispered.
Her voice sounded thin, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Please, just stay.”
She tried to shift her legs, but her feet were blocks of lead. The snow outside had reached the window seals, a rising tide of white that had turned her car into a coffin.
She had tried the door once, throwing her shoulder against it with everything she had left, but the snow was packed too tight. The world was sealing her in. She thought of Diego.
She could almost hear his voice over the howling wind outside. “You won’t make it a day without me, Elena. You’re weak.
You’re nothing.”
She had run from him with seven hundred dollars and a tank of gas, convinced that Canada was her promised land. She had survived his fists for two years, hidden money in the freezer behind bags of frozen peas, and planned her escape with the precision of a jailbreak. And now, three hundred miles from the border, a blown head gasket was going to do what Diego couldn’t—it was going to finish her.
A sound cut through the roar of the blizzard. It wasn’t the wind. It was a mechanical growl, deep and guttural, vibrating through the frame of the car.
Elena’s head snapped up. Through the wall of white, she saw it—a flicker of light. Then another.
They weren’t the steady, high-mounted lights of a plow or an emergency vehicle. They were low, dancing searchlights cutting through the drift. Motorcycles.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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