The cold woke me before the pain. It clawed at my skin, biting through layers of clothing, sinking deep into my bones. My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I didn't know where I was. Everything was white. Blinding, endless white.

Then the memories hit like a slap.

The plane. The shuddering engines. The sound of metal tearing apart.

I tried to sit up, but my body screamed in protest. My right side throbbed, sharp and insistent, and when I reached down, my gloved hand came away sticky with blood. I forced myself to breathe, shallow and measured, focusing on the small details around me.

The smell of burned fuel lingered, acrid and sharp. Pieces of the plane were scattered across the snow like breadcrumbs. A twisted wing jutted out of the ground a few yards away, its edges glinting dully in the weak sunlight.

The crash wasn't a dream.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been out. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow. My watch had stopped during the impact, its glass face cracked and useless.

I scanned my body as best I could without moving too much. Blood soaked my parka near the ribs, but I didn't think anything was broken—at least not badly. My legs were stiff and bruised but functional. Small miracles.

The bigger problem was the cold. Even through my layers, the Arctic chill was relentless. I had to move, find shelter, or at least a windbreak. Lying here was a death sentence.

Gritting my teeth, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself upright. My vision swam, and for a moment, I thought I'd pass out again. But I held on, focusing on the horizon until the dizziness faded.

The crash site was a mess. Twisted metal, shattered luggage, and debris lay scattered across a snowfield that stretched endlessly in every direction. The plane's fuselage was split open like a tin can, its edges blackened from fire.

The bodies came next.

I hadn't noticed them at first, half-buried in the snow, their faces pale and lifeless. A woman in a red coat lay a few feet away, her arm twisted at an impossible angle. Farther out, a man's hand stuck out of the snow, his watch glinting faintly in the sunlight.

I swallowed hard, the bile rising in my throat. These people had been alive only hours ago, chatting about layovers and business meetings, laughing over drinks.

And now they were just… gone.

I couldn't let myself think about it. Not now. Survival came first.

The wind was picking up, the chill cutting through even the thickest parts of my parka. My fingers were already going numb inside my gloves, and my boots—thin, inadequate for this terrain—offered little protection.

I staggered toward the fuselage, hoping to find something useful. The inside was a horror show. Seats were torn from their frames, strewn across the cabin like discarded toys. The smell of fuel was stronger here, mingled with something metallic and sickly sweet. Blood.

I kept my eyes forward, focusing on the task at hand. "Prioritize," I told myself. "Shelter, warmth, water, food."

There was a luggage compartment near the rear of the plane, its door bent but not entirely shut. I pried it open with stiff, clumsy fingers, spilling the contents onto the ground. A suitcase cracked open, revealing clothes, toiletries, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Not much, but better than nothing.

I scavenged everything I could carry: the whiskey, a thick wool scarf, and a pair of heavy socks. Someone's briefcase held a lighter, miraculously intact, and a pack of cigarettes. Not ideal, but the lighter might save my life.

I found a first-aid kit near one of the emergency exits. The metal case was dented, but the supplies inside were intact: bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a roll of gauze. My hands trembled as I patched myself up, wincing as I pressed the bandages against the gash in my side.

By the time I was done, the sun was dipping lower, the shadows growing longer. I needed to find shelter before nightfall. The fuselage offered some protection, but the lingering fuel fumes made it too dangerous.

I turned my gaze to the horizon, scanning for anything—a ridge, a cluster of trees, a cave. The landscape was flat and featureless, a frozen wasteland that stretched endlessly in every direction.

Then I saw it: a jagged outcropping of rock, barely visible against the snow. It wasn't much, but it might offer some protection from the wind.

The trek to the outcropping was brutal. The wind was stronger now, pushing against me like a living thing, stealing the breath from my lungs. My boots sank deep into the snow with every step, my legs screaming in protest.

By the time I reached the rocks, my body felt like it was running on fumes. I collapsed against the largest boulder, letting its bulk shield me from the worst of the wind. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely pull the scarf from my pack, wrapping it around my face to keep the frostbite at bay.

There wasn't enough light left to build a proper shelter. For now, I scraped at the snow with my gloves, digging a shallow trench at the base of the rocks. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

The lighter flickered weakly, barely catching on the bits of fabric and paper I'd scavenged. The whiskey burned as I poured it onto the pile, the flames flaring to life for a precious few minutes. I held my hands close, savoring the fleeting warmth.

That first night was hell. The fire burned out long before dawn, leaving me shivering in the darkness. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the cold. Sleep was impossible; the wind howled relentlessly, drowning out every other sound.

By the time the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, I knew one thing for certain: if I didn't find a way to stay warm, I wouldn't survive another night.

That night was better. Not good, but better. The wool blanket I'd scavenged from the wreckage, tied down with chunks of ice, formed a crude roof over the trench I had dug into the base of the outcropping. It blocked some of the wind, enough to keep my body from slipping deeper into the cold's grip. The fur-lined boots, stolen off the frozen passenger, made an enormous difference. My toes still ached, but they weren't completely numb anymore.

The fire didn't last long—just a few pitiful minutes. I rationed my meager bundle of fuel with the precision of a miser counting coins. Small twigs, splinters of wood, and scraps of fabric burned fast and bright but left nothing behind. I let the fire die, huddling deeper into the trench, the blanket pulled tight over my shoulders.

Sleep was impossible. The cold wouldn't allow it. Each time I drifted off, I'd wake minutes later, shivering uncontrollably, gasping as if the air itself had frozen in my lungs. I focused on breathing slowly, forcing my mind to think of anything but the hunger gnawing at my insides or the icy ache in my bones.

By the time dawn arrived, the landscape had transformed into something even more unforgiving. A heavy snowstorm had swept through overnight, smoothing out the jagged ridges of ice and burying the wreckage in a fresh blanket of snow. My tracks from the day before were gone, swallowed up by the storm.

The cold was sharper now, biting at my exposed skin as I worked my way out of the trench. I packed the wool blanket into my bundle, along with the remains of my supplies: a crushed pack of biscuits, a half-full bottle of water, and the scavenged first-aid kit. The lighter was still in my pocket, a small but crucial lifeline.

I knew I couldn't stay in the trench. It was temporary at best, a shallow hole in an endless wasteland. If I wanted to survive, I needed to find better shelter—or, ideally, rescue. The thought of staying here long enough for my body to join the frozen corpses by the wreckage was enough to push me forward.

I trudged back to the crash site, the snow crunching beneath my boots. The wind howled, driving tiny ice crystals into my face like shards of glass. My scarf was pulled tight, but it wasn't enough to keep the frost from creeping into the gaps around my neck and cheeks.

The wreckage looked worse now, half-buried in drifts of snow. The fuselage was a tomb, silent and still. I forced myself to step inside one last time, ignoring the stench of burnt metal and fuel.

I needed to think like a survivor. Every piece of metal, every shard of glass, every scrap of fabric could mean the difference between life and death. I scavenged ruthlessly, stripping the cabin of anything remotely useful: seatbelts for rope, shards of metal for tools, and another intact bottle of water tucked into an abandoned carry-on.

The most important find was buried in the snow outside: an emergency survival kit, bright orange, wedged beneath a chunk of the plane's tail. It took nearly twenty minutes to dig it out, my fingers stiff and clumsy in the cold, but the effort was worth it.

Inside, I found a pack of thermal blankets, a flare gun with three flares, a firestarter kit, and—most valuable of all—a small survival manual. I flipped through its pages, scanning the sections on cold-weather survival.

"Prioritize warmth and shelter," it advised. "Dehydration can kill faster than hunger. Never eat snow directly; melt it first."

Simple advice. Obvious, even. But seeing it in writing gave me something to cling to, a set of rules in a world where chaos reigned.

I spent the next few hours building a better shelter near the crash site. Using parts of the fuselage, I constructed a crude windbreak, stacking sheets of metal into a half-circle around a shallow pit I'd dug into the snow. I lined the pit with the thermal blankets, tucking myself inside as the wind howled overhead.

The firestarter kit was a godsend. With its help, I managed to coax a flame to life, using scraps of fabric and bits of wood from the wreckage. The fire was small but steady, its heat reflecting off the metal walls of my shelter. For the first time since the crash, I felt something close to warmth.

The hunger hit me hard that night.

The biscuits I'd scavenged were long gone, leaving my stomach empty and hollow. I could feel the weakness creeping into my limbs, the cold sapping what little energy I had left. The survival manual had mentioned edible plants and hunting, but out here, there was nothing but ice and snow.

I'd seen no signs of animals—no tracks, no movement, nothing to suggest life beyond my own desperate existence.

I thought about the other passengers, the bodies still frozen in the wreckage. My mind lingered on the unthinkable for a long moment before I shook the thought away, disgusted with myself.

The next day, I made the decision to leave the crash site.

The survival manual had stressed the importance of staying near the wreckage for rescue, but I couldn't afford to wait. The search parties might never come—or worse, they might arrive too late.

I packed everything I could carry: the thermal blankets, the firestarter kit, the flare gun, and the scavenged tools. The outcropping of rocks I'd seen earlier offered some hope of better shelter, and if nothing else, moving would keep me from freezing in place.

The trek was grueling. The snow was knee-deep in some places, and the wind pushed against me like an invisible wall. Every step was a battle, my legs screaming in protest as I forced them forward. The cold was a constant companion, numbing my fingers and toes despite the fur-lined boots and heavy layers.

By the time I reached the rocks, I was half-frozen and barely standing. The outcropping wasn't much—just a cluster of jagged stones jutting out of the snow—but it was enough to block the wind. I collapsed against one of the larger rocks, letting its bulk shield me from the worst of the storm.

My hands trembled as I unpacked the firestarter kit, feeding scraps of fabric and wood into a small pile. It took several tries, but the fire finally caught, its warmth chasing away the worst of the chill.

I huddled close, wrapping the thermal blankets around my shoulders. My stomach growled incessantly, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the fire's flickering light.

For the first time in days, I felt a glimmer of hope. The rocks provided some semblance of shelter, and with the flare gun and firestarter, I had tools to survive—at least for a little while longer.

But the Arctic was relentless, and deep down, I knew this was only the beginning of the fight.

The fire sputtered weakly as dawn approached, the light barely strong enough to see by. The outcropping of rocks shielded me from the worst of the wind, but the Arctic cold was unyielding, pressing in from all sides like a vice. I hadn't eaten in over a day, and the hunger was turning into a gnawing pain, sharp and insistent.

My body felt sluggish, my mind foggy, but I couldn't afford to stop. Survival wasn't just a matter of endurance—it was momentum. Stopping meant freezing.

I broke camp as quickly as my stiff hands allowed, packing the thermal blankets and tucking the flare gun into the inside pocket of my parka. The firestarter kit was my lifeline, more precious than anything else I carried. Every step I took farther from the crash site felt like a gamble. If rescuers came, they wouldn't find me there—but staying would've meant waiting to die.

The survival manual had been clear: "Search for higher ground. Visibility increases your chances of rescue." The ridge in the distance was my best shot. It was a slow, agonizing climb, the snow forcing me to fight for every step, but the hope of being seen from above kept me moving.

When I reached the top of the ridge, the wind was stronger, whipping against my face like icy knives. The view below was endless: white plains stretching to the horizon, broken only by the occasional jagged shadow of ice formations. No trees, no animals, no signs of life.

But then I saw it—a faint smudge of color against the snow, barely visible in the distance. It was too far to make out clearly, but it wasn't natural. Maybe a cabin, a research outpost, or even another wreck.

The sight sparked something inside me, a small flicker of hope. I adjusted my pack, tightened the scarf around my face, and began the descent.

The trek was brutal. The smudge of color seemed closer at first, but as I walked, it stayed maddeningly far away. The Arctic played tricks on the eyes, distances warping under the endless expanse of snow.

My legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort. The hunger was worse now, a hollow ache that left me dizzy and disoriented. At one point, I stumbled and fell face-first into the snow, the ice burning my cheeks. For a moment, I thought about staying there, letting the cold take me.

But the thought of the smudge kept me moving.

Hours passed before I finally reached it. It wasn't a cabin or an outpost. It was a wreck—a rusted, half-buried plane, much older than the one I'd come from. Its fuselage was torn open, the metal corroded and jagged.

At first, I thought it was useless. A relic, abandoned decades ago. But as I got closer, I noticed signs of life: a makeshift lean-to built from scavenged panels, a fire pit lined with stones. Someone had been here.

The realization hit me like a jolt. If someone had survived here before, maybe they'd left something behind—something I could use.

The lean-to was empty, its walls covered in frost. Inside, I found scraps of old fabric, a rusted tin can, and a scattering of bones. Rabbit, maybe. Whoever had been here must've hunted for food, though there were no traps left behind.

The plane itself was a treasure trove. In the cockpit, I found a rusted hatchet lodged into the control panel, its blade dull but usable. The cargo hold had long since been emptied, but I found a box of matches tucked into a crevice, miraculously dry.

Most valuable of all was a tattered logbook, its pages covered in cramped handwriting. I flipped through it, scanning the entries.

"Day 14: Snowstorm. Nearly froze last night. Trapped in the lean-to. Rabbit snares empty."

"Day 21: No sign of rescue. Running low on food."

"Day 35: Decided to head west. Saw tracks. Might be wolves."

The final entry was dated sometime in the 1950s. Whoever had written it hadn't survived—or if they had, they hadn't left anything behind to indicate where they'd gone.

I spent the rest of the day fortifying the lean-to, using what I could scavenge from the old wreck. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the trench by the rocks. The fire pit was intact, and I managed to coax a flame to life using the rusted tin can as a makeshift stove.

For the first time in days, I melted snow for water, drinking deeply from the warm liquid. The relief was almost overwhelming.

Food was the next problem. The bones I'd found inside the lean-to were picked clean, and I hadn't seen any signs of wildlife. The survival manual had mentioned edible lichen, but I hadn't seen any.

That night, as I huddled by the fire, the hunger became unbearable. My thoughts returned to the bodies back at the crash site, their frozen faces haunting me. Desperation gnawed at my mind, making me think the unthinkable.

I pushed the thought away, focusing on the fire's warmth. But I knew the hunger would only grow worse.

The next morning, I set out with the hatchet and a small bundle of supplies. I didn't have a clear plan, just the vague hope of finding food—or, failing that, a way out of this frozen hell.

I followed the ridge west, the direction mentioned in the logbook. The snow was deeper here, the wind stronger, but I pressed on, scanning the ground for any signs of life.

Hours passed. My legs felt like they were moving through molasses, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. Just as I was about to turn back, I saw them: tracks.

At first, I thought they might be human. But as I got closer, I realized they were too large, too deep. Wolves.

The realization should've filled me with dread, but instead, it gave me a strange kind of hope. Wolves meant food. If I could follow the tracks, find their den, maybe I could scavenge something—a kill they'd left behind, even scraps of meat.

I followed the tracks cautiously, my hatchet clutched tightly in my gloved hand. The Arctic was silent, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath my boots and the howling wind.

The tracks led to a small hollow near the base of the ridge. It was empty, but I found the remains of a carcass—a deer, half-eaten, its ribs exposed. The meat was frozen solid, but it didn't matter. It was food.

I hacked off a chunk with the hatchet, wrapping it in fabric before heading back to the lean-to. The wolves would be back soon, and I didn't want to be there when they returned.

That night, I cooked the meat over the fire, the smell filling the lean-to. It was tough and gamey, but it was the most satisfying meal I'd ever had.

For the first time since the crash, I felt like I had a chance. The Arctic was still a cruel and unforgiving place, but now I had tools, shelter, and food.

But I wasn't safe. Not yet.

The wolf meat gave me strength, but it was a double-edged sword. Eating brought life back into my limbs, dulled the hunger clawing at my insides, and cleared my foggy mind—but it also meant the fire inside me burned hotter. I wanted more. Needed more.

That morning, as the first pale light broke over the ridge, I found myself staring at the chunk of frozen deer I'd taken from the wolves. It was nearly gone. A grim realization settled over me: I'd have to follow those tracks again.

I packed carefully, leaving nothing to chance. The firestarter kit, flare gun, thermal blankets, and hatchet all went into my makeshift pack, now reinforced with strips of seatbelt from the wrecked plane. The survival manual stayed tucked inside my parka; its advice was blunt and pragmatic, a voice of reason in an unreasonable place.

The wolves' tracks were still visible, despite the fresh snow. Their hollow hadn't been far from the ridge, but their range would be wide. They were hunters, always moving, always searching for the next kill.

Just like me.

I kept my distance as I followed the tracks, stopping often to check my surroundings. The Arctic was disorienting in its sameness—white stretching into white, broken only by the occasional ridge or drift. Without the wolves' trail, I would've been hopelessly lost.

Hours passed before I saw it: a dark shape on the horizon. At first, I thought it might be another wreck, or even an animal, but as I drew closer, the details came into focus. It was a camp.

The sight stopped me in my tracks.

The camp was crude, little more than a collection of wooden stakes and stretched tarps. A hunting sled leaned against a nearby ridge, its runners warped with rust. There was no sign of its owner.

I approached cautiously, gripping the hatchet tightly. The place looked abandoned, but the Arctic didn't forgive assumptions. I called out once, my voice hoarse and dry.

No response.

The camp's interior told a grim story. A half-collapsed tent held the remnants of a firepit, its coals long dead. A scattering of supplies lay nearby: a torn sleeping bag, a pot blackened by soot, and a small metal tin. Inside the tin, I found a handful of jerky strips and a rusted compass.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

I spent the night at the camp, my nerves on edge. The wolves' tracks were fresh near the ridge, and I knew they were close. The fire I lit inside the tent was small, its light barely visible through the gaps in the fabric. Still, it gave me a fragile sense of security.

Sleep didn't come easily. I spent hours staring into the darkness, listening to the wind howl outside. The Arctic had a way of magnifying every sound, turning the smallest creak or rustle into a phantom threat.

When morning came, the wolves had left fresh tracks around the camp. Their prints circled the perimeter, cautious but curious. They knew I was here.

The encounter with the wolves came sooner than I expected.

I was halfway through packing the supplies I'd scavenged when I heard the first low growl. It was distant but unmistakable, a sound that sent every hair on my body standing on end. I froze, gripping the hatchet as my eyes darted to the ridge.

They came into view slowly, their forms blending with the snow until they were only a few yards away. Three of them, their eyes bright and hungry, their fur bristling against the wind.

For a moment, none of us moved.

I don't know what made me do it—whether it was instinct, desperation, or sheer stupidity—but I raised the hatchet and shouted. My voice was raw, a guttural cry that echoed across the ridge.

The lead wolf hesitated, its ears flattening against its skull. The other two held their ground, their muscles coiled like springs.

When the lead wolf lunged, it was like a thunderclap.

I swung the hatchet wildly, the blade slicing through the air with a hiss. The wolf dodged, its body a blur of motion, but the swing was enough to drive it back. The second wolf darted in from the side, its teeth snapping inches from my leg.

I kicked out, my boot connecting with its flank. The impact sent it skittering across the snow, but it recovered quickly, its eyes burning with rage.

The fight was chaos, a blur of teeth and claws and desperation. I swung the hatchet again and again, the metal slick with blood and frost. The wolves were relentless, their snarls filling the air, but I refused to fall.

When it was over, I was shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps. One wolf lay dead at my feet, its body still and silent. The other two had fled, their howls fading into the distance.

I stared at the carcass for a long moment, the reality of what I'd done sinking in.

This was survival.

The wolf's body was heavy, its fur thick and matted. I dragged it back to the camp, every step a struggle against exhaustion. The survival manual had said nothing about skinning an animal, but necessity was a cruel teacher.

It took hours to butcher the wolf, my hands clumsy and unsteady. The meat was tough and gamey, but it was food. The fur, stiff with blood, could be cleaned and turned into insulation.

As I worked, I thought about the other wolves, their howls still fresh in my mind. They'd be back. They'd smell the blood and come for me.

That night, I didn't sleep.

The fire burned low, casting flickering shadows across the tent. I sat with my back to the wall, the hatchet resting on my lap, my ears straining for the slightest sound.

The wolves didn't return, but the fear stayed with me, sharp and cold.

I'd survived another day, but the Arctic wasn't done with me yet.

The Arctic didn't relent. Each passing day felt like a war of attrition, one where the odds grew heavier against me. I counted time in meals and moments of rest, measuring survival by the flickers of my dwindling fire. The wolf meat kept me alive, but it wouldn't last forever. The cold, hunger, and isolation gnawed at me, a relentless trio of predators.

But something inside me refused to quit.

I decided to move again. The wrecked camp had served its purpose, but staying there made me an easy target—not just for wolves, but for the endless cold itself. I packed my remaining supplies, wrapped myself in the thermal blankets, and set out toward the horizon.

I had no clear destination, just a grim determination to keep going. If I stopped, I would die.

The days blended together in a haze of snow and exhaustion. I followed the ridges, using the rusted compass to keep a vague sense of direction. The landscape was an unbroken expanse of white, but the ridges gave me hope. High ground meant visibility, and visibility meant rescue.

On the third day of walking, I saw it: a glint of metal far off in the distance.

At first, I thought it might be another mirage, my starving mind playing tricks on me. But as I got closer, the shape solidified into something unmistakable. A radio tower.

The tower was rusted and tilted, its base half-buried in snow. Beside it stood a small wooden structure, its roof sagging under the weight of ice.

A weather station.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, the hinges stiff with rust. Inside, the air was stale and bitterly cold, but it was shelter. A single room, cluttered with old equipment: a rusted generator, a broken desk, and rows of shelves stacked with dusty supplies.

Most of it was useless, corroded beyond repair. But in the corner, under a pile of debris, I found a hand-cranked radio.

It took hours to get the radio working. The generator was dead, and the wiring was a tangled mess, but the crank mechanism was intact. I turned it slowly, the static crackling to life like the sound of a distant storm.

I didn't expect much. The Arctic was vast and remote, and there was no guarantee anyone would be listening. But I had to try.

"Mayday," I said, my voice hoarse. "This is James Weller. I was on a flight out of Anchorage. The plane crashed. I'm stranded in the Arctic. Please—if anyone can hear this, send help."

The static didn't respond.

I tried again and again, cranking the radio until my arms burned, calling out into the void. Hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness.

I lit a small fire in the corner of the station, feeding it scraps of wood and paper. The warmth was fleeting, but it kept the frost at bay.

As the fire burned low, I heard it.

A voice.

Faint and crackling, barely audible over the static, but unmistakable.

"James Weller… Anchorage… message received…"

My breath caught in my throat.

"Rescue… coordinates… hold on…"

Relief washed over me, but it was tempered by the bitter reality of the Arctic. Rescue would take time—hours, maybe even days. I couldn't afford to let my guard down.

I rationed my remaining supplies, counting every strip of dried meat, every sip of melted snow. The fire burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the dark.

The wolves returned that night.

I heard them before I saw them, their howls echoing through the stillness. They were close, circling the weather station like shadows. I gripped the hatchet tightly, my pulse pounding in my ears.

When the first wolf lunged through the broken doorway, I was ready. The fight was brutal, a desperate struggle of teeth and steel. The hatchet bit deep, the blade slick with blood, but the wolves were relentless.

When it was over, I was still standing. Barely.

The station was a mess, the door half-shattered, the floor smeared with blood. My body ached, every muscle screaming in protest. But I'd won.

For now.

The helicopter arrived at dawn, its blades slicing through the icy air. I stumbled out of the station, waving the flare gun wildly.

The rescuers were bundled in thick parkas, their faces obscured by goggles and scarves. They pulled me aboard, their voices muffled but filled with relief.

As the helicopter lifted off, I looked back at the weather station, its silhouette shrinking against the endless expanse of white.

I'd survived.

But the Arctic had taken its toll.