The Signal in the Snow

The wind screamed like a living thing, hurling ice against the ranger station’s shuddering windows. You pressed your back against the frosted glass, breath fogging in the cold, watching the others through the slats of your lowered hood. Marlow stood by the stove, voice low and steady as he rationed out the last of the coffee. Wren huddled near the radio, fingers white-knuckled on the dial. And Rook—Rook was watching you.

Not the way a grateful survivor watches a rescuer. The way a man watches a lock he’s about to pick.

“You never said which sector you were stationed at,” Rook said, quiet enough that only you heard. His eyes drifted to your boots—the boots of a man who’d walked through a lot more than one snowstorm. “Before the crash. The ranger logs. You were on the east ridge, weren’t you?”

The lie sat on your tongue, smooth as a river stone. But before you could speak, the radio crackled—a burst of static, then a voice. A woman’s voice, broken and distant: “—help—they’re not—they’re killing—”

Then silence. Wren’s face went pale. Marlow’s hand drifted to his hip.

Rook’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Looks like we’ve got company out there.”