The hum of the engine stuttered, jolting Alex Kane awake. Hands gripping the controls, he squinted at the instrument panel, its dials spinning erratically. Outside, a soft green shimmer rippled across the sky—the aurora, brilliant and otherworldly. It was mesmerizing, almost beautiful, if not for the panic clawing at Alex's chest.
"This isn't normal," he muttered, his breath clouding in the frigid cockpit. A geomagnetic storm, maybe? Whatever it was, his plane was dying in the air.
The engine coughed one last time before falling silent. The sudden hush was broken only by the howl of the wind and the groan of metal. The plane tilted forward. "No, no, no!" Alex yelled, wrestling with the yoke.
The frozen wilderness rushed toward him—a patchwork of snow and jagged trees. He braced as the plane clipped the treetops, spinning violently. The final impact came with a deafening crash.
Alex's eyes fluttered open. Pain lanced through his side, sharp and unyielding. The world was muted—a muffled ringing in his ears, a blinding whiteness. Snow.
He tried to sit up, but his body protested. His hand instinctively touched his side, coming away sticky with blood. Shards of glass from the cockpit glittered around him. The plane's fuselage was crumpled like a discarded can, smoke curling from the wreckage.
"Okay, Kane," he whispered hoarsely. "You're alive. That's a start."
Dragging himself free of the wreckage, he gasped as the cold bit into his skin. The wind was relentless, slicing through his clothes. He grabbed what he could—an emergency pack, a flare gun, and a few supplies scattered nearby. His fingers were already numb.
He glanced up at the sky. The aurora still shimmered faintly, its ethereal glow casting long shadows over the snow. "What the hell caused this?" he muttered. But there was no time for answers. He needed shelter before the cold claimed him.
The biting wind drove Alex onward, each step crunching through the thick snow. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through his side, but stopping wasn't an option. The wreckage was a death trap—no heat, no protection from the storm.
He scanned the horizon, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow. A cluster of trees in the distance offered the promise of cover. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Reaching the tree line, Alex collapsed against the base of a pine, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He fumbled with the emergency pack, pulling out a small foil blanket and a box of matches.
"One match. One chance," he muttered, striking it against the box. The tiny flame sputtered in the wind. Shielding it with trembling hands, he managed to light a bundle of dry twigs he'd gathered. The fire flickered, casting a faint warmth.
The relief was short-lived. In the distance, a low, guttural growl broke through the silence. Alex froze. His eyes darted toward the sound. A shadow moved between the trees, deliberate and predatory.
"Wolves," he whispered, gripping the flare gun tighter. The firelight danced on his face as he prepared for the fight of his life.
The growling grew louder, more insistent. From the darkness emerged a pair of glowing eyes, then another. Alex's heart raced as the wolves circled him, their breath visible in the freezing air.
He stood slowly, raising the flare gun. "Back off!" he shouted, his voice cracking. The lead wolf growled low, its body taut with hunger.
He pulled the trigger. The flare shot into the night, its fiery trail illuminating the wolves. They yelped and scattered, the leader hesitating before retreating into the shadows.
Alex sank back to the ground, his hands trembling. The fire flickered low, and he added more twigs, his eyes darting between the trees. The wilderness wasn't just indifferent—it was hostile.
Morning brought no relief, only an aching cold and an endless sea of white. Alex stood at the edge of a ridge, surveying the frozen expanse below. The vastness of the wilderness swallowed him whole, making him feel like a speck on a blank canvas.
"Where do I even begin?" he muttered, clutching the flare gun like a lifeline. His supplies wouldn't last long, and the firewood nearby was running out.
The crash had left him alive, but now the true fight began. Every breath, every step, every decision mattered. Alex tightened his coat and started walking toward the unknown, knowing there was no going back.
Alex stumbled forward, his footsteps crunching in the snow. The cold gnawed at him, relentless and unforgiving. His meager fire had kept him alive through the night, but it had consumed most of the twigs and branches within reach. Now, the wilderness stretched out before him, barren and unyielding.
The wind howled, stinging his cheeks. His breath was visible, each exhale a fleeting cloud that dissolved into the void. "Gotta find more wood," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the storm.
He scouted along the edge of the tree line, picking up whatever branches the wind hadn't claimed. His gloved hands were clumsy, the fingers inside nearly useless from the cold. A sudden slip sent him sprawling into the snow. Pain flared in his side, the wound from the crash still raw.
"Get up," he whispered to himself. "You can't stop now."
In the distance, a fallen tree caught his eye. Its limbs were bare, stripped of bark, but the trunk was sturdy enough to splinter off chunks of dry wood. He trudged toward it, the snow dragging at his legs like quicksand.
Using a shard of metal salvaged from the plane, he hacked at the tree. Each swing sent vibrations through his numbed arms. When the first piece of wood broke free, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, he returned to his makeshift camp, arms laden with fuel. The fire roared back to life, its warmth seeping into his bones. For now, he had won this battle. But Alex knew the war was far from over.
Hunger clawed at Alex's stomach, an ache that no amount of melted snow could ease. He sat by the fire, staring at his dwindling food supply: a handful of crackers, a tin of sardines, and a granola bar. It wasn't enough.
He glanced at the treeline, the shadows of night creeping closer. The wolves were out there—he could feel their presence. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves set his nerves on edge.
His thoughts drifted to survival shows he'd watched back home. The experts always said to find food fast—berries, fish, small game. But this wasn't TV. This was real, and the wilderness played by its own rules.
Determined, Alex fashioned a crude snare using the parachute cord from his pack. He set it up near a rabbit warren he'd noticed earlier in the day. The tracks were faint but promising, tiny imprints in the snow that hinted at life.
Hours passed. The fire crackled, and the night grew colder. When Alex finally checked the snare, his heart leaped. A rabbit struggled weakly against the cord, its eyes wide with fear.
"I'm sorry," Alex murmured, his voice cracking. With trembling hands, he ended the rabbit's suffering, his stomach turning at the act. But survival left no room for hesitation.
Back at camp, the meat sizzled over the fire. The smell was both nauseating and tantalizing. When he took his first bite, the warmth spread through his body like a lifeline.
The next day, Alex spotted it—a structure peeking through the trees. His pulse quickened. Civilization? Or just another cruel trick of the wilderness?
The closer he got, the more details emerged. It was a cabin, weathered but intact, its roof blanketed in snow. Alex approached cautiously, the flare gun in hand. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the sound echoing in the stillness.
Inside, the air was stale but warmer than outside. Dust covered every surface. A broken chair lay in the corner, its pieces scattered across the floor. On the table sat a lantern, a can of kerosene beside it. Alex's heart raced—supplies!
He searched the cabin thoroughly, finding a box of matches, a can opener, and a faded photograph of a family. Their smiling faces stared back at him, frozen in time. He wondered what had happened to them. Had they left willingly? Or had the wilderness claimed them too?
That night, Alex lit the lantern and sat by the window, watching the snow fall. For the first time since the crash, he felt a flicker of hope. The cabin wasn't much, but it was shelter. And shelter meant a chance.
Alex's eyes locked onto the old radio sitting on a shelf. It was bulky and battered, but it might still work. "Please, just let it have power," he muttered, flipping the switch.
Static filled the cabin, loud and grating. Alex adjusted the dials, searching for a signal. His heart sank as the static continued, unbroken. He slammed his fist against the radio, frustration bubbling over.
"Come on!" he shouted. "Someone's gotta be out there!"
For a brief moment, the static shifted. A faint voice crackled through the speakers. Alex froze, holding his breath. The voice was indistinct, a ghostly whisper swallowed by the storm.
"Hello?" he called. "Is anyone there?"
But the voice was gone, replaced once more by static.
By morning, the cabin was buried in snow. The windows were frosted over, and the door barely opened against the weight pressing from the outside. A whiteout storm raged, trapping Alex indoors.
He rationed his food carefully, each bite measured and deliberate. The firewood stockpile dwindled as hours turned into days. Outside, the wind screamed like a living thing, its fury shaking the cabin.
Alex passed the time by writing in the margins of an old book he'd found on a shelf. The words weren't profound, just fragments of thoughts and memories. Writing was his tether to the world he'd left behind.
When the storm finally broke, Alex stepped outside. The landscape was unrecognizable, a pristine expanse of snow stretching endlessly. He stood there, staring into the horizon, the silence oppressive.
"One step at a time," he whispered to himself.
The wilderness was vast, unforgiving, and cold. But Alex Kane was still alive. And as long as he was alive, he would fight.