Snow still swirled thickly through the ravine's opening, slowly covering the rubble of the landslide. Damon lay motionless for several seconds, lying on his side, gasping for air in his failing lungs.
Every breath was a struggle. Every heartbeat a painful hammering in his chest.
He braced his hand against the ground, trying to push himself up. His arm trembled, gave way. He fell again, gasping. The pain wasn't just in his ribs or muscles, but throughout his body—as if it had been torn apart and hastily glued back together.
"Get up…" he whispered to himself, spitting blood that stained the snow. "Get up, damn you…"
With almost superhuman effort, he managed to drag himself to a larger rock, resting his forehead against it, and pushed himself to his feet. His body swayed, unsteady, as if he were about to fall again.
That's when he felt it.
