Chapter 7: The Ghost in the Blizzard

After I was completely buried by snow, I knew I couldn't move any further. If even lying flat I could still be pushed by the wind, you can imagine how brutal the storm was.

All I could do was keep myself from being buried too deep. I kept moving, sweeping snow from my face with my hands, but the snow piled up frighteningly fast. Gradually, I was buried deeper and deeper.

Even the roar of the wind grew muffled. Then, suddenly, I felt someone walking over me.

That sensation was even more shocking than seeing a ghost in daylight, but my body made it clear—footsteps, slow and deliberate, moved from my head toward my stomach. Just as I was about to react, those steps stopped right on top of me. He'd realized he was standing on someone. I jerked my upper body up.

Instantly, the wind roared into my ears. In a flash, I grabbed at the white figure's clothing.

Bang! He crashed down on top of me.

Suddenly, pain shot through my chest—then cold, then a wave of warmth.

I reached both hands up from the snow, wrapping them tightly around his body, pinning his arms. He rolled, dragging me up out of the snow with him.

The wind screamed around us.

I clung to him, looking down to see he was dressed all in white, with a white hood pulled tight over his head. He kept rolling, and I had zero control over my own body. I couldn't understand how he could move with such force in the hurricane while I felt completely helpless.

The two of us tumbled downwind, spinning fast, my head reeling.

"Hey!" he grunted.

He slowly pried my hands off him. My face was pressed to his back; gritting my teeth, I clung to his huge arm as hard as I could.

"Ah!" I couldn't help crying out—a stabbing pain shot through my waist.

I wasn't wearing a vest, even though Anchor always brought me one. I just hated those things.

Pain in my waist made my arms go limp. As I let go, I shoved hard against his back, and my body was flung forward like a kite.

Bang—I hit the ground, then kept tumbling.

I swore out loud.

The rifle across my chest slapped me over and over as I rolled. I tried to grab it, but I was spinning too fast to do anything.

Suddenly, a white shadow flashed in my vision.

Bang! Someone crashed into me—pain exploded in my shoulder. I guessed he was going for my throat.

His attack slowed my rolling. I lashed out blindly, grabbing something, yanking it hard downwind.

I saw a figure flying through the air, a bloody knife still in his hand. He really looked like he was flying. I snatched up my rifle and fired in his direction as I kept rolling, still unable to control my body.

No idea if I hit him. I jammed my rifle downward, chest braced on the stock, feeling like someone was pushing me from behind, almost flipping me over.

I squeezed the trigger—bang, bang, bang.

The recoil hammered into my chest again and again. At last, I stopped moving.

If you saw me then: a man hunched over, chest on the rifle stock, muzzle buried in the snow, trying desperately to control himself in a hurricane, lost in the endless white.

Suddenly, I felt the rifle sink a little. I realized the muzzle had jammed into rock under the snow—I was ecstatic.

I kept firing until the mag ran dry.

Now the muzzle was deep in the rock. I hugged the rifle, staring off into the storm.

Who was that guy just now? How could he control his body in this wind? Where was Buzz? Where had everyone else taken cover?

I clung to my rifle with my right hand, slowly drew my pistol with my left—just in case he attacked again.

Blood was leaking from my wounds, but I barely felt the pain, only the cold. I had no idea when the wind would stop, or how long I could last.

Jungle, desert, mountain, city, snow— the worse the weather and the harsher the environment, the more I love it. I always used to say, we're ghosts; only in hell can you appreciate the beauty of paradise.

But now, facing a hurricane like this, I was helpless. Why could the attacker move so freely while I could do nothing?

Maybe it wasn't strange. Maybe he was just used to it. Our squad trained in seventy- or eighty-mile-an-hour winds, but this storm was way worse. Nature never follows your plan; it has its own script and keeps unfolding in its own way.

If you blunder onto the wrong stage, you have two choices: adapt to the script, or get cut from the play.

My body started to stiffen; the cold finally got to me. My vision blurred, my wounds began to ache. I had no idea how long I'd been there—just that my strength was nearly spent.

But the wind seemed tireless, still howling, scouring all life from the world.

Somewhere in my daze, I heard someone calling me.

"Hey, wake up."

I could hear, but I couldn't move. I forced my left hand up, raising my pistol to protect myself.

"Wake up. I'll take you somewhere safe."

I was aware—my right arm still wrapped mechanically around the rifle jammed into the rock, but I couldn't lift my head, frozen stiff.

"Digits, it's me. It's Snow."

Snow?

"Get up!"

Whoosh—the wind screamed by.

Snow was gone. I sat in the snow; it was piled over my thighs, my legs locked around the rifle.

"Was that an illusion?" I muttered.

"How could Snow be here?"

"Help me! Help me, Digits, wake up!"

I heard Snow's voice again, faint in the wind.

I tried to open my eyes and find the sound's source. Sometimes it was right in my ear, sometimes echoing from the empty mountains.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in front of me.

"Help me!" Snow's cry rang out again.

I tried to lift my head but couldn't. Drip—a warm liquid landed on my hand.

Red. Blood. This was no illusion. The sight of blood filled me with rage—anger is always easier to act on than sadness. I jerked my head up and saw a white figure staggering before me.

Snow was in his arms, struggling. I saw the knife dig slowly into her throat, and she looked at me.

"Stop!" I shouted.

But Snow collapsed, clutching her neck, wind blowing her farther and farther away.

I was furious. I'd never felt this kind of rage before. Only later, after Black, would I know this kind of anger would appear often. Now I knew I'd liked Snow, even though we barely knew each other.

I raised my left hand, fired—the man in white took the shot. But his body vanished as it hit the ground.

"It's all an illusion," that phrase echoed in my head.

I looked at my hands—no blood. I laughed, laughing hard.

Just a hallucination—Snow wasn't dead.

When would the wind stop? Who knows. But I knew if I'd passed out just now, I'd be dead. Snow's "appearance" made me feel alive again.

All I could do was wait.

What else could I do? Waiting was the only option.

I always told myself never to be passive. Since childhood, I loved the feeling of controlling every detail. Even in school , I'd walk every lane of the track before a field day race, estimate times, guess what might happen, try my best to get to know about every runner—even if it didn't help, I just needed to know everything. It always calmed me, and I can ran better.

Maybe that sounds pathological.

But right then, I could only wait. My fate wasn't mine to control.

Time crawled by. The snow piled up. The wind raged on.

"Specter... Specter... Specter..."

"Woo-hou, woo-hou-hou..."

Someone was calling my name, and someone was giving the team signal—coming from the direction of the wind.

They were coming.