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The man in the apron gifts me a stubbly grin. ‘You look like a toothpick. Here, eat my stew and maybe you’ll grow a few muscles.’ He plops a bowl on the counter and bellows with laughter. His belly hops, and sprinkles of soup land on the smooth wooden surface. He wipes the mess off with his apron.

Anger boils up in my stomach. Without thinking, I pull my hunting knife and jab the tip into the counter. It’s wood, so the knife stays. Cool effect.

The man stares at his fingers, spread left and right of the blade, his flowery apron now decorated with a hole.
 

‘Is this supposed to be meat? Looks like lint to me,’ I say, sticking a finger into the soup and fishing out a white fibre. ‘Hmm. Could be rat, though.’

A short moment later, two fat chicken legs are chucked into my stew without a word.
 

‘Thanks.’ I pull out my knife and push past Runner to find a table. I don’t want to look at anyone in the room. If they think I’m a toothpick, it’s their problem, not mine. I suck the meat off the bones and shovel stew into my mouth. It tastes edible.

Runner eats at the bar, talking with a group of men. I get the impression that some of the other people purposefully step in my line of view, as if I’m not supposed to hear what’s been said. Then, Runner disappears.

‘Hey,’ says the stew cook. I show him the darkest stare I can manage. ‘Does it taste good?’

‘Why? Are you testing it on toothpicks before serving it to people?’

He throws his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, m’boy. This old man here just tried to be funny.’

I’m totally loaded. How can he think I’m a boy? I’ve had breasts for two months! ‘Funny,’ I grumble.

Irritated, he bends his neck, looking for Runner, but doesn’t seem to find him. I place my hunting knife next to my bowl to make cook’s departure easier. He takes the hint and disappears. I’m relieved. There are too many, far too-quiet people in this room, and I’m looking forward to leaving. Huge machine or not, if I have to share it with a bunch of weirdos, I’d rather not be here.

When Runner doesn’t return, I make my way back to our backpacks, sit down, and close my eyes. The rattling and swaying makes me sleepy and soon I doze off.

I’m woken up by voices, hushed and aggressive. I keep my eyes shut and strain my ears. ‘…no time for this crap! We need you there with the next—’ A stranger’s voice

‘No.’ Runner cuts off the man. ‘My decision is made and I’ll not discuss it.’

‘It is a bad decision you are making!’

‘If you want to take my position, feel free to apply for it.’ An icy warning from Runner’s mouth. Whoever the other guy is, I’d shut up if I were him. When he doesn’t say another word, I’m almost disappointed. I’d like to see Runner freak out. I think he has explosive potential.

‘Micka.’ A hand shakes my shoulder. ‘I know you are awake. Here, drink this, then get your stuff ready. The train is coming to a stop.’

I take the bottle from his hand and drink the…whatever it is. The taste is fruity and sweet and I’m wide awake all of a sudden.

Once we’re back in the snow, I ask, ‘What was that about?’

‘My business.’

‘Thanks. How come I never heard about trains if they have been around for ages?’

‘You haven’t heard about a lot of things, Micka. I told you that the council of each settlement decides what knowledge they communicate to their citizens. They can choose to penalise the spreading of information. In your village, it was generally not seen as respectable to ask too many questions. I’ve seen this in other places, too. Most people are content with it.’ He throws me a glance and walks on.

‘And tonight you show me how to use the SatPad?’ I ask, just to make sure he remembers.

‘As I said.’

‘Why, precisely, are we going to the lowlands anyway?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Runner!’

‘I’ll tell you another time.’

Since we’ve reached the lowlands, my senses are pricked. Runner trudges on as if all is normal, but that doesn’t make me any less nervous. I’ve never seen land as flat as this. When the sun is hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds — which it does most of the day — I have no clue where I am and where we are heading. I’ve always known where’s north and where’s south. The mountains told me. Here, the featureless surface melts into a featureless sky. I can’t even tell where the horizon is in all this white. But the worst is that there’s no place to hide.

Suddenly, Runner’s stride stiffens and I lift my eyes. Dark shapes trail through the white — a line of dots that are growing larger. We stop simultaneously. He curses and breaks into run, his breath, sharp clouds of fear. I follow with a feeling of rising panic.

‘We’ll separate,’ he huffs.

‘Dogs.’

‘Yes.’

I don’t know where to turn. We’re on a perfectly flat and white platter. The next tree line is several kilometres away, stuck to the horizon. We are trapped by vastness and a bunch of hungry beasts. I feel my heart hopping in my chest. It wants to flee and so do I.

I almost bump into Runner when he stops. He flings his rucksack from his back, takes ammunition from a front pocket, yanks his snow goggles off, and the next thing he does makes me want to retch.

He pushes buttons on his SatPad, logs in, and speaks into the machine. ‘I give operating rights to…’ Then he holds it in my face.

‘Fuck you!’

‘Operating rights to
fuck you
, please acknowledge,’ the machine squeaks.

‘Acknowledged,’ he says and turns to me. ‘You know how to operate both.’ He holds out the SatPad and the FireScope.
 

I grip the straps of my backpack harder.

‘No time for discussions, Micka,’ he warns.

‘We have a rifle. We can shoot the dogs.’

‘You probably haven’t counted them.’
 

I focus at the approaching animals and count — more than sixty. They are fast. No time to think. He throws both machines into the snow, yanks the rifle around, and points the barrel at my stomach.

‘I will not hesitate to shoot you. An abdominal wound bleeds and makes you writhe in pain, enough to let the dogs go crazy about you. It’s either you or me serving as bait. Choose.’

I grind my teeth. ‘I’ll need my air rifle if you don’t want me to starve to death.’

Without blinking, he takes the weapon from his backpack and hands it to me. I sling it over my shoulder, pick up the SatPad, the FireScope, a box of pellets, and march off without a word.

I keep my head slightly cocked to listen to him shuffling his rucksack around, the clinking of the bullets in the box — ready to reload his rifle quickly.

What a fuckuppery. There’s no elevation, not even a shrub I could pretend to climb. I run a wide arch until I come to a halt perpendicular to an imaginary line between Runner and the pack.

I throw my ruck into the snow, put the machines and the box with the pellets on top of it, take off my snow goggles, then stretch my tense shoulders. Runner aims his weapon in my direction. ‘No, Micka!’

‘I can shoot your right eye out!’ I yell at him. When I take aim, he drops his arm and swings around. We both point at the approaching dogs.

Within seconds, they enter his shooting range and Runner goes wild. He shoots twice, reloads, shoots twice, reloads. His hands are a blur of action. I’ve never seen anyone kill that fast.
 

Three dogs are down, one is injured. The others fan out, slowing their attack. They lower their heads and creep closer. I can see their shoulder blades and hipbones poking through thick fur. Aiming at their eyes doesn’t make much sense — although the most easily injured parts, it’s too hard to hit them when the animals are moving. I’d waste precious time and most likely end up plopping half the pellets into their skull bones. I aim at their sides instead, at the tender area where belly meets hind leg.

Click.
An instant later, the first dog yelps and jumps, rolls on his back, and hides its tail under its belly. No time to think. I reload and shoot. Reload and shoot. The pellet can’t kill, but it seems painful enough to scare the shit out of them.

I’m almost hopeful when a third of them is down or bolting. Then I see how close they are to Runner. I scream and their heads turn my way.

Runner whips his head around. He looks at me, furious. Then he begins to holler, too. And shoots and reloads.

I try to find the largest of the dogs, aim at it and take it down, and then the next largest one, trying to get their leader, if dogs even have such a thing.

Runner’s hollering is cut off with a yelp. Time slows to a crawl. Three dogs jump at his chest and throw him into the snow. He pulls out his hunting knife, slashing with one hand, grabbing a furry throat with the other.

I run. And I scream. The snow flies up and in my face while I plough through it. I wave my arms, the rifle, and whatever I have in my other hand to distract the dogs from Runner.

There’s blood in the snow, one dog with its intestines pouring out, one twitching, blood gushing from its throat. Another dog is on top of Runner, mauling and growling. Runner’s legs are kicking, boots finding no target. I bring the FireScope down on the dog’s head. Again. Again. A yelp and the animal lands in the snow, leaking red into the white.

I’m bloodthirsty. Screaming, I grab Runner’s knife and pull it through the dog’s throat, then I attack what’s left of the pack, swinging the air rifle and landing its butt wherever it can find a target — soft fur, teeth, eyes, ears, ribs. It takes a while until I realise that there’s nothing left to hurt or kill. The dogs are running.
 

No time for triumph.

I turn around and race back. Runner is moving. A hand is pressed to his neck, blood leaking through his fingers.

I kneel in the snow next to him, my gaze raking over his injuries. He looks straight up at the sky; his eyes are glassy, the once-black irises a pale brown and his olive skin greyish. His legs twitch. I stumble to his backpack, rip it open, and dig with trembling hands until I find the small package of bandages, disinfectant, and whatever else he has in there.

I zip open the first aid kit and find a bottle labelled “morphine.” Doubtful, I look at Runner’s face. He’s breathing hard.
 

There are two curved needles, thread, and a thing that looks like a bent mix between a pair of pliers and scissors. I don’t even know if I can stitch up a wound. I pry his fingers off his neck and gasp. Thick red is pulsing through a gash. The large artery cannot be torn; that would certainly squirt like a fountain. It’s something smaller, but dangerous enough. I don’t know what to stitch up considering that mess, and I’ll certainly not pour disinfectant in such a large wound as long as it’s wide open. That would be like injecting him with the stuff.
 

He’s grunting. His hand wanders up to his neck again. Quickly, I pick a thick white pad and a bandage, and press the pad on his wound. Soothing words pour from my mouth. I don’t even know what I’m babbling. How can I possibly wrap a bandage around his neck when he’s twitching like this?

‘Hold still!’ I bark. His eyes flicker, trying to find focus.

I scoot around and bring my knees close to both his shoulders, then I carefully lift up his head and rest it on my lap. His hands are stiff like claws and blood leaks through the pad. I press harder until he grunts again. Then I wrap the bandage around his neck, unsure how much pressure is too much and will cut off his air, and how little is too little and he’ll bleed to death. Snow! Cold can stem the flow. I lower his head and pile up snow against his wound, his shoulder, and the side of his face. Runner looks white now, just like the snow he’s half-buried in.

‘’ey,’ he manages to squeeze out.

‘Hey,’ I answer. ‘How far to the next settlement?’

‘Three days.’

Shit.

‘Won’t make it. S’s okay.’

‘Fuck you!’ Like I could use his depressive shit now. I stand and throw the tent on the ground and unroll it. The bottom of it is pretty sturdy. I take his sleeping bag, spread it on top of the tent, and move everything close to Runner. ‘Okay, help me get you in there.’

He huffs and grunts, then passes out when he’s half on top of the sleeping bag. I nudge his upper body farther to the middle, then his legs and his butt. I take off his snow-caked gaiters, knock the snow off his boots, stuff him in the sleeping bag, and zip the thing closed. Then I wrap the tent around him, strapping it tight until he looks like a fat noodle with only his head sticking out.
 

My gaze falls on his backpack. The thing is a problem. I cannot carry both packs; he’ll have to help. I place it on his lap and secure it with one of the tent straps. He doesn’t protest. How could he? He’s only half there.

I run to my rucksack, stuff the damaged FireScope in it, and switch on the SatPad. ‘User login,’ the machine demands. ‘Micka…’

‘User unknown.’

Yeah, I know. ‘Fuck you.’ That totally fits my mood.

‘Fuck you. Logged in.’ The thing goes through its little booting and location-finding
tiddly-tuts
and then shows me a map. Several black blotches on green background indicate the next settlements. The white cross is where we are. The forest is between the village and here, and there’s even a small river. Or a big one, I can’t tell. Okay, I’ll follow the compass northwards, cross the river that will probably be frozen over now, and then we’ll hit the woods in a day or two.