Page 41 of Run Wild Omega

I grab the rope, pulling with everything I have, my boots slipping on the ice.

The white wave crashes over the lip of the crevice.

Dylan

The world goes white, then it goes black.

One moment, I’m pulling on the rope with everything I have, my boots slipping on the ice as the litter inches up the slope. The next, a sound like the earth is cracking open—a thunderous, guttural roar that vibrates in my teeth and shakes the fillings in my skull.

The weight hits us.

It’s not like water. It’s like a wall of concrete moving at sixty miles an hour. It slams into my chest, tearing the rope from my grip. I’m airborne, tumbling backward, the world flipping over and over in a chaos of snow and ice and rock.

I slam into something hard—probably a boulder—and the breath is knocked out of me. Snow packs into my nose, my mouth, down my throat, suffocating and heavy.

I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe.

I fight the panic. Before conscious thought even has a chance, training kicks in. Cover your airway. Create a pocket.

Curling into a tight ball, I yank my knees to my chest and shield my face, desperate to clear enough room for my lungs to expand. Then the snow hits. It piles over me in a crushing wave, heavy and brutal as it presses against my back and pins my legs, burying me alive.

Swim, I order myself. Don’t fight it. Just swim.

Time loses meaning. It could be seconds. It could be hours. The roar fades to a dull hiss, and then to nothing.

Silence.

I’m buried in the dark.

I move my arm. Snow falls away. I’m only under a few feet, but the weight is immense. I claw at it, digging upward, my gloves scraping against ice and granular snow. My lungs burn, screaming for oxygen.

I break the surface, gasping, my head exploding into the storm.

“Miles!” I scream, but the wind steals the name instantly. “Wyatt!”

Nothing.

I scramble out of the hole, completely breathless, the sheer panic vibrating right down to my fingertips.

I unclip the radio on my shoulder, keying the mic with a trembling hand. “Dispatch, this is Dylan. Avalanche at the pass. Three down. Send emergency medical transport and notify the trauma bay immediately!”

Static crackles back, followed by Kyle’s tense voice. “Dylan! Copy that, I hear you! I’m patching you through to dispatch, but the storm is knocking out repeaters. Hold on!”

“Get up to the lower turnout and get our rig running!” I yell into the mic, coughing on the freezing air. “Leave the keys in it and keep the station comms open. We’re coming down!”

I clip the radio back to my gear and look around.

The world is a flat, white void. The slope is unrecognizable. The crevice, the ledge, the rock band—everything is gone. Wiped smooth by the slide.

“Here!”

The shout is weak, barely carrying over the wind.

I spin toward the sound.

About fifty yards downslope, a lump in the snow. A hand waving.

I run, stumbling, my legs heavy and uncooperative. I reach the mound and start digging, clawing at the snow with my gloved hands. I throw handfuls of powder aside, panic making my movements jerky and wild.