written for DtC 9 Challenge
Napoleon dragged his injured partner through the gathering darkness, every sense alert for sounds of pursuit -- the crunch of footsteps in the deep snow or worse, the dreaded snarl of snowmobiles closing in.
Nothing. Silence enveloped them.
Snow continued to fall, fat flakes swirling soundlessly down, covering the Vermont countryside in a thick blanket of white. Ice coated the trees; their glittering branches bent like bowstrings under the weight. Against the unforgiving whiteness, the agents' bright blue parkas stood out like beacons.
Napoleon spun around, Walther cocked and ready, but it was only the branch of an elm tree cracking under the weight of snow and ice. It fell to the ground with a hollow thud. He sighed, and replaced his weapon in its holster.
A few yards ahead, the forest ended. From here on, it was open country in every direction, an endless succession of rolling hills and farmland. They were miles from a major city, their communicators gone, at the mercy of the elements and their THRUSH trackers.
Not the best way to spend Christmas Eve.( Read more... )