White broiling clouds overhead discharged a steady heavy snow that blanketed their way and made visibility nil. Rockson kept the men moving through the deeper and deeper drifts. They leaned low on their thick-maned ’brids, using the pungent mops of dark golden mane as blankets, and zipped up their nylon super-insulated parkas. The Doomsday Warrior noticed that the treetops of the occasional evergreens they passed were starting to wave back and forth. That was bad. A blow was coming, maybe a big one—the first signs of an Arctic blizzard, with untold feet of snow waiting to drop on the team. As the ’brids stumbled on and the temperature dropped, the skies above grew dimmer and dimmer, as if it were night though it was only one in the afternoon. “Men,” he turned and shouted, “we’ll have to make camp soon. Keep your eyes peeled for any kind of shelter and—” He paused in midsentence as he suddenly saw faint shapes at the limits of his vision through the falling snow.
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