Tundra

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For an instant, in the yawning silence after the last echoes of the engine had died away, Nisselovich thought he was going to make it.

Far behind and to his right, the lights of the station smudged a faint grey mark on the blackness. Around him the snowfall was gathering pace, the slanting flurry obscuring the plastic of his helmet’s visor as quickly as he wiped it clear. The susurration of the new snow on the existing knee-deep carpet crept like a ghost’s whisper into the silence.

Nisselovich hadn’t taken note of the mileage reading on the snowmobile’s dash when he’d started out. Nor had he checked his watch. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been riding, or how much distance he’d covered. But he estimated he’d been going at full throttle for about fifteen minutes, and at a speed of one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour it meant the station must be at least thirty Ks behind him.

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