Overlord

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Michael Thornton questioned again the wisdom of the expedition as he trudged through the featureless white of the Antarctic. He was pretty sure he had frostbite in at least two toes. A permanent layer of ice coated his clothes, the fur lining of his thick hood, even his beard and mustache. His eyelashes waged a constant battle with the ice, and two frozen daggers of snot hung from his nostrils.

A layer of new snow crunched beneath his heavy boots as he winced into the frozen wind, flurries of blizzard regularly reducing visibility to little more than a few yards. Then there would be a momentary break in the weather, he would see across vast vistas of rough white landscape, and hope would briefly kindle, only to be extinguished as the landscape was obscured once more moments later. Despite those flashes of optimism, he wondered if he would ever see the rest of the party again. But at least he wasn’t alone.

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