I just looked at the review count on this story -- yikes! Thank you all SO much! Please know that I read and enjoy all of your reviews even if I don't respond. And thanks, also, to b7-kerravon for plugging my story. Her stories are quite good and she's currently writing a Trinity post-ep WIP ("Deus Ex Machina") that's got me hooked.

Steven Caldwell ran like the hounds of Hell were at his heels. In a sense, that was exactly the case.

He pulled up short as two of the great beasts emerged from the storm in front of him, stalking with the bristled head-down posture of vastly overgrown housecats. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw more of them appear out of the falling snow. One made a warbling, querulous sound -- not really like any Earth animal he'd ever heard.

He definitely got the impression that they were wary of him, which might mean that these were the same group that had attacked earlier. If they'd encountered people, then maybe they remembered guns. Lowering his pistol, he took careful aim on the nearest of them, and fired. The shot went true, and the animal dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. The others startled at the sound, scattering only to regroup a moment later. The nearest ones sniffed cautiously at their dead companion.

"Yeah, that's right, I've got enough for all of you," Caldwell said loudly. When confronting a predator, make yourself seem large and threatening ... of course, this advice applied much better on a planet where predators just didn't get this big, and already had a healthy fear of people. The mega-wolves seemed more puzzled than alarmed at his voice, and one of them made another of those questioning, throaty noises.

"You want this?" he demanded, and shot that one as well. This time, rather than flinching away, the others closed around him and he saw them going flat to spring. They'd obviously decided he was a threat that had to be eliminated. He tightened his finger on the trigger, trying to calculate how many shots he had used since the last time he'd reloaded. No matter how he did the math, it didn't come out good.

The sharp stutter of automatic-weapons fire startled him so badly that he very nearly squeezed the trigger and wasted a bullet. Blood and fur sprayed in the air, and three of the giant beasts fell in rapid succession. The rest of them, with yelps and cries, scattered into the storm, fleeing and vanishing rapidly.

Armstrong? As a human-shaped figure appeared out of the falling snow, carrying a P90 with the muzzle pointed at the ground, Caldwell raised his gun. "Don't come one step closer," he snapped.

"First Seavey, now you." The voice was a very familiar, laid-back drawl. "I'm starting to feel kind of unappreciated around here."

Caldwell dropped the gun, feeling a powerful sense of unreality. Not possible. "Sheppard?"

Sheppard stepped carefully over one of the wolf-things, sparing it a curious glance. "You okay?"

"I'll live."

Sheppard was close enough now that Caldwell could see that he was grinning, but his eyes kept moving, alert for attack and perhaps for something else as well. "Great, now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, let's get McKay and get out of here. Is he with you?"

------

Sheppard kept his tone light, because Caldwell really looked like hell, and finding the man alone with giant predators all around him had not done wonders for Sheppard's peace of mind. And Caldwell hadn't given him an answer. The wind seemed to blow straight through him, freezing his stomach.

"Where's Rodney?" he demanded again, and this time all the levity was gone from his voice.

"Dead," Caldwell said. His head was down and his teeth were gritted against pain and wind, but there was still some sympathy in that rough voice.

It must be the cold, that had stolen Sheppard's breath away. When he could speak, he said one word, quiet. "How?"

Caldwell seemed to also hear the buried meaning: Are you sure? "I saw it. Shot and drowned." He looked away from Sheppard, at the dead wolves on the ground, and added, "He went out well, Colonel."

"Never doubted it." He felt strange, disconnected, adrift in the wind. "Jumper's this way. Let's get you inside."

They began to walk, slogging through the snow side-by-side. Sheppard didn't offer assistance; Caldwell didn't ask for it. There was no malice intended -- Sheppard wasn't angry, wasn't much of anything at the moment, really. He just felt dazed.

"Colonel, there's a lot going on that you should know about," Caldwell began.

"Already know most of it. Talked to Cadman and Seavey." Words made him impatient. He didn't want an exchange of information, a give-and-take of "you know this, I know that." Movement was the important thing now. Momentum. "Armstrong still alive?"

"Still out there." Caldwell stumbled, caught himself with a quick gasp of pain. "He's armed, too, with a P90. I last saw him at the river, back that way. Haven't seen him since."

"And he's the one?"

Caldwell didn't need to ask The one what? "Yes."

The dark void in Sheppard curled upon itself and coalesced into one imperative: Kill.

There was no more conversation until they reached the puddlejumper. Sheppard decloaked it with a press of a button, noting idly how much snow had piled up on it since he'd been gone. He saw Caldwell noticing the damaged drive pods, saw a slight nod as if another few pieces of the puzzle had clicked into place in the Colonel's mind. Then the ramp closed behind them, leaving a ringing silence with the absence of the ever-present wind. Caldwell immediately stripped off his parka and dropped it in a melting heap on the floor. He sank down on one of the jumper's seats.

Sheppard unzipped his own coat but left it on. He wasn't planning to be inside very long. Reaching above Caldwell, he got down the first-aid kit. "Can you handle this on your own?"

Caldwell raised his head. Tired, pain-filled eyes met Sheppard's, searching his face. "You're going out there alone."

Sheppard checked the clip in his .9mm, holstered it with a sharp snap. He tucked more rounds into his vest pockets. "Yes. Because every minute we wait, the wind covers up the sonovabitch's tracks. Last saw him at the river, you said?"

"Yes. Colonel, I don't think this is a good idea."

Sheppard gave the P90 a cursory examination to make sure that the action still worked smoothly despite the moisture and cold. He grabbed more rounds for that, too. "I don't really give a damn what you think. Sir."

"Sheppard." There was a low, penetrating note to Caldwell's voice. Sheppard looked around at him. Even hunched against the side of the jumper, dripping wet and clearly hurting, he had a commanding presence. Seeing that he had Sheppard's attention, he said, "Getting yourself killed isn't going to bring anyone back. Let me finish here, get my arm set and take a shot of painkiller -- and I'll come with you."

For a moment, Sheppard just stared at him. He was having trouble tracking on things; he felt as if he was a couple steps behind in the conversation. Then he shook his head. "No. You're hurt. Tired. I'm going to move fast. Stay here." All the monosyllables were making him feel as if he was turning into Ronon. His lips quirked a little and he made a deliberate attempt not to talk like a cartoon caveman. "Whatever happens out there, I might be able to use some backup later. Fix yourself up, get some rest."

Caldwell shook open the first aid kit, one-handed, without looking at it. His eyes never left Sheppard's face. "Godspeed then, Colonel," he said quietly. "And be very careful. Armstrong is an expert at tracking and wilderness survival. As you hunt him, so, I imagine, he will be hunting you."

Sheppard nodded, and fought down an urge to salute. Instead he just said, "See ya," as he zipped up his parka and stepped back out into the raging wind.

He'd flown over a river during his search, several times, and he had an approximate idea of where it was. It had to be the one Caldwell was talking about. To get there, he'd have to go back through the area where he'd killed the wolves. Luckily, he didn't really give a damn. If a wolf got between him and Armstrong, he'd kill it.

Armstrong didn't know it yet, but he was a dead man walking.

------

Wearing a parka pulled loosely over his surgical scrubs, Beckett trotted through the snow at the side of the stretcher bearing a blanket-wrapped Radek. They had taken what Carson considered crude stopgap measures to keep him from bleeding to death, but the important thing right now was getting him back to Atlantis. He rested a hand lightly on the fold of blanket that was tucked over his patient's face, shielding him from the cold as best they could.

With Ling's help, he got Radek settled on the puddlejumper, setting up the IVs and oxygen. Dr. Ling followed him as he jumped off the ramp back into the snow, nearly colliding with Lorne.

"We're the last ones to leave, Doc," Lorne told him. "The other jumpers are already airborne, and more of them are on their way from Atlantis."

Beckett nodded and looked around as a hand settled on his shoulder. It was Ling. "You have all the critical cases, Carson. All that's left are minor injuries that I can handle here. From what Major Lorne tells me, there's more help on the way and we'll be able to begin the next round of evacs when they get here."

Beckett nodded. He was suddenly, desperately tired, and a long flight lay ahead of him, with the lives of a lot of badly injured people resting in the balance. "I hate to leave you like this, Carol --"

She snorted and shook her head. "We'll be fine. We've got a nice cozy ship and plenty of food; we're in good shape now that we don't have the severely wounded to worry about. Heck, Hermiod might even get the power back online soon. Stranger things have happened."

Lorne called from inside the jumper, "Doc, we need to get going. The storm's getting worse by the minute."

Ling took Beckett's hand in a firm grip. "Go! I'll see you back on Atlantis."

"Stay warm," Beckett told her, and retreated quickly into the jumper as Lorne closed the hatch. He checked on his patients and then knelt by Radek to stabilize him during what was likely to be a very rough ride to the upper atmosphere.

The jumper shuddered and rose into the air. To Beckett's relief, Lorne, unlike Sheppard, seemed to be keeping the inertial dampeners turned on.

Simpson swiveled around from the co-pilot's seat. "Dr. Beckett, have you heard anything from the Colonel?"

Beckett shook his head. "I take it you haven't either."

She smiled a little, shook her head.

"I'm sure he's fine," Carson said, with a conviction he didn't really feel. After all, it would surely require more than a blizzard to take down John Sheppard, the man who single-handedly eliminated a Genii strike force. He just hated not knowing ... and not knowing about Rodney was even worse. Sheppard, Carson knew, could handle himself. Rodney, though -- as much faith as he had in the man's abilities, he didn't know how well Rodney could manage in a survival situation.

Sometimes you couldn't do anything but hope. And pray.

------

TBC