You can't really know cold unless you've been to Antarctica, MacReady thinks. Its cold is an unassailable force, biting down through the skin and into bones like thousands of tiny, white-hot needles. The needles are angry, and they're crazed with it, and they will never yield.
No, not angry, MacReady corrects himself. Hungry. They feed on him slowly, but viciously, like some fervent kind of bacteria, gnawing through him and drilling down to the very last reserves of energy he has in this feeble, poorly-oiled machine he once called a body.
Not just yet, he thinks as he drags his leaden limbs forward, flamethrower gripped tightly in icy, gloved hands. You won't take me down yet, you fucker.