AUTHOR'S FOREWORD: In case it wasn't obvious... Yes, the group does not know about A Song of Ice and Fire. Let's just say HBO never picked it up for a TV series in their reality.
The reason for this is simple: I think the characters dealing with things without prophetic knowledge makes for a more interesting story, because their reactions are driven by their own knowledge, values, intelligence etc etc and not the necessities of making x thing happen or avoiding y thing.
If that's not your thing, I understand, but I wanted to write a story without the book-prophesy element because there are already hundreds of stories with that as a key element of the plot. If you've gotten this far, you've probably read the first chapter and I hope that has given you reason to keep reading.
Thank you.
Corporal Zheng kept driving without any order as to where.
No direction save 'west' had been given to her. There were no roads and only the most primitive of trails, but she never once questioned where they were all supposed to be going. Michael knew she was too smart for that. The dead did not need to sleep, eat, or drink. So they would not stop. Nor would they slow. They did not have the burden of carrying bedding, food or water.
They could run all day and all night, he assumed. The only advantage his remaining fireteam had was that they were in a machine that allowed them to travel far faster than a running corpse.
Eventually the fuel in the tanks would have to be replaced from the supply in the hitched sled trailer behind the rear cabin. That couldn't be done on the move, so the vehicle would have to be stopped. There would be a short window of a couple of hours before the dead and their master caught up. Time that Michael planned to spend wisely.
No one else said a word either. Not even their prisoner. Any time Zheng really opened up the gas on the vehicle, speeding forwards, the girl called Ygritte clawed at Michael and O'Neill both to steady herself. Her gaze was fixed to the front windows. Michael couldn't imagine how it must be like to experience, as an adult, being in any sort of engine-driven vehicle for the first time. In a world where there was no such thing.
It must've been like being shoved into a UFO. Something he could relate to. They still had no idea what had taken them from their world, and that Ygritte wasn't in a different situation entirely distracted him exactly when he needed to be distracted.
Or maybe he just liked a pretty-ish girl clinging to him. It had been a while.
When the inevitable happened, they had just made across a flat floodplain of a small river. It was difficult. The fuel trailer wasn't as amphibious as the snow crawler pulling it, but they got across.
As soon as they had, Zheng announced that she had taken the thing as far as she was comfortable. The machine needed fuel. She pulled it to a halt behind a large evergreen bush, a sort of holly but deadlier. The dark green leaves with spikes on their edges brushed against the left windows and doors briefly as she parked it up.
All eyes turned to Michael. And he was prepared.
"We have two hours, three at best," he said, "Before that thing catches up."
Every face turned stony at that possibility now that it was voiced, and Michael regretted mentioning it at all. Sometimes the truth wasn't the best option. So he went back to practicalities. "Zheng, refuel this thing and make sure it's ready to start at a moment's notice."
The corporal nodded, half-kicking her door open and moving rearwards to the fuel trailer.
"Sayer, you're on watch back the way we came," Michael continued, "If you see any of Ygritte's people, just radio back. But if it's that thing again, ignore the dead ones and shoot it. Only thing that will work against either is a tracer, so keep Private Arran's rifle with you." The young Ranger breathed a casual acknowledgement and dismounted.
Which left the two less pleasant tasks. Michael dreaded the Sergeant's response already, and he was sure their prisoner would object too.
"The three of us are going to burn Arran and Singh's bodies," he said, "They are literally dead weight."
Both were silent for a moment, but it was the Sergeant who spoke first.
"Sir, we can't do that," he said, "Those boys need to be brought home."
Michael shook his head. "Ygritte here was right, bodies are dangerous," he said, "If that thing comes back, Singh and Arran will rise off that roof back there to try and kill us."
O'Neill leaned forwards over Ygritte, who shuffled away from him as best she could.
"Burning those boys is a disrespect to their sacrifice," he said, "Their mothers deserve to see them one last time. Their funeral arrangements should be done properly."
"I agree," Michael replied at once, "But it's also a luxury we can't afford. As for funerals, Singh is Sikh and Arran didn't strike me as the religious type. Fairly sure cremation is in line with both of those beliefs."
O'Neill glared, but failed to gain any traction by it. Under normal circumstances, Michael may have even rebuked him. But not now. The Sergeant had known Arran and Singh for years. Michael had known them for a couple of months. And besides that, the situation was as far from normal as it was possible to get.
"I'll have to take your word for it, sir," the man said at last, before he grabbed Ygritte by the scruff, "What about this one? Isn't she dead weight too?"
The prisoner struggled, but O'Neill was too strong. Lucky for you she isn't stupid enough to knife you before hearing my answer, Michael thought to himself. That lucky wouldn't hold though. It was easy to misunderstand what O'Neill was asking.
"I'm not dead weight," Ygritte protested, "I stood with you against the walkers, didn't I? I shot the first arrow! You don't need to kill me!"
Michael exhaled, wanting to point out she was the only one shooting arrows in the first place. "Walkers?" he asked, "That your name for the corpses?" Not an unfamiliar term for the undead, he thought.
Ygritte looked between the two of them. "No, the dead are wights," she said, like she was talking to children, "The walker was the thing that raised up the dead, made them its own. You've never heard of White Walkers in the South? The Others?"
Because that sort of thing is just regular around here, Michael realised. This was going to be a problem.
O'Neill's eyes widened slowly, his jaw working. At first, Michael thought the Sergeant was angry with her, but he released his grip. "Where are we?" he asked.
Michael shook his head slowly. He did not know. The Sergeant had just put together all the pieces; the undead, the demons, the strange woman sitting beside him, and her talk of places and things that made no sense. But Michael had known in his heart the moment he had seen the wrong stars through the aurora.
They were no longer on Earth.
Michael let O'Neill process it, as he had processed it during the journey. The prisoner needed to know too. She needed to know his people were not involved in this place's political conflict. "We're not from anywhere near here. We aren't from the South. We're not from this world. At all."
Ygritte's eyes bulged with shock. She jumped clear of the two of them, scrambling forwards. Michael and O'Neill made to grab her legs, but she wriggled free. Before any weapons could be brought to bear to threaten her to stop, she was out the door left open by Zheng.
Hoping to intercept her before she ran off, Michael opened his own door and rounded the front of the vehicle. He found her backing off into the gloom of the night, gaze wary. Her brain caught up and realised we could shoot her in the back too easily, he thought. She hadn't gone for her bow yet, but that was clearly coming.
"Shit," O'Neill growled as he joined Michael, snapping on his handheld flashlight, "Would it be bad if I said I know how she feels, sir?"
"Not at all, I do too," Michael mumbled back, before raising his voice, "It's alright! We don't want to hurt you. We're here by accident, not to invade."
"What are you?" Ygritte demanded.
Michael had no real answer to that. Time travellers? Aliens? Would she even recognise those concepts? There was only one response that came to mind at once.
"We're Canadians," he said.
"What the bugger's a Canadian?" Ygritte asked, backing off some more.
O'Neill chuckled under his breath. "There's a whole collection of academics who would like to know the same thing."
"Our country is called Canada," Michael explained, "We're … warriors of Canada."
"And what are warriors of Canada doing in the North by accident?" Ygritte said, pulling her bow into her hands, "You use magicks like the Children of the Forest, travelling between worlds with metal carts that move themselves, seeing with torches that don't come from fire and killing with weapons of lightning."
She nocked an arrow. "Magic doesn't happen by accident!"
Michael raised his hands a little in peaceful gesture, trying to forestall any violence.
"I don't know how we got here, but our weapons and the vehicle are not magic. They're just complicated machines. Bows that use a different way to shoot things, a cart with a mechanism that turns the wheels."
Ygritte tilted her head slightly. She didn't understand. Getting an idea, Michael reached for his rifle and pulled the charging handle, picking up the bullet that was ejected. He turned on his own flashlight and held it up. "See, this is what we shoot. Little metal bullets, very fast. Not magic lightning."
Ygritte stopped moving backwards and squinted, trying to see the bullet in the beam of light. Giving Zheng the opportunity to get the drop on her.
The corporal was not tall. She could move just as unseen as Ygritte herself had at the Laughing Tree. Surprising even Michael, she stepped out from behind the nearest tree and pointed her carbine against the prisoner's temple.
"Drop the bow, bitch," Zheng growled at the prisoner, "Or you're going to get lightning through your skull."
Closing her eyes as if waiting for the shot, Ygritte complied at once. "I yield," she said, bending over to carefully place the bow and the nocked arrow on the ground.
She's proud of that weapon, Michael thought, wondering why as he stepped closer and collected it. "That's enough corporal," he said to Zheng, "Just a misunderstanding. Adjusting to the fact we're not local."
Zheng lowered her carbine and pulled down her face covering, a scowl on her face. "I think we're all adjusting to that, sir," she said sourly, "As if I don't have regrets about enlisting by now." She's figured it out too, then Michael thought.
"Police that talk, corporal," O'Neill responded at once, "Go back to the vehicle, and check the cargo for anything we can use against those fucking corpses chasing us. Move!"
Her face blank, Zheng made a perfect parade ground salute. So perfect that it had to be mockery, before she marched off, slinging her carbine over her shoulder again.
"Cheeky," O'Neill growled at her back from a distance. He moved off towards a fallen tree to follow the order to prep the pyre, with a glance towards the prisoner. The implication was simple. 'Do something about her, now'.
Michael watched him go and thought about that something. Ideally, he'd just let Ygritte go. But maybe she would be hunted even if she was, and letting her go alone would be the same thing as killing her.
They also didn't know anywhere near enough to stay alive. Never mind getting back home. They needed intel and help, and the young woman in front of him was the only source of either available.
With a sigh, Michael handed Ygritte back her bow and arrow. A gesture of trust. "Like I said, we're not here to hurt you. Or anyone else. We want to stay alive. We don't know anything about this place."
Ygritte raised herself to her not-impressive full height. "You killed a lot of Free Folk! That's hurt from where I'm standing!"
Done with her defiance, Michael craned his neck forward, getting closer. "And who shot the first arrow? First one that flew by me had grey feathers. And what do we have here?"
He pinched an arrow by the tail from her canvas quiver, raising it half out by the grey feather in between his fingers. "You were the one who shot that arrow, weren't you?"
The prisoner pushed her chin out defiantly. "Rattleshirt commanded it," she said, "And you were a kneeler, trespassing on our land. How was I to know you were some Canadian?"
"How was I to know you had cause to attack us?" Michael shot back, "Seems to me that we've both got reasons to mistrust each other. But you're standing here breathing and armed. That should tell you that I didn't take you with the intent of hurting you."
Ygritte opened her mouth to respond and closed it just as quickly. Her glare softened. She was considering his words in a different light, one Michael did not understand. He straightened up again. He hadn't expected such a reaction. She gripped her bow and brought it close to herself, before letting out a colossal sigh.
"What do you need to know?"
Michael and O'Neill piled up pine wood and kindling, while Ygritte helped and answered about … everything they could think to ask about.
That they were on a continent called Westeros, which stretched for thousands of clicks north-to-south.
That the Others were an ancient enemy of all life, wishing to bring about the Long Night and enslave the living in death.
That there was a massive Wall stretching across the width of the continent less than a hundred kilometres from where they were standing, keeping the Free Folk out and trapped with the undead ice demons.
That there was an ancient conflict with the guards of the Wall, whom Ygritte called 'Crows' on account of their all black clothing and armour.
That there was a King Beyond the Wall organising resistance to the Others and the Crows alike, to save the people and bring them out of the North.
That south of the Wall was a whole set of inhabited kingdoms, where people were not free and knelt to noble lords.
Michael was relieved to know what the insult 'kneeler' was referring to at last, and Ygritte was duly informed that they did not in fact kneel, even to the monarch. She did not know anything about how to get back to Earth, or anything special about the Laughing Tree. There were so many more things that they could talk about, but they did not have the time.
They had brothers-in-arms to burn, and dead men to flee from.
Michael and O'Neill took on the job of carrying the fallen to the piled wood. It took some doing; their bodies had frozen solid in the hours since they were put up there.
Michael was privately glad that O'Neill had taken the time to remove their boots and jackets before. Waste not, want not. The dead don't need shoes or coats. Especially when we're trying to burn them. If they hadn't been frozen, we could've dressed them in their walking-out uniforms.
Ygritte looked on, nervous that the fallen might get up and start trying to kill her. To Michael's relief, she kept her hands away from her weapons for once.
Zheng returned with a Jerry can. She doused the wood with the liquid fuel underneath the bodies, sloshing it through to the middle of the pile. With that done, they all withdrew to a safe distance. Michael himself through the small collection of burning kindling into the pyre.
The extra boost did its job, and the pyre burned merrily. It began slowly eating both Singh and Arran's bodies with smokey orange flames. The ash was carried downwind away from them, and with it, most of the smell. The Canadians present stood to attention and saluted as one, coordinated by O'Neill's commands, their way of saying their last goodbye to the fallen.
It was not a proper send off. But it was the only one they could give.
Michael gazed at the flames for what seemed like an age, feeling the warmth on his face. He imagined he saw battles happening in the flames like the one he had already fought, and larger still. People with weapons centuries out of date charging at him across a shallow, wide river. Men on horses.
Great, now I'm having nightmares while awake, he thought, as if the ice demons weren't enough. No one was immune from the shock of their situation. Not even him. He turned away from the fire.
"Corporal Zheng," Michael said, breaking the silence, "Report."
The corporal slowly dropped her salute and turned her attention to him. "Sir, we're refuelled. And the supply unit very helpfully wrote down everything they put inside the rear cabin and how much fuel we have. Check out the circled item though." She offered a piece of paper, which had an obvious grid printed across it.
Michael took the document and read quickly. He followed her advice and found the circle in pencil. It was the very last entry. "A C6?" he asked, "We had a machinegun sitting in the back this entire time?!"
"Last minute addition according to the log, sir," Zheng replied, "Supposed to be for the vehicle, according to that note at the bottom."
"Every BV206 to have own C6," Michael read aloud, incredulous, "And of course, no one told us." He wanted to magic himself back to Canada and drag the idiot responsible to the snowy taiga forest to give to the 'White Walkers'.
"FUBAR, sir," Zheng agreed, her tone and expression bitter, "Maybe Singh and Arran would've lived if the reservist dogfucker assholes packing the crawler had a single thought to share between them."
Michael ignored Ygritte repeating 'dogfucker?' to herself in amusement. He found himself unable to disagree with the corporal's assessment. It was quite the piece of stupidity to put a weapon intended for use on a vehicle in its cargo space and tell no one catching a ride in it about the weapon either.
"Welcome to the Army," O'Neill snorted, "The whole deployment was rushed to begin with, a dog and pony show as much as a mission. Sir, what else do we have and what do we need?"
Michael scanned the page. In some ways, what was there was good news. In others, very much not. "No extra food?" he asked the corporal, "We have no idea how long we're going to be here, and there's no food?"
"None," Zheng said, wearily, "What we have in our rucks will be the only food we're going to see, sir."
Michael scratched his chin as he palmed the inventory off to O'Neill to examine, before the man got impatient. "Thanks, Corporal. Find that C6. I want it up on the ring mount and ready to feed a belt-fed goodbye to that demon the second it shows up again."
Zheng saluted and departed, radioing ahead so Private Sayer would know that he had backup.
The Sergeant examined the inventory closely, Ygritte looking from the side to see what it was. Michael wondered if she could even read. It didn't seem likely.
"Sir, this stuff is a little heavy for a domestic deployment," O'Neill stated, "Not a single blank cartridge box on the list. Between that, the Robocop shit they handed out and the new FOB… Something is going on back home. War, or a serious skirmish at least. But I don't see how, the Russians or Chinese couldn't possibly come in via the Arctic."
"Agreed, we need to get back," Michael said, "What's your assessment of that list for our situation?"
The answer that the Sergeant brewed up was almost poetic, and not as exaggerated as it seemed. "In short? We have enough food for three days, enough fuel for three thousand clicks, enough bullets and explosives for three years..."
Michael gave a single, large nod. "But once the fuel for the Jesus Machine over there runs out, we're not going anywhere with that much firepower. You'd need a platoon to move it even a short distance. And we'll need something to eat far sooner than that."
"Food we can hunt for," Ygritte chipped in, "Never been hungry for more than a day since I learned to shoot a bow."
A statement Michael could believe easily.
"Can't hunt the food that a Bandvagn will eat," he replied, thumbing over his shoulder at the crawler, "Sure, we can eat game, but we've got three weeks, more likely half that, before that thing starves and won't move. Then we either have to leave the ammunition, or stay with it."
The Sergeant crumpled up the page and shoved it in a pocket. "And the 'White Walker' is still stalking us," he said, "Don't suppose there's any way to kill the damn things, for good?"
Ygritte rolled on her heels a little as she thought. "They hate fire. The hotter the better. That pyre would keep them away, for a little while. Same reason they don't like the daytime. Some say there's magic swords that can kill them, made of smokey black metal. And like I said before, dragonglass. Not a lot of things."
Michael remembered the Jerry can, wondering if a Molotov cocktail might do the job. Not a theory he was eager to put to the test. That would've meant getting close to the thing again. "At least we might get some distance away during the day. Still need to survive the few hours until dawn though."
"What's dragonglass?" O'Neill asked.
The prisoner frowned at him. The constant ignorance was annoying her. "A black stone, like glass but harder," she said, "Frozen fire, some call it. Sharp as shadowcat claws when it's chipped right. Sharper even."
Michael recognised the description. "Obsidian. She's talking about obsidian."
O'Neill winced. "Not something we've got laying around in heaps, is it?"
Ygritte snorted. "Nor us neither. Only place you can get dragonglass north of the Wall got snowed in when I was but a babe. Probably the Walkers what did it. Folk kill each other to get a dagger made of it now, if Mance isn't around."
Which meant organising a resistance with obsidian armed folks was made impossible, because everyone wanted the only weapon that could kill the ice demons. Too badly. Michael pondered why the King Beyond the Wall hadn't done more about that.
O'Neill clicked his tongue. "I guess we can't just kill someone ourselves to take one. So we don't have a way to kill the Walker. What do we do?"
"For now? We find a strongpoint," Michael replied, "Somewhere the Walkers would hesitate to follow, with good sightlines." He looked to Ygritte. "Any settlements with walls around?"
"Many, but wood and mud won't stop wights," she responded, "We were sent out to move anyone still in the villages Mance's army. We should join it too."
Conveniently giving her people access to our firepower, Michael thought, And where did this 'we' thing come from all of a sudden. "Ygritte, we told you our origin and you lost your mind. How do you think the rest of your people will react?"
Ygritte smiled, revealing white teeth that were slightly crooked. "Mance will understand. He's got wisdom like I've got arrows." She had no shortage of arrows, so the King Beyond the Wall was a smart cookie. In her opinion.
"Or we drive to the Wall," O'Neill said, "A wall that big is the definition of a strongpoint. Though I doubt it's as high as you say. Maybe these Crows of yours will let us through."
Ygritte poked him in the chest with her heavily gloved hand, punctuating her words. "They're not my Crows, Canadian. You're in the True North. You're their enemy just for being here. You're not their people. They will look at you the same way they look at me. They have to know about the Others, they couldn't not know. And they do nothing. Your fancy talk and not-magic sticks won't help you."
Michael saw O'Neill's hand reach for his sidearm. The man's patience with her had run out. He pulled Ygritte away gently. "You're likely right, but we can't fight people who don't attack us first. It's a law we have. So, are there any other places we can hole up?"
Ygritte crossed her arms, staring at him for a moment. Considering whether or not to tell? "Two places, but you're not going to like them. Craster's or the Fist of the First Men."
"Why won't we like them?" Michael asked.
Ygritte crossed her arms. "Craster refused to leave. Claimed he has some way of keeping the Others away. Nobody knows what, but he is cruel and has taken many wives. Some of them are his own daughters." She paused. "He'll try and take me for a wife for certain. What say you about that?"
Michael let out a flat half-laugh. As if she wouldn't fill such a man full of arrows. "Not while you're rolling with us," he responded, "What about the other option? The First of the First Men?"
Ygritte seemed to warm at the promise of protection. I'm missing something here, Michael thought. She could handle herself, after all. "An old stronghold on a hill, where the First Men fought the White Walkers," she said, "It's too big for five to defend it. We couldn't set fires up there or everyone for leagues around would see it. And the Walkers know it well."
There's the 'we' again, Michael thought. He knew that holing up was a temporary solution to the problem of dead men walking. But it was a good starting point for the next step. "Which is closer to your King?"
"Sir?" O'Neill interrupted, before Ygritte could reply, "Would the Wall not be the better idea? These Crows might not be as hostile as the girl thinks. And if they are, we have the firepower to unfuck the situation."
"Problem is that those ice demons exist, Sergeant," Michael said, "And since I don't see a big door marked 'This Way To Canada' anywhere, the locals are the only people who might know where it's at. And if it doesn't exist, we're in the same boat as the locals. Kneelers, Crows and Free Folk. Maybe with another party to mediate, a diplomatic solution can be found."
O'Neill's face was unreadable. "We need to concentrate on getting home ourselves," he stated politely, "We're not diplomats, sir,"
Michael rounded on him. "We are as of this moment, Sergeant. And we're the best kind of diplomats too."
"How so?"
"We're armed."
O'Neill's brow raised. "Well said, sir," he smirked.
Ygritte's eyes narrowed. "You speak our language right well," she agreed, "But you say words that don't make sense. What's a diplomat?" She mangled the word, as if tongue tied by it entirely.
"I can tell this is going to be a long journey already," O'Neill murmured in response.
Michael did not address that. "I'll tell you later, Ygritte. Which is closer to King Mance, the First or Craster?"
"The Fist," Ygritte said, "Mance is taking everyone up the Skirling Pass. The Fist guards the way, so there'll…."
The comms crackled to life in Michael's ear.
"They're here," Sayer whispered.
Dread pulled at Michael's insides.
How did the 'White Walker' catch up so quickly? he thought, It has barely been more than an hour since we stopped.
Michael gestured at once for O'Neill to go back to the crawler, which he did at a sprint. Ygritte cocked her head slightly, expecting an explanation. He held up a hand, began walking and got onto his comms.
"Private, I gave you an order earlier. Shoot the leader. Now."
"There's more than one," Sayer breathed back, "Three of those demons. Fifty plus walking dead that I can see too, and they've been dead a while. Rotting skin and bone, sir. They're at the edge of the water, just staring across towards the fire. They don't see me yet."
Michael stopped and hung his head. A certain suspicion itched at his skin. "The demons, can you see the same one from before?"
There was silence for a couple of seconds. "No, sir," Sayer replied, "Their swords are too small and the hair is different."
Michael nodded to himself. "I think the first one told the others to look for us."
Ygritte heard and understood what he was saying. She nocked her bow with a grey-fletched arrow, scanning the trees around for a target. Not that she could have done anything with it. Michael tugged the sleeve of her stitched-fur jacket and waved her to follow him.
"How?" Zheng asked.
"Magic radio?" O'Neill mused, "It wouldn't be the strangest thing we've seen so far."
"We need to get to the Fist, now," Michael stated, "Sayer, withdraw to the crawler. Zheng, start it up. O'Neill, you're on the MG."
The engine of the vehicle whined for a second before roaring to life. Michael and Ygritte ran up to it and hopped inside. Before the door closed, the crack-crack-crack of a rifle burst sounded through the bush.
"They're chasing me!" Sayer said, "All of them!"
Michael slammed the door shut and sat down. "Move this thing, corporal!"
Zheng gave the gas her full attention, and the vehicle lurched forward. O'Neill swayed and almost fell back down into the cabin from his standing position into the open roof. Only his grip on the machinegun mount kept him up. The whole crawler cleared the death-holly bushes in two seconds, and went parallel to the river along the top of the bank.
Michael spotted Sayer running down from a small hillock less than fifty yards away. The Ranger had slung both his own rifle and Arran's, swinging his arms hard as he ran for his life.
To the left, in the water, corpses shambled and stumbled through the freezing water of the stream straight towards the Ranger. Behind them on the opposite bank, three of the White Walkers in their medieval armour stood and watched.
Sayer's not going to make it, Michael mind whispered, They're going to catch him.
"What are you waiting for, Sergeant! Chew them up!"
Growling something incomprehensible in Irish, O'Neill opened fire from the roof. A river of tracers flowed off the top of the vehicle. The nearest corpses to Sayer were the first target. Some burst into flames and fell into the stream. The water did not stop them burning. Some lost limbs or fell apart under the force of the bigger bullets. Empty brass cartridges fell down through the hatch in the roof and pinged onto the floor of the cabin.
The Sergeant's marksmanship and disregard for conserving ammo saved the young Ranger's life. Zheng slowed the vehicle to a crawl as Sayer came alongside, letting Michael open the door and help lift the Private inside.
"Which direction is the Fist?!" Michael shouted to Ygritte, over the sound of the engine and O'Neill's shooting. She didn't have a radio.
"North!" the young woman said at the top of her voice.
Of course.
"Zheng, turn us around and past the pyre," Michael said using his radio, "We need to go North."
"Copy," the corporal replied through clenched teeth.
The crawler began a slow, wide turn. The corporal had to keep it to the flattest possible surfaces. It could go almost anywhere on its own, but not with the fuel trailer hooked up.
The corpses kept coming. Sayer's estimate of fifty was way off. More kept coming out from the woods across the river. Their masters wisely stayed behind but in sight, as the dead ran alongside the vehicle and clawed at the sides.
A very dead woman wearing nothing but a dark fur cloak and a gut wound banged on the bottom of the window next to Michael. He grimaced, fearing they'd climb on to the connection between the units of the crawler. Exactly where they couldn't shoot for fear of detonating ammunition or fuel.
"Sergeant, can you hit the White Walkers?" Michael shouted up at O'Neill.
"Not a chance!" he shouted back, "We're bumping around too much!"
Leaving speed as the only defence.
"Zheng, floor it!" Michael commanded, "Take a longer route if you have to!"
The engine roared again as the tracks churned the snow and dirt underneath. The crawler pulled away from the undead chasing it. Its path took it into the light of the flames again.
When Michael looked at pyre, horror threatened to empty his stomach. Singh and Arran's bodies stood up before his eyes. Burning like torches, they stumbled off the burning wood towards them. Even as they fell to a crawl, their skin dripping and smoking off of their faces and limbs, their hands were outstretched towards him.
He knew they did this because their masters wanted them to kill him. To strangle and claw. But he could not help but think it looked like they were desperately seeking help, hands seeking his own.
We're not on another world, he thought, We're in Hell.