The last sanctuary

The air inside the fourth safe house was thin, tasting of stagnant cedar and the metallic tang of old dust. It wasn't the sanctuary I had envisioned; it was a carcass, picked clean by whoever had found it first. I didn't let my eyes linger on the splintered cabinet hinges or the hollowed-out pantry. In this climate, despair was a luxury that led to a quiet, frozen death, and I wasn't ready to stop breathing just yet.

I moved with a mechanical, shivering efficiency. My fingers were stiff, but I knew exactly where to look. I pried up the loose floorboard near the hearth, revealing the fuel cache I’d buried years ago. The two steel jerrycans were heavy, their contents still liquid and lethal. I lugged them out to Sancho’s beast of an ATV. The engine block was a block of ice, the fuel cap biting into my palms as I twisted it off. The glug-glug of the gasoline was the only sound in the dead clearing—a foul-smelling, chemical promise of escape.

"One less hole to fall into," I rasped, my breath a thick, ragged shroud.

I scanned the perimeter. I needed more than just a full tank; I needed to haul the weight of my survival. Near the collapsed woodpile, half-submerged in a drift of grey snow, I found the rusted skeleton of a heavy-duty utility wagon. I’d kept it here for a day just like this. I waded through the waist-deep powder and kicked the tires. They were solid rubber, cracked by the years but still holding.

I dragged the iron frame to the back of the ATV. My hands were clumsy, raw from the wind, but I forced the hitch into place. The metal clanged with a definitive, bone-deep thud as the pin dropped home.

"Now for the fire," I whispered.

I started with the outdoor woodpile, grabbing every split log that wasn't mush. When that was gone, I turned back to the house. I wasn sentiment. I tore the broken dining chairs apart, kicked the legs off the shattered coffee table, and ripped the splintered cabinet doors from their frames.

The wood groaned as I harvested the house for parts. "You're not a home anymore," I told the empty, freezing rooms. "You're just BTU."

I piled the jagged remains of my former life into the wagon and threw an oil-stained tarp over the heap. I threaded a length of frayed nylon rope through the eyelets, cinching it down until my knuckles bled. I pulled until the load was a single, immobile mass.

Inside, the silence was louder now that the furniture was gone. My stomach cramped—a sharp, acidic reminder of the hours since I'd last eaten. I sat on the floor, the cold of the wood seeping through my layers, and pulled my one remaining bag toward me.

I pulled out a tin of SPAM. The metal was so cold it felt like it would tear the skin off my fingers. I pryed the lid back, and the smell hit me—salty, greasy, and cloyingly preserved. I didn't bother with a fork. I used my hunting knife to carve out a cold, gelatinous slab and shoved it into my mouth.

It was vile. The fat coated my tongue like wax, and the salt burned the cracks in my lips. I swallowed, fighting the urge to gag.

"Fucking disgusting," I muttered, staring at the pink, shimmering block.

I regretted it instantly, the processed meat sitting like a stone in my gut. But I knew the math. My body was a machine, and this was the oil. I finished the tin, wiped the blade on my thigh, and stood up. The salt made me thirsty, but it also made me feel solid.

I looked at the door. Just the engine, the wood, and the long, white road to nowhere.

I stepped onto the porch and uncapped the last flask of high-proof grain alcohol Sancho had handed me at the bridge. I didn't hesitate. I walked the perimeter, splashing the volatile liquid against the dry logs of the exterior. I struck a match—a tiny, defiant spark—and dropped it.

I did it three more times until the fire hold, the blue flames licking hungrily at the wood. I stood there until the heat began to singe my eyebrows, watching my last tie to this country turn into a pillar of orange light.

Once I was satisfied the safe house would burn to the ground, I climbed onto the ATV and throttled into the dark. I had no clear destination, but my mind was already sorting through the geography of the sector. I remembered a string of abandoned lean-tos scattered along the northern ridge—remnants of an old surveying project from decades back. They were nearby, primitive, and hidden well enough that even Vic nor Val would be able to find me. I headed away from the heat, steering toward the memory of those skeletons in the woods.

After a few hours of navigating the blinding white, the terrain finally shifted. The grade steepened, the engine of the ATV growling as it clawed up the ridge. Then, I saw it—a jagged, grey silhouette against the shifting snow. I had found one of the lean-tos.

It was barely standing, a skeletal tilt of rotted timber and frozen moss, but it was nestled against the deep edge of the forest. The ancient pines acted as a natural break, blunting the worst of the blizzard’s fury. I parked the machine and stumbled off, my legs feeling like lead.

I was bone-tired and my throat was like sandpaper. I moved to the edge of the forest, where the wind couldn't immediately snatch the heat away, and began to scrape together a small fire. I used the driest twigs I could find beneath the heavy boughs of the spruce trees. As the first orange sparks took hold, I placed a tiny metal pot over the flame, packing it with clean snow. I needed the hydration more than anything else.

While the snow began its slow melt, I turned my attention to the shelter. I dragged a large, heavy-duty tarp from my supplies and draped it over the open face of the lean-to. I staked it down with heavy stones and cord, creating a small, claustrophobic pocket of dead air. I hoped to God it would hold onto enough of my body heat to keep me from freezing during the night.

Once the tarp was secured, I crawled back to the small fire to check on the pot. It was then that I noticed it—laying right there by the flames. It was a bag of food and a few bottles of water. I grabbed a bottle, half-expecting it to be a solid block of ice, but by some miracle, the water hadn't frozen yet.

I emptied the bag and found a container of some kind of meat stew. I didn't care what was in it—venison, beef, or something more local—my hunger was an animal. I ate until I was stuffed and there was still a large amount left. I packed the rest up and brought everything into the lean-to with me.

I cleaned off snow from the few logs in there that one would consider a bed. I grabbed the two wool blankets from my pack and changed into a dry base level. I laid down on the uncomfortable wood, covered myself with the blankets and fell fast asleep.

In the depths of that sleep, a face emerged from the darkness. Grigori Rasputin. He didn't look like the history books; he looked like a man made of shadow and ancient earth. His eyes were wide, burning with a feverish intensity as he stood over me in the dream. He spoke in a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in my chest.

"You have the scent of the old world on you, little ghost," he rumbled.

"I’m just trying to stay warm," I heard myself say, my voice echoing in the void.

"Warmth is for the living. You are walking the path of the dead," he said, leaning closer. "But you are not alone. There are shadows that still owe the bloodline. I have placed helpers along your path to ensure you reach the end of your journey."

We talked for what felt like hours, a surreal conversation about bloodlines and shadows, before the dream finally dissolved into the grey light of dawn.

I jolted awake, the taste of the meat stew still coating my mouth. My first thought was immediate and certain.

"Hallucinogenics," I muttered. Whoever had provided the food laced it.

I got up, dressed, and packed up my stuff, heading further away into the white. As I traveled, the sat phone buzzed. It was Sera.

"I found Sancho," she said. "I brought him back to his cabin safely. But Deppgrl... I had a dream. Grigori Rasputin came to me. He said he had helpers along the way for you."

The cold deepened. "I had the same dream, Sera."

"Did you find food near where you slept?" she asked.

"I did."

"So did I," she said. "I stopped halfway between Sancho's and where I'm staying. I’m going to test my food for hallucinogenics."

"Be safe, Sera," I told her, and then I hung up.

I pushed the ATV as hard as I could, the engine screaming against the rising gale. The heavy vibrations of the machine pulsed through the seat and up my spine, a rhythmic throb that began to play cruel tricks on my mind. It felt too much like a presence, too much like touch. In the biting cold and the absolute isolation, the movement of the ATV made me miss Vic—the memory of his dick, the way he would fuck my pussy until the world went silent. Despite the rage, despite the fire I’d left behind, I began to miss him.

The feeling was overwhelming, a biological scream for the very thing that had destroyed me. In my mind, I didn't call for help or safety; I called out to Grigori Rasputin. I pleaded into the void, telling him I needed to find a man I knew well close by—not for comfort, not for words, but because I needed to be fucked. I needed to drown out the freezing silence with the only heat I knew how to navigate.

I changed my path, veering slightly more toward the east. I continued until the ATV sputtered to a stop. The fuel tank was empty. I got off, found a backup jerry can, filled the tank, and put the jerry can back in the compartment. I continued on my trek, pushing the engine to its absolute limit.

Two hours later, the machine stopped again. This time, thick grey smoke was pouring from the engine. I scrambled off and lifted the hood, the heat and the stench of burnt oil hitting me all at once.

"Oh fuck!" I told myself, staring at the ruined machinery. "I destroyed the engine!"

The smoke swirled into the blizzard, a signal of total failure. I stood there, trembling with cold and frustration, when I heard it—a familiar voice cutting through the roar of the wind, calling my name.

"Deppgrl?"

I spun around. Emerging from the whiteout was Doc, my ex-husband. The shock was a physical jolt. I didn't think, didn't hesitate; I ran to him, and we collided in a desperate, bone-crushing hug.

"You need to get in, immediately," he said, his voice urgent against my ear. He gestured toward a house I hadn't even seen through the storm. "My mechanic will bring the ATV inside the garage."

"I need my bags," I managed to rasp, pulling back slightly. "My food, my water, and my meds. Everything is on there."

He nodded, his face tight with concern, and helped me haul my supplies off the ruined machine. "Tell your mechanic to be careful," I warned him, my teeth chattering. "There's both an empty and a full jerry can of fuel in the compartment. Don't let him spark anything."

Doc nodded to a figure already moving toward the ATV and ushered me inside the house. The transition from the sub-zero gale to the interior heat was almost painful. He called out to his mechanic to finalize the intake, then led me straight to his bedroom.

The air was heavy with the scent of cedar and him. He didn't waste time with questions. He helped me strip off the cold, sodden layers of wool and Gore-Tex. I stood there in the center of the room, shivering and completely naked in front of him.

Doc stopped, his hands still holding the discarded jacket. He looked over my body, his gaze slow and deliberate, the familiar lust burning in his eyes.

"You're beautiful," he whispered. "Still the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

I looked back at him, the memory of our shared history rushing back. "I always appreciated our sexual connection," I told him, the honesty of the moment stripped bare. "More than almost anything else."

He stepped closer, the heat radiating from him. "Do you need to warm up first?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Or do you want me to warm me up?"

I didn't have to think about it. The cold was still in my marrow, but the fire Rasputin had promised was right in front of me.

"I'd rather you warm me up," I told him. "I miss those days."

Doc didn't say another word. He crossed the small distance between us, reached out, and picked me up effortlessly. He carried me over to the bed and gently laid me down on my back, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to his touch. He stripped as quickly as he could, throwing his clothes aside with a frantic, focused energy. In seconds, he was over me, and the glans of his dick was in my pussy.

He paused for a heartbeat, his eyes searching mine. "Do we need condoms?" he asked, his voice thick.

"We don’t,”  I told him, my breath hitching as I arched toward him.

He didn't hesitate again. He pushed his giant dick in me hard and fast. I screamed in pleasure, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the world outside the room—the blizzard, the betrayal, and the ghosts—finally went silent.