An avalanche.

The avalanche itself won’t kill from that height. But the fatigue and hypothermia that come with immersing in the snow is gonna haunt us until our legs break away from our bodies and run off.

“Hurry! The thing is growling at us!” I grab her wrist and drag her along.

“But it does not seem—” She asks.

I interrupt her, “You wanna die? Buried like the Atlantis? Run!”

I lead her to the biggest pine tree within distance. Buzzing sounds echo behind us, but strangely, they aren’t getting noisier. I can’t stop. My ears are tricking me! I have to stay cautious. Nobody ever said complacency saved their asses.

We reach the pine tree before the avalanche catches us.

“Head down! Hands on your neck!” I push on the back of her head. The snow won’t hit your vitals as hard, and if the currents take us away, our chance of survival will increase.

The pressure converges inside my abdomen, bulldozing my lungs. Breathing is turning into a chore. I squeeze my face between my knees, seeing nothing but darkness.

I fold my body in anticipation for a long while, expecting big impact against the tree. But all I can feel is a swift grumble, akin to the sound of a mid-sized wave hitting the sandy shore.

Nothing happened?

I tell myself to not trust my senses, that the snow will throw a hook punch the moment I show my face.

However, the collision never comes. Instead, there’s only a slight tap on my shoulder.

“Alexei. . . Alexei!” The woman calls out to me. “You can lift your head up now.”

I look up only to find—to the direction of the woman’s pointing finger—snow sliding down in layers like porcelain plates.

“That wasn’t very scary,” I mumble.

“Hehe. . . hehe. . . We will die! As deep as Atlantis!” She grins at me with her smug smile and a mocking tone.

“Good that you find the whole thing amusing.”

“Oh, believe me, it is the most humorous! You described the growling sounds as if it was going to fall on us. . . like. . . like. . . like something that is big!” She jolts in excitement. “Uh. . . a boulder! Yes, a boulder! But then it the snow slides down the hillside like pebbles! You made such a big deal out of it, like a protective mother, ha! Hold on. . . Oh, dear. I should keep my decency.” She covers her lips with her hand. “I shall cease giggling this instance.” Even then, it takes a while until her snickers finally stop.

“It’s just the side effect of the mode still lingering. I would’ve known it wasn’t an avalanche otherwise.”

“Sure you would have.” She grins from ear to ear to the point that her eyes squint. She doesn’t even care how out of breath she is right now. “What is the matter? Is there. . . a huge avalanche. . . on the other side of the hill as well?”

I snort. Kinda annoying when somebody makes fun of me. I’ll let her have this one.

At least she’s forgotten to ask me how my internal functions work. The less I have to tell her, the better. I don’t want to talk about it. People brag about their bodies for how lean they look, how healthy they look, how muscular they look. I know Vasiliy used to. They take pride in their physicality because that’s one of the few things for most people to be proud about. Be proud of who you are, they said, but it’s so easy for them to say when they’re the normal ones.

Whereas I am a monstrosity.

***

We arrive at the plains. White snow stretches all the way to the horizon, dotted with dark grass in rounded form and a few tall, spindly, deformed—looking trees in the distance. A typical Siberian plain—an boundless graveyard. The place isn’t called The Land of the Death for no reason. Many have tried to venture into Siberia unprepared, many have failed. It’s just an atrocious blend of the worst nature has to offer: a winter so dry that it is impossible to find food and water; impassable forests that cannot be touched by men; and the world’s deepest lake Baikal, crippled by putrid algae and dead sponges, to the point that a single sip could kill you at once. You settle there to pursue only one goal — to hide from civilization, as one cult of Old Believers (Russian Orthodox Christians who broke away from the Russian Church more than 350 years ago) did in 1936. They fled to Siberia to escape the big religious persecution and lived in the taiga for decades. Now only one member of the cult is still alive. . . and still living there. Or at least that’s what I have been told. Maybe people just made that up to nourish their delusion that the land is still by any means habitable.

What’s the ‘big religious persecution’? Truth to be told, I have no clue. It seemed to have happened around three generations ago — coincide with when the first generation of asexual soldiers was created — according to the very few documents I’ve read. I think that whoever had the idea to wipe out women also tried to banish religions altogether. How it happened and who was affected are total mysteries; I assume it was a massacre or something of the sort. Whatever it was, it succeeded to a degree—for I don’t see any religious soldier among the ranks.

Then what’s so bad about Russian faithfuls that they had to get rid of them? Let’s just say that it took more than one session for my friend Vasiliy Kovalenko to explain to me.

The idea here is to stay away from Siberia if possible. But here lies the problem: if we are to trek to big cities like Kazan and Perm, we can easily get found out by His Excellency. If we are to head to Baikal, we’ll probably starve ourselves to death. I must admit I didn’t think it through when I lead her out of Ivhezsk. Ivhezsk was nowhere near a five-star hotel, but at least it provided us with liveable conditions.

“You know what? This is fine.” Stomping into the snow, I point to a heap of snow has been piled up. “Look, the wind is blowing on our backs, meaning if we dig a snow hole here, the wind won’t slam the hatch and block out air. Strong winds have blown snow piled up here, and this exposed ground is as high as my waist, so it should be at least half a meter. Tell me this. Just, now when we climbed down that hill, how much snow was there?”

“To the shin.”

“Good. At least you noticed. If the snow had reached the shin and still covered most of your body, it would be enough to dig a tunnel. This place is full of snow, probably enough for a basement with a radius of three meters,” I raise my voice to get her attention as her expression is getting blanker by the minutes. “Now we will prepare the steps to build the tunnel. You don’t have to do it this time, but I want you to really pay attention, because it’s gonna be your turn next time.”

“Yes. . .”

“Listen carefully. This is not a fictional novel for you to daydream about. This is practical knowledge. I suppose you will meet the need to build ice cellars more than finding lovers.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the enthusiasm?”

“Yes!” She yells. She looks like she’s dozing off, but at least she sounds ready.

I walk up the snowy slope, dragging the sole across the sole several times. “We have to test the consistency of the snow. If it’s light and porous like the snow earlier on the hill, the tunnel will collapse. Fortunately, the snow often hardens when turned up, so even though it’s porous—” I pick up two small pieces of snow with my fingertips and rub them. They melt on my hand like sponges. “—even if it’s spongy like this, load it up in a pile and wait for it to harden, you can still build a snow tunnel. If the condition still doesn’t allow it, dig a ditch and cover it with canvas. Is it clear?”

No reply. Her eyes glaze blankly at the direction of the unknown.

“I asked. . . Is it clear?”

“Y—Yes!” She startles.

I sigh. “A trench is easy to dig and takes less time, but it is but a trench. Cold as heck and can’t stand a blizzard.”

No reply.

“Normally, we will use a shovel to dig. But we don’t have shovels, so we have to improvise. Take a close look.”

I pull out my rifle and removed its bayonet from the gun. Then, I pull out a hoof in my pocket, then take off my shoelaces and tie them up, creating a grooved item.

“It’s a lot worse than a shovel, but now at least we won’t have to use our hands.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can see she tries to be attentive. I start digging, instructing her as I do so.

“Remember this: work slowly but surely.”

She asks me why.

“Because if you sweat, your body will lose warmth and increase the risk of hypothermia. If the slope is not deep enough, we must build a large snow mound, but this one is sufficient. You need to step on the snow so many times that they will no longer be porous but sticks together, then wait at least an hour to allow the snow mounds to tone up. After that, I will dig the tunnel inside it.”

She doesn’t respond to my words, so I don’t know whether she was listening or not. Turning around, I frown. “Repeat what I just said.”

“Everything?” She wears a confused expression.

“Everything.”

Interlocking her fingers, she replies in a nervous voice. “Uh, we have to check if the snow is porous or hard. . . If it’s porous, we dig trenches. We need to pile the snow into a big mound to let them harden, wait an hour before digging a hole in it. . .”

“You missed something. I told you the most important thing to remember when digging a tunnel. Did you forget?”

“Slowly but surely?” Her face peeks at me as she frets slowly (but unsurely); she seems to be trying to read my expression. Expecting to be yelled at, I guess.

I nod. “Slowly but surely. Otherwise, you will sweat and suffer hypothermia. Hey, your concentration and memory are not bad.”

“Really?” Her eyes flash with joy. It’s actually not that hard to keep her in a decent mood. Just, like, don’t kill anyone.

“Indeed. But it’s important that you know how to apply it. Look at what I do with these small knives and do the same next time.”

I show her how to build the hatch step-by-step. She listens in silence for most of the time, asking a few questions every once in a while, including silly things like how people could breathe underground. We only finish everything when it’s dark outside, and even then, I still have to spend some time punching a few air vents.