The Rise Of The Winter Soilder

The cold bit through Francis Reed's jacket like a knife. He pressed his back against the frozen concrete wall, his breath coming out in white clouds that disappeared into the Siberian night. "Sergeant Reed, do you copy?" The voice crackled in his earpiece. Francis touched his radio. "I copy, Command. Still no sign of the target." "Intel says the facility should be right in front of you." Francis looked at the snow-covered wasteland stretching before him. Nothing but white. White snow. White sky. White death waiting in every direction. "There's nothing here," he whispered. "Just ice and—" The explosion came from behind. Francis hit the ground as fire erupted into the sky. His ears rang. Heat washed over him, melting the snow around his body. He rolled onto his side and saw what was left of his unit's transport vehicle burning like a signal flare. "Command! We're under attack!" Francis scrambled to his feet, rifle raised. "Miller! Jackson! Report!" Silence answered him. Then gunfire. Sharp cracks splitting the air. Francis ran toward the burning vehicle, his boots slipping on ice. His heart hammered against his ribs. *Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be—* He found Miller first. The young private lay face-down in red snow, his eyes open and empty. Francis's stomach turned. Miller had a daughter back home. Three years old. She'd never remember her father's face. "Jackson!" Francis called out, sweeping his rifle across the darkness. "Where are you?" More gunfire. This time he saw the muzzle flash. Fifty yards north, hidden in the tree line. Francis dropped behind a snowbank and returned fire. Three shots. Four. Five. The shooting stopped. Francis waited, counting his heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing moved in the forest. He rose slowly, keeping his rifle ready. His hands shook. Not from fear—he'd been in firefights before. From cold. The temperature had dropped. His fingers were going numb. *Get to shelter. Find Jackson. Call for extraction.* The mental checklist kept him moving. One foot in front of the other. Check the bodies. Secure the area. Stay alive. He found Jackson near the vehicle, clutching his stomach. Blood soaked through his uniform. "Sarge..." Jackson coughed, red bubbles forming at his lips. "Can't feel my legs." Francis dropped beside him, pulling off his gloves. His medical training kicked in. Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. Keep him talking. "You're going to be fine, Jackson. Stay with me." Francis pressed his hands against the wound. Blood poured between his fingers. Too much blood. "Tell me about that girl you met. The one from the bar." Jackson smiled weakly. "Sarah... no, that's your wife's name..." "Yeah." Francis's throat tightened. Sarah. God, he missed her. Missed holding her. Missed the way she laughed at his terrible jokes. "My Sarah's waiting for me back home. Your girl is too. What's her name?" "Can't... remember..." Jackson's eyes lost focus. "Stay with me!" Francis shook him. "Jackson! Stay—" But Jackson was gone. Just like that. One moment a person, the next... nothing. Francis sat back in the snow, his hands covered in blood that was already freezing. Two men dead. His entire unit wiped out in seconds. And he was alone in the middle of Siberia with enemies in the woods and the temperature dropping fast. He should radio for help. But his radio had died in the explosion. He should stay with the bodies. But staying meant freezing to death. *Move or die.* Francis grabbed Jackson's rifle—his own had jammed—and stood. The wind picked up, bringing with it a wall of white. A blizzard. Perfect. He pulled his jacket tighter and started walking. Not toward the extraction point—that was miles away. Toward higher ground. Toward any shelter he could find. The snow came faster. Within minutes, Francis could barely see ten feet ahead. His face went numb. His feet felt like blocks of ice. Every breath hurt his lungs. *Keep moving. One step. Another step. Don't stop.* He thought of Sarah. Her dark hair spread across their pillow. Her voice saying his name. The way she'd cried at the airport when he deployed. "I'll come back," he'd promised. "I always come back." He thought of Emma. His little girl. Six years old with her mother's eyes and his stubborn chin. She'd drawn him a picture before he left—a crayon soldier with a big smile, standing in front of an American flag. "Keep the bad guys away, Daddy," she'd said, hugging his leg. *I'm trying, sweetheart. I'm trying.* Francis's foot caught on something. He fell forward, crashing through a layer of ice into darkness. He tumbled down a steep slope, bouncing off rocks and frozen earth. His rifle flew from his hands. His head cracked against something hard. Stars exploded across his vision. Then he stopped. Francis lay on his back, staring up at a small circle of gray sky twenty feet above. Every part of his body screamed in pain. His left arm bent at a wrong angle. Broken. His ribs felt cracked. Blood ran warm down his face. *Get up. Get up. GET UP.* But he couldn't. His body wouldn't obey. The cold seeped into his bones, stealing his strength. This was how he'd die. Alone in a hole in Russia. Sarah would get a folded flag and a letter saying he died with honor. Emma would grow up without a father. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the gray sky. "I'm so sorry." That's when he saw it. Through the darkness of the hole, a deeper darkness. A doorway. Metal and concrete. Man-made. The facility. He'd found it by falling into it. Francis laughed—a broken, painful sound. Of course. Intel was right. The target was exactly where they said it would be. He'd just been looking above ground instead of below. With his last bit of strength, Francis crawled toward the doorway. His broken arm dragged uselessly. His blood left a trail in the snow. The door was open. Inside, emergency lights flickered. Red and dim. Francis pulled himself through the doorway and collapsed. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was a symbol painted on the wall. A snowflake inside a circle. And words in Russian that he somehow understood: PROJECT WINTER.