Blanket

"Another blanket!" roared Private Linden before breaking into another hacking cough. Two more soldiers draped him in yet another blanket, cocooning the pale man in heavy cloth. As other soldiers stoked the furnace and the outpost doctor prepared to take his temperature, the leaders of the operation quietly stepped out of the barracks. Only when they were outside the Arctic outpost, standing in knee-high snow where the wind threatened to snuff their cigars, were they willing to confront the facts.

"I'm not sure whether he'll survive the night," said Lieutenant Fourier. "It's been five hours since he fell through the ice, and he still won't warm up."

"Well, we can't have another man down out here," replied Sergeant Alov. "We're already understaffed, and morale's already in the fucking trash. If I'm going to die in this godforsaken icehole, I'm not gonna get stabbed by my own men."

"Alov's right," said Second Lieutenant Forbras. "The terrain's more dangerous than the enemy guns, and we might be able to save Linden if we get him back to the main base. I'll tell the men to pack up. Fourier, wire command and tell them--"

"H-hey, S-sergeant?" Linden staggered outside, still wearing the remnants of his blanket cocoon. At least...the face looked like Linden, even as the body resembled an ice sculpture of some half-human, half-spider monstrosity. The three officers raised their pistols as Linden grinned at them with a mouth full of the wrong kind of teeth. "G-g-good news! I'm not c-c-cold anymore!"