As he crested the final plateau, the storm seemed to sense its prey was escaping. The wind shifted, slamming against the side of the cab. The trailer began to fish-tail, a slow, lazy pendulum that wanted to throw him into the ravine. Jensen punched the engine brake. The Azov squatted, dug in, and held.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a savior. He was just the man who didn't stop.
He exhaled. The steam from his breath fogged the inside of the cracked windshield before freezing instantly into a thin film of frost.
Then he saw them. Lights. Pinpricks of yellow in the white chaos. Perilovsk.