Once the big warehouse door closed and Jack was in the hallway a hidden door hissed open and the SS-R threw the remaining wounded and dead into a dark cold room the size of a broom closet. Jack pounded on the steel door when suddenly he felt himself free falling, as ice-cold air slammed into his face and took his breath away. Jack heard his left leg crack on landing and screamed nearly blacking out from the jolt of pain. What the fuck was going on? He was outside; he look up at the sheer ice that he had slid down and saw the prison far above him on a ridge. The clothes he wore were absolutely no protection and within seconds he violently began to shiver as his mind snapped to the conclusion that he was already dead. Still, his survival instincts kicked in and after failing to stand up he started to crawl. His gut was spilling blood from Preachers stab wound at least his blood was warm but it was so cold out it actually froze. Through his blurred vision he saw a pile of newly dead bodies then a trail of red on the white surface, a bloody shoe, and a severed blacken arm frozen in the snow. A crippled hand tried to grab him and a weak voice cried for help. Jack couldn’t help him, he couldn’t help himself. His skin burned and tingled, and because he crawled, his hands were the first to go numb. The tears in his eyes froze them shut, his nose was crusted with ice, and he couldn’t even feel his ears anymore. He itched his swollen blistered chin and drew blood as skin peeled away from both his hands and face. Why was he not dead yet? When would it all be over? Fuck those tin cans! Jack’s last thought was about ZZ and Smokey, he had never been a religious man but this once he prayed to God, if there was one, that they would be dead before they left the warehouse.