Twelve klicks. In summer, that was a coffee break. Now, it was a war. He checked the fuel gauge—a quarter tank. Enough. It had to be.
He exhaled. The steam from his breath fogged the inside of the cracked windshield before freezing instantly into a thin film of frost. Snow Runner
Then he saw them. Lights. Pinpricks of yellow in the white chaos. Perilovsk. Twelve klicks