The wind protested through the compromised fuselage of the plane. Craig rubbed his head, steadying his Arctic-proofed tundra jacket. “Medicine all right?” he inquired.

Timothy rifled through some assorted debris until he found four small cardboard boxes. One of them had been stained by some fluid, which had rapidly refrozen. The other three, however, were not beyond repair. “We lost one batch,” he replied.

“Frick,” James breathed.

“We still got enough doses for everybody in that city four times over,” Timothy interjected. “Hold your horses.”

As if in reply, the wind shrieked like a frenzied equestrian.

“How far we got?” asked Craig.

James shrugged. “Forty, forty-five kilometers.”

“In this?” Craig asked. He spat an invective.

“Got to get that medicine up to W-Town,” Timothy answered.

“Have you looked outside? It’s not exactly a warm summer’s day out there.”

“A few hundred people would agree.”

They sat in the frigid silence for a moment.

Finally, James got up. “That’s it,” he said. “Let’s go.”