The Jackson Township Ice Arena sat like a sleeping giant at the edge of the commercial district, its brutalist concrete facade weathered by years of harsh winters and neglect. What had once been a source of community pride—home to youth hockey leagues, figure skating competitions, and weekend recreational skating—now stood as a monument to the world we'd lost clearly….

I mean I never went to such places but clearly it looked weird to see it in such state.

The parking lot was a graveyard of abandoned vehicles, their windows dark and doors hanging open like broken wings, telling silent stories of panic and hasty evacuation.

Sydney brought our car to a stop at the far edge of the lot, positioning us behind a overturned delivery truck that would provide cover and concealment while we conducted our initial reconnaissance. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the profound silence that seemed to blanket this entire section of town like a funeral shroud.

"Well," Christopher said, his voice light despite the tension I could see in his shoulders, "it's definitely quieter than I expected. Usually when we're hunting monsters, there's more... ambiance. Screaming, explosions, that sort of thing."

"Don't jinx us," Sydney replied, though I caught the nervous edge beneath her usual confidence. She was gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary, knuckles white against the black plastic.

I studied the building through my binoculars I had obtained after rummaging a house a week ago, taking in every detail of what we were about to enter. The ice arena was larger than I'd anticipated—a regulation-sized facility that could easily seat several hundred spectators. The main entrance was a wall of glass doors, most of which had been shattered, creating jagged openings that looked like mouths full of broken teeth. Above the entrance, a faded sign still proclaimed "Jackson Township Ice Arena - Home of the Wildcats" in letters that had once been bright blue and gold.

"Visual inspection looks clear from here," I reported, though something about the stillness bothered me. "No movement, no obvious signs of infected activity. But that doesn't mean much."

Rachel had pulled out her own pair of binoculars and was conducting a systematic scan of the building's perimeter. "The structural integrity looks sound," she observed. "No obvious damage to the walls or roof. Whatever happened here, it wasn't the result of external assault."

"Which means the Frost Walker is probably still inside," Cindy said quietly, checking the medical supplies in her pack for the third time in as many minutes. "Waiting for us."

Yeah, I mean I saw it in my vision…

The weight of the flamethrower across my back felt heavier than it had during our preparations, the fuel tank pressing against my spine like a constant reminder of what we were about to face. The protective suit was already making me uncomfortably warm, and we hadn't even left the air-conditioned safety of the car yet.

"Before we go in there," I said, turning to face the others, "I need everyone to understand something. This isn't like fighting regular infected. The Frost Walker can kill with a single touch. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, and whoever it touches will be frozen solid before any of us can help them."

"We know," Sydney said.

"Do you?" I pressed, unable to keep the worry from my own tone. "Because knowing intellectually and truly understanding are two different things. This creature doesn't just freeze your skin—it freezes your blood, your organs, your brain. Instantly. There's no gradual cooling, no time to react or retreat. One second you're alive and fighting, the next you're a statue."

Christopher adjusted his own flamethrower, testing the weight distribution for what must have been the dozenth time. "Ryan, we get it. We're all scared. But we've committed to this mission, and standing around talking about how dangerous it is isn't going to make it any safer."

He was right, of course, but the protective instincts that had been amplified by the Dullahan virus were screaming at me to find some way to keep them all safe without putting them at risk. The logical part of my mind knew that was impossible—we needed their skills, their support, their backup if things went wrong. But the emotional part of my mind kept conjuring images of frozen corpses wearing familiar faces.

"Just... promise me you'll be careful," I said finally. "Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks, that you'll stick to the plan, that you'll retreat if things start going sideways."

"We promise," Rachel said, her voice gentle but firm. "But you need to promise us something too."

"What?"

"Promise you won't try to be a hero. Promise you won't sacrifice yourself trying to protect us. We're stronger as a team, and that means we all watch each other's backs."

The request caught me off guard, mainly because it highlighted something I hadn't fully acknowledged about my own tendencies. Rachel was right—I did have a habit of putting myself between danger and the people I cared about, often without considering that my death might leave them in an even worse situation.

"I promise," I said, though even as the words left my mouth, I wondered if I'd be able to keep that promise when faced with a choice between my life and theirs.

We spent another ten minutes conducting a more detailed reconnaissance of the building and its surroundings. The ice arena was part of a larger complex that included a community center, several smaller athletic facilities, and what appeared to be maintenance buildings for the township's recreational programs. All of the structures showed signs of hasty abandonment—doors left open, equipment scattered across parking areas, and the kind of general disorder that suggested people had fled quickly when the evacuation orders came.

"There," Rachel said suddenly, pointing toward the north side of the building. "Service entrance. Looks like a loading dock area. Probably less exposed than going through the main entrance."

I followed her pointing finger and saw what she meant. A concrete ramp led down to a recessed area where delivery trucks would have loaded and unloaded equipment. The service doors were closed but didn't appear to be secured, and the area was partially concealed from the main road by an concrete barrier.

"Good eye," I agreed. "That gives us multiple egress routes if we need to retreat quickly."

"Plus," Christopher added, "it's probably closer to the actual ice surface. Most arenas are designed so equipment and supplies can be moved directly from the loading areas to the rink level."

The tactical advantages were obvious, but as we prepared to leave the relative safety of our vehicle, I found myself conducting one more weapons check. The flamethrower felt solid and reliable in my hands, its weight distributed evenly across my shoulders and back. The ignition system responded properly when tested, producing a small pilot flame that burned with steady blue intensity. Mark's engineering had been thorough and professional, but untested equipment always carried an element of uncertainty.

"Everyone ready?" I asked, though I could see from their expressions that they were as prepared as anyone could be for what we were about to face.

We approached the service entrance in standard tactical formation, with Christopher and me carrying the flamethrowers at the front, Rachel and Sydney providing overwatch from the flanks, and Cindy maintaining position as our medic and communication coordinator. The concrete ramp was littered with debris—abandoned equipment, scattered papers, the detritus of normal life interrupted by catastrophe.

The service doors were heavy steel construction, designed for durability rather than aesthetics. They stood slightly ajar, revealing a slice of darkness beyond that could have concealed anything. I tested the handle carefully, ready to retreat if the door's movement triggered any kind of response from within.

Nothing. The door swung open with a quiet creak of hinges that needed oiling, revealing a loading bay area that looked exactly like what it was supposed to be—a utilitarian space designed for moving large quantities of equipment and supplies.

The air that drifted out from the building carried a chill that went beyond normal autumn temperatures. This was the kind of cold that seemed to seep into your bones, the kind that made your breath visible and your skin prickle with goosebumps. Even through the protective layers of my heat-resistant suit, I could feel the temperature difference.

"It's freezing in there," Cindy whispered, stating the obvious but voicing what we were all thinking. "Like, really freezing. Colder than it should be even for an unheated building."

"The Frost Walker likely," Rachel said quietly. "It's changing the ambient temperature of the entire structure."

We moved through the loading bay with weapons raised and senses heightened, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a possible warning of danger. The concrete floor was covered with a thin layer of what looked like frost, making our footsteps leave visible tracks and creating the risk of slipping at crucial moments.

Industrial shelving units lined the walls, most of them empty but some still holding the remnants of the arena's normal operations—cases of sports drinks, boxes of equipment parts, stacks of promotional materials for events that would never happen. Everything was coated with the same thin layer of frost, as if the entire space had been preserved in a freezer.

A doorway at the far end of the loading bay led deeper into the building, and through its reinforced glass window I could see what appeared to be a corridor that would take us toward the main rink area. Emergency lighting strips provided minimal illumination, casting everything in an eerie green glow that made shadows dance and shift in ways that kept making me think I was seeing movement where there was none.

"Stay close," I murmured as we approached the interior door. "And remember—short, controlled bursts with the flamethrowers. We don't know how the creature will react to fire, and we don't want to waste fuel on ineffective attacks."

The corridor beyond was typical of athletic facilities—wide enough for equipment transport, with doors leading off to various support areas. Signs pointed toward locker rooms, equipment storage, concessions, and most importantly, "RINK ACCESS." The temperature seemed to drop with every step we took deeper into the building, and our breath began to form visible clouds that dissipated slowly in the still air.

"Look at this," Sydney said quietly, stopping beside one of the doors that led to what the sign indicated were the home team locker rooms. The metal door handle was covered with a thick layer of ice, as if someone had poured water over it and let it freeze solid.

I examined the ice formation more closely and felt my stomach tighten with apprehension. This wasn't natural frost formation—it was too thick, too perfectly formed, too geometric in its structure. It looked almost crystalline, like it had been sculpted rather than simply frozen.

"The creature's been through here," I said. "Recently, too. This ice formation is too fresh and well-defined to have been here for days."

Christopher tested his own flamethrower's ignition system again, the brief flare of light casting dancing shadows on the walls. "How recently?"

"Hard to say. But the ambient temperature suggests it might still be in the immediate area."

We continued deeper into the building, following the signs toward the main rink access. The corridor branched several times, leading to administrative offices, additional locker rooms, and what appeared to be a small pro shop where the arena had sold skating equipment and team merchandise. Every surface showed signs of the creature's presence—thick ice formations on door handles, frost covering windows, and that bone-deep cold that seemed to permeate everything.

The sound of our footsteps seemed amplified in the silence, echoing off concrete walls and creating acoustic shadows that made it difficult to determine if we were truly alone. Several times I found myself stopping, raising my hand to halt the group while I listened for sounds that might indicate we were being stalked or observed.

"There," Rachel whispered, pointing toward a set of double doors ahead that were marked with larger signs reading "RINK ACCESS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."

The doors were partially covered with ice, but not sealed shut. Frost had formed in intricate patterns across their surfaces, creating geometric designs that were too complex and organized to be natural formations. It was almost artistic in its precision, as if the creature that had created it possessed some kind of aesthetic sense along with its lethal capabilities.

I approached the doors carefully, testing them with gentle pressure to see if they would open without breaking the ice formations. They moved slightly, indicating that while they were cold enough to support frost buildup, they weren't frozen solid.

"This is it," I said quietly. "The main rink is beyond these doors."

"Are we ready?" Cindy asked, though her voice suggested she already knew the answer was both yes and no. We were as prepared as we could be given the circumstances, but facing a creature that could freeze us solid with a touch was the kind of challenge that no amount of preparation could truly ready us for.

I looked around at their faces, seeing fear mixed with determination, anxiety balanced by resolve. These people had become more than just fellow survivors—they'd become family, in the way that shared danger and mutual dependence created bonds stronger than blood. The thought of losing any of them to this creature made me very uneasy and overworked .

"Remember the plan," I said. "We go in fast and coordinated. Christopher takes the left flank, I take the right. Rachel and Sydney provide covering fire and watch for escape routes. Cindy maintains position near the exit and coordinates our withdrawal if we need to retreat quickly."

"And if we can't retreat quickly?" Christopher asked.

"Then we use every bit of firepower we have and hope it's enough to put this thing down permanently."

I placed my hands on the door handles, feeling the cold seep through my protective gloves, and took a deep breath of the frigid air. Beyond these doors waited either victory or death, with very little middle ground between those possibilities.

"On three," I said. "One... two... three."

I pushed both doors open simultaneously, and we stepped into the main arena.

The sight that greeted us defied every expectation I'd had about what we might find.

The ice rink itself was a standard regulation size—200 feet long by 85 feet wide—but it had been transformed into something that belonged in a fairy tale rather than an athletic facility. The entire surface was covered not with normal ice, but with formations that rose from the floor like a crystalline forest. Pillars of ice twisted toward the ceiling, some thin and delicate like frozen waterfalls, others thick and substantial like the trunks of ancient trees. They caught and reflected what little light filtered down from the overhead fixtures, creating patterns of illumination that shifted and danced with every movement of air.

The spectator seating that surrounded the rink was coated with frost so thick it looked like snow, and icicles hung from the overhead rafters like a frozen cathedral's architecture. The temperature in this space was so low that our breath formed thick clouds that lingered in the still air, and I could feel the exposed skin around my eyes beginning to numb despite the protective equipment.

But it wasn't the transformed environment that made my blood run cold.

It was the figures scattered throughout the ice formations.

They stood like statues among the crystalline pillars—frozen human forms caught in poses of terror, flight, and desperate final struggles. Some had their arms raised as if trying to ward off an attack, others were captured mid-stride as they'd tried to flee, and still others were curled into defensive positions that had provided no protection against the fate that had claimed them.

"Jesus Christ," Christopher whispered, his voice barely audible in the vast space. "How many people are there?"

I counted quickly, my enhanced vision picking out details in the dim light that the others might miss. "At least a dozen. Maybe more hidden behind the ice formations."

They were perfectly preserved, these frozen victims, their faces locked in expressions of final terror that would haunt my dreams for years to come. Men, women, what looked like teenagers—an entire cross-section of the community that had sought shelter in this building and found instead a death more terrible than anything the regular infected could have delivered.

"The Frost Walker did this," Rachel muttered in shock and pain. "All of them. It killed all of them."

But even as she spoke, I was scanning the rink for signs of the creature itself. The ice formations provided countless places where something could hide, countless blind spots where an ambush could be waiting. The creature could be anywhere—behind any pillar, concealed within any shadow, crouched in any alcove created by the twisted ice.

"Where is it?" Sydney asked, voicing the question we were all thinking.

And then, as if summoned by her words, we heard it.

A sound like wind chimes made of ice, a crystalline tinkling that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was beautiful and terrible, musical and alien, the kind of sound that made your skin crawl even as it fascinated you with its otherworldly melody.

The sound grew louder, more focused, and I realized it was moving. Coming toward us from the far end of the rink, hidden among the ice formations but definitely approaching.

"There," Cindy whispered, pointing toward the center of the rink where the ice pillars were thickest and most complex.

And that's when we saw it.

The Frost Walker emerged from behind a cluster of twisted ice formations like a nightmare made manifest. It had once been human—that much was clear from its basic bipedal structure—but whatever process had created it had transformed it into something that belonged to winter itself. Its skin was pale blue-white, with visible veins that pulsed with what looked like liquid nitrogen instead of blood. Ice crystals grew from its shoulders and arms like organic armor, and its eyes were the color of frozen lightning, bright and cold and utterly inhuman.

It moved with unusual gait, each step leaving perfect ice formations in its wake as the moisture in the air crystallized around its feet. When it breathed, the exhalation formed clouds of supercooled vapor that fell to the ground like snow.

But most terrifying of all was its size. This wasn't some small, scuttling creature like the Fire Spitter we'd faced before. The Frost Walker stood nearly seven feet tall, with limbs that were elongated and graceful, built for reaching out and touching its victims with lethal efficiency.

It saw us the moment we saw it, and when our eyes met across the transformed ice rink, I felt something I'd never experienced before—the absolute certainty that we were facing something that viewed us not as fellow creatures struggling for survival, but as prey.

The Frost Walker's mouth opened, and it released a sound that was part scream, part wind through ice caves, part funeral dirge for everything warm and living in the world.

Shit!

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