The wind whistled through the air, but it wasn't Dixie, and it stung Michael's young face. As the wind blew snow and cold air over him, he cursed the fact that he had not worn goggles or even a scarf this time. As a last ditch effort he had pulled his hood over head and pulled the drawstrings in as tight as possible, trying to reduce the amount of skin exposed to the berating winds.

The storm had struck without warning, leaving them pinned between their supplies and a small berm they had created. The storm had had reduced visibility to a useless range almost instantaneously, and radio contact with the scouts had been lost shortly thereafter. Now it was just Michael and Lyndsey left huddling against the small ridge of snow, hoping the storm might pass soon; suddenly it did.

The winds gave up their incessant blowing, and the air cleared as if a curtain parted, with only minuscule snowflakes left prancing about in the gray sky. Before he could shift to look over the embankment, he was frozen into place by the sound of snow crunching. It could've been the scouts, but Michael was frozen into place by sense of malice that he detected into those crunchy footfalls. He motioned to Lyndsey to stay put, while he moved to peek over the small wall. The bright yellow of his hood is what betrayed him, a betrayal which rewarded him with a giant ball of snow in the face. Their enemies came pouring across the field carried on battle cries and whoops of laughter. With only the two of them left to defend the small outpost, the Wesley kids were quickly overwhelmed by another storm, this time of brightly colored jackets, fluttering scarfs, and tightly packed snowballs.