Stalking prey is the natural instinct of all human beings, and it is the nature of the rat to run as fast and far as possible when threatened by a predator. This rat, however, seemed to want to be caught.

I saw it in his tracks. By the way the seven-inch layer of white powder parted in unbroken snaking rivers that darted between the trees like a slalom, occasionally dotted with knee impressions as his feet were taken out from under him by the ice, he was barely shuffling away. I kept up my long, steady strides, my shins ploughing through the densely packed snow, pushing aside low-hanging branches with the barrel of my rifle. I breathed evenly, patiently, the thick mist escaping from between the fibres of my muffler and floating into the aether, while breath that lingered too long froze into ice crystals around my mouth. My pace didn't falter, even as the snow climbed to nine inches high. We were getting further from the road now; the proper wilderness, or hunting zone, if you will.
I slipped the rifle sling off my shoulder and took a knee, the snow coming up almost to my waist. Pulling back the bolt, I could see the brass casing glistening in the chamber, locked and ready to be fired. I smiled, then realised how dry my lips had become when they cracked like porcelain. A small drop of blood trickled into my mouth and filled my throat with the vile, potent taste of iron.

'A little iron never hurt,' I said to myself, then looked up and followed the winding trail with my eye as it disappeared into the dark haze beyond the trees. 'Lead, on the other hand...' I released the bolt and the chamber snapped shut with a click. The tracks were fresh. Really fresh. I was catching up. The only worry I had was that something else would get to my quarry first, before I had the chance to teach him the lesson he'd been begging for.

Pushing forward through the thickening snow, which by now was almost above my knees, I crawled over a thicket of long-dead blackcurrant bushes and found my way into a clearing, surrounded by tall, dead oaks, and thick, green firs.

In the middle of this clearing, dimly illuminated like an actor on a stage, was a cabin. It was of modern design, with nicely planed timbers and that kind of yellow glow that all modern cabins had - must be some kind of oil they use. All of her timbers must have been like that at one point, but that was in the distant past. The roof was sagging badly under the weight of about a tonne of snow, and the porch had all but collapsed in on itself. Only a few windows on the forward face of the building were still intact, and that special oil mustn't have been as robust as their manufacturers had advertised, because rot was already setting in, crawling up from the elevated platform and into the outer walls.

The tracks led straight to the half-open back door. The stone chimney had smoke pouring out of it, and from inside, I thought I could see the dim flicker of a candle or a dying lamp in one of the first floor windows. With any luck, he was still there.

I knew that he'd booby trapped the back door. It was so obvious that I didn't even have to look. It was the only entrance after all, but I doubted he had had the time to rig up anything lethal. At best, a couple of pots tied to a line that would make a loud noise when someone came through the door. Either way, it would be stupid to go through there; he obviously wanted me to. As my Grandfather used to say, the art of war is in doing what your enemy least wants you to do. This bastard probably thought he was safe on the first floor, away from the eyes of a gunman on the ground; and he was right. So, I would have to change that.

Again, I slung my rifle over my shoulder and began to climb a birch tree that looked tall enough, and sturdy enough, to support me all the way up to first floor height. With any luck, I could climb to the top without him spotting me. My off-white coat that hung by my knees all but obscured any spec of dark clothing or pink skin underneath, and were he to look out casually among the trees, all he would see is white unless he was looking for me; and he was looking for me.

Carefully, I climbed, making sure I didn't snap any of the branches or disturb large amounts of the settled snow that could alert him. When I finally reached the top, I found a v-shaped grove at the base of a large branch that I could straddle to better achieve a steady shot. As I slipped the rifle off my shoulder and checked the chamber once more, I squinted through the harsh white so I could better see through the first-floor window. There he was. He looked older than I remembered, but his face was redder and blotchier. This winter was hard on us all, but he seemed to be in a particularly bad way. His teeth were chattering, his entire body quivered, and I had no idea how long he'd been there, but for some reason, he looked to be still out of breath. He truly looked like a wounded dog. No matter, I said to myself. I'll put him out of his misery soon enough. I pushed the stock of my rifle into my shoulder and rested my cheek so that the ironsights lined up nice and straight. I could see the line the bullet would trace manifest in my head. I could have shot him through the brain if I wanted to. At that distance, I could have blown every single one of his fingers off at the second knuckle with the precision of a scalpel. I could have killed him instantly if I wanted to, but I didn't want him to die instantly. That would be too easy. I wanted him to suffer like no person ever had. I lined up the shot, flexed my hand, felt the ice-cold metal of the trigger against. My target blew between his hands and rubbed them, then leaned over something in the centre of the room. When I was sure he wasn't going to move, and the trigger had begun to warm, I coiled my finger tight around it until I felt the kickback. The shot echoed all over the forest. The window separating the man from the outside elements shattered in an instant, and he fell forward, clutching at his back where the bullet had entered just between the shoulder and the arm. Through the whistling of the wind, I could only hear a slight muffled scream. I pulled back the bolt all the way and let the shell fly out. A moment later, the man reappeared, his face contorted into an expression of rage and terror as he looked to find where the shot had come from. He was too slow. I pulled the trigger again; this time the bullet burrowed into his lower abdomen, just below the right kidney I was sure. He doubled over and collapsed again. This time, it took a bit longer for him to get up, but this time, he'd seen where the shot had come from. He sprang up with such ferocity that I almost toppled off my branch. His eyes fixed on me, boring into me. He raised the pistol in his hand and closed one eye to aim. I panicked and fired before I had time to place the shot. The bullet screamed through the air and clipped his neck, I was sure, as the entire left side of his head and shoulder were drenched in bright red blood. He collapsed backwards and I held my breath.

I waited for him to reappear, not even daring to blink. Seconds scraped by, then minutes, and stretched into what felt like hours. He did not reappear at the window. I cursed myself. That shot must have clipped his carotid artery. He'd bleed out in minutes. Oh, no, I growled inside my head. Oh, no you don't. You'll not get out of it that easy. I threw caution to Hell and leapt down from my perch. A soft bank of snow blunted my fall and almost as soon as my feet hit the ground, I trudged over to the back door.

Without thinking, I shouldered open the door and winced as half a dozen tin cans tied to a string fell from the mouldy kitchen table and onto the floor with a clatter. I'd been half-right, at the least. The hollow clank rattle echoed through the kitchen, and as it settled, I realised for the first time just how loud the wind outside was raging. It whistled through the open doorway, and I heard the walls of the cabin creak and crack as they swayed ever so slightly.

I paused and held my breath. Dare I enter the beast's lair? There was no use pretending anymore. He knew I was here, and he was wounded if he wasn't dead, which made him all the more dangerous. I slipped the rifle off my shoulder and crept into the shadows.

Through the kitchen, beyond the rotting dining table and the cracked cooker was a doorway, its door long since removed, and beyond that was a wall of darkness, broken up by faded wallpaper. Every step I took, I measured, and yet the floorboards still creaked under my tread. I could hear them in my ears, but who knows if he could hear them too. I wouldn't have thought you could hear anything over the moaning of the house, but I'd been wrong before.

As I tiptoed down the main hall, I cast glances at the walls around me. Apart from the slightly gaudy wallpaper, which wouldn't have looked good even when new, there were old photographs in frames; most of them smashed, but you could still make out a few of the blurred faces. There were four of them that made a common appearance - a man, a woman, and two boys. I wondered what had happened to them. I wondered if we'd got to them in the early days before the snow fell. Either way, I would avenge them, too.

The stairs ebbed into few in the dimly lit corridor, reaching up into the floor above, but before I thought about climbing them, I noticed something. Across the floor, running down the stairs and around the bannister into the hall like a slug's trail, was a ribbon of glistening blood. It crawled across the corridor and disappeared under a half-open door to my right. I held my breath again and pressed myself against the wall and pushed the stock of my rifle into my shoulder tighter. My fingers found the handle of the chamber and I kept my ear pricked up at the slightest sound; a groan, a whimper, a gasp, anything. I pulled back the bolt. The empty shell ejected and sang as it hit the floor.

There were several loud bangs and the wall around me exploded into powder. A picture frame fell from its nail and smashed to shards against the floor. I instinctively hit the deck and covered my ears as bullets tore through the hallway and buried themselves in the woodwork. For a few seconds after, there was only the creak of the house as it wobbled unsteadily, the smell of gunpowder stinging my nostrils.

Then, I heard a voice: 'Come in here, and I'll fill you so full of holes, they'll use you like a sieve!' It was authoritative, commanding, even a little bloodthirsty, but it was weak and hoarse and was followed by a deep, painful groan. He was in there, and he had a gun. This was good news; it meant he had nowhere left to run. I counted the bullet holes as quickly as I could. There were nine, which meant that if he was using the same pistol they gave to every one of their thugs, he only had four left in the magazine. While this was better than having a full clip, this was still by no means good - it gave him four ways he could kill me. Still, he emptied nine bullets into a door at the sound of a shell hitting the floor; he was skittish, which gave me an idea.

I got to my feet, careful not to make a sound, first leaping to a crouch, then sliding to a stand with my back to the wall, the only noise being my coat rustling. My finger hovered over the trigger, itching to pull it and feel the kick, but I resisted the urge. In a single, swift motion, I slammed the butt of my rifle against the door. There was a squeak of hinges, and a crack as the door splintered on impact with the wall. Four decisive shots rang out and whistled through the doorway, embedding themselves in the ceiling, followed by three hollow clicks as the hammer struck the empty chamber.

That was the signal that filled me with vengeful fire. I leapt through the door, drew the rifle-sights up to my eye, and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the air and hit the pistol, blowing it and three of his fingers away. He screamed and clutched his hand to his blood-soaked chest. I pulled the bolt back to eject the empty shell, but I didn't take my sights off him as I stepped inside the room.

He was sitting in what appeared to be a sitting room, tucked away between a bookshelf and a couch like a secret. A fire was crackling in the hearth to the right, spitting sparks and dancing with the energy of early life. His pistol and severed fingers had landed on a moth-eaten armchair, blood slowly soaking into the fabric.

The bastard rocked back and forth, whimpering like a child, as fresh blood pattered like rain onto the floorboards. Finally, he took four staggered breaths and looked up at me, right into my eyes.

'Who the Hell are you?' he snarled, baring his teeth. He probably thought he looked frightening, sitting there in his black coat, with a silver wolf's-head pinned to his lapel, grinning with menace and authority, and as a result death wouldn't touch him, but I wasn't afraid. While I had already seen the worst of him, he had yet to see the worst of me. I lifted my hand up to my face, tucked my muffler below my collar, and pulled down my hood. He sighed, and then he began to laugh. 'I should have known,' he said. 'You promised you would find me one day.'

'And now, I have,' I said. I licked my chapped lips and the tiny open wounds began to sting. My entire body vibrated with boiling blood at the sight of his grin. I wanted him to fear me, but he refused to be afraid. He needed encouragement. 'Do you remember the rest of my promise?'

'Yes, I do,' he continued to laugh. Blood ran down the ridges in his yellow teeth. 'How could I forget? I am sorry for what happened to your family that night. Your wife, she strong and pretty, and your daughter would have grown up to be just as beautiful.' His words burrowed like bullets into my brain. The scene I had tried so hard to blot out suddenly flooded back. The fire, the blood, the pale faces with vacant eyes staring up at the starry sky. The bastard was grinning even wider now. He could see it too. 'Oh, and that boy... Your pride and joy.'

I couldn't help myself. I stepped forward and swung the butt of my rifle as hard as I could into his jaw. His head hit the floorboards, and after a few seconds, several loose teeth dropped from his mouth and skittered across the floor like dice. He picked himself up and smiled at me again, blood pouring down his chin.

'You do know what we're trying to do, right? What she is trying to do? All of this - this cold Hell - she can end it all before it gets worse. Your family helped us achieve that, their deaths were not in vain.' I struggled against the urge to hit him again, but I resisted and let him keep talking. 'She is our saviour. As regrettable as it was, the deaths of your family were a necessary evil to end the Great Winter.'

'A necessary evil?' I regurgitated the words like vomit. 'It was a necessary evil to murder a woman and her children? To stop the Great Winter? Look outside, Farrow. My family are dead, but the Great Winter is still here. No one can stop it, especially not your mistress. She's insane, but none of you would know that because you're all insane too.'

He grinned again. 'What does that make you?' I swallowed sharply but I didn't take my eyes off his. 'I wouldn't expect a man like you to understand, you were always a slow learner, but even you can understand that we are trying to do something good for the world. We're trying to save it. You are in the way of that. If you kill me now, you will be the enemy. You will become Satan, the destroyer of worlds. Strike me down, and when she comes to write the book of the new world, you will be our Devil.'

I sighed, tired of hearing his voice grate against my ears. I held his gaze, straightened, and pressed the stock of my rifle tighter into my shoulder, my finger tightening on the trigger. 'I'm no Devil, I'm just an angry man with a gun. But I tell you what: when you get down to Hell, feel free to let him know I sent you.' Before he could say another word, I pulled the trigger. His skull exploded in a shower of red and his body collapsed forward. A pool of red spread out around him and dripped between the gaps in the floorboards.

I was finally free to breathe, but I didn't feel satisfied in the slightest. I was beginning to feel that I would never be free of that feeling; except maybe in death. After all, I had a few more bullets left. All I needed was one more and I would be free to be with them.

The thought churned over in my head for a while as I stared at my rifle, but then, as the smoke cleared and the ringing in my ears finally mellowed, I heard something else other than the howling of the wind. It was a sound that sends a shiver down every parent's back; a baby's cry. I thought I was hearing things. Maybe the ringing in my ear had travelled deeper, so I stood for a moment and listened. The sound persisted, muffled and quiet, but penetrating - the most penetrating sound in the whole world. I turned and made my way out into the hallway, where to my surprise, the cry grew louder. It was coming from upstairs.

Cautiously, I crept from step to step, all the way up to a door at the top. With my rifle drawn, I put my hand to the doorknob and pushed it open. I let it swing open gently and hesitated for just a moment before stepping through.

The room was mostly empty. Apart from the broken basin of a wall-less bathroom and the splintered frame of the bed, there was only one other thing in the room - a cot. It looked brand new, as sparkling white as the snow that blew in through the shattered windows. The noise was coming from there. I knew what I was going to find before I looked inside, but somehow, it still surprised me. Lying there, hands and legs flailing in the throngs of a desperate, rasping wail was a mottled-pink baby wrapped in a loose, thin shawl. It was a girl, around 7 months old I was sure, but where did she come from? Did Farrow bring her here? Her wailing cries pulsed inside my ears, but the real pain was in my chest.

Farrow had brought this baby here. That could only mean one thing. If I hadn't have killed him, she would have ended up with an even worse fate, but now she was alone; alone, except for me. I couldn't just leave her here. I thought about taking her to a commune, or a shelter. Anywhere they couldn't get her. But there wasn't anywhere they couldn't get her.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached down and pressed my gloved finger into her fleshy palm. Her tiny fingers squeezed mine. Through my glove, I could feel her freezing skin. I slipped my jacket off my shoulders, picked her up gently and wrapped it around her shivering body. As I cradled her, and the colour returned to her face, her wails became less desperate, and her glassy blue eyes softened and closed. Within a few minutes, she was asleep, sighing softly in my arms.

I sat down by the window. I could feel the chill on the open air, but I didn't feel cold. I hugged her tighter and felt her warmth. As she drifted deeper into sleep, she nuzzled her plump cheek against my chest, and I couldn't help but smile.

'What did they want with you, little one?' I asked. 'Why you?' I stared out the window at the sunless sky, the blanket of grey rolling over the horizon. The Great Winter had gone on for so long, there were bound to be those who would do anything to make it stop, even if those methods are crazy. And if the craziest of them all had her talons poised over this baby, there was no place on Earth where she would be safe.

Expect, I had just killed Farrow, the man charged with delivering her. Farrow, who had burned villages and slaughtered thousands, went down like any other man. I looked down at the little bundle in my arms, and furrowed my brow with determination. 'Missandra can have all the men, women, and children in this world, but as long as I draw breath, she'll not take this one.'