The farther he gets from the battle the more those awful sounds are covered by the wind and the rumble of his bike. It may feel like a blessing, for a little bit. But without the noise to orient him the storm is disorienting. The trees look much the same. There are rocks and more snow and- shouldn't he have come back round by now? Where are the others? If he circles back around too fast he'll-

Something cracks above his head, splinters flying out from the nearest trunk. He's come back almost to the battlefield. To the left a pack of those four-armed snipers have seen him. He glimpses one taking aim while the others scurry up the bank, horrifyingly fast on those many limbs of theirs.