Walking home quickly was the only way to keep warm in the plummeting cold of January's winter. The faster I walked, the quicker I'd get home and the less time I'd spend in the cold. Damn my car's transmission going out. I just consider myself lucky I live in such a small town where anything I need is within a short walking distance.

Halfway on my walk home from work, I swore I was seeing spots in my vision; flecks of red seemed to accompany the impending snowfall. Curious, I took off my glove and let a few of the falling flakes land in my hand. After about fifteen seconds, I looked at my hand. Any flakes that I didn't see land had already melted, while the ones I tracked immediately melted when it came into contact with my body heat. The most disturbing part was the color.

The red spots I'd seen in my vision had actually been red snowflakes. A closer examination yielded an almost metallic, coppery smell. I flicked my tongue over the small pool of liquid in my hand; my suspicions were confirmed with the taste of the liquid.

Some of the snowflakes were made of blood.

Worried, I hurried home. Trying to keep as many snowflakes off of me as possible, I decided to take a shortcut through the woods that cut into the town. As I stepped through the untouched snow, two things become very odd, very fast. First, my footprints had speckles of red in them and the amount of red increased with each passing step. The second thing was more abrupt. Right as I was about to exit the woods, my foot came down and instead of the typical packed snow, I stepped on what felt like a piece of paper. I pulled whatever it was out of the snow to find out it was, in fact, a torn page of a journal; the handwritten letters on the paper drew that conclusion for me. Curious, I read the entry.

"November 17th,

I'm nearing the final pages of this book. I don't know how much more I'll write in this. If I'm being honest, I'll probably use the last three pages as measly kindling. We haven't felt any real warmth in days and we're getting desperate. We considered starting a fire at the base of a tree and burning down the forest. At least then we'll know warmth again.

There haven't been any signs of the patrols as of recently and the last thing either of us needs is to give them any sort of signal to our LKP; they'd be back on our trail within the hour.

I have an idea. To you reading this, heed my warning. The red snow is a sign, a sign you have what it takes to fight what's coming. A sign that there is still good in this world as well as people willing to defend it. You are that kind of person, whether you know it or not. Please, don't fear the snow. It's what they want. I'm tearing this page and throwing it into the howling wind in hopes it finds anyone worthy of the cause.

Don't worry about me and my company; we've been doing well for ourselves over the last couple of weeks in the wild. Please, read into the signs and find those who are like you."

The last thing written on the paper was a series of symbols that were vaguely familiar, but not immediately. As I pocketed the page, I noticed more. Each of them had the same handwriting on them. As I picked them up, though, I noticed one last thing that sent shivers up my spine and me running home like the reaper himself was behind me.

The Snow is Red.