The Pale Protocol
March 14, 1904 The rails shriek against the ice, a sound that drills into the base of my skull, and I am writing this by the light of a single, sputting kerosene lamp in a railcar that is freezing over. My hands, Colonel, are trembling. It is not the cold, though the temperature has dropped well below zero and the frost has formed a thick rime on the inside of the glass. It is the failing of...
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