By Jack Drummond
Within the culture of catastrophe videos just like the Poseidon event, this tense and gripping thriller is decided in an specific ski lodge in the course of the worst avalanche in residing memory Every yr hundreds of thousands flock to the specific ski inn of Hauts des Aigles to monitor the Race du Diable—the most enjoyable and unsafe downhill race on this planet. This yr six champions will compete for the prize—a infrequent diamond worthy $12 million, donated by way of a mysterious Russian billionaire. however it isn't just the six racers who will threat their lives within the coming days. stuck up of their personal mystery plots and passions, viewers and townsfolk alike are oblivious to the silent killer looking forward to them within the mountains. whilst the avalanche comes, basically 3 issues can retailer them—fate, braveness, and the desire to dwell. not anything can cease it. not anyone can stand in its direction. Who will continue to exist?
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Additional resources for Avalanche
That was how his body was arranged in this icy tomb. Head back and turned slightly to the left; right arm high, almost shielding his eyes; left arm low and tight to his back; and left heel kicking up against the back of his right leg. He knew he’d been lucky. If his arms had been broken in the fall or if they’d been pinned by the snow to his body, there’d have been no chance to dig himself out. But they hadn’t been. Or at least one of them hadn’t. His left arm might be caught behind him but his right arm was directly in front, and if he could somehow loosen it sufficiently he might just have a chance.
If it had been a degree or two colder they’d have been all right, the new snow would have held, cemented. But it hadn’t. And when a good gust of wind hit that sneering lip of a cornice, that would have been it for them. Anywhere on the face below, in a twenty-metre wide track, and they’d have had it. Unless the team could find something soon, there was no doubt in Garamonde’s mind what had happened. After just ten minutes his fears were confirmed. No sign of them on the north face, nothing down by the Murone ridge, and a crumpled slew of snow debris a few hundred metres above the start of theValentina piste, directly below the couloir.
And fast. Before he froze to death or ran out of air. 8 Normally Hugo Bezard walked to work, a ten-minute stroll along a stepped pine-needle path that led down from his chalet to the lawns of the Auberge, but this morning he called for a car to pick him up. Wrapping a scarf round his neck and pulling up the collar of his Loden overcoat, Hugo stood in the covered porch of his chalet to await its arrival, breathed in the chill, fresh mountain air, and was pleased to note that Auberge grounds staff had already cleared the path from his front door to the lane, just as they had done to all the neighbouring guest chalets, the snow banked up either side of the gritted pathways.