The PRESIDENT pulled the shawl across his cleanly-shaven and well-mouldered face. It was minus 26 degrees and sheets of white paper were covering him, turning his black coat white. His breath came out in cloudy puffs. Every step wqas agony as he pushed his tired and aching legs across ANTARTICA’S surface. Suddenly a sharp HORRIFIED cry pierced his ears then a gasping roar then a shudder all dying away in a dreadful smothered rumble. From the deep clouds around him he could tell a dreadful AVALANCHE had occurred. It looked like someone had been on an EXPEDITION to from the footsteps near it. As he staggered forward he noticed something that looked like a HAND partially covered in snow. He pulled and it came loose. There half frozen was a young man in about his thirty’s. I put my frostbitten hand on his heart. There was no pulse. HE WAS DEAD. Stone dead. He had died here in the treacherous cold, and so would the president, HE WOULD SUFFER THE SAME FATE!