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Cold. So cold. You shiver and pull your parka hood almost closed at the front, trying to keep the bitter Alaskan chill out. You're lucky to have it. When the plane crashed in the blinding snowstorm the pilot climbed out of the plane "Just for a moment, to see where we are." He didn't take his parka. You haven't seen him since. It's been hours.

Stay with the plane. That's the rule, right? Someone has to be looking for you by now. You aren't the only person to charter a plane to watch the Last Great Race from the air. Someone had to see you go down.

"Stupid Iditarod. Stupid dog sled race." You kick snow. There's nothing else to kick. The storm has passed but Alaska in February has short days. Maybe the sun is coming up, somewhere behind the thick gray clouds and last few snowflakes. Maybe you'll be able to see more than vague shapes and outlines soon.

You're only a few feet from the crashed plane. You turn and look. It's half buried in a snowdrift with more snow on top from the storm. The thick snow is the only reason you survived the crash but the plane's metal body is so cold now you don't dare touch it with bare flesh. Nothing to burn to keep warm except the candles in the emergency kit. One is lighting the windows of the plane right now.

Something moves in the pale light. What is that? A wisp of smoke? You focus on a rounded shape just past the plane. It couldn't be. It is! You push through the snow and find the drifts trampled flat around the igloo. It's so dark you can barely make out the shape but it can't be anything else. Who makes igloos these days?

People trying to survive! The pilot must have made it. It's forty below out. Inside the igloo it'll be barely below freezing. A paradise by comparison. Another wisp of smoke eddies out and drifts away. The asshole pilot even managed to start a little fire in there and he didn't come get you!

Well, you're not waiting for an invitation. You drop down and crawl in. No light from inside, soft snow underneath, icicles jabbing you from above. The parka protects you. In your haste you miss the fact that the "snow" floor is wet and steaming. In your defense, its even darker in here. You can feel the warmth and squirm inward for one vital second more.

Long enough for the wet flesh to push the parka hook back and slide over your cheeks. Long enough to smell the fetid breath of the huge polar bear that lies there, jaws agape and imitating an igloo in the hopes you'd crawl in. Long enough to realize the "icicles" scraping you are its fangs. You just shoved your face into a bear's throat.

For an instant you freeze in horror. It is an instant too long. With a snap of its jaws the bear has you swallowed to the waist. You did half the work for it. A moment ago you were freezing. Now sweltering heat presses in from all directions as the bear's tongue pushes you deeper. It heaves its head up, bolting you down, and slimy but wonderfully warm throat flesh slithers over you. You are instantly soaked in drool.

The thick layer of mucus lubricates you for easy swallowing. You kick, but it's too late. Its jaws are already to your knees. You feel the bulge in its neckfur change shape as you legs slide down its throat and a pulse like a great drum throbs through you. Its ribcage creaks and pops as it expands to let you past. Beyond the ribs is the stomach. You're almost there. You can already hear the gurgle.

The bear snaps its jaws shut on your boots. A toss of its head and the squelching wetness of its tongue is beneath your toes. Cruel ivory fangs trap your feet in its mouth. There's only one way out of that trap. Down. It lifts its head and swallows.

You try to go rigid in its throat, keep it from gulping you down. Useless. It's at least ten times your size. Once you mistook its breath for smoke and stuck your head in its mouth it was all over. From then on it was just a question of whether you'd get to its belly whole or in chunks.

Whole. Its throat grips and squeezes, pushing you down. You're slick all over. There's nothing to grab, no way to save yourself. Your scream is muffled by a thousand pounds of inward-pushing muscle and fur as you slide heavily into the polar bear's stomach.

Light. There's not much, but after the dark outside and the utter blackness of its gullet it's almost blinding. The stomach expands just enough to let you in and you see the source.

The pilot didn't abandon you. There he is, instantly recognizable by his bright orange vest. The nylon is in perfect condition. The rest of him, not so much.

The brass snaps of his vest are dissolved away. A thick layer of slime coats him from head to foot. Everywhere skin shows, it's just gone. Even the bones are visibly softened. In a few hours after it swallowed him alive the bear has managed to largely digest him. Soon he'll be gone, just a pile of clothes. The rest? Bear food.

One skeletal hand grips a green emergency light stick. The source of the illumination. Stomach acids don't seem to effect it either, or his Carharts pants. Shame that didn't keep the acid from consuming the rest of him. His leather boots are completely gone. So are his feet. Sitting in a pool of acid is bad for you.

Everything is coated with a thick layer of digestive slime. Even you. Your clothing protects you, at least for now. But you went native. Your pants and parka are reindeer hide. When the pilot's remains depart the bear, either there will be a steaming mass of coughed-up clothing or an orange vest in a pile of bear scat. When you go, there will be nothing recognizable at all. Except maybe your hair. You read somewhere that hair is indigestible for some reason.

You were cold a minute ago. Now it's way too hot. Sweltering, humid, like Missouri in the summer. You suppose it makes sense that it's hot inside a bear. Even a polar bear.

The bear hasn't bothered to move since it ate you. Why should it? It didn't have to stir itself to get a meal and now it'll just lie here and digest you. No reason to waste energy when your dinner was delivered by plane.

Wait, there's one indigestible thing on your person. You dig out your cell phone. It works! More light. Turning on its flashlight function is a mistake. It was already horrible in here and better light turns it into a scene from The Blob. Just you and the half digested pilot. Dripping slime everywhere. Nose-burning smell. The pilot's glasses slowly sliding down what is left of his face. You turn the light off.

No signal. You shake it, hoping it'll pick something up. Hello, 911? Send the Jaws Of Life, I'm inside a polar bear. Nothing. Turn it off, back on. Still nothing. A foot of meat and fur blocks radio waves pretty well. Assuming you'd even get a signal if you weren't inside a bear! You're in the middle of nowhere.

It's so hot. You want to be cold again, to be somewhere besides the digestive system of a bear. You drop the phone and it sinks into the slime. You hope it hurts when the polar bear shits it out.

What's left? Nothing. You don't have a knife. Why would you need a knife? You were going flying. There's one in the emergency kit back in the plane, you remember. That's super useful. All you have to do is get the polar bear to cough you up so you can get it, then swallow you again so you can cut your way out.

The air's getting thin. You're pretty sure you aren't thinking clearly. It's the heat, too. So hot. You're drenched in sweat. No wait, that's stomach acid. Your hide clothes are already softened. They will dissolve as you do.

Chances are no one will ever know what happened to you. Planes crash all the time in Alaska. Many are never found. Right now everyone's off watching the Iditarod, not worrying about the two men taking a short trip through a polar bear.

"Stupid Iditarod!" There isn't much room to move. You punch the walls that aren't covered by half digested pilot. Punch them as hard as you can. It's not very hard. You're pretty sure you hear the bear burp.

*****