Zack stared at the object in his hand. Nothing about it made sense but it was the only thing besides blowing whiteness he could see. He held tightly to it. Then, through his nearly numb fingers, it started to feel warm. Zack didn't care if his mind was playing tricks on him or not. The relief was intense.

He hugged the thing against his chest as it started to heat up. A soft warmth spread through his body. At the same time, the storm got even fiercer. The wind screamed now. The snow clawed like fingernails on his face. Zack doubled over, trying to focus only on the heat of the object in his hands. As it got warmer, the storm got worse. And then all at once, like an explosion, the thing was too hot to keep hold of. The storm seemed to blow itself out in one last mighty gust. Zack stumbled to the side and accidentally dropped the object to the ground.

The sudden silence was eerie. A light snow was gently falling, nothing compared to just a few seconds ago. Zack's thoughts seemed to echo loudly inside his head.

What just happened?

When he picked up the object again, it was cold. It had also completely changed. Any sign of rust or dirt was gone. The strange thing was now a burnished silver, the color of a nickel. It looked brand new. Zack wondered if he was starting to lose his mind. And then he looked around.

Too late. I've already lost it.

He was in the middle of a completely unfamiliar wilderness. The stadium was nowhere to be seen, much less the parking lot, the Winnie, or a single person. As far as Zack could see, he was completely alone.

On one side of him, Zack saw a range of snow-covered hills receding into the distance. On the other side was an expanse of rocky ground. The snow cover was broken only by a few trees, which looked as gnarled and weather-beaten as Zack felt. He turned around and saw a water line far behind him at the horizon.

Not only was he not at the Metrodome, he didn't seem to be in Minneapolis, or even Minnesota anymore.

Zack turned, staring blankly in each direction. He had no idea how long it had been since he left his father in the parking lot. Two hours? Fifteen minutes? Or maybe he was still there. Maybe he was lying facedown in the snow, out cold where he had fallen. Just like Dorothy in that tornado on the way to Oz. This had to be some kind of dream. Either that, or he had checked into Hotel Crazy for a nice long stay.

Zack shook his head. He jumped up and down. He yelled out loud. "Wake up!" None of it seemed to have any effect. He had never felt stuck in a dream before. Usually, he just woke up in the morning or when the dream was over.

Well, as long as I'm dreaming, at least I'm not dead. I guess.

Zack did the only thing he could think to do. He started walking.

One thing was still the same as before. It was still freezing cold. Zack pulled his hands up into his sleeves and carried the mystery object under one arm, hoping it would crank out some more heat.

He tried to imagine the sun coming out. Maybe he could take control of this dream, at least make it more comfortable. While he was at it, he imagined an extra large meatball and double cheese pizza. But none of it worked. Everything stayed the same.

He trudged along, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of life. As far as he could tell, it was just miles of nothing. Cold air scorched his lungs as he huffed up a short, steep hill. His feet ached. His stomach started to growl.

Graargh.

At least, he thought it was his stomach. He stopped and listened. There it was again, another growl, louder this time. And behind him.

Graaaargghhh!

Zack turned around. The charging mob was about fifty feet away and bearing down on him like a bullet train.

Zack had become so accustomed to seeing nothing but snow that the image of four dozen sword-carrying warriors in full battle gear was like an electric shock to his brain. He stood frozen, staring, too stunned to move.

The mob closed in.

GRAAAARGGHHH!

Twenty feet.

Ten feet.

Five feet.

Move, Gilman. MOVE!

Zack dove out of the way just in time.

The mob flew past him. Before he had even finished spitting out the snow lodged in his mouth, they had disappeared over the crest of the hill.

Zack searched the swirl of confusion in his head and tried to pick out some of the details of what had just happened. A few of the warriors had actually looked at him as they charged past but the group seemed to travel with one will.

Most of them had been wearing pointed metal helmets with face shields that covered their eyes and noses. The tallest one had been swinging a double-edged axe over his head. Most of them had looked at least as big as Zack. Definitely not a group to mess with. Their yells and growls alone were nearly overwhelming. For a moment as they passed by, it had been as loud in the open air as it had been back inside the Winnie with all of his father's gang. Now the Winnie was exactly where Zack wished he could be. At least the Winnie was warm—and safe.

Another roar of voices came from somewhere beyond the crest of the hill. This one sounded like an even larger group than the one Zack had already seen. Keeping low to the ground, he crept forward.

Spread out in the field below him, he saw that the original mob had joined forces with another group. They all had the same sort of old-style battle gear. Some were clearly archers, with quivers of arrows strapped to their backs. Most carried the same sort of round shield, and almost everyone had some kind of sword. Near the center of their line, a pole with a banner had been planted in the ground. The banner had a yellow-and-white diamond pattern and flapped gently in the light wind.

The tribe on the other side of the field was even more puzzling. They looked more animal-like, in their dark fur cloaks and hoods. They pawed at the ground with their feet and shook their heads from side to side like dogs tearing at raw meat.

The one thing both sides had in common was that they were heavily armed.

A slow drumming began. Zack looked back to the near side and saw the biggest Viking of the group, beating on the side of his shield with his sword. He was a huge warrior and seemed to be some kind of leader. When he turned his head, Zack saw the man's red beard, pulled into a short braid that hung from his chin. Everything above his mouth was masked by the steel of his helmet. Soon, the others around him took up the pounding of swords against shields. It spread down the line until all of them were beating in unison.

Something about the rhythm jarred a memory in Zack's head. A blip that he didn't even know he had held onto. It was something Mrs. Watson, his World History teacher, had said. He could just hear her voice now.

". . . the Vikings of ninth-century Scandinavia . . ."

That was it. Vikings. Of course.