Hunger in the pines

The snow had not fallen. It had invaded. It had pressed down until each branch groaned under the weight of the white oppression. The Wendigo stood among the pines and listened to the trees creak, as if they were begging for release. The wind whipped in powder sheets, blurring tracks, obliterating bootprints, obscuring all but the gnawing at the Wendigo’s ribs.

It could not remember how long it had been since the first bite. Years? Weeks? Time was not a river, but a wound that never healed. Nothing but hunger remained. Hunger, and the memory of flesh in its mouth, of the red steam on its lips, the muscle parting with the consistency of wet paper. That memory remained sharper than the faces of those who had walked with it. Friends? Brothers? Such words felt hollow, echoes of a language it no longer knew.

But it remembered the moment. The snow was heavy. The fire had gone low. The body next to it had stirred in sleep, ribs contracting and expanding with the innocence of trust. The Wendigo had leaned closer. The pulse at the throat was loud, drowning out the storm. It had opened the mouth without asking. Teeth into flesh. The taste was immediate. Thick, and hot. Fat and blood. Salt and iron. A prayer burned between bites. By the time the body had stilled, the Wendigo’s hands were wet to the wrists. Its mouth smoked with gore in the frozen air.

After that, there had been nothing. No respite. Each mouthful of flesh turned to ash before it could be swallowed. The body had wrenched itself in defiance, stomach constricting, ribs splitting under their own pressure, but it had still not been enough. Hunger always multiplied, hunger creating hunger. The Wendigo had become its hunger, a husk carved from starvation.

The forest shuddered with noise. Footsteps. The drag of boots through the drifts. Laughter, muffled by scarves. The Wendigo stilled—not from fear but from recognition. Human. Warmth. Blood in veins that moved, that called to it. It crouched, listening to the rhythm. Five of them. Two hearts faster than the others, faltering from youth. The others slower, more deliberate, bodies that bore the evidence of work.

Had it once moved like that, in a pack? The thought splintered inside its skull, harsh and meaningless. It had once carried wood, once cursed the frost, once joked brittle from exhaustion. But when it reached for the memory, only one thing came: the taste. Fat running on the tongue, tendon snapping, marrow unspooling thick into its throat.

The Wendigo stepped through the trees. Snow did not protest under its weight; the body had become light from famine. It moved faster than the wind, a shadow between trunks, a blurring in the white. The humans spoke, their voices ricocheting off the bark. They were not ready. They had thought themselves safe in numbers.

The Wendigo could smell them now. Sweat half-frozen on collars, cloth damp from snowmelt. The faint sweetness of breath, warmed by spirits from a flask passed between hands. The smell of meat walking.

It remembered the last. The screams had been brief, muffled by teeth in the throat. Warmth spurted onto snow, steam curling upward like a prayer. It had torn muscle from bone, swallowed chunks whole, chewed on cartilage until it broke into bitter fragments. But the hunger had remained. It grew with each mouthful, gnawed from the inside until it thought it would break. Its mouth had moved long after the last ribcage had been hollowed, chewing snow, chewing bark, chewing on its own tongue until blood pooled in its mouth.

The Wendigo moved closer. The humans did not notice at first. One turned, glanced into the trees, and shrugged off the shape. It was always the mistake, the belief the woods were empty. The belief they were alone.

It leapt.

The first had not seen it come. His skull splintered against a pine, blood smearing bark black-red. The Wendigo tore into his chest, ribs splintering open like firewood. Hands shoved inside, grabbed at the slick muscle. The heart was a bloody fist, slick against its palm, before teeth sheared through it. Warmth flooded into its mouth, but it was as always: it turned to dust against the tongue. Ash. The Wendigo howled in anger, spraying gore into the snow.

The others screamed. One stumbled, tripped backward into a drift. The Wendigo’s claws raked the belly, spilling loops of intestine that steamed in the cold. The man clutched them with both hands, as if he could shove them back inside. The Wendigo bit his throat, shook until vertebrae snapped. The taste was gone before it arrived. Ash again. Fury flared hotter than hunger.

More.

It tore into him, shredding, scattering. Pieces of him spattered across snow, unrecognizable. It chewed with violence, spit chunks onto the ground, smeared its own chest with what should have been warmth but settled cold.

More.

A woman wielded an axe, screaming. The blade slid into its shoulder, hot agony that did not matter. Pain was nothing. Pain was background noise, like wind. The Wendigo backhanded her, skull cracking against stone. It fell on her, mouth unhinged, bit through her face. The eye popped wetly, slid down its throat before crumbling to ash. Its claws peeled back her skin, strips dangling like banners.

More.

The children—or perhaps they were only young—ran. Their small hearts were a thunder in its ears. The Wendigo gave chase, its speed grotesque, wrong, faster than legs should move. The forest blurred. The snow parted. It fell upon them in seconds. One was caught mid-scream, the noise cut off when teeth sliced jaw from skull. The other tried to burrow into snow, body twitching with terror. The Wendigo dragged the child out, tore him in half at the waist. Entrails unspooled like rope.

More.

It fed. It glutted itself. Flesh flew. Blood painted the drifts in spattering fans. It crunched bone, sucked marrow, licked frozen fingers until skin sloughed. It gnawed on spines, tore through cartilage, drank the blood that steamed and hissed. But none of it stayed. None of it mattered. Every swallow disintegrated into nothingness. Its stomach howled louder. Its body cried out for more.

More.

It screamed into the night, the noise a rupture that sent ravens bursting from their roosts. Its claws raked its own chest, opened gashes that bled freely, but the taste of its own flesh gave no relief. Snow clung to the gore, crusted into pink ice.

More.

The Wendigo rampaged through the clearing, lacerating corpses that no longer fought. It crushed skulls to paste. It bit through femurs, teeth splintering. It wore gore as a second skin. But there was still nothing. Hunger had devoured the act of eating. Hunger was the only truth.

When silence came again, the clearing was an abattoir. Blood steamed in black rivulets. Limbs jutted from snowbanks like discarded tools. Faces were reduced to meat. The air smelled of iron so thick it gagged.

The Wendigo stood among the ruin and barely remembered that, long ago, it had walked like them. That laughter had echoed in its own mouth. That hunger had meant only an empty belly, not an endless void. But memory twisted under the weight of need.

It collapsed to its knees in the snow, mouth still chewing though there was nothing left. Its body convulsed, still calling for more. The corpses around it blurred, became shadows, became echoes. Its throat burned with screams.

More.

It dragged itself to the bodies again, licking scraps from ribs, sucking veins dry even though they were already emptied. It bit down on its own fingers, swallowed blood, spat dust. The taste was wrong. The taste was ash.

The forest watched. The trees groaned. The wind carried the stink of carnage across the drifts, calling scavengers that would only find ruin.

The Wendigo crouched there, gnawing, trembling, its body a slave to a hunger without end. Snow fell again, covering red with white, layering silence over violence. Soon, the clearing would look untouched. The horror buried beneath inches of forgetfulness.

But the hunger remained. Always.

More.

Always more.