October 6, 2010
Time is no longer relevant. Bill’s mind has become increasingly at odds with normal reality as he and his brothers enter the final stage of their transformation. They appear withered and disfigured by time like the multiple deformities of an old man’s face. Skin so dry, leathery—all of its flesh tone lost, assuming the ash gray color of death caused by a painful growth that left the hips, rib cage, shoulders, and spinal cord overly exaggerated and protrusive. Their eyes have become searing, hate-filled orbs set deep into sockets under a convex brow that arches downward, resembling a troubled mood. A long bluish tongue whips in frenzy in between suppurated lips and slithers across hundreds of razor-thin teeth. Absent of all flesh from the fingertips to the first knuckle, the wendigo have gnawed the skin to the bone, allowing thick sharp fingernails to grow wickedly into a six-inch curved formation. Very little remains of their human physiology, what few scraps still exist are nothing more than sparks from fading memories pulled tautly over a ghoulish canvas.
Stowing the remainder of the evening’s kill, Nuke and Bill settles outside the entrance to their lair. Hunched back on hindquarters, they stare out methodically over the ocean’s rolling waves. Insalubrious and bloody around the mouth and watching the distorted ocean sway, their beasts calm themselves. Cold Bill is again locked away and Bill slips into a comfortable trancelike state as the vast ocean overcomes his distressing thoughts.
In spectrum, the waves appear to him as the coolest points of the deepest blue while its normally white foamy tips roll up and crash over purple sands in fading violet hues. The moon always appears crimson as it shimmers off the water’s constant motion. The entire scenario is abstract and derogatory of any long-perceived human memory. Nevertheless, Bill thinks it serene and beautiful, like a single magnificent painting hanging amid the desolate white wall of an art gallery. Still, for his brothers, it is nothing more than an altered perception that has little to do with wendigo.
Last night, I dreamed of home for the last time. Nuke conveys his thoughts to Bill, breaking the peaceful silence between them. I dreamed of my past and the dying part of myself. I was young again, fishing with grandfather and Sasha on Lake Winnebago.
Bill says nothing, yet he listens carefully to Nuke’s troubled thoughts. It has been more than a month since any of them have used verbal speech as a form of communication. Capable of projecting their thoughts well over a mile, they learned that using telepathy permitted them to respond quicker with each other during the hunt. Bill’s thoughts are now empty. He moves his head from one side to another, scanning the great length of the open ocean and concentrates on Nuke’s confessions.
Because of my dream, I know my journey is complete. My memories of grandfather have almost completely faded. I can now feel the last of them slipping away—lost with human things. Nuke projects his pain onto Bill’s mind, although he is unable to show his emotion expressively due to the permanent look of malice broadcast on his face. The last ounce of his humanity pours into Bill’s thoughts, belying the hatred burning in his sunken yellow eyes. We have spilled too much blood to think of ourselves as anything other than monsters. This is our fate, brother. I beg for the memories that hold no purpose to leave my thoughts and dreams. You would be wise to plead for the same.
Bill understood all too well what Nuke was implying; his surrender to the beast they called Cold Bill. He watches unwaveringly as the abstract waves roll over the purple sandy shore and never opens his thoughts to Nuke. He remains stoic in his perception, genuine in his own thoughts, yet still, he conveys the same exact malice forever locked on his brother’s face. The fragments of Nuke’s shattered memories are mere glimpses of what the young Ojibwa used to be before Malsum’s curse ripped his humanity from him.
During the final days of the wolf pack’s transformation, Bill endured a deep sorrow as his brothers became lost to him; often wandering aimlessly, appearing stupefied, as if trying to recall something they could no longer remember. Their hatred for the living intensifies as the fever ends and the wendigo emerges. Although retaining their former intelligence and the crude pretenses of fellowship, the curse has now devoured their souls. Whatever is in the human spirit that makes people who they are, it no longer exists for Bill’s brothers to draw upon. They have completely digressed from normal social habits—left with only a basic need to eat.
It could be that Bill’s willpower is stronger than that of his brothers, or perhaps there is an unknown, foretold plan in place for him. Whatever sinister plot is afoot, Bill’s memories along with his soul remains intact under the guise of something fiendishly assailable. It is no easy task to exist in his unique state, not when his beast is completely aware of his unique state and his brothers could so easily read his thoughts. His beast intends to use his brothers against him. Bill intends to keep the human part of him alive and thriving at any cost, only to surrender to his beast when it is time to feed. Although Bill could recount his memories as easily as he could project his thoughts, he constantly feels his soul dwindling on the threshold between the here and the thereafter. Inevitably, it would be his and his decision alone as to what he would to do with it.
It is okay, Nuke. Your struggle is over. I can carry your memories with me.
Why do you refuse it? I can feel your reluctance, and I tell you, abandon such foolish thoughts. Spare yourself any further agony. You must fully embrace your wendigo. Why can you not see this?
Bill’s mind remains blank when speaking of such things, never allowing his beast to use his thoughts against him. He has no illusions about what he is or what he has accepted on some level. Bill understands he would never return home to see his father or mother’s face, and he would never hold Abigail in his arms again or kiss her soft lips—she is lost to him, their love so far out of reach that it only lives in his guarded memories and tormented dreams.
After sacrificing so much over the last three months, Bill decided he was not willing to part with any more of him than he already had. When he feels Cold Bill clawing its way into his thoughts, he would simply recall Abigail’s beautiful youthful face from memory. She would now serve as the last line between the thing, Cold Bill, and Bill’s true self.
* * *
Blaster approaches from the south end of the beach. He lumbers slowly along an incline, tumbling over—wobbly. His long bony arms sway drunkenly and his knees knock against each other, buckling from under him. Bill immediately takes note of his bulging belly; he looked as if he is pregnant and has come to full term. Blaster feverishly waves a fleshy vertical appendage around in one hand along with a rectangular plastic wrapper in his opposite hand.
Blaster is in trouble! Bill conveys to Nuke.
Adlemeyer senses Blaster’s distress as well and emerges from the cave as both Nuke and Bill approach their ailing brother. He falls over, wholly imprinting his distress in their minds; it’s gone. It fell off. In that moment, Bill realizes Blaster is holding his penis in his hand. The one thing he has continuously brooded over—the loss of his manhood. He knew that when it withered away and fell off, his humanity would follow.
I don’t want this anymore. Blaster confesses, crying like a child into his brother’s thoughts, appearing sottish and disorderly. It’s hard to remember. I need to remember. I think I made a terrible mistake and I need to get it back.
By it, Blaster is referring to his penis. He scrambles to his knees, fishing around for the organ now covered in sand and soon to be buried from sight. He then lurches forward, vomiting up all forms of disgusting foreign matter.
What have you been eating? Nuke growls furiously after smelling a distasteful yet familiar aroma.
What does it matter what I ate? Blaster lowers his head in shame and weariness. My dick fell off!
It matters because it is making you sick. Bill extends his long bony arm and pries the package from Blaster’s clawed hand. MREs, Blaster—
I wanted to remember. I… I thought if I ate them… if I ate anything other than human meat, I could go back to being me again. I keep forgetting who I am. It’s getting so hard to remember and I want to remember.
Revolted, Bill throws the package down and seizes Blaster by the shoulders, now knowing his naive brother had stumbled across the cave containing the cache of stolen military goods. It looked as if Blaster has eaten hundreds of the field meals. His belly shifts and throbs, causing Blaster all of the sharp and intense labor pains of a woman giving birth. He wails furiously, both in their thoughts and aloud. His verbal shrieking sounds like that of a wounded sheep baaing.
MRE… number… He forgets the rest. Pound c… c-cake.
It has to come out. Nuke insists as Blaster lowers his face to the sand and continues to vomit. Your body is rejecting the poison.
Disgusted yet genuinely concerned for him, Bill rolls Blaster onto his back, revealing his bulbous belly. I will do it.
Bill moves to start the procedure, fully aware of the fact that he is the only one capable of undertaking the physiological endeavor without seriously injuring Blaster in the process. Nuke quickly seizes Bill by the arm swinging him around.
Do you see? Nuke tightens his grip. Do you see now? This, brother… this is what you will succumb to if you try to hold on to your human world!
Secure him. Bill shrugs away with a snarl and then kneels over Blaster. Adlemeyer secures Blaster’s feet without question. Nuke lingers behind Bill a moment longer before taking position and firmly securing Blaster by the shoulders.
You will end this.
I intend to. Bill says flatly, ignoring the truth behind Nuke’s threat and then extends his wicked index finger over Blaster’s throbbing belly. He takes one last look at Blaster, projecting calm thoughts into his mind—a telepathic anesthesia of sorts. Bill then makes the surgical incision, slicing across Blaster’s lower abdomen with his bony curved talon.
Blaster’s belly splits open like a bursting placenta; his shriveled intestine bursts outward, followed by thin translucent mucus, which erupts from the wound and stretches across Blaster’s open belly and around Bill’s submerged hand. The pungent emission would have made any normal person vomit profusely but the wendigo stench of death and decay masks the smell of rot, caustic bile, and MREs.
With his free hand, Bill removes the membrane that is trying to seal the wound shut. He then moves his hand into the abdominal cavity just below the diaphragm. Extensively familiar with the physiology of the human body, Bill is very careful not to rupture any of Blaster’s organs, keeping his talons folded back against the palm of his hand. Not that Blaster is in any danger if Bill did slice into an organ; at this point, not much of the wendigo anatomy still functioned. He simply does not want to cause his brother any more pain than he had to.
Moving past the small intestine connected to the bottom of the stomach, Bill then carefully uses the claw of his thumb to make a second smaller incision at the base of the engorged stomach. Blaster howls in pain as all sorts of refuse erupts from the incision; sordid clumps, human flesh, completely undisclosed portions of undigested MREs, as well as portions of beige plastic, all of which dislodge through the incision, allowing for a steady stream of putrescence to spill out like a steaming fountain of split-pea soup. The forcefulness of the fast-draining slop eventually ruptures Blaster’s stomach altogether and quickly floods his lower abdominal cavity.
Turn him over. It needs to drain.
With blinding supernatural speed, both Adlemeyer and Nuke obey instruction and flip Blaster. They stretch his arms to great lengths while Bill held his sluggish head back. His shriveled, unused intestines hung low toward the sand as fowl yellowish-green substances pour over them. Blaster’s pain is excruciating; each of them senses it. After several seconds, only the occasional drip remains as his stomach returns to a gaunt state.
Bill stuffs the intestines back inside and again watches as clear mucus secretes from either side of the wide opening in Blaster’s abdomen, forming a protective membrane. The membrane then hardens into solid strands of fibrous webbing that resembles spider silk. As if having a life of its own, the webbing then pulls itself toward Blaster’s center, closing the wound until it is nothing more than a small tender purplish line. Within seconds, the incision is no longer noticeable. Adlemeyer and Nuke drag Blaster backward, lowering him to the cool sand. They sit, watching over their now unconscious brother.
Bill sits with his bony legs tucked under his knobby knees; his gruesome claws rest along his lap. He stares down at the infinite granules of sand and a moment of clarity washes over him.
I have no intention nor am I hiding any motives. I am exactly what you are and because of this, I will never leave your side. Whatever comes, we will face it together.
I only worry because it is your every desire to leave us. I can sense it in you, Nuke confesses.
Do not worry. That is not possible.
Will Blaster recover? Adlemeyer watches over his brother, conveying his concerns for the incapacitated wendigo.
He will be fine.
We should get him inside—
Bill pauses, feeling the abrupt disconnection of telepathy from his brothers. He glances up at Adlemeyer seeing that Adlemeyer’s eyes now burn considerably brighter; Nuke’s are the same. Blaster immediately shoots up. His pinpoints burn with intensity as a powerful yet familiar psychic intrusion burst into each of their thoughts.
Bill rigidly sits at attention; his eyes flare, transfixed by a single thought from the very one who had coerced them into the wendigo curse. He who abandoned his children over a span of three months and continuously tormented them with one terrifying nightmare after another, he who murdered his own brother and whom the wolf pack now knew as the great wolf spirit Malsum. The unfit parent has returned to his forlorn children and he speaks only four words: seek safety my children…