HIT THE NORTH

shit, you're right. Santa, North. The Old Ones, South.

The gray clouds swallow the moon, and my vision sharpens in the darkness. A tangy scent I had not smelled in months fills my flared nostrils. The scent of a human being about to feed on another. Saliva trickles from between my teeth to freeze on my jaw.

It’s time for some fun.

I drop from the tree and my feet crunch in the snow. I run. The trees pass by in a blur, and soon I am out in the open country. The moon has freed itself of the clouds now, and any human who sees me silhouetted against the night will remember my towering horror for the rest of their life. In seconds, I’m within the woods again.

My harsh breathing lashes the night, and I know that for miles around, the few who frequent the woods will hear me. Most will think that it’s just the wind. The remnants of the trappers and the Indians who dwelt here when I was a man will know better. They’ll bolt their doors, huddle together in fear, and pray that the wendigo does not come for them tonight. The scent grows stronger, and I can hear an infant crying in the distance. I grin.

An enormous fallen log blocks my path, and with the swipe of my claws, I slice it in two. I’m through the obstruction before both halves strike the ground. The scent of incipient cannibalism and hunger for human flesh spurs me on. Something abruptly cuts off the infant’s cry. It won’t be long now before someone is within my power.

A short scream echoes through the cold, a scream that the sound of metal sinking into flesh quickly cuts off. I slaver uncontrollably. The sounds came from nearby, and I can see the faint flickering of a fire through the trees. My breath comes fast, and no one could mistake me for the wind now. My stomach rumbles and I grin so hard that I feel the frozen skin of my face crack.

I creep through the woods, the slight sounds of disturbed snow the only noise other than the ghoulish work that a dark-haired, emaciated man is doing around a fire. I can see him hacking at an infant with a small hatchet. Whup, whup, whup, and then the arm is free. The man has a metal pan to cook his food, but his hunger so dominates him that he simply stuffs the raw arm into his mouth. He is mine now.

I laugh. He turns in my direction, eyes huge in his hunger-gnawed face. He’s an Algonquin, though his features show that he has more white blood than his forefathers. If he was brought up in the tribal ways, or had at least bothered listening to the old stories I had learned as a boy, he would have known better. I decide to torment him a bit before making the kill. I step back into the woods, to the point where I can barely see him and I’m sure he can’t see me.

He stares into the dark for minute or so, eyes searching the shadows, before he warily returns to his meal. My hunger gnaws at my flesh, but my rational mind overrides it. It’s getting harder and harder to restrain myself, but I so enjoy teasing those smaller than me.

I decide to speak. I rarely do, since men flee before me and the few surviving Wendigowak — time, accidents, and lucky shots have taken the toll — would rather fight than talk. It’s a small opportunity, but I relish it.

“Wen-di-go,” I rumble, speaking the syllables that once inspired terror among men. He looks up again, face stiff with fear. I smile, but do nothing. Well, not entirely nothing. I breathe a little bit harder now. The man trembles. He definitely knows it’s not the wind. I see his fear, and my appetite swells. I can barely stop myself from charging. One last time, I decide, and then I’ll take him.

“Wen-di-go.”

The man shrieks. He snatches up his hatchet. I chuckle. Fat lot of good that’ll do him. My hunger demands I attack. I agree.

I emerge from the forest into the firelight. He scrambles back, babbling incoherently. My jaw swings open, and my long tongue lolls out. I point with a bony finger to the corpse of the infant, and lick my lips in culinary delight.

The man hollers at me in a pidgin of French and Abenaki and gestures threateningly with his hatchet. I continue laughing, and he hurls it at me. The blade buries itself in my stomach, but it doesn’t hurt. The only way to kill a wendigo is to destroy our icy hearts, or sever our heads. The pitiful wretch before me could have managed the latter, if he hadn’t made such a cack-handed attack.

I pluck the hatchet from my flesh and nonchalantly toss it into the trees. The man crawls towards the fire. I grin wickedly and follow. He seizes a stick from the fire and hurls it at my chest. That much heat, so close to my frozen heart, hurts. I shriek with rage and pain and stumble backwards. A manic grin sprawls across his face, and he seizes another log from the fire.

I move to attack, but he swings the burning log, scorching my hands. I step back, and we circle each other. He lunges, stabbing with the torch, but my claws parry his attack. Despite my decades of experience in subduing prey, he’s right desperate, and that gives him a surprising edge.

He’s now on the other side of the fire, and inspiration glitters in his eyes. I cock my head in puzzlement. He lunges forward and kicks burning-hot embers at me. The hot particles sting my legs and abdomen. I jump backwards and slam into a tree. The Indian grins manically at my predicament and charges. He aims his torch directly at my chest. The unfamiliar sensation of fear nibbles at the base of my spine, but I remain calm.

I wait until he’s five feet away before I spin. One fist knocks the torch from his hand. I continue the spin, and my other fist sends the Indian sprawling.

Now that he is down, I need to deal with the dangerous fire. I reach just outside the circle to seize a nearby log. I smash the fire to a scattering of embers that soon die, leaving him alone in the dark with me.

As I loom over him, he begins to weep. Ignoring his pleas for mercy, I reach out with a finger and methodically cut his throat.

Blood erupts from his severed arteries, and the smell drives my hunger to new heights. I seize his still-twitching body, yank him upwards, and bury my face in his guts. The rich organ meat takes the edge off my hunger, and his convulsions stop soon enough. Once I’m finished eviscerating him, I reach down and pick up the dead infant. I examine it for a moment, but though I pity the child on an intellectual level, I don’t feel any emotion. With a casual shrug, I swallow the corpse in one gulp. I suspect there’s another body around here.

I look around the clearing. The cabin door is open, and when I peer inside, I find the cabin is empty. I pace about and soon find the body of an Indian woman. An axe-wound mars her abdomen. I guess this filly objected too much to killing her baby. I pick her up easily, then sink my fangs into her chest.

She moans. It seems that the wound wasn’t nearly as fatal as I suspected. I do not care, and continue chewing. I feel her arm feebly batting at my shoulder. She can’t hurt me, but her struggles are mildly irritating. I step forward and slam her head into a tree. No more fighting the inevitable.

Once I’m done eating her breasts, I direct my attention to her lower body. Both her legs go into my mouth, cleansing the palate so I can get the full flavor of her guts.

I hear a faint rumble in the sky above and look up. In the distance, above the clouds, I can see the running lights of an airplane. Unconsciously, my eyes drift towards the dirt road leading towards the cabin. It’s not like how it used to be. When I was a man over a hundred years ago, few came this way even in the spring. A month from now, when the worst of the cold is gone, people will start coming up this road again. Once I’m done eating, I’ll wreck the cabin; most who come up the road will think it’s been in ruins for years.

Dog my cats if I’ll have men with rapid-fire guns and helicopters tramping through my woods. Even a manqueller as efficient as I can’t deal with that. I’m finished with the woman now. My hunger is lessened, but not gone.

It will never be completely gone.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v216/sexymollusk/backlogo.jpg