Алма Катсу - The Hunger

He died later that night, slipping away in his sleep.

Maybe it was her imagination, but as she sat there, next to his cooling, lifeless body, she thought she could hear the rustle of the pack sniffing closer to her tent. Scenting her loneliness.

She held the rifle to her chest all night.

In the morning, she built up the fire again, noting the strange, scrabble-footed tracks at the periphery of camp. She fished a shovel out of the wagon, determined to bury George deep so the monsters wouldn’t be able to get his body. But the ground was frozen hard. Her arms shook. She nearly fainted with the effort of it and was forced to give up.

So, using the blanket like a sled, she dragged him out to the bonfire pit instead. She stoked the fire higher, watched the column of smoke thickening to a pillar, then rolled the body of her husband into the flames and turned away from the choking smell.

She had to move quickly.

She would carry nothing but the rifle and ammunition, and a small satchel of herbs. Their remaining savings, thousands of dollars, she would hide in a hollow tree in the woods. If she lived, she’d come back for it later. She cut away strips from the hide hanging in the entrance to make her last meal, choking it down by telling herself there would be food waiting for her at the other camps. Bacon and biscuits and an orange, like Christmas. Huckleberry jam and hot tea with rose hips.

She stayed up for a second night in a row, hugging the rifle to her chest. Dozed off occasionally in her chair. Around midnight she was pretty sure she heard the beasts scratching around the burnt-out funeral pyre, looking for scraps. She fired a few rounds in that direction, hoping to scatter them.

In the morning, she wrapped herself in the best blanket, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and started along the creek.

The sun had started its descent by the time Tamsen arrived at the far side of the lake. It was a scene of eerie stillness, so quiet that her first thought was maybe everyone had left or died.

The silence gave her a bad feeling.

Even from this distance she could see the huge blackened pits indicating old bonfires, just like at Alder Creek. The remaining wagons looked nearly abandoned; the canopies were torn, destroyed by exposure to the elements. The place had the feel of a ghost town—a hostile ghost town, as if within the silence was an echo of an angry voice. Had she made a mistake?

She could smell the stink of rot; it made her dizzy and sick. She was weak, and had to lean on a thin tree for a bit to fight down the urge to throw up. Where were all the people? If they were dead, where were the bodies?

She reached the first cabin, separated from the other cluster of lean-tos by a patch of trees. Inside, it was a mess, clothing and blankets scattered over the dirt floor, trunks emptied and overturned, filthy clothes alive with flies. She expected to find someone inside, a sick child or two waiting for a parent out fetching wood or water. She picked up a pocket Bible lying in the rubble. To Eleanor love Aunt Minnie , it read on the endpaper. May this be your comfort.

Then she saw it: Keseberg’s rifle. It was unmistakably his—she’d seen it in his hands many times, the way he carried it around casually as if to remind the others to keep their distance. Her heart rate picked up as she scavenged through the other belongings in the cabin. Had Keseberg done something to the others? Was that why it was so quiet? She felt sick again but swallowed her nausea, moving methodically through his things. Maybe she’d at least find something to eat—stolen rations from the others, dried meat, anything. She was shaking and cold and acting out of an instinct to survive. She’d pillage whatever he had, then be gone, search for signs of life in the other lean-tos, search for signs of her daughters.

But she didn’t find anything to eat. She found instead, beneath a pile of sticks—as if intentionally hidden—a stack of papers tied together with a thin strip of leather. She knew she should hurry, should leave, but a horrible feeling of suspicion rooted her to the spot. It was dim inside the cabin with the sun setting outside, but she squinted, her hands trembling as she lifted the papers and saw what they were. Letters.

Letter after letter after letter, all of them from Edwin Bryant, addressed to Charles Stanton. How long had they been hidden? Her eyes were bleary in the darkness and she feared that she might be hallucinating all of this, but something compelled her to open them, one by one.

They began as urgent warnings about the hazards of the trail— turn around, avoid the Hastings Cutoff —and then became more rambling, describing rumors of spirits and creatures that fed on human flesh.

Tamsen shivered. Bryant knew. He knew about them .

The truth sent a shock through her fingertips—it was just as Tamsen herself had suspected, but seeing it written out felt like a new weight had fallen inside her stomach.

She read on. In his later letters, he referred to the creatures as diseased men. He talked about a kind of contagion.

She thought back on everything that had happened. Halloran had been acting funny ever since his dog bit Keseberg. Had even Halloran caught the disease, that early on the trail?

Keseberg.

Lewis Keseberg knew, too.

He’d kept the letters, hidden them from the others.

But why? She’d never liked Keseberg, knew he wasn’t trustworthy—but what could he possibly stand to gain from keeping the truth about this disease from the rest of the group?

It was then that she heard the creak in the old wooden door, and swiveled around.

She gasped, dropping the letters, and nearly fell backward against the wall. Keseberg stood in the doorway. She’d thought that after weeks stranded at Alder Creek, she would be overjoyed to see another person, anyone from the wagon party again, even Peggy Breen. Anyone but him.

The last of the evening’s light fell on his shoulders, and from where Tamsen was crouched in the corner of the cabin, he seemed even bigger than she had remembered.

In his hand was an ax. He’d been chopping wood somewhere, then—for the fires, maybe. Maybe the others were still alive. Maybe, maybe… Her pulse raced and her mind refused to form a clear thought.

“Well, well, Mrs. Donner. You came back,” he said, with a smile.

She scrabbled away until her back was up against the far wall, but she was still only a few feet from him in the small space.

“I suppose you know my secret, then,” he said, with a nod toward the letters. “Suppose it was sentimental but I couldn’t bring myself to burn ’em. Didn’t know how long I’d be able to keep those safe from prying eyes, but attacks from wild, bloodthirsty creatures do tend to distract a crowd.”

Her stomach twisted and she fought the urge to retch.

“What—what have you done to the others?” she demanded. “Where are they?”

Keseberg sighed. “Your girls are all right. You know I like the pretty ones.”

She was tempted to dive at him, scratch his face, but was too afraid.

“The Breens,” he went on, listing methodically. “A few of the kids and both parents. Doris. There’re a handful of us yet, near forty.”

“But the camp is so quiet.”

“They know to keep inside. It’s what we agreed. To keep ’em safe.”

“To keep them safe,” she repeated dumbly. From the creatures, of course. That’s what he meant.

Cautious relief began to course through her—they were alive. He’d said they were alive. Keseberg was a liar and a cheat—but why would he lie about that?