Hungerland

The winter of ’60 looms like a jagged white slaughterhouse, a frozen purgatory where the Trask Expedition—eighty-seven souls, now a ragged clutch—teeters on the brink of annihilation. Snow entombs their wagons in a pass-turned crypt, mules rot under drifts, their bones jutting like grim totems, and the wind howls like a banshee on a mushroom binge.

Inside a tent of burlap and dread, a pitiful fire spits ash into the frigid gloom, barely warming the huddled figures within. Gideon Trask, the expedition’s broken figurehead, slumps under a moth-eaten blanket, his leg oozing pus from an ax slip that’s gone sour, his voice a cracked whisper rasping through chapped lips. “We’ll see Springfield yet, Esther, I can taste the green fields through this hell.”

Esther Trask, his wife, rations the last specks of cornmeal with trembling fingers, her tone sharp as a flensing knife cutting through the tension. “One crumb, Silas, one goddamn crumb, or I’ll flay you alive and stew the scraps—don’t test me!”

Silas Kane, a wiry man with eyes like haunted pits, paces the tent’s edge, his boots scuffing the frozen dirt. Once exiled for gutting Jasper Holt in a rage over a busted axle, he’s back now, raving with a desperation that borders on madness. “We’ll make it, Ruth, I swear it on my last breath—Springfield’s just over the next ridge!”

Ruth Kane, his wife, weeps into her scarf, her voice splintering like dry timber under an ax. “The kids, Silas, what about the kids? They’re fading into shadows—look at them!”

Clara Kane, their ten-year-old daughter, sits by the tent flap, her gaze too bright for this nightmare, staring into the blizzard as if it’s reciting riddles only she understands. Nell Kane, thirteen and feral as a cornered wolverine, kicks at the snow outside, snarling at her brother, Tommy Kane, a scrawny seven-year-old shivering under a tarp patched with despair.

“Quit your sniveling, Tommy, or I’ll chuck you to the wolves myself—grow a spine!”

Tommy whimpers, teeth chattering like dice in a cup. “I’m cold, Nell, so cold—where’s Clara going? She’s leaving us!”

Otis Barrow, a hulking brute with a beard like rusted wire, sharpens stakes from wagon slats with a rhythmic scrape, growling to his wife, Lila Barrow, “Eat or be eaten, Lila, that’s the raw math of survival—start picking who’s next.”

Lila, her face a mask of hollows carved by hunger, snaps back, her voice a whipcrack of defiance. “Not my girls, Otis, I’ll rip your guts out and feed ’em to you first!”

Their seven daughters—Mary, Eliza, Cora, Beth, Lucy, Rose, and little Jane—huddle under a tarp, trembling as Sadie Holt, wed to Theo Holt, murmurs in a voice soft as a prayer, “Hold on, darlings, just hold on a little longer—help’s coming.”

Pacing like a caged bear, Theo mutters under his breath, his words bitter as the wind. “We should’ve turned back at the Salt Flats, Sadie, I told you a dozen times—Hastings screwed us!”

Ezra Finch, the scribe with ink-stained fingers and a perpetual squint, scribbles in his journal, his voice a dry croak cutting through the din. “Day 67: snow a shroud, minds fraying like twine in a gale—reason bleeds out.”

The camp is a simmering cauldron of dread, voices clashing in the storm’s roar like a chorus of the damned. Ruth rocks an empty cradle, crooning, “Sleep, baby, sleep…” her tone a hollow dirge that grates Silas’s fraying nerves.

He spins on her, snarling, “Stop that, Ruth, it’s gone—our babe’s been gone since Truckee, and you’re driving me to the edge!”

She glares, eyes blazing through tears, her voice a shriek. “You lost her, Silas, and now Clara’s next—you’re a coward who can’t face what you’ve done!”

Nell stomps over, shouting over the wind, “Both of you shut your traps, I’m sick of the wailing—I’ll drag her back myself if you won’t!”

Otis laughs a guttural bark that slices the air like a blade. “Go on, girl, freeze with her—more scraps for us who stay warm.”

Lila shoves him, shrieking, “Say that again, Otis, and I’ll carve you into stew right here—try me!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, trembling, “They’re cracking, love, look at their eyes—wild as beasts, everyone.”

Theo snaps, “We cracked at the Hastings Cutoff, Sadie, swallowing that cursed map like fools—now we’re paying!”

Esther Trask hisses at Silas, her words dripping venom. “Keep pacing, you fool, you’ll dig us a trench to China and drag us all down!”

Gideon groans from his cot, his voice weak but biting. “Leave him, Esther, he’s all hot air and no spine—let him tire out like a whipped dog.”

Tommy clings to Nell, whimpering, “Don’t go, Nell, it’s too dark out there—stay with me!”

She shoves him off, snarling, “Stay here then, you little leech—I’m not freezing for your whining!”

Mary Barrow, the eldest of Otis’s brood, pipes up, her voice thin as a reed against the storm. “She’s right, Nell, it’s madness—stay with us where it’s safe!”

Otis growls, “Quiet, Mary, or you’re next on the chopping block—I’ll decide who stays or goes!”

Lila rounds on him, shrieking, “Touch her, Otis, and I’ll bury you in this snow alive—mark my words!”

Eliza Barrow, the second eldest, mutters to Cora, “They’re all losing it—Pa’s ready to eat us, I can see it.”

Cora whispers, “Let him try—I’ll stick him first with this splinter.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning too, Theo—hear them plotting?”

Theo snaps, “Good—let ’em fight, keeps the blood pumping!”

Ezra mutters, scribbling, “Day 68: accusations fly, hunger gnaws like a saw—madness creeps closer, a shadow with teeth.”

Then it strikes, a jolt through the camp’s despair. A white jackrabbit, bony as a junkie and twitching with manic purpose, darts past the tents, its voice a shrill squeak cutting through the wind. “I’m late, I’m late, you miserable bastards!”

Clara’s eyes flare like twin lanterns, and she’s off, chasing it through the drifts like a moth to a torch, her form swallowed by the white. Ruth screams, “Clara, you little lunatic, get back here!”

Silas lunges, boots sinking in snow, his voice a raw bellow. “Clara, damn it, stop!”

But she’s gone, tumbling down a snowbank into a crevice that wasn’t there moments before, a black maw in the white hell. Nell grabs Silas’s arm, her voice raw as a blade. “She’s my sister, Pa, we can’t just sit on our hands—move!”

Silas shakes her off, roaring, “She’s lost or dead, Nell, and we’re next if we don’t tighten the belts—think, girl!”

Otis grunts, “One less mouth—good riddance to the dreamer.”

Lila slaps him, her shriek piercing the wind like a harpy’s cry. “She’s a child, you monster, not a ledger entry—have you no soul?”

Sadie clutches Theo’s sleeve, whispering, “She’s gone, Theo, like the cattle—another ghost in the snow.

Theo growls, “She’s Silas’s burden, not ours—focus on keeping our girls breathing, not chasing phantoms!”

The camp erupts in chaos—shouts, curses, pleas—the storm swallowing their voices as hunger claws deeper into their marrow, a beast gnashing at their resolve.

Down below, Clara lands hard in a wonderland of ice and psychosis, a frozen abyss that mirrors the Trask Expedition’s shattered souls in grotesque distortion. The ground is a cracked mosaic of frost, reflecting her pale face in jagged shards—her eyes too wide, her mouth trembling, accusing her reflection with silent screams.

Skeletal trees claw at a sky bleeding gray, their branches whispering names—Jasper, the mules, Tommy, Ruth—each syllable a splinter driving into her skull, a chorus of guilt she can’t silence. She staggers up, breath fogging in the bitter air, her coat crusted with snow, and finds Mad Mordecai Finch—Gideon Trask’s warped double—presiding over a tea party of slush and delirium.

He’s a twitching wreck in a raccoon hat, pouring snowmelt into rusted mugs with hands that shake like a junkie’s, his voice a manic cackle that echoes off the ice. “Sit, Clara, sit, you little wretch! We’re all royalty here, sipping the finest while the pantry starves—join the feast!”

Around a splintered table, Rex Holt and Zeke Barrow brawl over a femur, their meaty fists swinging like sledgehammers in a bar fight. “Mine, you hog-faced leech!”

Rex roars, yanking it with a snarl that bares yellowed teeth. “No, mine, you bloated tick!”

Zeke snaps, tugging back, his eyes wild with greed and desperation.

Mordecai slams his mug down, spittle flying like shrapnel. “Share it, you greedy swine, or I’ll crack your skulls and brew the marrow myself—there’s enough nothing for all!”

Clara’s head spins, her voice quaking as she steps forward, clutching her coat tighter. “Where am I? What is this place?”

Mordecai grins his teeth yellowed dice, leaning close enough for her to smell the rot on his breath, a stench of decay and madness. “The Sierra Supper Club, sweetmeat! Finest dining in this frozen hell—only the best for the damned. Ain’t that right, Amos?”

Amos Finch—Pat Vance’s fractured echo—slumps in a corner, snoring through cracked lips, muttering, “God save us, God save us…” in a loop that grates like a broken record.

Mordecai kicks him, laughing, his voice a high-pitched taunt. “Wake up, Amos, tell her about the boots we boiled—leather soup, a delicacy for the discerning!”

Amos jolts awake, eyes bulging like a cornered animal’s, his voice a ragged shout that bounces off the ice. “Boots? I ate my damn soul, Mord! You’re next, you grinning ghoul—I see you eyeing my shins every night, licking your chops!”

Clara backs away, stammering, “I don’t belong here—I need to get back to my family!”

Mordecai leans closer, his grin splitting wider, a grotesque mask of mirth. “Oh, you belong, girl. This is your mind’s mirror, cracked and bleeding—your guilt’s the guest of honor. Sit, or the shadows take you—choose quick!”

Rex pauses his brawl, sneering at her with a lip curled in disgust. “She’s too skinny to bother with, Mord—let her run back to her precious kin, they’re probably chewing each other by now!”

Zeke laughs, a harsh bark that echoes. “Skinny now, but wait ’til she fattens on despair—she’ll be prime cut then, mark my words!”

Clara’s voice rises, sharp with defiance, as she plants her feet. “I’m not staying—you’re all mad, raving lunatics!”

Amos lurches forward, grabbing her arm with a clammy grip, his voice frantic and pleading. “Mad? We’re you, Clara—your fear, your hunger! Look at my hands—don’t they look like Pa’s, callused and stained?”

She yanks free, shouting, “You’re not my Pa—you’re a ghost, a lie!”

Mordecai cackles, clapping his hands like a deranged compere. “A ghost! She’s got it, boys—this place is a graveyard of your own making, dug with your own hands!”

Rex snarls, “Shut up, Mord, or I’ll bash your skull instead of Zeke’s—give us some peace!” Zeke snaps, “Try it, Rex, and I’ll gnaw your bones clean—I’m starving here!”

The table erupts in shouts, fists flying, mugs clattering to the ice, Clara stumbling back as the madness swirls around her like a vortex, pulling at her sanity.

A shadow slinks from the mist, and Chester Vance emerges, a skeletal coyote with a grin like a guillotine, ribs stabbing through patchy fur like accusations.

“Lost, little tidbit?” he purrs, circling her with a predator’s grace, his voice a low growl vibrates in her chest. “Left path’s a slow death, right path’s a feast. Guess which I took—go on, guess.”

Clara clutches her coat, her voice cutting through the chill as she meets his glinting eyes. “I need my family, you creep—stay away from me or I’ll make you!”

Chet’s laugh is a dry hack, his eyes shining like wet coal in the dim light. “Family’s a banquet, girl. Ask me about the bones I picked clean—sweet marrow, sweeter tears, a meal to savor.”

She swings a stick at him, shouting, “Back off, you mangy freak—I’m not your prey!”

He dodges, grins stretching impossibly wide, a grotesque parody of mirth. “Spunk! You’ll need it when the hunger whispers your name—listen close, it’s already talking.”

Amos lurches up, pointing a trembling finger at Chet, his voice a frantic wail. “He’s the devil, Clara! Ate his kin—I saw it in my dreams, gnashing and grinning over the fire, blood on his snout!”

Chet snaps back, his voice a snarl that cuts the air. “Dreams? You’re the one drooling over my haunches, preacher—don’t lie to the girl, you’ve got the same itch!”

Clara swings again, her voice rising to a scream that echoes off the ice. “Both of you shut up—I’m not food, I’m not your meal, I’m getting out!”

Chet fades into the fog, his laugh lingering like smoke, a taunt that burrows into her skull. “Not yet, little rabbit, not yet—hunger’s patient, it waits for the weak.”

Amos grabs her again, his voice a desperate plea. “He’s right, Clara—it’s coming for us all! I hear it in the wind, chewing, chewing, gnawing at my bones!”

She shoves him off, shouting, “Let go, you lunatic—I’m not listening to your ravings!”

Mordecai calls after her, his voice a taunt that follows her into the dark. “Out? There’s no out, girl—just deeper in, deeper into yourself!”

Rex laughs, “Run, little rabbit—see how far your legs take you before they give!”

Zeke adds, “Not far—she’ll be back, begging for a seat at the table!”

The tea party dissolves into cackles and curses, a cacophony of madness that chases Clara as she flees into the icy maze, her breath ragged, her mind a storm of doubt and terror, the stick clutched like a lifeline.

Up top, the camp fractures like ice under a sledgehammer, splintering into chaos. Ruth rocks her empty cradle, crooning, “Sleep, baby, sleep…” her voice is a hollow echo that claws at Silas’s sanity.

He whirls on her, snarling, “Stop that, Ruth, it’s gone—our babe’s been gone since Truckee, and you’re pushing me over the edge with Ascendancy!”

She turns, eyes blazing through tears, her voice rising to a shriek that cuts the wind. “You lost her, Silas, and now Clara’s next—you’re a coward who can’t face what you’ve done!”

Nell stomps over, shouting over the storm, “Both of you shut your traps, I’m sick of the wailing—I’ll drag her back myself if you won’t!”

Otis laughs a guttural bark that slices the air. “Go on, girl, freeze with her—more scraps for us who stay warm!”

Lila shoves him, shrieking, “Say that again, Otis, and I’ll carve you into stew right here—try me!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, trembling, “They’re cracking, love, look at their eyes—wild as beasts, everyone.”

Theo snaps, “We cracked at the Hastings Cutoff, Sadie, swallowing that cursed map like fools—now we’re paying in blood!”

Esther Trask hisses at Silas, her words dripping venom. “Keep pacing, you fool, you’ll dig us a trench to hell and drag us all down!”

Gideon groans from his cot, his voice weak but biting. “Leave him, Esther, he’s all hot air and no spine—let him tire out like a whipped dog.”

Tommy clings to Nell, whimpering, “Don’t go, Nell, it’s too dark out there—stay with me!”

She shoves him off, snarling, “Stay here then, you little leech—I’m not freezing for your whining!”

Mary Barrow pipes up, her voice thin as a reed against the storm. “She’s right, Nell, it’s madness—stay with us where it’s safe!”

Otis growls, “Quiet, Mary, or you’re next on the chopping block—I’ll decide who stays or goes!”

Lila rounds on him, shrieking, “Touch her, Otis, and I’ll bury you in this snow alive—mark my words!”

Eliza mutters to Cora, “They’re all losing it—Pa’s ready to eat us, I can see it in his stare.”

Cora whispers, “Let him try—I’ll stick him first with this splinter, watch me.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning too, Theo—hear them plotting?”

Theo snaps, “Good—let ’em fight, keeps the blood pumping!”

Ezra mutters, scribbling, “Day 68: accusations fly, hunger gnaws like a blade—madness closes in, a shadow with teeth.”

Down below, Clara’s path snakes through icy tunnels, the walls pulsing like veins, whispering, “You left them, Clara, you ran while they starved—coward, coward!”

The air thickens with guilt, each breath tasting of ash and regret, a bitter tang that coats her tongue. She stumbles into Old Man Thaddeus Vance sprawled on a log, puffing a pipe of charred twigs, smoke coiling around his scarred face like a shroud.

He squints, his voice a gravelly drawl that grinds against her nerves. “Who’re you, runt?”

Clara steadies herself, answering, “Clara Kane, and I’ve got to get back—”

“Kane?” Thad cuts in, blowing a smoke ring that hangs like a noose, his eyes narrowing. “Silas’s spawn? You’re sunk deeper than a miner’s grave. This ain’t a trail—it’s a meat press, grinding you down.”

He carves a map into the bark with a jagged knife, muttering, “Take this, but it’s a liar, just like your Pa—full of promises that rot.”

She snatches it, her voice rising, sharp and defiant. “My Pa’s not a liar—he’s fighting for us up there, bleeding for us!”

Thad laughs, a dry rasp that echoes off the ice, a sound that mocks her. “Fighting? He’s lying to himself—‘We’ll make it,’ he says, while the snow buries you all. Look at that map, girl—what do you see?”

She stares at the scrawl—faces, her family’s, twisted in hunger, Ruth’s mouth open in a silent scream, Silas’s eyes hollow as pits, Nell’s fists clenched, Tommy’s cheeks sunken like a skull’s. “It’s… them,” she whispers, her stomach lurching, bile rising in her throat.

Thad nods, his voice low and cutting, a blade in her ribs. “Your mind’s bleeding out, Clara. This place is your guilt, your fear—it’s eating you alive. Run before it swallows you whole.”

She backs away, shouting, “You’re wrong—they’re alive, they’re waiting for me!”

Thad blows another ring, muttering, “Alive? They’re meat walking, girl, and you know it—look at your hands, see the truth.”

She glances down—her fingers are red, slick with imagined blood, dripping onto the ice, and she screams, “No, no, it’s not real!”

Thad chuckles, “Real enough to haunt you—run, little rabbit, run from yourself!”

The tunnel twists, the whispers growing louder—Tommy’s sobs, Ruth’s pleas, Silas’s curses—until she’s sprinting, hands over her ears, the map clutched tight, her mind a storm of doubt and dread, the blood on her hands a stain she can’t scrub away.

The trail bends into a grotesque amphitheater of ice and bone, the Queen’s court, where Ruby Vance—Red Queen Ruby—towers in a bear hide, her hair a frozen snarl, shrieking, “Off with their heads!”

Her court is a circus of fractured souls: Nell Finch flaps her arms, squawking, “I’ll fly us out, I’ll soar, you’ll see—I’m not dying here like a rat!”

Esther Holt clutches a sack she calls “my darling,” cooing, “Mommy’s got you, hush now,” her eyes darting to Clara like she’s sizing her up for a pot, a predator’s gleam.

Theo Marsh hops around with a cleaver, giggling, “Who’s for the pot? Fresh cuts are gold—let’s feast!”

Ruby points at Clara, her voice a banshee wail that pierces the air. “You! Tardy trash! Kneel or bleed!”

Clara ducks as Theo swings, yelping, “She’s slippery, Queen!”

Theo turns to Ruby, whining, “Let me chop her, she’s tender—look at those arms, plump as a doe!”

Ruby snaps, “Not yet, fool, I want her begging first—break her spirit, make her crawl!”

“Silence!” Ruby roars, turning to her jury—twelve shivering wrecks, including Lila Vance and Chuck Marsh.

“Guilty or supper?” Lila snarls, “She’s a child, Ruby, not a roast—have some damn shame!”

Chuck sobs, his voice a wet gurgle, “We’re all roasts, Lila, all of us—I see it every night, the pot boiling, the steam rising!”

Theo cackles, “Chop her, I say—she’s got meat on her bones, not like us skeletons!”

Nell squawks, “No, no, she’s one of us, let her fly with me—don’t waste her!”

Esther hisses, “Quiet, all of you, or my darling gets cross—and you don’t want that, oh no!”

Clara bolts, Theo’s cleaver nicking her sleeve, Ruby’s laugh echoing, “Run, rabbit, run, I’ll have your head yet!”

Lila shouts after her, “Don’t trust the paths, girl, they lie—they’re your lies, your cowardice!”

Chuck wails, “They all lie, they all lead to the pot—run anyway, run ’til you drop!”

Clara sprints through a labyrinth of ice, the walls closing in, whispering, “You’re guilty, Clara, you abandoned them—left them to starve while you chased shadows.”

The shadows twist into shapes—Ruth cradling a frozen babe, its eyes glassy; Silas sharpening a knife, his hands stained red; Nell glaring with accusing eyes, her voice a hiss, “You left me, Clara, you ran!”

She stumbles into Wesley Holt, a lanky figure fumbling with a busted rifle, his voice soft amid the chaos. “I’ll save you, lass.”

Clara pants, her breath ragged. “From what? What’s chasing me?”

Wesley’s eyes dart, his whisper trembling. “The Devourer. It’s us, turned inside out—our hunger, our shame, our sins.”

The ground shakes, and the Devourer looms—a skeletal titan, its flesh woven from guilt, eyes burning with Amos Finch’s ravenous stare, claws gleaming with Lila Barrow’s desperation, jaws dripping with the blood of Jasper Holt, the mules, the taboos they’ve swallowed.

“You birthed me!” it roars, its voice a chorus of their screams—Ruth’s wails, Silas’s curses, Nell’s defiance, Tommy’s sobs.

Clara freezes, her voice a whisper. “You’re not real—you’re a nightmare!”

The Devourer laughs, a sound like shattering ice. “Real? I’m your Pa’s knife, your Ma’s tears, your sister’s rage. I’m the hunger you won’t name—the part of you that’s already chewing!”

Wesley shoves the rifle at her, stammering, “Take it, lass, end it—please, for all of us!”

She drops it, grabs a wagon spoke—vorpal sharp—and charges, screaming, “For Ma! For Pa! For Tommy! For the mules!”

She rams it into the beast’s throat, blood gushing black and thick, splattering her face, her hands, her soul.

It crumples, a steaming pile of shame, and Wesley nods, fading into the mist. “You’re the knight now, lass—carry it.”

The forest twists, the whispers turning to her sobs, her voice accusing, “You killed it, Clara, but you can’t kill the truth—you’re one of them now.”

Back in camp, the storm is a monster with claws and teeth.

Silas rallies a posse, his voice cracking like dry timber. “Clara’s out there, damn it, I’m going—who’s with me?”

Nell grabs a branch, shouting, “I’m with you, Pa—let’s move before she’s gone!”

Esther Trask snaps, “You’ll freeze, you mad bastard—stay and die warm like the rest of us!”

Gideon groans from his cot, “Let her go, Silas, we’re done for—save your strength for breathing.”

Ruth sobs, “You’re abandoning her again, Silas, like you abandoned me!”

He turns on her, roaring, “I’m saving her, Ruth, not rocking ghosts—get off your knees and help!”

Otis chuckles, “Save her for what? The stew? She’s tender, I’ll bet—prime cut.”

Lila slaps him, shrieking, “One more word, Otis, and I’ll gut you like a fish!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “They’re all mad now, Theo—look at their hands shaking, itching to strike.”

Theo snaps, “We were mad at Fort Bridger, Sadie, following that damn shortcut to nowhere!”

Silas storms off, dragging Rex Holt and Ezra Finch into the blizzard, Rex muttering, “This is suicide, Silas, you know it.”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 69: desperation drives, death stalks like a shadow.”

Tommy clings to Ruth, whimpering, “Don’t let Pa go, Ma, he won’t come back!”

Ruth pushes him away, her voice breaking. “He’s got to, Tommy—he’s got to bring her back or we’re nothing!”

Mary whispers to her sisters, “They’re all going to die out there, aren’t they?”

Eliza nods, her voice flat. “Maybe. Maybe we’ll eat them when they do—Pa’s already planning it.”

Otis overhears, growling, “Smart girl, Eliza—keep thinking like that, you’ll live.”

Lila shrieks, “Shut up, Otis, or I’ll choke you with your tongue!”

Cora mutters to Beth, “He’s not wrong—someone’s got to go first.”

Beth whispers, “Not me—I’ll fight ’til I drop.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning, Theo—hear them scheming?”

Theo snaps, “Let ’em—survival’s a brutal game.”

The camp is a madhouse, voices colliding, the storm a roaring judge over their descent into chaos.

Clara wakes choking on snow, the rabbit’s tracks vanishing into the wind. She staggers back, half-dead, raving, “Deer… I saw deer… in the Abyss…”

Silas’s crew finds her, dragging her into the camp’s flickering light.

Nell shouts, “She’s alive, Pa—look at her, she’s breathing!”

Rex grunts, “And cracked like an egg—listen to her babble, she’s lost it.”

Silas kneels, shaking her shoulders, his voice urgent. “Clara, what deer? Where? Talk to me, girl!”

She points, trembling, her eyes distant. “There, Pa, in the Abyss—three of them, waiting… watching…”

Ruth rushes over, sobbing, “Clara, my girl, you’re back—thank God!”

Clara pulls away, muttering, “Back? I never left—it’s all here, in my head, chewing at me.”

Tommy clings to her, whimpering, “Don’t go again, Clara, please—I need you!”

She stares at him, her voice hollow. “I didn’t go, Tommy—it came to me—it’s still here.”

Silas rallies the camp, shouting, “She says deers–three bucks! Who’s with me to find ’em?”

Nell grabs her branch, yelling, “I am, Pa—let’s hunt, let’s eat!”

Otis snorts, “A kid’s dream? You’re chasing ghosts, Silas—sit down.”

Lila snaps, “Better than sitting here, you lazy hog—get up!”

Theo mutters to Sadie, “They’re mad, but I’m in—meat’s meat, real or not.”

Silas, Nell, Theo, Rex, and a reluctant Ezra—follow Clara’s trembling finger through the drifts, the camp watching, half-hoping, half-praying. They trudge, crazed and ravenous, the storm clawing at their backs, Silas shouting, “Keep moving, damn it—she saw ’em!”

Nell yells, “I believe her, Pa—keep going!”

Rex mutters, “This is insanity—we’re chasing a hallucination.”

Theo snaps, “Shut up, Rex—hallucination or not, I’m starving!”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 70: blind hope or blind madness—either way, we march.”

They stumble into a hollow, and there they are–three bucks, frozen stiff, glinting like cruel jests in the dim light. Silas stares, then laughs, a wild, broken sound.

“The Abyss—she was right, the little lunatic was right!” Rex mutters, “Luck or lunacy—I don’t care, I’m carving.”

Theo grunts, “Move fast—meat won’t wait.”

Nell shouts, “Haul ’em back, Pa—let’s eat tonight!”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 70: salvation or delusion—meat either way, blood on the snow.”

They drag the carcasses back, the camp erupting in chaos—shouts of relief, sobs of disbelief.

Ruth clutches Clara, whispering, “You saved us, my girl—you brought us life.”

Clara pulls away, her voice a whisper. “Did I? Or did it save me? It’s still here, Ma—watching.”

She stares at the fire as it roars back to life, blood on Silas’s hands, madness in her eyes, the Abyss still whispering in her skull—You’re one of us now, Clara, one of us, forever.

She can still taste the wild mushroom soup and thinks she knows the location of the yellow brick road. But her house is missing, carried away by the wind-driven storm of starvation madness.