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“A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of laughter more terrible than any sadness-a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility…It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.” –Jack London, White Fang
The story of how Canada and America disappeared into the forest for six days before coming back grim and bloody was mostly a mystery to the other nations. America and Canada didn’t talk about it, even when pressed. The tale, as far as anyone could piece together, went something like this:
There had been a meeting of the G20 countries in Canada, which went about as well as could be expected. There were no protests, at least, since this was the nations themselves rather than their representatives. It was hard to protest something no one knew existed.
But the meeting was in Quebec, which meant that France and England would spend the entire time quarrelling violently, no matter how much Canada and America tried to run interference. And since their fights were loud, excessive, and brought up history better left unmentioned, everyone else inevitably ended up involved. The fights erupted into brawls and the brawls devolved into ‘a giant clusterfuck’, as Romano had phrased it (while refusing to actually come to the meetings).
By day five, America was physically holding England and France apart while Canada sat on top of India and wrapped himself around Mexico’s legs to keep him from joining in the fray. Russia, sipping from his hipflask, was watching avidly and calling out advice. The other nations were pointedly ignoring them, mostly by surfing the Internet.
Canada looked at America. America looked at Canada. They both nodded in agreement. This insanity needed to stop. And so the next day, Canada invited the group to take a break from meetings to do some sightseeing. From any other country, the invitation would have essentially meant “Tell me how pretty I am!”, but this was Canada; the ones that remembered him knew that he wasn’t the type to brag, and the ones that didn’t remember him at all lacked an opinion on the matter.
Unfortunately, the sightseeing trip was cut brutally short by a sudden, unexpected, and very violent blizzard. The sudden snowfall left them stranded in Canada’s cabins on the edge of the Grands-Jardins National Park. No one was very pleased. Several of them would have tried to leave, had the snow not made the roads impassable.
As they settled in for a long wait, America leaned against the window next to Canada and watched as the snowdrifts piled up.
“Your climate sucks, dude,” America said.
“Shut up, jerk.”
“Do not despair, Mathieu,” France said, coming up behind them and slinging his arms over their shoulders. “I myself have no need to take in the sights of Québec’s hills and valleys. I’m already intimately familiar with them.”
“Oh my God,” Canada groaned.
“Why, I can recall one winter that we spent together, nestled among the beaver furs-”
“Gah! No!” America hissed, squirming away from France. Chuckling, France followed him, probably hoping that he’d be headed towards England.
Leaning his forehead against the glass, he thought, At least Kumajirou will be happy.
The same could not be said for the nations, who began to slowly pick at each other out of boredom as the blizzard lasted an entire day, and then another. Canada began to regret bringing them to the nice cabins. If they had all been cold and unhappy, they might have been too tired to irritate each other. But their cabins had heating, cable, two floors, and running water; with all the amenities of home, they had all the same motivations to keep bickering.
Still, there were five cabins. England and France could only fight in one of them at a time. Canada was sure this was still salvageable.
And then America and Russia started to fight. Canada was on the verge of giving up completely and going to sit in the snow. Fortunately for him, neither America nor Russia had the patience for a drawn-out war of attrition while sitting less than twelve feet from each other. By the time night fell on the third day of the blizzard, America had leapt to his feet and ordered Russia outside so they could “settle this like men.”
Half an hour later, they were drunk and yelling at the sky.
“Actually, I think they’re yelling at the moon,” China commented. The snowfall was slower now, so China, Canada, and England could see America and Russia sitting in a snowdrift, passing a bottle back and forth while shaking their fists at the sky.
“Yeah, they are. Listen.”
Snow had a way of muffling all sounds, but America and Russia were loud enough that their voices rang out across the valley.
“I WAS ON YOU! I WAS ON YOU!”
“YOU THINK YOU’RE SO SPECIAL, HANGING UP THERE IN THE SKY! UNTOUCHABLE! BAH!”
England just sighed. “I’m going to bed. One of you make sure that they don’t pass out and freeze out there.”
That left Canada alone with China, who gave him a blank stare before going to bed himself. So Canada was the only one awake when America and Russia returned an hour later, supporting a man between them.
“Oh my God!” Canada leapt to his feet.
The man they were carrying looked awful, like someone who’d been through Hell and back. He’d clearly been exposed to the elements for at least a week, his skin chapped and cracked from the wind. His beard was scraggly and unkempt, and his clothes were filthy and starting to tear in several places. He was shivering violently, looking pale and starved.
“We found a person,” Russia said cheerfully.
“Oh God, bring him over here,” Canada said, running over to help carry him over to the couch. Snow fell off of him in chunks as he was moved, leaving a melting trail from the door. Canada bustled around the room, finding blankets and turning up the heat before he finally stopped long enough to get a better look at the man. “Are you all right? What--oh, oh, I know you! You’re one of those hikers they’ve been looking for. You’ve been on the news every day. Jean Robertson, right?”
“Bonjour,” the man croaked, offering a crooked smile. There was a chip in his canine tooth, jagged and painful-looking. “Nice to meet you. I heard your friends yelling. First sign of people I’ve seen in a week.”
England, whose room was closest to the common area, poked his head out to see what was going on. Between the four of them, they managed to set up a room for Jean and make him fairly comfortable. He’d been dressed for the cold and so had managed to avoid frostbite, but it still took him nearly an hour to stop shaking.
“I’ve called the police,” Canada said, sitting down across from the bed Jean was bundled in. “They can’t get to us right now. They offered to try, but since you aren’t injured, they weren’t sure it would be a good idea to risk flying a helicopter out here in the storm…”
“That’s all right,” Jean said with another smile. “I don’t mind not seeing civilization again for a while, as long as there’s more of this tea.”
He gestured with the mug he’d been drinking from. Jean had been practically inhaling tea since he’d sat down, much to England’s delight. Canada smiled. The others had gone to bed by now, but Canada was wide awake. It wasn’t often that he got to personally bring his citizens home when they were lost, and he felt almost bubbly from the happiness of it.
“Well, they don’t think the storm should last for more than another day, so you’ll be back before you know it.” He fiddled with his glasses. “So, um, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your friends? The news said there were three of you missing…”
The content expression faded off of Jean’s face, and he looked down. “No, it’s all right. We were caught in a rockslide on one of the cliffs. We’d just been fooling around, climbing on it, and suddenly it just crumbled.” He took another sip of tea. “Luc died in the fall. Broke his neck. Rob hurt his ankle badly, either a break or a terrible sprain. We left Luc’s body there and tried to get back onto the main trail, but…no one was expecting us for another two days. By the time anyone was looking for us, we were both lost. About four days ago, I woke up and Rob was gone.”
“Gone?” Canada asked. “Where could he have on a broken ankle?”
“I don’t know,” Jean said, rubbing at his eyes. “I called for him, looked all around for him, but he was gone. There wasn’t any blood or footprints to show he’d been dragged off by something.” His shoulders slumped. “I lost him.”
Canada rested a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you could, Jean. We’ll look around for him, in case he wandered here.”
Unlikely, though. Most likely he’d been taken by one of the predators that roamed the woods, one that was too old or sick to hunt its normal prey and had taken advantage of the strange weather to take down an easy kill. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look. Canada would send some other nations out in the morning to check the areas around the cabins.
When he left Jean’s room, it was to find England standing by the windows, seemingly watching the snowfall. The expression on his face was unsure, almost disturbed.
“Everything all right?” Canada asked.
“I thought I heard something outside,” England said. “Like an animal on the roof.”
“Could be squirrels or raccoons, trying to get warm.”
“This sounded…bigger.” England shook his head. “But I don’t see anything out there. Probably my imagination. How’s our patient?”
Canada smiled. “I think he’ll be all right. Some rest and good food will get him back on his feet. I’m more worried about if he’s going to be all right later on. Seeing two of your friends die right in front of you…”
England clapped Canada on the shoulder. “All we can do is get him home. I’m going to turn in for the night, Matthew. You do the same soon.”
Canada stayed up a while longer, though, staring out into the blizzard. The swirling snow played tricks on his eyes, making him see phantasms and strange shapes dancing out in the snow. Once, he even swore he saw a pair of eyes glinting at him.
***
Most of the next morning was taken up with introducing Jean to the other nations and explaining where he’d come from. They told him that they were working for an international company and were on a retreat. It was the only excuse they could think of for having so many people from so many countries all bunched together in the middle of Quebec.
Jean seemed vaguely overwhelmed by having so many people poking their heads into his room at once. But at least the sheer amount of people meant that there might be a better chance of finding Rob, or so he told Canada.
“I mean, I heard your friends yelling, so maybe Rob did too,” Jean said, expression hopeful. Canada just nodded and smiled.
The countries went out in pairs, exploring the valley wearing heavy coats and the snowshoes Canada kept in the cabin just in case. Canada was well aware that this was going to lead to snowball fights and general time-wasting, but it would get the nations out of the cabins and they might actually stumble across Rob (or Rob’s body) in the process. He couldn’t see a downside to the plan.
He was starting to at the end of the day, though. No one had come back with any news of Rob, though they had plenty of complaints about the woods they’d been exploring.
“It’s freezing out there!” Brazil had half-yelled, shucking off her parka like it had personally offended her. “And the woods are filled with creepy animals that watched me the whole time, I could just feel it. You need proper forests, not an icebox!”
“You’ll have to shoot me before you get me back out there,” Saudi Arabia said, looking like he’d been subjected to three days of frozen hell instead of a thirty minute walk in the snow. “I think one of your wolves was hunting me. I saw eyes.”
“Your woods are scary, Canada,” Italy had said, brushing snow out of his hair with a sad whine. “No wonder your hiker got lost. Germany and I almost got lost too.”
Germany’s indignant growl of “Italy! Shut up!” did nothing to stop the smaller nation.
“If we hadn’t heard England and France yelling at each other, we wouldn’t have known the way back. There were a bunch of footprints that weren’t ours. And the animals were scary. I could feel them watching me.”
“But I didn’t see any animals,” Canada told America later. The two of them were sitting in America’s room in the cabin, sipping some cocoa. The sun was setting outside, bright beams of light shining down through the patches in the slowly-dissipating clouds. The effect was a little unnerving, actually; it painted the snow strange red colors. “Not birds, not squirrels, not anything. I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re probably just not used to the woods during really heavy snow,” America said with a shrug. “You know how easy it is to get lost and creeped out when everything starts looking the same. They’re all wusses, I could see them imagining animals were watching them.”
“But all of them imagining it?”
America just took a swig of cocoa in response. “Dunno, man. For what it’s worth, I didn’t see a single animal out there. I found some tracks, but they were all leading away from the cabins.”
Canada’s shoulders slumped. “We aren’t going to find Rob.”
America pulled his brother into a hug. “Hey, you did what you could, okay? They just ended up really, really unlucky. You managed to bring Jean home, that’s a lot better than nothing.”
The sounds of yelling from downstairs distracted them temporarily. They both strained their ears listening, then simultaneously sighed as they realized what the screams were.
“Mom and Dad are fighting again,” America joked.
“We come from a broken home,” Canada said, grinning at his brother. The lighter mood was nice, at least. It made Canada optimistic. “On the bright side, the blizzard looks like it’s clearing up. We’ll probably be able to actually get things done soon.”
There was the sound of footsteps stomping up the stairs, and then England threw the door open. “Alfred! Come on, I’m going for a walk before I kill that frog bastard and put his head on a pike. Oh, hello, Matthew. I didn’t see you there. You’re welcome to come too.”
Canada sighed. “No, I’m fine.” He nudged his brother. “Go face the cold.”
With some good-natured grumbling, America got up and pulled on his winter clothes. He and England decided to forego the snowshoes, since the snow around the cabin had been stomped flat after an entire day of people wandering through it. The temperature was dropping quickly by that point, the sunset stealing the last bit of warmth out of the day, but neither of them were planning to spend that long outside.
“I wish the moose would come out,” America said as they strolled along the edge of the tree line. “Moose are so cool. It’s not fair that Canada gets so many moose.”
“They’re overgrown deer,” England groused, his gloved hands shoved firmly in his pockets. He was rapidly deciding that a walk in the woods had been a bad idea. It was very dark in the trees, even with the light reflecting off the snow, and he could swear that he was being watched.
“No, they’re super cool! I saw one headbutt a semi-truck once, it was freaking awesome!” America peered around and called out, “Mooooooose! Come on, buddies, I know you’re out there. Come show England how cool you are.”
Before England could make it clear that he really, really did not want to see a moose, there was a sound behind them. It was a growl, low and hair-raising, the kind of growl that only a predator could manage. Both countries froze, before turning in unison to see the source of the noise. England thought of hungry wolves. America thought of serial killers. Both of them were somewhat correct.
The thing staring out of the trees was not a man, but it was all the more horrifying because it had clearly once been a man. One heavy boot still wrapped around its left foot, even though the rubber sole had been worn completely away. The remains of a red T-shirt still hung around its neck, and curly brown hair clung to its head in filthy patches. But though it had the shape of a man, it was clearly something else, something monstrous.
Its skin was the grey color of a corpse, shot through with rotting, gangrenous patches of black. It was emaciated, its skin stretched so tightly over its skeleton that England and America could see in perfect detail the shape of every bone and joint. Its stomach was horrifically concave, and England swore he could see the outline of its spine even from the front. It had no fingers or toes, just jagged bones with strips of dead flesh hanging off. The face was a complete wreckage; it had no eyelids, nose, ears, or lips, all of which had been eaten away by frostbite, leaving only blackened flesh behind.
It should have been a corpse, found frozen, starved, and naked in the snow. But its eyes gleamed bright, predatory yellow, and it smelled like wet, living rot. It took a step towards them and let out a growl, baring a mouth full of ragged fangs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” America breathed, shoving England behind him.
“You can see that?” England asked, voice low and panicked.
“Run to your left,” America ordered, his entire body gone rigid. “Then I’m going to knock us both to the side. If it gets enough momentum, it can’t stop and we can get away.”
“Can’t we outrun it?” England asked, backing away from the creature along with America.
“It’s faster than the winds from the north,” America answered, as if he was quoting someone. “Don’t look back at it, okay? On three. One.”
The creature took another step towards them, eyes blazing yellow.
“Two.”
It opened its jaw impossibly wide, wider than England’s entire head. Its breath smelled like blood and rotten meat, the scent so strong that it made England gag from several feet away.
“Three!”
And then they were running, branches slapping and scraping at them as they tore through the forest. But England barely felt the impacts, barely felt anything at all besides a desperate, instinctive need to get away. This creature was not like his fairies, not even the most evil of them. This was something else, something primal and monstrous, and he had no trouble keeping pace with America as they threw themselves forward. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but even that wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sounds the creature made as it pursued them. What sounded like entire trees were crashing behind them, and England felt icy breath on the back of his neck. The creature howled, the sound some bastardized mix of blizzard winds and hungry wolves, and the ground shook beneath them.
Then suddenly, almost too quickly for him to process, he was on the ground. America had shielded him from most of the impact, but the sudden stop still made England’s shoulder and ribs ache. America had his arms around him, so tight that England could barely breathe, but that worry was quickly forgotten as the creature passed over them, still howling. It was moving so fast that England could see nothing but a blackish blur. He swore it somehow made the air around it colder. Then it was gone, the sound fading into the distance like a siren as its momentum carried it forward.
“Come on, get up, get up!” America ordered, pulling England to his feet. “We need to get back to the cabins right now!”
England didn’t have a chance to respond, since America had wrapped his hand tightly around his wrist and was practically dragging him along behind him. England was no slouch when it came to running, but there was no outpacing America when he was running full-tilt. The best England could do was try to keep up and risk an occasional glance behind him.
They were running parallel to their original course, and England occasionally glimpsed strange, bare patches of earth where the vegetation had blackened, died, and been encrusted with ice. He couldn’t remember the patches being there before and realized with a start that the creature must have done it, maybe just by standing in place for long enough.
“I thought you said it wouldn’t be able to stop,” England panted, unsure if America could even hear him. His heart was pounding in his ears.
“Not at first.” America was panting too, and his grip tightened on England’s wrist. “But it’ll slow down soon. And it knows where we are.”
That was all the motivation England needed to run even faster. The sight of the cabins was such a relief that his knees went weak, and it was only America’s grip that kept him upright. America didn’t stop at the cabin nearest to the woods, though. Instead, he kept running until they reached the main cabin, the lights disarmingly bright and cheerful compared to the dark woods. It was only then that America let go of England and threw the door open, stepping inside with his fists raised in a fighting stance.
“…America-san?” Japan asked, staring in alarm. He was the only one in the main room and had apparently been engrossed in a manga before America burst in.
“Is everyone all right?” America said, voice loud and slightly panicked. “Have you checked on the others, are they okay?”
“Ah, everyone is fine, as far as I know,” Japan said, standing up and moving towards America. “Are you-”
“What the bloody fuck was that thing?” England demanded, finally catching his breath enough to speak. “America! I’m asking you a question!”
But America stalked past them, shoving open the door to the room where they’d put Jean. Canada was sitting beside the man, chatting in French, and his jaw dropped in shock when America grabbed Jean by the shirt and slammed him up against the wall.
“What did you do?” America snarled, shaking Jean when he didn’t respond.
“Al, what the hell?!” Canada gasped, yanking on America’s arm frantically. Jean was gasping for breath, clawing at America’s hands as his legs dangled a foot off the ground.“Jesus, you’re going to break his-”
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” America roared, slamming Jean against the wall again. “WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO YOUR FRIENDS?!”
At that, Jean went still. He gaped at America, looking guilty and horrified in equal measure, before he managed to gasp out, “How did you find out?”
Canada froze, then turned to stare at Jean. “What’s he talking about?”
The other nations were gathering in the doorway, drawn by the sound of yelling. France, his voice low and worried, said, “Angleterre, you have a cut on your cheek.”
“You said you were lost for two weeks before this,” America growled. He didn’t let go of Jean, but he loosened his grip slightly, enough for the man to start breathing normally again. “You said one of your friends wandered off into the woods and the other died in a rockslide. What really happened?”
“Oh God,” Canada breathed, a look of horrified realization crossing his face. “Oh no.”
“I’m sorry!” Jean sobbed suddenly. His face was red and his body was shaking, like he was trying his hardest not to cry. His eyes were wide and panicked. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t let Rob die!”
“What the hell is everyone talking about?” England yelled, frustration finally getting the better of him. “What does this have to do with that creature out there?!”
“Tell them what you did, Jean,” America said, voice hard. “Or I’ll fill in the blanks myself.”
Jean’s eyes darted between America and the countries at the door. He slumped down suddenly, still shaking. “What I said was mostly true, okay? Luc died in the rockslide. And Rob, it broke his leg, so we couldn’t go to find help. A week passed, and Rob’s leg got infected. He kept getting sicker. The food we had was running out, and Rob needed more than just trail mix or he was going to die, so I…Lucas was dead already. I didn’t think--Rob was dying, he needed food.”
“Dear God,” Germany muttered, as the realization of what Jean had done swept over him.
Jean shoved at America suddenly, angry. “I was trying to keep my friend alive! I did what I had to do!”
“You’d have been better off letting him die,” Canada said, face stony and his voice deadly serious.
“Mathieu!” France said, shocked, but Canada was already pushing past him.
“Get all the other countries together in this cabin,” he ordered, his voice uncharacteristically commanding. “Don’t go alone, and lock the door behind yourself once everyone’s in.”
The other countries just stared.
“GO!” Canada yelled, sending them scattering.
America let go of Jean, taking several deep breaths to try and calm himself down. The human was babbling, tears running down his face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t just let him die, I don’t understand-”
“You-” America stopped and tried to calm himself down. This wasn’t Jean’s fault. Well, it was completely Jean’s fault, but he hadn’t known. He’d been trying to save his friend. “It’s gonna be okay, Jean. I’m sorry I grabbed you. Look, just lie down and keep the shutters closed.”
“I don’t understand, what’s going on, please-”
“Just stay here,” America said, closing the door to Jean’s room firmly behind himself. He knew Jean was upset, that he could probably use some comforting, but America had just about used up his sympathy and he had better things he needed to be doing.
“If you don’t tell me what the fucking hell is going on, I’m going to throttle you,” England hissed, falling into step behind him.
Under other circumstances, America would have laughed at seeing England so angry, but this was no time to be laughing. “I’ll explain once everyone is here, all right? I have to check some things first.”
Then he sat down in front of the shortwave radio and started flicking through the channels, listening intently. He waved off every attempt to speak to him, much to England’s fury and France’s concern. While America was listening to the radio and Canada was gathering the countries from the other cabins, England told the small crowd around him what they’d seen in the woods.
“It sounds like a zombie,” Italy said, eyes wide.
“You said America-san seemed to know about what this was?” Japan asked, glancing over towards America’s hunched form.
“He knows exactly what it is,” England said, tight-lipped and angry. “Canada too, from the looks of it.”
As if on cue, Canada appeared with the last of the other nations. He counted twice, just to make sure they were all there, and then he locked the door behind him. From his demeanor, it seemed obvious that he wished there was more than just a lock and a deadbolt.
“There are two park rangers missing,” America said over his shoulder, flipping off the radio.
“God damn it,” Canada said, tugging on his hair in frustration.
“Would one of you kindly explain what the hell is going on?” Germany thundered, patience clearly running thin.
America and Canada shared a glance before nodding. They both took a seat on the couch, facing the other countries.
“It’s called a wendigo,” Canada said, hands folded between his knees.
“That boogeyman from your natives’ stories?” France asked.
“It’s not a boogeyman. It’s real. Obviously.” Canada tapped his feet nervously, glancing worriedly at the window every few seconds. “It’s created by cannibalism, especially cannibalism during winter. If you eat another person, you turn into a wendigo yourself.”
“Our Indians knew about them, knew they were real,” America added. “Our settlers, not so much, but they were so freaked out by cannibalism that it usually wasn’t a problem. Usually. But that’s what’s out there. Jean accidentally created one out of his friend.”
“Why did it attack you?” China asked. “It did not attack Jean.”
“It takes a while for a person to become a wendigo,” Canada explained. “Kind of like an infection. Jean’s friend probably crawled into the woods because he was feeling sick and strange. By the time he turned, Jean had woken up. He got lucky. It was probably hunting Jean and that’s how it found us.”
“It eats people,” England said suddenly, visions of that mouth flashing through his mind even when he tried to stop them. Fangs, rotting meat, and terror. “That’s what it would have done to us, if it caught us.”
America nodded. “It’s always hungry. Always. The more it eats, the hungrier it becomes. You can’t reason with it or stop it, because all it wants is to eat, and that’s all it’ll ever want. And right now, it wants to eat us.”
That pronouncement was met with silence.
Finally, Germany said, “Well, you are going to find a way to kill it, right?”
“We know how to kill it,” Canada said. “It’s just a matter of catching it.”
“So…so go do that,” Italy said, making shooing motions to the door. “The sooner the better, ve?”
“Yeah,” America said, looking uncharacteristically unhappy about getting to use a gun. “You guys just stay in here, all right? Keep the doors locked, stay away from the windows, we ought to be fine.”
“But you two will be the ones in danger, da?” Russia said with a giggle. “What have we to fear from your wendigo?”
“It’s not our wendigo, it-”
“Sometimes, people who are bitten by wendigos get a little, um, strange,” Canada said, interrupting the fight before it could start. “You know what, it’s not a big deal, you guys just stay inside, and everything will be fine.”
“The wind’s picking up,” Canada whispered, looking towards the sky. “I think we’re due for another blizzard.”
“Great,” America moaned quietly. Bad enough that they were hunting a wendigo at night. The last thing they needed was zero visibility. He squared his shoulders and looked around again, searching for the telltale gleam of yellow eyes. “We can do this. It’s just one.”
“Those missing rangers-”
“It probably just ate them.” Please, God, let it have just eaten them. “No one believes in wendigos these days, we’ll be okay.”
“People still know what they are,” Canada said. “All it takes is someone to start thinking that it was a wendigo after they’re bitten, and-”
“Can we just please focus on what’s actually going on?” America licked his lips, immediately regretting it when the moisture started to freeze. “We can worry about the what-ifs when this thing is dead.”
Canada wanted to argue, but he didn’t want to say the words out loud in case it jinxed them. ‘Wendigo psychosis’. When someone knew they’d been bitten by a wendigo, sometimes the hunger transferred into them. The desperate, gnawing, terrifying need to eat another person burned in their veins and their minds, driving them mad. No food could sate them, no drugs could make it go away. The only cure was to tear open another human being and become a wendigo themselves.
It was rarer these days, since most people didn’t believe in the old monsters. Canada didn’t understand it, didn’t understand how belief in something could go so wrong and sour, but there was a lot about wendigos he didn’t understand. He didn’t know how they’d come to be, didn’t know why they came with the cold in America and Canada’s lands but left Mexico’s chilly regions untouched. That lack of knowledge frustrated him, and he knew it made America angry, too.
America, who always needed to know. America who’d used every bit of science he could to banish the boogeymen and the monsters, and all of it for nothing. Canada shook his head sharply. They needed to be focused on the task at hand if they were going to succeed, and fretting would only distract and scare him. Wendigos never went down easy.
They both crept along through the snow, the wind around them starting to pick up. Canada understood where the sudden blizzard had come from, now. Where a wendigo went, cold followed. The woods were quiet around them, the falling snow muffling the sounds even more, so Canada kept his eyes peeled for that flash of yellow eyes or the wall of corpse-grey skin.
It was a bit like going back in time, hunting these creatures. If Canada had closed his eyes, he would have felt Cree’s hands on his shoulders, guiding his arrow. He’d have heard Jack Fiddler’s voice in his ear, giving him advice. But Canada kept his eyes open, because it never paid to look away from a wendigo.
“There,” America murmured. Canada whipped his head around and saw what his brother had spotted. Crouched in the bushes, eyes wide and mouth gaping, was their target.
It rose to its full height and let loose a terrible howl, one that never failed to send a shudder running down Canada’s spine. It was strange, how a wendigo could make even a howl sound ravenous. Italy had said that the wendigo sounded like a zombie, but Canada knew that wasn’t quite right. Zombies were hungry; wendigos were ravenous. The creature before them clawed at the air, drool running down its chin to freeze in place as it watched them. It let loose another growl and then leapt at them, the ragged bones of its fingers outstretched like claws.
Canada and America were both ready, rolling to either side quickly. America aimed and fired, the bullet from his gun tearing into the creature’s hip. The blood that oozed out was black and coagulated, and Canada knew that if he touched it, it would have the feeling and consistency of slush.
He raised his own gun, lining up the rifle sights and firing a shot into the wendigo’s knee. The creature screeched in pain, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard, and lunged at Canada. Another quick roll carried Canada to a slightly safer distance, and in the meantime, America had landed another shot on the creature.
Fighting a wendigo at close range was dangerous work. All it would take was one slip or too-slow movement, and the beast would have been on them. The shotgun blasts, even coming from just a few feet away, would only slow it down. But they were good at this; they had to be. When Cree had been too sick, Ojibwe too weak, the Native American nations weakening one by one, the responsibility of the hunt had fallen on Canada and America.
The creature clawed at America, teeth chewing at the air in anticipation of a killing bite. It snapped its jaws closed inches from America’s arm, missing only because Alfred had smacked it with the barrel of his rifle. While it was focused on his brother, Canada aimed at its chest. It was easy to count its ribs and find just the right spot. Canada squeezed the trigger, and a bullet cannon-balled into the wendigo’s ribcage, shattering several of the bones as it went. Perfect.
The wendigo screamed in rage and pain, covered in its own black blood. It had slowed down considerably, torn muscles and broken bones making it physically impossible to move at the same speed. But it wouldn’t flee. It couldn’t ever flee. The hunger that drove it on was so much stronger than pain or the fear of death. Across from him, America pulled out an ice pick and threw himself at the wendigo.
He hit the creature with a perfect football tackle, sending them both hurtling into the snow. Canada wasted no time tossing himself into the fray as well, stabbing at the wendigo with a hunting knife. The smooth, sharp edge of it slid into the creature’s flesh again and again, sending black, frozen blood spraying across the snow.
There was no art to this part, no finely-tuned routine. America and Canada just stabbed, again and again, aiming to shred the wendigo to ribbons to keep it still. It was brutal, animalistic, and the world briefly fell away until it was nothing but blood and thrusting knives. Canada could hear his own breath, a harsh, growling series of pants and gasps, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Finally, though, America managed to pin the creature’s wrist to the ground, the ice pick jabbed through flesh, bone, and snow. He grabbed the wendigo’s other arm, fingers digging into the rotten, frozen skin, and then it was well and truly pinned.
“Got it,” America breathed. He had one knee on the wendigo’s pinned hand, the other on its forehead, and he held onto the wendigo’s other arm with all of his might. Even grieviously injured, it was still thrashing and struggling, snapping at the air desperately. It was a toss-up whether it was trying to escape or trying to feast.
(Canada had seen a wendigo whose legs had been shot and shattered. It couldn’t run, couldn’t catch prey, and the smell of its own flesh had overwhelmed it. Maliseet had finally put it out of its misery while the creature had been halfway through eating its own arm. It had died licking its own blood out of the snow.)
He straddled the wendigo, his own knees digging into its stomach to keep it in place. This had to be quick. Canada lifted the hunting knife and thrust it into the wendigo’s chest. The knife was sharp and the flesh was weak, and Canada peeled the left side of the wendigo’s chest open like a piece of rotting fruit. He pulled the skin and emaciated muscle aside to reveal the cracked, bullet-shattered ribs, sticking up like jagged white icebergs in a sea of rotting blood. And there, still and encased in ice like some perverse insect in amber, was its heart.
It was the only part of a wendigo that still looked completely human.
Canada reached past the broken ribs, shoving pieces of bone out of his way to grab the heart. He pulled up and out, the sound disturbingly wet and loud even over the wendigo’s shrieks of pain. He had to use the knife to separate the heart completely from the rest of the body, hacking at it like some lunatic surgeon. America cupped a hand over Canada’s to help him pull, and the heart came loose with a pop.
Even when its ice-encrusted heart was being held over its body, the wendigo still didn’t stop moving. It shrieked and slavered as the blizzard began to rage around them, its cries mixing with the sound of the wind.
The ‘flamethrower’ was a quick and dirty affair, a lighter strapped to top of a bottle of France’s hairspray. But it would work fine. For creatures born of snow and blood, wendigos were surprisingly flammable. Canada flicked it on and aimed, feeling the heat scorch his numb skin.
The heart caught fire like it had been coated in gasoline.
Canada held onto the heart as it burned, held on until the flames had scorched holes in his gloves and threatened to consume his hands. He dropped the flaming heart on top the wendigo and pinned it in place with the knife. They couldn’t risk dropping it into the snow and extinguishing the flames.
The wendigo screamed, its eyes wide and rolling in their sockets. Its limbs twitched madly, the joints bending and tearing as it thrashed in agony. And even then, its mouth still snapped and its hands still reached for them. A wendigo was starvation personified, and nothing was more important than the hunt for food. Not even death.
The heart made a popping sound, like bacon being fried, and the wendigo slumped to the ground suddenly, completely still. America and Canada both sighed in relief, but even then, they didn’t let go of the creature until its heart was nothing but a burnt, bloody lump of unrecognizable flesh. It took a half hour.
The heart burned itself out eventually, the falling snow helping to extinguish the flames. The two nations got up, both of them covered in blood and snow.
“Should we bury it?” America asked, looking down at the body. Like this, still and dead, it was easier to see that it had been a person once.
“Let the storm do it,” Canada said, leaning down to pull his knife out of the heart. He wiped the blade off against the wendigo’s skin. “We won’t be able to dig anyway.”
America just nodded, picking up his rifle from where he’d let it fall and shouldering it. “What do we tell Jean?”
Canada pushed his hair back from his forehead, accidentally leaving a smear of black blood on his skin. “We’ll think of something. Let’s get back to the others.”
Neither of them needed to explain the need to be back among people and warmth. They’d done this together too many times for words to be necessary.
They were nearly back to the cabins, their footprints black spots on an otherwise pristine white landscape, when they heard a familiar howl. It echoed through the valley, though the creature making it had to be several miles away.
“The park rangers,” Canada said, not even bothering with an ‘I told you so’.
“God damn it,” America muttered. He turned to stare at the forest behind them. “Blizzard’s picking up.”
“We can’t leave it out there,” Canada said, hands tightening on his rifle. Trying for optimism, he added, “We’ve hunted during worse times.”
“Yeah,” America said, offering a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “If we could deal with the Donners, this won’t be so bad.”
America pulled out his phone. There was a crack running through the screen where he had landed on it, but it lit up as he thumbed it on. The text he sent to England was short and to the point.
‘Found another 1. Going to fight it. Be back soon.’
Both of them spared one more glance towards the cabins, faint points of light glowing in the distance, before they turned and vanished into the frozen woods again.
Nearly a week would pass before they finally returned, both of them half-starved and badly injured. America had frostbite on his left hand, since his glove had been torn to shreds by teeth on the second day, and deep gouges across his face that were heading towards infection. Canada’s arm was broken in two places, snapped by a monster that had once been a teenaged girl. But neither of them had been bitten, and that was the important part.
In total, sixteen people were dead, either because of the wendigos or because they had become monsters themselves. England and France hounded their former colonies, trying to force more of the story out of them, but neither Canada nor America would talk about it.
Some things were better left unmentioned. There was a terrible danger in knowing, after all.