Page 98 of Wreckage

“This is insane, Troy?—”

“This is survival,” he whispered.

He knelt, shoving his hands into the snow, digging deep.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tight with nausea. After what felt like an eternity, I knelt beside him. Troy was right. This was survival.

I started digging, too.

The snow was packed down, but it wasn’t difficult to push away.

Then, there he was.

Our old friend.

His body was perfectly preserved, the frozen wilderness acting as a freezer, keeping him intact.

I staggered back, my throat clenching and my stomach twisting violently.

Troy didn’t move.

He just sat there, staring down at our dead friend, his breathing uneven.

Finally, he removed his hat, his jaw trembling.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” His voice was thick with grief, his fingers tightening into the fabric of his hat as he squeezed his eyes shut.

So softly that I barely heard him, he begged, “God, please forgive me.”

Tears burned down my face, hot against my frozen skin, as Troy lowered his hat over Dean’s face, covering his expression and giving him what little dignity we had left to offer.

Troy pulled out his knife.

My body locked up, my stomach heaving, but I didn’t stop him.

I couldn’t. If we didn’t do this, we would die too. Troy was right. This was survival.

Troy’s hands shook violently, but he pressed the knife against Dean’s frozen flesh and started.

The first cut was the worst.

The sound of the blade slicing through frozen skin and muscle, the way the frozen body barely bled, the horrifying reality of what we were doing.

I turned away and vomited into the snow. It was more of a dry heave since I had no food in my system.

Troy gagged but kept going, his breath coming in sharp gasps, sending little puffs of clouds around him.

After a few moments, I wiped my mouth, forced myself to swallow down the bile, and reached into my jacket for my knife.

Troy didn’t stop me.

We worked in silence, alternating between cutting and throwing up, our stomachs twisting with hunger and revulsion in equal measure.

When it was done, we wrapped the meat in cloth, leaving the rest buried.

Neither of us looked at each other. Neither of us spoke.

We knew what we had done. We knew we had no choice.

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