Fresh Meat

 The blizzard raged like a cathedral of screaming white, a monolithic storm that had swallowed the world whole weeks ago. More by luck than judgment, I had dragged my frost-bitten, shivering carcass deep into the maw of an ancient limestone cave just as the entrance collapsed under a suffocating avalanche of packed snow. Now, I am entombed.

The silence inside is absolute, save for the rhythmic, maddening tink-tink-tink of melting snow seeping through the jagged ceiling. Water is an endless luxury, but hunger is a living, breathing parasite. It gnaws at my ribs, claws at my stomach, and whispers foul obscenities in the dark.

I am a carnivore down to my marrow. Plants, roots, and moss are insults to my constitution. As the days bleed into an indistinguishable blur of freezing gray, my gaze drifts downward, settling upon my own canvas trousers. My hand, trembling with a sudden, sickening clarity, traces the contour of my calf.

There's a lot of good muscle on the lower leg.

The thought doesn't horrify me. It arrives with the calm, methodical logic of a butcher eyeing a prime cut hanging in a frost-rimed window. I slide my hunting knife from its sheath. The cold steel kisses my skin, and with clinical detachment, I carve.

Pain flashes hot and blinding, but survival burns hotter. The first slice opens the flesh, releasing a thick, dark torrent that pools instantly in the dust. I slice away a thick strip of my own muscle, raw and glistening, and bring it to my lips.

It is good. A bit beefy, a bit lamby. The irony of the flavor dances on my tongue as warm, coppery blood spills down my chin and throat. It is surprisingly delicious, so much so that I carve more, eating ravenously. Piece by piece, bite by bite, the crimson sludge drips onto the stone floor. Why am I not screaming? Why isn't my stomach rejecting the horror of this feast? My moral compass hasn't just broken; it has shattered into dust, drowned out by the primal scream of biology. I rationalize it in the fog of my madness—didn't survivors of high-altitude plane crashes resort to the dead when rescue became an impossible dream? But they ate others. I am my own harvest.

Then, cutting through the howling wind outside, a sound freezes the blood in my veins.

"This is Mountain Rescue! We are here to save you from your predicament!"

A voice. Human. Alive.

Panic spikes, sharp and frantic. I cannot let them see. I cannot let them bandage me up, pack me onto a sled, and drag me out into the light where uniforms and hospitals and laws still exist. Not now. Not when I have acquired a taste for the richest meat I have ever known.

Before I shout my reply, I frantically wipe the gore from my face and slide the crimson-stained knife into my pocket. I look down at my leg. The gaping wound is horrific, exposing white, jagged bone and weeping arteries. They will see it instantly. They will ask questions.

A grim, feral cunning takes hold. I grab a jagged, heavy boulder from the cavern floor, lift it up with both arms at full stretch, and bring it down with all the bone-crushing force I can muster directly onto my mutilated shin.

CRACK.

The agony explodes through my nervous system, white-hot and blinding, threatening to tear my consciousness apart. I bite down on my own forearm so hard my teeth meet, holding back the shriek of agony locked deep in my throat, swallowing the sound until my lungs feel like they are bursting.

"Yes! I am in here!" I choke out, my voice thick with genuine, wracking pain. "My leg... it's broken! A rock fell!"

Heavy boots crunch against the packed snow outside. Heavy breathing echoes in the tunnel as torches pierce the gloom. The rescuers approach, their youthful voices ringing out with bright, eager optimism.

At last. Fresh meat.