CONSUMPTION (ENGLISH)

Consumption

Created by Jordi, Lexi, and Namira

For Dr. Jameelah Lang,

Who taught me to write not just with skill, but with heart.
Your guidance helped me find my voice—and the courage to use it.
Every page carries a lesson you gave me.

Thank you for showing me that writing can be both craft and truth.

CHAPTER MENU hide

1 Prologue

2 Chapter One: Red Eyes in the Frost

3 Chapter Two: Yellowbone Blues

4 Chapter Three: Blood and Bone

5 Chapter Three: Blood and Bone

Prologue

When the European, Mexican, and American settlers first set foot on the land we now call the Texas Gulf Coast, they were greeted by a world teeming with life—ancient trees stretching toward the sky, waters glistening under the sun, and a land that seemed infinite. The Karankawa people had lived there for generations, their lives intertwined with the rhythms of the sea. They fished, hunted, and moved with the tides, respecting the balance of the land. Their language carried softly on the breeze, and their traditions ran as deep as the roots of the towering trees. But the settlers did not see this. To them, the Karankawa were alien—a strange, misunderstood people living in a world unfamiliar to the settlers. They were labeled savages for their differences, primitive for their customs, uncivilized for their way of life.

Stories soon spread among the settlers—stories of warriors who ate the flesh of fallen enemies after battle. This dark, twisted tale of cannibalism became the settlers’ proof that the Karankawa were less than human. What the settlers did not understand—or chose to ignore—was the sacred meaning behind the practice, rooted in deep spiritual beliefs, honoring the dead and connecting with the land and ancestors. But the settlers clung to their fear and prejudice, using these stories to justify their next steps.

And who, truly, were the cannibals?

As they called the Karankawa savage, it was the settlers who ravaged the land, stripping it of resources and destroying a people who had existed in harmony with the land for centuries. With rifles in hand and a greed for land in their hearts, the settlers swept across the Texas Gulf Coast like a storm, consuming everything in their path. They burned villages, destroyed food sources, poisoned water, and desecrated sacred grounds. What they could not take, they destroyed. And what they destroyed, they forgot. The Karankawa, once a thriving people, were almost erased from history.

The settlers’ endless hunger was not for flesh but for control, for land. They devoured everything in their path, leaving behind a trail of destruction. The land, once vibrant and full of life, became a wasteland of fallen trees, dying animals, and poisoned rivers. The Karankawa, reduced to nearly nothing, fought fiercely to protect what little remained. But the settlers saw only what they wanted: an excuse for their violence, a way to dehumanize those they sought to destroy.

The true cannibalism was the settlers’ endless consumption. They devoured the land, the resources, the culture, and the people. What was once a place of beauty became a wasteland, tainted by their greed. The Texas Gulf Coast, once home to the Karankawa, was now polluted by oil, toxic waste, and industrial runoff. The wildlife that once thrived along the shores began to die, the rivers and seas poisoned, the air thick with pollution. The settlers had consumed the land itself, leaving behind nothing but death and decay.

What is cannibalism?

Is it the literal act of consuming another’s flesh, or is it the way greed devours everything in its path—land, culture, life? The settlers consumed the Texas Gulf Coast, stripping away its beauty and erasing the people who had cared for it. They left behind oil spills, toxic waste, and the ruins of exploitation. The Karankawa, accused of savage practices, were nearly wiped out, their culture reduced to whispers in the wind.

Today, the land that was once sacred to the Karankawa is filled with trash, toxic waste seeping into the soil, and drug needles scattered along the shores where their ancestors once fished. Oil leaks from offshore refineries, turning the waters black and poisoning what little remains of the coast’s natural life. The descendants of the Karankawa, scattered across Texas, fight to keep their culture alive, preserving the memories of their ancestors while the land around them continues to suffer under the weight of greed.

The Karankawa may be gone from most history books, but their story lives on. Their descendants carry the weight of survival, working to keep their traditions alive as the land they once called home continues to be consumed by industrial pollution. The true question is no longer about who ate whom—but who consumed the future of a people and a land that was once vibrant and full of life.

The true cannibalism lies not in the stories told by settlers, but in the destruction that followed them.

In the lore of the Algonquin-speaking tribes of Canada, such as the Cree, Ojibwe, and Algonquin, the Wendigo is a creature of pure evil, feared for its insatiable hunger and soul-corrupting nature. This monstrous being is not born of flesh alone, but from the darkest parts of the human spirit. The Wendigo is a human who has succumbed to greed, cannibalism, and an endless craving for human flesh. Its form is gaunt, skeletal, with eyes burning with an eternal hunger. It’s a creature that feeds not just on the body but on the very essence of humanity, a predator beyond redemption. Once transformed, the Wendigo is forever cursed to roam the wilderness, forever starving but never satisfied.

This creature is truly evil, a being driven by nothing but hunger—no mercy, no remorse, and no human consciousness left. It is not self-aware, and in that lies its terror. The Wendigo is pure darkness, mindless and insatiable, unburdened by the weight of regret. It is terrifying because it is a warning: succumb to your darkest desires, and you may lose not only your humanity but your very soul. There is no turning back once the transformation begins. It is a fate worse than death.

But across the world, another kind of monster lurks—one that is both horrifying and tragic. Vampires. Unlike the Wendigo, vampires are not mindless beasts. They are fully aware of their curse, their immortality, and their need to feed on the blood of the living. The concept of vampires has evolved across cultures, each with its own unique variations.

In Romania, the Strigoi is a restless spirit that rises from the grave, feeding on the living to sustain its existence. In Norse mythology, the Aptgangr—the “again-walker”—is a revenant, a dead person who returns to spread death and fear. In Southeast Asia, the Penanggalan detaches its head from its body and flies through the night, its entrails trailing behind it as it hunts for blood. Japan’s Bake is another form of vampiric creature, one that consumes both life and spirit in its pursuit of eternal existence.

While these creatures may differ in form, they all share a terrifying trait: an awareness of their monstrosity. Vampires are self-aware abominations. They know what they’ve become, and this knowledge makes their curse even worse. Unlike the Wendigo, which is driven purely by its base desires without reflection, vampires are forced to confront what they have become. They cannot look into mirrors or bear the light of day—not because it weakens them alone, but because it forces them to see the creature they’ve become. The vampire cannot escape the reflection of their own twisted soul, and that self-awareness is the source of their torment.

It’s this curse of self-awareness that makes vampires so frightening. A Wendigo doesn’t know it’s a monster. It simply exists to consume. But a vampire is trapped in a prison of its own making, constantly aware of the evil inside, of the unending hunger that gnaws at its soul. They are forced to live with the terror of their reflection—both the literal one in the mirror and the metaphorical one in their mind. They are cursed to exist, eternally torn between their monstrous nature and the remnants of the humanity they once had.

So, which existence is truly more terrifying? The Wendigo, lost to its primal urges, a mindless beast with no awareness of its evil? Or the vampire, a creature that retains its intellect and awareness, yet is tormented by its own monstrosity? The Wendigo is terrifying because of its mindless hunger, but the vampire’s awareness of its curse makes its suffering far deeper. A vampire is forever aware of the monster it has become, a fate far more torturous than the Wendigo’s mindless existence. And in that, perhaps lies the true terror: not the hunger of the creature, but the awareness of that hunger, and the inability to escape it.

In Navajo lore, the skinwalker is a being of pure evil, a shaman or witch who has chosen to abandon all that is good for the dark power offered by the Evil One, the force that seeks to corrupt everything in its path. Unlike the Wendigo, who becomes cursed after succumbing to a monstrous hunger, or the vampire, cursed to live eternally aware of their own monstrous existence, the skinwalker is different. The skinwalker makes a deliberate choice to become what they are. They do not simply fall into evil; they embrace it.

To gain the ability to shapeshift, a skinwalker must commit the ultimate atrocity—they must murder a kinsman, whether it be a child, spouse, parent, or sibling. But the evil does not end there. They must desecrate the body, destroy it, and consume its flesh in a ritual of pure desecration. This is not an act born of hunger or necessity, but of malice, of reveling in the destruction of another’s very being. The skinwalker’s existence is a chosen abomination, a life dedicated to spreading fear and corruption.

Though most closely tied to the Navajo, stories of skinwalkers—shapeshifters who embrace evil—can be found among other Southwestern Native tribes. These creatures, who take the form of wolves, coyotes, and even humans, are not mindless monsters. They know what they are, and they delight in it. The skinwalker chose to become a destroyer, reveling in their power, reveling in the suffering they cause.

This brings us back to the question of cannibalism. Cannibalism can take many forms—devouring out of respect for the dead, out of ritual, as a way of connecting with ancestors; devouring out of a blind, mindless hunger, as with the Wendigo; or devouring as an act of utter destruction, as with the skinwalker. So what is it to devour? Is it simply the consumption of flesh, or is it something far deeper—the deliberate annihilation of another person’s body, mind, and soul?

For the skinwalker, the act of consuming flesh is not about survival. It is an act of domination, of taking pleasure in destroying another human being. It is a ritual of evil, a conscious choice to desecrate life itself. The Wendigo, cursed with an endless hunger, may not even be aware of what it has become. The vampire, cursed to live an immortal life, is painfully aware of its own monstrosity. But the skinwalker? The skinwalker chooses evil, delights in it, and finds power in the destruction of others. In this, they stand apart from other creatures of horror—not cursed by circumstance, but cursed by choice.

It does not eat to live. It consumes. The skinwalker is a force of pure malevolence, driven not by hunger but by an insatiable thirst to destroy all that is good in this world. It consumes for the sake of annihilation—devouring not just flesh but the very essence of life itself. The skinwalker thrives in the consumption of all that lives, of all that holds hope or goodness. It kills not out of need, but out of a twisted, dark pleasure. The skinwalker thirsts only to kill, reveling in the obliteration of every soul it touches, leaving behind nothing but fear and corruption in its wake. In the skinwalker’s consumption, there is no mercy, only the deliberate extinguishing of life, the destruction of every last spark of hope.

Chapter One: Red Eyes in the Frost

Consumption, Texas, wasn’t much to look at in the winter. The sky hung low and gray, stretched thin like a dirty bedsheet, and frost crept up fenceposts like lichen on forgotten stones. Trees stood naked and shivering, their limbs brittle against the horizon. Folks said it got cold in East Texas, but here in Consumption, it wasn’t just cold—it was mean. The kind of cold that cut through your coat, rattled your bones, and made you remember things you’d rather forget. The town itself didn’t help much either. Its unpaved streets stretched across uneven land, dotted with sagging storefronts and homes that seemed to lean into the wind for support. Barely four thousand people called it home, most of them retired, raising kids, or waiting for time to claim them. It had one high school that kept losing regionals—a tradition so entrenched it bordered on legend. But that didn’t stop the Booster Moms from their tireless efforts: new uniforms stitched with hope, chili bubbling on fundraiser nights, smiles so stubborn they felt like armor.

Sheriff Jeremy Voight didn’t smile much. Fifty years old with a face that looked carved from stone, he carried himself like a man who’d seen too much and trusted too little. His eyes were sharp, always scanning, and his jaw clenched even in sleep. Voight’s people had lived on this land long before it was called Consumption, Texas, back when Comanches dominated and the world was defined by unmarked horizons. His grandpappy had owned a quarter of the land at one point, a legacy squandered on poker hands and false promises. Voight learned from those mistakes, vowing never to gamble on anything but his own instincts.

His time in Iraq was another kind of legacy—earned, not inherited. Three tours through sandstorms and chaos left him with scars that ran deeper than the skin. He’d learned to move like the shadows, to think five steps ahead, and to accept the weight of decisions that never had perfect answers. Each night brought a different nightmare: convoy ambushes, mortar strikes, the screaming faces of brothers lost to moments of cruel fate. The desert stripped him down, revealing the iron core beneath his Texas roots—a core that carried him through hell and back.

When he returned home, he wasn’t the same man who left Consumption. Houston PD was his first stop, where he tried to channel the restless energy that burned within him. He saw his father in every drunk who raised a fist, every abuser who smirked at their arrest. Voight swore to himself he’d never be that kind of man—not even close. The memory of his father’s whiskey-soaked sermons still haunted him, his fists falling like divine judgment on Jeremy’s mother. It ended when the old man ended himself, a .357 bringing silence where screams used to live.

Consumption’s land was fertile, the kind of soil that made farmers’ mouths water. Sandy loam, they called it, rich and forgiving. Corn, tomatoes, onions—they all thrived here. But this past season, the fields grew something else: fear. Workers—mostly Mexican, undocumented, quiet types—started turning up in pieces. Torn apart like roadkill. Nobody heard nothin’. Nobody saw nothin’. Just meat and teeth scattered across the fields. The suits came next—black ties, black cars, black briefcases. They took the bodies, scrubbed the dirt, and disappeared like smoke. When Voight called up the Texas DPS and the Rangers, all he got was, “Need-to-know, Sheriff.” Like he was some kid asking why the moon was bright.

The town whispered its own answers. Cartels, black gangs from Houston, maybe New Orleans. Old Roy had the gall to say it was Eddie Lee’s boy. That boy was a barber, for God’s sake. Voight nearly clocked Roy across the jaw. Old bastard used to run with the Klan back when torchlight still meant somethin’. Sheriff ran the Klan outta this county ten years back and made sure they stayed gone. Roy only stayed ’cause he took care of Voight and his mama after his daddy died, back when that meant something. But when he started talkin’ like lynchin’ was just old tradition, Voight told him, “Say one more word like that, I’ll let Eddie Lee sort you out.”

That Friday night, Maria told him to stay home. “Let the town breathe a little, Jeremy. You ain’t Atlas.” Maria. His everything. High school sweetheart. Married her the day before he shipped out. After his father’s suicide, he told his mama, “Life’s too short and I’m in love. I’m doin’ it and that’s all there is to it.” They never had kids. Maria had a condition—never talked about it. But they kept a full house of critters. Dogs, cats, and a talkative parrot once, all rescued, all fed.

That night, Jeremy sat down with a hot bowl of her chicken caldo and some of that red rice she made just right, The Aviator playing on the TV. He noticed something strange. Quiet. Too quiet. “Where the hell are the dogs?” he mumbled, setting the spoon down. He walked through the house, whistling. Nothin’. Checked the back door. It was shut, but cold air leaked in like a warning. He grabbed the flashlight and stepped out.

The wind stung his face as he swept the yard with the beam. Five acres. A lot of dark to cover. Then he saw it. Blood. Just a streak at first, like a dropped paintbrush. Then fur. Brown patches. More blood. A predator, he thought. All of ’em? Jesus… He went back inside, heart thundering. Loaded the Remington pump action, slid seven shells in. Slipped a few more into his coat. Clipped his Ka-Bar on his belt.

Outside, it was worse. Bits of fur. A paw. A collar. Guts glistening like oil in the moonlight. Iraq came rushing back—Fallujah, convoy ambushes, mortar strikes. Then he saw the eyes. Two glowing red dots in the dark. He raised the shotgun. “Come on, you son of a bitch.” What stepped out was… wrong. Body like a bear, skull of a buck. Towering. Breathing like it enjoyed it. Then it laughed. Human. Cold.

Jeremy steadied himself, shotgun pressed tight against his shoulder. The red eyes glowed brighter now, impossibly vivid against the frost-coated darkness. He stepped forward, flashlight fixed to the barrel, illuminating patches of ground drenched in blood and fur. This land—God bless it—grew more than crops. It grew ghosts, memories, and now… nightmares.

When the creature emerged, it wasn’t just wrong—it was an affront to every ounce of sanity Jeremy had left. Its hulking body resembled a bear, fur matted and black as tar, but its face? The skull of a buck, complete with antlers, jagged and splintered at the edges. It towered on two legs, shifting weight like it was mocking the very laws of nature. And those glowing red eyes—they weren’t just eyes. They were like accusations. Judgments.

The laugh stopped Jeremy cold. It wasn’t animalistic. It wasn’t guttural. It was human. A cruel, mocking echo that clawed its way into his ears and settled in his chest. He gritted his teeth, rage rising to meet fear. “Come on, you son of a bitch!” His voice cut through the icy air, a challenge as much as a prayer. He fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Each shot slammed into the beast, but it didn’t roar. Didn’t retreat. Just staggered back, stumbling into the brush with a snarl.

Jeremy ran, boots slipping on frosted grass, heart hammering like it did during Fallujah firefights. The house wasn’t just a refuge—it was the line between survival and the abyss. He slammed the door shut, locking both the front and back entrances with trembling hands. His breath came in gasps as he reloaded the shotgun and holstered his Colt 1911. The darkness inside felt safer somehow, a shield against the madness outside.

Jeremy grabbed his cell phone, fingers fumbling as he dialed. Maria. She would answer. She had to. But the line was silent—no voice, no warmth. Just breathing. Slow, deliberate, and wrong. “Maria?” His voice cracked. He called again, heart sinking further with every unanswered ring.

Then he saw it. Through the living room window, her Jeep sat in the driveway. The driver’s door hung open, headlights blaring like a beacon against the night. He wanted to believe she was safe, that she’d escaped whatever horror stalked their land, but doubt gnawed at him. She wasn’t there. She couldn’t be. Not anymore.

A voice called out from the darkness. “Let me in, Jeremy. Please. Before it comes back.” Maria’s voice—or something close to it. He froze, shotgun clutched tight. It didn’t sound right. Too distant. Too hollow. He steadied his breath and asked, “Where’d we go on our first date?”

Silence.

Jeremy sank to the floor, biting his fist to keep himself from breaking completely. Tears streamed down his face as he rocked back and forth, his mind screaming against the weight of loss. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?!” he roared into the abyss. The response? Laughter. That same cruel, human laugh that seemed to come from every shadow.

Jeremy knew he couldn’t stay. The house was a tomb now, a place where memories would rot alongside grief. He counted the shells in his pocket—seven. Enough to clear a path, maybe. He wouldn’t look. Couldn’t look. Just run. Run and drive away.

The truck was his lifeline, its remote starter the only plan he had left. Jeremy gripped the doorknob, muscles coiled like springs, ready to burst into action. He counted to three. One. Two. Three. The door swung open, and he sprinted into the night. Shadows moved around him, and he fired blindly, the shotgun barking into the dark. Blood splattered onto the porch swing, and something heavy crashed to the ground behind him.

Don’t look. Don’t you dare look.

He reached the truck, hands fumbling for the door handle, heart pounding in his ears. He fired up the engine and slammed it into reverse, gravel spitting beneath the tires as he peeled away from the homestead. In the headlights, the creature appeared again, standing tall, unbroken. Its clawed hand held something. A sack. No… not a sack.

Maria’s head.

Jeremy screamed, voice ragged as tears blurred his vision. The frost-coated road was unforgiving, but he drove like the devil himself was chasing him—because he was. The shotgun sat across his lap, and he steered with his forearm as he loaded shell after shell into the chamber. His mind raced, the memory of Maria’s smile tearing at his sanity.

The sound came next—galloping. Fast. Heavy. Jeremy dared a glance to his left, and there it was. The creature ran alongside the truck, its glowing red eyes locked on him like a predator sizing up its kill. He rolled down the window, aimed the shotgun, and fired. Seven shots. Useless. The beast didn’t even flinch.

Desperation took hold. Jeremy swerved, ramming the thing with the truck. Metal crunched, tires screeched, and both man and monster tumbled into a grove of trees. The truck was totaled, smoke rising from its hood, but Jeremy crawled out, bleeding and battered, yet alive.

The monster was pinned between the truck and the trees, its body contorted but still breathing. Jeremy screamed in rage, his grief fueling every ounce of his strength. He reloaded the shotgun, aimed at its head, and fired. Five times. The buck skull didn’t break. The creature didn’t die. It was getting stronger. Adapting.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?!” Jeremy bellowed, voice raw and cracking. The beast laughed again, its voice dark and ancient, speaking words Jeremy couldn’t understand but felt deep in his soul.

Gasoline dripped onto the frozen ground, pooling beneath the wreckage. Jeremy pressed the cigarette lighter in the truck’s cab, its orange glow searing against the cold. He splashed the creature with fuel, every motion fueled by fury and despair, and tossed the lighter.

Fire erupted. Flames danced in the night, consuming the monster in a fiery inferno. Its screams echoed through the trees, a sound that would haunt Jeremy long after. “THAT’S FOR MARIA!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

Jeremy dropped to his knees, sobbing into the frost-coated dirt. His pistol felt heavy in his hand, the barrel pressing against his lips as thoughts of joining her consumed him. But then, he heard her voice—soft, distant, inside his mind. Fight, baby. Fight.

He staggered to his feet, heart shattered, and ran into the night.

Chapter Two: Yellowbone Blues

Penelope “Nelle” Rodriguez stared at her laptop screen, her fingers hovering just above the keyboard as if the act of touching it might make everything more real than she was ready for. The subject line of the email glowed softly in the dim room.

Job Offer – Sheriff’s Deputy, Consumption County

She sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, trying to chase off the dull ache that had been sitting behind them for weeks. Maybe months. Her apartment buzzed quietly with the sound of a tired ceiling fan overhead, ticking faintly like a metronome for a life out of rhythm.

Consumption, Texas. Just the name made her stomach knot. She’d been there once, years ago, tucked into the passenger seat of her grandmother’s old Chevy, feet swinging above the floorboard, not tall enough yet to reach. Her abuela had pointed out roadside mesquite trees and patches of wild sunflowers like they were family members. “This is where my people bled, mija,” she’d said once, staring out across a stretch of forgotten field. “And where they laughed too.”

Nelle hadn’t laughed in a long time.

Her grandmother was a native—of the town and of the land—Karankawa by blood, stubborn as the soil. And though Nelle’s mother had clung fiercely to her Mexican identity, it was her grandmother’s shadow that shaped her most. Her father had been a walking contradiction: half Creole, half Karankawa, all trouble. When people asked Nelle what she was, she used to say “mixed,” but that answer never satisfied anyone. Not the black and white kids who called her “Yellowbone” in middle school, not the Latino girls who sneered at her surname but whispered that her skin was “too dark,” or “too light,” and certainly not the census forms that never had the right box to check.

Her last name made her Hispanic, her cheekbones made her Native, and her silence made her tired.

She hated being called “Indian.” The word felt sticky. Like an infection. It was a label soaked in old violence and lazy history, the kind that refused to die and kept reappearing in classrooms and cop reports like mold. “Indian” was what history called her grandmother, what cops had scrawled in the margins of her father’s rap sheet, and what her fellow officers at HPD still let slip when no one was listening. But Nelle always heard. Always.

She scrolled back up to the body of the email.

“Given the recent loss of both my deputies, your timing is a godsend. Or fate. Either way, we’re in need of good help. And I trust your instincts.”
– Sheriff Jeremy Voight

There was something honest in that. Maybe it was the way he didn’t try to hide the desperation. Maybe it was that word—fate. Her abuela used to say there were no accidents, only patterns too big for people to see.

She closed the laptop and sat in silence. The apartment hummed around her, but inside, she was already somewhere else. Somewhere dustier. Older.

Denny’s at 10:30 p.m. was an ecosystem all its own—half-empty syrup bottles, tired waitresses with carved-in smiles, and a jukebox playing classic country songs that no one requested. The booths smelled faintly of bleach and old coffee. Nelle and her partner, Trish Kim, had claimed their usual spot by the window.

Trish was halfway through a second plate of Moons Over My Hammy when Nelle slid her laptop across the table. “Read this,” she said, voice low.

Trish wiped her hands on a paper napkin and adjusted her glasses. “If this is another ‘missing persons in national parks’ conspiracy theory, I swear—”

“It’s not. Just read.”

Trish frowned as her eyes scanned the email. When she got to the end, she looked up with both brows raised. “Consumption County? That a real place or something Stephen King made up?”

“It’s real,” Nelle said. “Small town. East Texas. I’ve been there before. With my grandma.”

“And you’re just… what? Gonna pack up and go?”

Nelle shrugged. “Thinking about it.”

“You’ve been thinking about leaving for a while,” Trish said. “But this is different. This is more than just transferring precincts. You’d be out in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s the point.”

Trish leaned back, arms crossed. “What about your career? You’ve worked your ass off in Houston. You leave now, all that progress—”

“Progress?” Nelle’s laugh came sharp. “You mean the part where I get passed over for tactical training every cycle because I ‘lack team coordination’? Or the detective board telling me I’m ‘not proactive enough in crime trend analysis’?”

Trish didn’t argue. She knew it already.

“Meanwhile, every third guy in the precinct is sniffing around trying to figure out if I’m Mexican enough for Cinco de Mayo or Native enough to be offended on Thanksgiving. I’m tired, Trish. Really tired.”

They fell into silence. Outside, a light rain tapped against the glass like it was trying to join the conversation.

Nelle slid the laptop back toward her and opened another tab. “Also… they’re hiring a second deputy.”

Trish blinked. “No.”

“I sent them your résumé.”

“You did what?”

“Relax. I cleaned up your cover letter. Took out the bit about ‘kicking down doors like BTS kicks down charts.’”

Trish groaned, covering her face. “You are the worst. You’re asking me to uproot my entire life.”

Nelle leaned forward, her expression soft. “What life? You live in a studio apartment with two plants and a gym membership you don’t use. Your love life’s a ghost town and you keep telling me if one more guy calls you ‘Mulan’ on Tinder, you’re buying a sword.”

Trish snorted. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“I’m not doing this without you,” Nelle said, quietly. “You’re the only partner I’ve ever trusted. We’re the only female patrol unit in the damn precinct. You said it yourself—we don’t break up the band.”

Trish sighed, staring down at the remains of her breakfast-for-dinner. “Fine. But I’m not wearing cowboy boots.”

Later that night, Nelle came home to find her sister curled up on the couch like a forgotten coat. Kim was in the same hoodie she’d worn three days ago, the one with frayed sleeves and a faded design from some anime convention they went to years ago. The TV was on but muted, some old cartoon looping in the background. The room smelled faintly of weed and sadness.

“Really?” Nelle said from the doorway. “You couldn’t wait until I walked in to light that?”

Kim looked over lazily, eyes glassy. “It’s medical. For vibes.”

Nelle plucked the blunt from her fingers. “You know this isn’t legal in Texas, right?”

“You’re a cop. You can arrest me if you want.”

“I might. Just to scare you.”

Kim rolled over with a lazy grin. “Do it and I’m telling the arresting officer you cried during Encanto.”

“I did not.”

“You sniffled.”

Nelle didn’t argue. She dropped onto the couch beside her and exhaled.

“I’m taking the job in Consumption,” she said.

Kim blinked. “That the creepy town Grandma used to talk about? With the weird deer cult or whatever?”

“No deer cult,” Nelle muttered. “Just… a job. A new start. Sheriff Voight lost his last two deputies. He needs help.”

Kim sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. “And what about me?”

“You’re coming.”

Kim blinked. “Why?”

“Because you’re not staying here alone. Because I’m your sister. Because I promised Mom.”

The word hung between them.

Their mother had worked herself into the ground, literally. A heart condition, two jobs, and a stubborn refusal to slow down. She’d collapsed one morning while getting ready for her shift at the diner. Nelle was already on the force by then. Kim had just started college. After that, everything fell apart. Their dad had already disappeared into the prison system—manslaughter after a bar fight gone bad. And Kim, bright and full of glittering energy, dimmed.

She never really came back from it.

“I’ll try to get clean,” Kim whispered. “If we move.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it this time.”

Nelle believed her. But belief was heavy and fragile—like glass filled with gasoline.

Kim held out her hand for the blunt. Nelle gave it back.

“This is the last one,” Kim said. “But I’m gonna enjoy it.”

Nelle sat in silence, watching her little sister inhale slowly, like she was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.

Consumption. The name didn’t just sound like a place.

It sounded like a warning.

Chapter Three: Blood and Bone

The bus station in Consumption, Texas, was little more than a concrete slab with a bench and a rusted sign that hadn’t been painted since the Carter administration. Nicoleta Văcărescu—Nicole, as she’d called herself for the past century—sat with her leather jacket pulled tight against the February cold, watching her breath fog in the air. Four hundred years of existence, and she still found herself surprised by the small ironies life threw at her. A vampire waiting for a bus in a town called Consumption. Even God had a sense of humor.

She’d been many things over the centuries. Nicoleta, daughter of a Wallachian chieftain, married off to secure an alliance that lasted exactly one night—the night her husband revealed what he truly was and made her the same. During the plague years, she’d been a midwife, using her nocturnal nature to help birthing mothers while fighting the constant hunger gnawing at her throat. In Victorian London, she’d posed as a widow, her pale complexion attributed to grief rather than the absence of a pulse. The Great War had brought her to America through Ellis Island, where her “unusual pallor” was blamed on the hardships of war rather than the reality of her curse.

But those days were behind her. She’d learned to survive without taking human life—butcher’s blood when she could get it, livestock when she couldn’t. It wasn’t the same as warm blood from a beating human heart, but it kept the monster quiet. Mostly.

The sound of boots on gravel made her look up. Three men approached from the darkness beyond the station’s single flickering streetlight. Native American, she could tell immediately. There was something in their stance, their movement—predatory, but not in the way she was used to. This was different. Ancient. Dangerous.

“Evening,” the tallest one said, his voice carrying an accent she couldn’t quite place. Further west, maybe. New Mexico or Arizona. “You’re not from around here.”

Nicole stood slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. Four centuries had taught her to read situations quickly. “Just passing through.”

“No,” the second man said, stepping closer. “You’re not.”

The third man, younger than the others, circled behind her. Nicole’s enhanced senses picked up their scent—sage, copper, and something else. Something that made her dead nerves tingle with recognition. Magic. Old magic.

“We know what you are,” the tall one continued. “And we know why you’re here.”

Nicole’s laugh was dry as winter grass. “Three Indians walk up to a white girl at a bus stop. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

The tall man’s eyes flashed. “This is our territory. Has been for longer than your kind has walked the earth. You don’t belong here.”

“And what exactly do you think I am?” Nicole asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Vampire,” the youngest one spat. “Bloodsucker. Monster.”

Nicole tilted her head, studying them. “And what are you? Because you sure as hell aren’t just angry locals.”

The tall man smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too white. “We’re what comes for things like you. We’re going to tear out your heart and burn it under the moon.”

Nicole’s eyes narrowed. She’d survived four centuries by being smarter than her enemies, not stronger. These three—whatever they were—radiated power. Ancient, primal power that made her skin crawl. She couldn’t take them all. Not directly.

“Well,” she said, backing toward the tree line behind the station. “This has been lovely, but I have a bus to catch.”

She ran.

The sound of pursuit was immediate—boots pounding against gravel, then the distinctive crack of gunfire. Nicole ducked, weaving between trees as bullets whined past her head. But then the sounds changed. The gunshots gave way to something else—cackling that wasn’t quite human, the heavy panting of things that had shed their human forms.

Nicole risked a glance back and felt her dead heart try to skip a beat. Where three men had been pursuing her, now there were three… things. Massive, hulking shapes on four legs, their eyes glowing red in the darkness. One of them threw back its head and howled—a sound that made every instinct she had scream in terror.

Skinwalkers.

She’d heard of them, of course. Native American witches who’d sold their souls for the power to change shape. But she’d never seen one, never had to face one. They were supposed to be rare, contained to the southwestern deserts where they belonged.

What the hell were they doing in East Texas?

Nicole pushed herself faster, using every ounce of supernatural speed she possessed. Behind her, the cackling grew louder, more excited. They were enjoying the hunt.

Then, suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore.

The technique was one she’d perfected over centuries—not true invisibility, but something close. Moving so fast, so quietly, that she seemed to simply disappear. It worked on humans, sometimes even on other supernatural creatures. But these things…

The skinwalkers skidded to a halt, sniffing the air. Nicole watched from her hiding spot in the canopy of an old oak as they split up, each one following a different scent trail. Smart. They knew she was still there somewhere.

The youngest one passed directly beneath her tree. Nicole dropped silently, landing on its back with her hands around its throat. Four hundred years of accumulated strength focused into a single, brutal motion. The creature’s head came off with a wet tearing sound that echoed through the forest.

One down.

The other two converged on her position immediately, their inhuman speed making the trees blur. Nicole barely dodged the first one’s claws, feeling them slice through the air where her head had been. The second one caught her across the stomach, its claws tearing through leather and flesh like paper.

Nicole screamed—more from surprise than pain—and rolled away. The wound was deep, her intestines visible through the gash. But she was still mobile, still fighting.

The first skinwalker lunged again. Nicole caught it mid-leap, using its own momentum to flip it over her shoulder. It hit a tree trunk with a sickening crack, but was already scrambling to its feet when Nicole’s hands found its skull. Another violent twist, another head rolling across the forest floor.

Two down. One to go.

But the remaining skinwalker was already on her, claws raking across her back as she tried to run. Nicole stumbled, her hands pressed to her torn stomach, trying to hold her intestines in place. Blood—her own blood—poured between her fingers.

She could hear the thing behind her, smell its breath hot and fetid in the cold air. It was toying with her now, letting her think she had a chance.

The town dump appeared ahead—a sprawling collection of refuse and rusted machinery that stretched for acres. Nicole dove into the nearest pile of garbage, burrowing deep into the rotting mess until she found what she was looking for: a dump truck with an open bed half-filled with trash.

She crawled inside, pulling garbage over herself, pressing both hands to her wounds to hold everything in place. The smell was overwhelming—rotting food, used diapers, industrial waste. But it would mask her scent. It had to.

Nicole bit down on her tongue to keep from groaning as waves of agony washed over her. Her body was trying to heal, but the wounds were too severe, too deep. She needed blood. Fresh blood. And she needed it soon.

The skinwalker’s howl echoed across the dump, then faded into the distance. Either it had lost her scent, or it was being patient. Waiting for her to emerge.

Nicole closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

She woke to sunlight streaming through the gaps in the trash pile above her. Morning. She’d survived the night.

Nicole sat up carefully, expecting to feel the tear in her stomach, the burning agony of exposed organs. Instead, she felt… whole. She lifted her shirt and stared at smooth, unmarked skin where the gashes had been. Her body had healed itself completely.

A town called Consumption, and here she was, literally surrounded by garbage. Nicole laughed—a sound that echoed strangely in the morning air. Four centuries of existence, and she was still finding new levels of absurdity.

That’s when she saw the body.

It was partially buried in a nearby mound of refuse, but Nicole could see enough to know it had been human. Once. Now it was just bones and organs, scattered like someone had taken apart a puzzle and forgotten how the pieces fit together. The smell hit her then—not just decay, but something else. Something that made her stomach clench with a hunger she hadn’t felt in decades.

Not blood. Something else. Something wrong.

Nicole scrambled out of the truck bed, her boots squelching in the muddy ground. The hunger was getting stronger, pulling at her like a physical force. She’d fed on blood for four centuries, but this… this was different. This was—

“Don’t move.”

Nicole froze. The voice came from behind her, low and dangerous. She raised her hands slowly, knowing without looking that there was a gun pointed at her head.

“You were dead when I found you this morning,” the voice continued. Male. Local accent. “Had a hole in your stomach I could put my fist through. Now you’re up, walking around like nothing happened. Explain that before I put a bullet through your fucking head.”

Nicole turned slowly, keeping her hands visible. The man pointing the Colt 1911 at her was everything she’d expected from a small-town Texas sheriff—weathered face, hard eyes, the kind of mustache that went out of style in the eighties but somehow looked right on him. His badge read “VOIGHT.”

“Would you believe me if I told you the truth?” Nicole asked.

“Try me.”

“I’m a vampire.”

Sheriff Voight’s expression didn’t change. “Keep talking.”

“I was fighting those things last night. The ones that attacked me. They’re called skinwalkers—like Native American werewolves on steroids. Evil witch-doctor motherfuckers of the highest order.” Nicole gestured toward the forest. “They’re migrating from wherever the hell they came from, and they’re trying to take over this town.”

Voight’s eyes narrowed. “They sound like they’re from New Mexico.”

Nicole blinked. “How did you—”

“Had a boyfriend out there once,” Nicole said automatically, then caught herself. “I mean, I know the accent.”

Voight lowered his gun slightly. “You talk like a woman who’s been married more times than she’s had hot meals.”

“Something like that.”

They stood in silence for a moment, studying each other across the garbage-strewn ground. Finally, Voight holstered his weapon.

“Come with me,” he said. “We need to talk. And you need to cover up that blood on your shirt. Zip up your jacket.”

Nicole looked down at her leather jacket, noting the dark stains for the first time. “Where are we going?”

“Diner. I’ll buy you breakfast. You can tell me what the hell is happening to my town.”

The Consumption Diner was exactly what Nicole expected—red vinyl booths, a counter with spinning stools, and coffee that had been brewing since the Clinton administration. It was early enough that the place was mostly empty, just a couple of truck drivers in the corner booth and a waitress who looked like she’d been working the morning shift since the Carter administration.

Voight slid into a booth and gestured for Nicole to sit across from him. The waitress brought coffee without being asked—black for Voight, cream and sugar for Nicole.

“Start from the beginning,” Voight said.

Nicole wrapped her hands around the warm mug, organizing her thoughts. “Those skinwalkers aren’t from around here. They’re desert creatures, southwestern. Something drove them out of their territory.”

“What kind of something?”

“I don’t know. But they’re looking for a new hunting ground. Your town fits the profile—isolated, small population, limited law enforcement.”

Voight’s jaw tightened. “They killed my wife.”

The words hung in the air between them. Nicole saw the pain in his eyes, the barely contained rage that she recognized from her own mirrors over the centuries.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“One of them… it was wearing her face when I found it. Pretending to be her.” Voight’s voice was steady, but Nicole could hear the tremor underneath. “I had to… I had to put a bullet in something that looked like Maria.”

Nicole reached across the table and touched his hand. It was an impulse, a moment of human connection that surprised them both.

“I know what it’s like,” she said. “To lose someone you love to monsters.”

Voight studied her face. “How long have you been one of them? A vampire.”

“Four hundred years, give or take.”

“And you don’t… you don’t kill people?”

Nicole shook her head. “Not anymore. I learned better ways to survive.”

Voight was quiet for a long moment, sipping his coffee and staring out the window at the empty street. “I lost a deputy last night. Not to death—to stress. He couldn’t handle what he saw. Put in for a transfer first thing this morning.”

“So you’re short-handed.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Voight looked at her directly. “I’m about to ask you something that’s going to sound crazy.”

“Crazier than vampires and skinwalkers?”

“You want to be deputized? Help me keep order in this town?”

Nicole blinked. In four centuries of existence, she’d been many things, but never a cop. “You’re offering me a badge?”

“I’m offering you a chance to do something good with whatever you are. God knows I need the help.”

Before Nicole could respond, she noticed the two truck drivers in the corner booth. They’d been listening—not obviously, but with the kind of casual attention that suggested more than idle curiosity. As she watched, the black man pulled out a cell phone and spoke quietly into it.

“They got a vampire now,” she heard him say. “We need help.”

The two men stood up, dropped money on the table, and walked out without looking back.

Nicole felt a chill that had nothing to do with the February weather. “Sheriff—”

Voight’s phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and frowned. “Voight here.”

Nicole watched his expression change as he listened. Relief, maybe. Or hope.

“Yeah, I’m at the diner now. Come on by.” He hung up and looked at Nicole. “My new deputies just got into town. You’re about to meet some interesting people.”

Outside, Nicole could see a truck pulling into the parking lot. Two women got out—one Hispanic, the other Asian. Both carried themselves like cops, alert and professional.

“What did you tell them about the situation here?” Nicole asked.

Voight smiled grimly. “I told them the truth. This job might kill them.”

The diner door chimed as the two women entered. The Hispanic woman spotted Voight immediately and walked over, her partner trailing behind.

“Sheriff Voight? I’m Penelope Rodriguez. This is Patricia Kim. We spoke on the phone.”

Voight stood and shook their hands. “Call me Jeremy. And this is Nicole. She’s… consulting on our current situation.”

Nicole stood as well, noting the way both women sized her up immediately. Cops. Definitely cops.

“What kind of situation?” Rodriguez asked, sliding into the booth.

Voight glanced around the diner, making sure they weren’t being overheard. “The kind that doesn’t make it into official reports. The kind that makes grown men quit their jobs and leave town.”

Kim leaned forward. “We’ve seen some strange things in Houston. Try us.”

Voight took a deep breath. “Ever hear of skinwalkers?”

The conversation was interrupted by another phone call. This time it was Nicole’s turn to watch Voight’s expression change—from professional calm to something approaching panic.

“Slow down,” he said into the phone. “How many?… Jesus Christ… No, stay where you are. We’re on our way.”

He hung up and looked at the group. “That was the mayor. There’s been another attack. This time, it was the Henderson family out on Route 7. All of them.”

Nicole felt her stomach drop. “How many?”

“Five. Including two kids.”

The diner fell silent except for the hum of the coffee machine and the distant sound of traffic on the highway. Nicole looked at the three police officers—one sheriff holding his town together by sheer will, and two big-city cops who had no idea what they’d walked into.

“Well,” Nicole said finally. “Looks like we’re all in this together now.”

Outside, storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, and Nicole could smell something on the wind. Something that made her newly healed skin crawl with recognition.

The skinwalkers weren’t done with Consumption. They were just getting started.