The creature stood up, looking around. It didn’t know where it was. Or why it was.

Night, the moon high and full, shining down, letting him see where he was.

Stone tablets stood out of the grassy and leaf covered ground around it. Some were thin, only inches thick, not as wide as they were tall. Not very tall. Faded words were carved into the faces of the nearly two dozen stones. There were some bigger ones, those once fanciful but long since eroded, just having size to mark their differences.

Large stones were piled in a wall surrounding the collection of stone tablets. A metal gate, black and rusty, hung in a gap in the wall.

Wrought iron.

That was the material.

It knew that now as memories started to form and return.

Trees, mostly pines and oaks stood around the graveyard on three sides. That was where it was. A graveyard.

The fourth side was open to a large field. Tall grass waved in the fierce winds that blew across it. To the left, it could see marshlands, hills ahead of it and the ruins of a building. A large red structure, smaller white to the side. Trees grew through it, vines crawling up the walls, the roofs partly collapsed.

It looked like it had been ruined for years, but the creature knew it had only been days.

It knew that just like it knew how the building had been ruined.

And how it had been killed the first time.

The Connection.

The Connection had come to Earth and changed it forever.

Changed him forever.

He knew his name.

Or what had been his name.

It didn’t matter now.

That name was gone, as was the person it belonged to.

He was reborn.

He remembered the Connection appeared. A great light and then nothing. Blackness. Endless, solitary. He had screamed with no sound. Just the void.

He had no idea how long he drifted in that void, fearing he would go mad, had gone mad already. He had to have gone mad. There was no other explanation for the light and now the void.

Had he died?

That would have made sense.

But why was he just floating in the void? There had to be more to the afterlife than this endless expanse of nothing.

It was just him.

No sounds. No heat. No light. Not even any cold. Just the endless darkness of the void, stretching out to the horizon. There was no true horizon, no point of reference for up or down, or distance.

He screamed again.

And again.

Mouth open in wordless fury.

Or at least it felt like his mouth was open.

Did he have a body? He didn’t know.

He remembered having a body. But did he still?

He screamed some more.

Sometime later, who knew how long, it could have been minutes, days, years or even decades, a voice sounded in the void. Was it in his head? It didn’t matter. It was a voice.

Which meant there was someone, or something else.

He didn’t care.

It just meant he wasn’t alone.

“You are one of the unlucky many,” the voice said, female. It was a quiet voice. Almost a whisper. There was a seductive quality to it, an allure that made him want to listen.

It also made him feel cold, like someone walked over his grave. He had never understood that saying, not until that moment.

“So many of you humans did not survive becoming Connected. You are useless to the Connection. But not useless to me.”

That made him feel something. Pride?

Any emotion was good. He didn’t want to feel the lack of emotions in the void. The lack of anything in the void.

“I have brought you here, between life and death, because I have a need of you,” the voice said. “Or someone like you.”

That last part scared him. It meant he was replaceable. Whatever the voice wanted of him, if he rejected it or failed, the voice would find another.

And then what of him?

Would he be trapped in this void forever? Alone forever?

He couldn’t stand that thought.

He would do anything to leave the void.

He tried to speak but couldn’t. No words came.

The voice heard him anyway.

“Anything? Are you sure?”

His mind screamed ‘yes’ over and over.

“So be it.”

The pain started.

And he screamed, the sound loud in the void.

The memory of the pain faded.

The memory of the void did not.

He thought he recognized where he was but his mind was still foggy. His body felt weak.

His body?

He had a body again.

But it wasn’t the same.

He was taller and thinner. His skin was pulled tight against his bones, fingers looking like claws. His skin was gray, the color of smoke. He was naked, able to see his ribs through his skin, pulled gaunt.

He screamed again.

This wasn’t him.

“Do not fear,” the voice said.

His head snapped to the sides, trying to find the source. He turned, stumbling as his long and thin legs were not supporting him. What had happened? Why was he so weak?

But he wasn’t.

Below the surface, he could feel power.

A lot of power.

Strong, terrifying.

Just hints of what he could do with that power.

But he couldn’t get at it.

Not yet.

“Soon,” the voice said in his mind, the same seductive female. The same coldness that sent a chill down his spine.

“You will have power such as you have never known or heard of,” the voice said. “But not yet. It took a lot of power to bring you back here and to recreate your body.”

Recreate his body? What had happened to his old?

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Had he really died?

“Your old body was useless to me. This new will be much better.”

What else was different?

His vision. The world looked different.

He reached up, feeling his head.

There was no flesh. He felt bone, hollow sockets where eyes had been. He saw a pool of water on the ground, dropping down in front of it, crawling over to look into the clear surface.

A gray skull stared up at him, wavy in the water, light coming from around the skull letting him see. Flames surrounded the skull, flickering in orange and red, two brighter spots where eyes should have been.

He screamed, the sound coming out as a low moan that echoed across the grass.

Who had done this to him?

“I am the Concept of Death but you will call me Hel.”

***

He was hungry.

Very hungry

More than he should have been.

When was the last time he had eaten?

A couple days before the Connection came, and those strange words in his mind. He didn’t know what any of it had meant. Still didn’t.

Life had been rough the last couple years. Money had been tight. He’d lived in his tent in Concord for a week or two, maybe three, before moving on. Concord had slowed down for him, not as many handouts. A couple of really bad days with nearly nothing. Time to move on to somewhere new. Dover or Rochester. That had been where he’d been going, on his most prized possession.

The bike was old but in great shape. Solid. Held up well through all the wear and tear. Easy to maintain balance with his packs attached.

Without it, he wouldn’t be able to move around.

The ride along Route 4 hadn’t been bad. Lots of cars speeding by, but so far no near misses. He’d come across some cars that purposefully drove close to him, thinking they were funny. He’d taken a couple falls that way.

It hadn’t been that hot, a nice late summer day.

Not as many cars as he thought there would be.

He was enjoying the ride.

Then the earthquakes came.

He couldn’t maintain his balance, the bike bouncing into the air as the ground cracked, the pavement heaving. Trees fell around him. In the air, he fell away from the bike, landing hard. He heard the scrape and crunch as the bike struck even harder, the fork bent and twisting. It was broken beyond repair.

He cursed, as the ground shook, trying to stand but couldn’t.

His leg was broken. Maybe his wrist or arm.

Pain flared through his body. He yelled, not caring who heard.

The ground still shook, a deep cracking sounding in the distance.

The vibrations hurt his leg.

Then the words came.

And the pain.

He couldn’t even read the words, the pain was so intense.

He felt a weird energy flooding into his body. It got stronger but the pain in his leg and arm grew far worse. He passed out.

And woke sometime later.

It was night.

Where were all the cars? How could anyone drive by and not help him?

It was dark too. He’d just passed Northwood Lake, there should have been lights in the homes. Had the earthquakes knocked out the power?

What about the words in his vision? He couldn’t remember what most of it had said. He’d been flying through the air, crashing to the ground. One word did stick out.

Connection.

What did that mean?

Being homeless, he knew how good people could be and how bad. He still couldn’t believe that no one had stopped to help him. Where were the rescue vehicles? He heard no sirens.

He heard nothing at all.

He should have heard something.

He tried to stand, screamed in pain, landing on his bad wrist. More screaming.

Tears fell down his face.

His stomach rumbled, his throat dry.

He needed food and water.

Dragging himself across the ground, he forced himself to approach his broken bike. That caused him to cry even more. His whole body shook with pain and anguish. The bike was destroyed. Forks twisted, tires burst.

He wasn’t riding that to somewhere safe, or anywhere ever again. Not that he could ride with his broken leg and wrist.

The packs were ripped open, something had gotten into them while he’d been unconscious. The granola bars, his back up food supply that he forced himself not to eat, was gone. He had nothing to eat.

Or drink.

His water bottles were gone, the thin plastic broken in the fall, water dripping out everywhere. He could see the darker stain of the ground where the water had soaked in.

He wanted to yell, but didn’t.

What was the point? No one was coming to help him.

There were some houses nearby, not that far. Maybe a couple hundred feet.

Which might as well have been miles in his condition.

It was odd. Overall he felt good, except for his wrist and leg. He was still hungry, but not as bad or as weak as he should have been. His body was stronger.

He felt strong.

He started dragging himself to the nearest dark house.

That had been days ago.

There had been no house. He had been sure it had been there but now it was gone, just a grassy clearing. There were no other houses anywhere that he could see. Something that looked like a house a couple hundred yards away, barely visible in the rising sun. It had taken hours to get a hundred yards.

Even stronger, the pain proved to be too much.

He’d passed out again.

The sound of growling woke him.

A dog, or fox, maybe a coyote, stared at him from twenty or thirty feet away. He rolled over, grabbed a rock and threw it. The rock didn’t make it, bouncing along the road. The animal ran into the woods, but not too deep.

It had been huge. Bigger than any wolf he had known about.

It scared him.

It took hours to drag himself under some bushes.

He stayed there for days. No food, no water. The coyote staying in the edge of the woods. Visible, growling, but not approaching. Just always there.

He passed in and out of unconsciousness. Hours at a time.

He woke to a low growling, seeing the coyote ten feet away. It sat there, staring at him. He saw how thin it was, almost skeletal, but still had a visible strength. Its eyes hungered.

He could see and feel that hunger.

He hungered.

“Go away,” he croaked, the woods soft, creaking, barely spoken. “Leave me alone.”

“Why would I do that,” a voice said.

Did it come from the coyote? The head tilted, looking at him like he was the strange one.

“I have a use for you,” the voice said again.

It sounded old, tired, creaking, but strong. Like the coyote, a strength hidden inside.

“I hunger too. Always hungry. Always feeding. There is never enough food. You are hungry. Do you want to feed?”

“Yes,” he croaked out, not sure why he was responding.

“I can help you feed.”

“How?”

He knew he was talking to the coyote but the words were in his head. He closed his eyes, feeling the hunger pains, the pains in his leg and wrist.

“You were broken when the Connection came. It Adapted your body but could not heal what was already broken. That is not fair.”

No, it was not. He agreed, not sure why. He just wanted the hunger to end.

“Who are you?”

“The others of my kind,” the voice said, filled with contempt. “Have taken names from your world’s mythology but there is none that fit what I am.”

“What is that,” he asked, but he knew.

“I am what you are and will be. I am called what I am all the time. I am The Hunger.”

A spasm of pain wracked his body. His wrist and leg were twisted, no longer straight, bone grinding against bone. Every movement was pain. And his hunger, and the thirst, it was unbearable. Never had he been this hungry.

He just wanted it to end.

“I will do anything,” he begged, tears streaming down his face, forcing the words out through the pain. “Just make it stop.”

The pain increased, as did the hunger. He screamed, the sound torn from his soul. He felt his legs and arms growing longer, thinner than they already were. Everything hurt, everything changed. His screams continued.

“It won’t stop,” The Hunger said, laughing. “It will never stop. The pain and the hunger will drive you on. You will be my Wendigo, unleashed on this newly Connected World.”