Two men sat next a roaring fire in the shadow of a vanished woodland, where gnarled trees snagged at the thin moonlight. Although bound together by a terrible secret few people would wish to fathom, Silas and Bram had always been wanderers. They were cannibals. Cannibals by choice, rather than driven by hunger or desperation. Their common taste for human flesh was a desire as strong as it was ugly.

Their campground was quiet that evening. Owls hooted, as owls will, but no crickets chirped nor even breezes to disturb and rustle the leaves. Silas stirred the pot that hung over the fire, its contents a flavoursome. Fine cuts from the flanks of their latest victim. Bram, seemingly in a dream, sharpened his knife, the metallic sound the only other noise slicing across the stillness.

Silas murmured, his gravelly voice little louder than the flames, "You've been quiet tonight."

Bram looked down. "I've been considering."

About?

"This life," Bram said. “How long do we go on like this? Towns are beginning to notice vanishings. People are beginning to talk. Something is going to go wrong, I just know it.”

Silas laughed. “OK… So what’s your cunning plan? Starve? Hand ourselves in? Beg for pardon and say ‘oops, sorry’? We’re too far in for that, I think.”

Bram's knuckles grew white as gripped the knife. "Maybe I'm just tired."

Silas watched him, the fire creating flickering shadows across their faces. “Tired of what? Running, or eating?

Bram stood and headed towards the edge of the clearing, peering out into the night. Silas deliberately stirred the stew pot.

And as he stirred, he worried. Something about Bram’s silence bothered him. Silas had always prided himself on reading people, a skill honed over years of hunting prey that walked on two legs. And Bram… Bram was different tonight.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Silas said, not looking up. “We’ve made it this far because we trust each other.”

Bram turned back, his face unreadable. “Have we?”

Silas froze. A chill crept down his spine, colder than the night air. He looked up just as Bram stepped closer, the knife glinting in his hand.

“What are you…?”

Bram moved quickly, the blade slashing through empty air. Silas barely dodged, but the knife grazed his arm and astonishingly quickly, blood seeped through his shirt as he stumbled back, eyes wide. “What the f… you’ve lost it!”

“Maybe,” Bram said, his voice calm. “Or maybe I’ve I’ve just worked something out. It’s you or me, Silas. And I’m not ready to become your lunch.”

Silas grabbed a log from the fire and swung it at Bram, the flames roaring as they clashed. The sounds of their struggle, mostly grunts, became the only soundtrack. The owls, as if in anticipation had fallen silent.

Finally, Silas knocked Bram to the ground. The knife skittered away, disappearing into the shadows. Silas loomed over him, panting, his face a mask of fury. “I trusted you.”

Bram smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “More fool you mate, you should’ve known better.”

Before Silas could react, Bram lunged, sinking his teeth into Silas’s throat. The fire hissed as blood sprayed, and the forest swallowed the gurgling scream.

By morning a single pot bubbled over rekindled embers.