Burton tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his throat had clamped shut, parched and brittle as ancient parchment left too long in the sun. His voice only clawed its way back in a ragged, desperate croak the instant Boone pressed the knife down against the flesh of his right leg, just above the knee, and the first thin, crimson line of blood welled up, hot and sticky, tracing a lazy rivulet down the pale skin. Boone used that old Bowie for everything—carving kindling, gutting game, scraping hides—and its edge had gone so dull from endless abuse that it resembled a rusted sawblade more than a blade. He had to lean in with his full, heavy weight, all two hundred pounds of muscle and grit, to force the tip through the tough outer layer of Burton's skin, the metal grinding audibly against the resistance like a dull file on bone.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcast

Website: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcast

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpod

X: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/the-serial-killer-podcast.

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

A few of the abandoned men, their wills broken, staggered blindly after Boone and Burton once they finally realized the terrible deception. But in tragically little time, they were completely snow-blind and hopelessly lost, staggering aimlessly away from the faint path and each other as the relentless, creeping tendrils of hypothermia finally took hold of their core. Some paltry articles of their clothing would eventually be found near the trail once a spring thaw swept through the valley, but of their frozen, anonymous bodies, there was never any trace. Whether they were claimed by the brutal, indifferent cold, by a silent return of the vengeful Diggers, or by some starved, scavenging beast of the high mountains will forever remain a chilling mystery. Even their names have been tragically lost to the ravages of time, with only the vaguest, most unflattering descriptions of them surviving in the old, faded complaints filed by the victims who once sought their deaths.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcast

Website: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcast

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpod

X: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/the-serial-killer-podcast.

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

When the sun finally rose, he methodically availed himself of the dead's belongings, precisely as he always did, but for the first time, he could not bring himself to look directly at the body. Usually, he felt absolutely no sting of remorse or burning shame—he had successfully convinced himself that he was entirely immune to such weak human frailties—but now, a strange, heavy guilt sat like a cold stone deep in his gut. He had obscenely gorged himself in a terrifying, unholy communion that had lasted throughout the entire night, returning over and over to tear more flesh from the cooling corpse and fully sate his insatiable hunger. He had eaten until he was bloated, profoundly sickened, and deeply ashamed.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcast

Website: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcast

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpod

X: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/the-serial-killer-podcast.

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.