- Colqhoun: I suppose I owe you gentlemen a story. We left in April. Six of us in all. Mr. MacCready and his wife, from Ireland. Mr. Janus, from Virginia, I believe... with his servant, Jones. Myself - I'm from Scotland. And our guide... a military man, coincidently. Colonel Ives. A detestable man... and a most disastrous guide. He professed to know a new, shorter route through the Nevada's.
- [scoffs]
- Colqhoun: Quite a route that was. Longer than the known one... and impossible to travel. We worked... very, very hard. By the time of the first snowfall we were still a hundred miles from this place. That was November. Proceeding in the snow was futile. We took shelter in a cave; decided to wait until the storm had passed. But the storm did not pass. The trails soon became impassable... and we had run out of food. We ate the oxen... all the horses... even my own dog. And that lasted us about a month. After that we turned to out belts... shoes... any roots we could dig up but you know there's no real nourishment in those. We remained famished. The day that Jones died I was out collecting wood. He had expired from malnourishment. And when I returned, the others were cooking his legs for dinner. Would I have stopped it had I been there? I don't know. But I must say... when I stepped inside that cave... the smell of meat cooking... I thanked the Lord. I thanked the Lord. And then things got out of hand. I ate sparingly; others did not. The meat did not last us a week and we were soon hungry again only, this time our hunger was different. More... severe... savage. And Colonel Ives, particularly, could not be satisfied. Janus was the first to be killed. And then Mr. MacCready. That left Colonel Ives, MacCready's wife, and I alone and I knew in that company that my days were numbered. I'm ashamed to say that I acted in the most cowardly manner. It would have been nobler, I know to have stayed and protected Mrs. MacCready from Ives, but... I was weak. I fled. It was nothing less than pure providence that I arrived here.
- Ives: If you die first, I am definitely going to eat you, but the question is, if I die, what are you going to do? Bon appétit... Eat or die.
- [looking through a spyglass as three people approach the fort]
- Ives: Breakfast... lunch... and reinforcements.
- Ives: You remember this? You smell it? The scent... always jogs the memory, don't you think? Remember the energy? The potency of someone else coursing through your veins? Someone brave. You know the disappointment as it dissipates; the strength slipping from your grasp. The growing, killing need to replenish. But I don't have to remind you of that. You're feeling it right now.
- Ives: [takes a big breath of smoke] You know, not too long ago I couldn't do that. Could barely take a breath without coughing up a pint of blood. Tuberculosis. That along with fierce headaches... depression... suicidal ambition. I was in pretty horrible shape. In fact I was on my way to a sanatorium to convalesce when a native scout told me a curious story. Man eats the flesh of another, he takes the other man's strength, absorbs his spirit. Well. Naturally I just had to try. Consequently I ate the scout first and you know he was absolutely right. I grew stronger. Tuberculosis? Vanished. As did the headaches and the black thoughts. I returned that spring happy. And healthy. And virile...
- Lindus: How did you get behind the enemy line?
- Boyd: I froze. I was scared.
- Lindus: Scared? You froze while the rest of your unit fought and died? What did you do then?
- Boyd: I played dead.
- Lindus: But you made it behind enemy lines.
- Boyd: I was buried, with my commanding officer's half shot off head in my face, his blood running down my throat.
- Lindus: So how did you take the command post?
- Boyd: Something... something had changed.
- Lindus: We're gonna promote you, Boyd. We could shoot you. But as you singlehandedly captured the enemy command it might set a bad precedent.
- Boyd: Martha, I need to talk to you. I need to... Wendigo. I need to know how to stop it. I need you to help me. I'm sorry about your brother, but I did... I did not kill him. I did not kill him. Martha, how do you st... how do you stop it?
- Martha: You don't! You ever give, yourself? Wendigo eats. Must eat more, more; never enough. He... he takes. Never, never gives! You stop Wendigo, you give yourself. You must die.
- Hart: [translates for Capt. Boyd from George] What is it, George? 'Wendigo'. Ah, it's an old Indian myth, from the north. 'A man eats another's flesh... ' um, it's usually an enemy... 'and he, um, takes, uh, steals his strength, essence, his spirit... and, um, his hunger becomes craven, insatiable... and the more he eats the more he wants to. And the more he eats the stronger be becomes.' George, people don't still do that, do they?... 'White man eats the body of Jesus Christ every Sunday.'