Supernatural - Fresh Meat E-Book

Alice Henderson

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 399

Beschreibung

After Sam and Dean Winchester lost their mother to a mysterious supernatural force as young children, their father taught them how to hunt and destroy the paranormal evil that exists in the dark corners of America. After their father's demonic death, they discovered that they are descended from a long line of hunters and chose to continue their mission. A rash of strange deaths in the Tahoe National Forest bring Sam, Dean, and Bobby to the Sierra Nevada mountains to hunt a monster with a taste for human flesh. Soon walking corpses, bodies with missing organs, and attacks by a mysterious flying creature lead the trio to a cunning and deadly foe which can assume human form. When a blizzard strikes the area, and not knowing who they can trust, they must battle not only the monster, but also the elements to survive. A brand-new Supernatural novel, set during season 7, that reveals a previously unseen adventure for the Winchester brothers, from the hit CW series!

Leseprobe

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SUPERNATURAL

FRESH MEAT

ALICE HENDERSON

SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

TITAN BOOKS

Supernatural: Fresh Meat

Print edition ISBN: 9781781161128

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161159

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: January 2013

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2012 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

SUPERNATURAL and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

Cover imagery: Cover photograph © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

Shadow Puppet © Shutterstock. Mountain Range © Shutterstock.

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With the exception of the characters from The CW’s Supernatural series, this publication, including any of its contents or references, has not been prepared, approved, endorsed or licensed by any third party, corporation or product referenced herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States.

To Jason, for his never-ending encouragement

To Norma, for our adventures in the western wilds

To Gordon, for bestowing on me the love of monsters

HISTORIAN’S NOTE

This novel takes place during season seven, between “Shut Up, Dr. Phil” and “Slash Fiction.”

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

The Sierra Nevada Mountains, 1846

All he could think about was food. Every fiber of his being thrummed with the thought of it. Every agonizing moment was consumed with contemplating how he could find it, when he would feel it between his teeth, how it would fill up his anguished stomach. At night he dreamed of food: beefsteak; hot stew with potatoes and carrots; warm buttery biscuits; fresh roasted corn and fried chicken. He would start awake sometimes just as he sat down to a feast in his dreams, and he would scream in the darkness, hot tears streaking his face at the loss of even an imagined morsel of food. In the night, he would shove fistful after fistful of snow into his mouth, trying to bury the terrible hunger. In the last few weeks he had eaten bark and lichen and an old pair of leather boots that had given out. He’d devoured part of a boiled wool blanket, eaten tree sap, and sucked on sticks, wishing they were chicken bones he could break apart and suck the marrow out of. With a euphoric longing he thought of fragrant liver and onions, of pork chops smothered in apple sauce, of freshly made bread lathered with honey butter. Then he would weep, the hunger no longer solely in his stomach but infused throughout his entire being, in his bones, in his aching skin, inside his fevered brain.

He had to have food. He had to have meat. His small group had snowshoed away from the Donner Party camp twenty-four days ago. Their goal was to reach Bear Valley, beyond the treacherous mountains, and bring back rescuers and supplies. They had brought along meat from the camp, a few scraps from butchered pack animals, but that food was all gone now. They had hoped to find rabbits and deer along the way, but hadn’t found much. It was as if the entire forest had rebelled against the terrible winter and the animals had fled.

Months ago, before the snows fell, their guide Charles Stanton had trekked out to the great valley of California and returned with supplies, mules, and two Miwok guides. He’d distributed the supplies among the emigrants, and then urged everyone to hike out immediately. But they had been too tired. Then the snows came and they were all trapped.

Now Stanton was of no use to anyone. He’d originally led the snowshoe group, which they had named the Forlorn Hope. But a few weeks ago he’d sat down in the snow and lit up a pipe. He puffed away on it, then encouraged the others to go on ahead. He said he’d catch up that night, but no one really thought he would, even Stanton. He’d gone snow-blind, his body starved beyond endurance. No one said anything when he didn’t join them at camp that night. Everyone knew he was dead.

Now it was just the Miwok guides leading them through the endless pine forests and exhaustingly deep snow drifts. Foster couldn’t stand another day of hearing the Forlorn Hope’s snowshoes crunching in the ice-crusted snow. He couldn’t bear the thought of another pitiful night clustered around a fire, no one talking, and everyone staring ahead with hollow, grey eyes.

He didn’t believe the Miwoks actually knew the way anymore, either. Where was the game? They were supposed to be experts in this forest, but they hadn’t found any meat in days. Foster had already been snowbound near a lake with his family, starving, for more than two months prior to this.

Now the Forlorn Hope sat around a meager fire, the sun already set beyond the mountains. Cold seeped into Foster’s bones. He watched the Miwoks sitting together on the opposite side of the fire, talking softly in a language he didn’t understand. They’d been with the emigrants since October in Nevada, but they weren’t really part of the group. And now they were lost. Foster knew it. His stomach groaned and rumbled, protesting against the torture his body had endured since they’d gotten snowbound. Was he just supposed to keep following them around aimlessly? They could be going in circles for all he knew.

Foster watched the Miwoks, talking and pointing into the forest, deciding the next stage of the route. They didn’t know. They were lost. Or maybe they did know, and just wanted to lead the emigrants to their deaths. Maybe it was all a plot.

Foster placed a hand on his aching stomach. A few weeks ago they had talked about sacrificing members of the group to save the others. They suggested dueling, or a lottery system for food. They would kill and eat whoever “won” the lottery. Then the animal handler Antonio had died, and next Franklin Graves, who had made the snowshoes for everyone in the Forlorn Hope. Then Patrick Dolan went crazy, running off into the cold and stripping all his clothes off. He’d come back later and died, too. Foster had carved off chunks of the man’s side, tearing into the warm meat with a savage desperation. Twelve-year-old Lemuel Murphy succumbed next; they dried some of the meat and continued on.

Now it had been days since their food supply ran out. They sat around the fire, no one saying anything. Some started to eat the oxhide bindings of their snowshoes. Foster wondered if they’d hold the lottery, or if some accident would befall one of the members: a fall off a cliff, or a plunge into an icy river. Or maybe certain people could die for the group without them even holding a lottery. People who didn’t really count as people anyway.

As they had a hundred times before over the last few weeks, Foster’s eyes narrowed on the Miwoks. He stood up, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and stared at them. Immediately they noticed his movement. They’d been keeping an eye on him lately, watching him warily. Foster suspected that one of the party had warned the two guides that they might be butchered. If so, then they probably intended them harm. He should get to them first. They weren’t really human anyway, were they? Not like the whites of his party. They were no more than savages. Not civilized men like him. Their sacrifice so that he could eat would be of little consequence.

One of the Miwoks, Luis, nudged his friend and pointed at Foster. The other one (Foster didn’t know his name, Salvador?)—it’s not like they were real people with meaningful names, anyway, they were really only one step away from animals—turned in alarm. Cautiously the Miwoks rose to their feet. They didn’t carry guns, just knives. They were starving, too, and had walked until their moccasins wore through, exposing their bloody, bare feet.

It made them easier to track in the snow, bloody footprints wherever they walked, even when they wrapped their feet in wool.

Foster unslung the rifle from his shoulder and pointed it at them. The Miwoks ran. The rest of the Forlorn Hope looked on with disinterest, too exhausted to take any notice.

Foster trailed the Miwok guides through the trees, following the blotches of red in their wake. They were far more starved and weaker than he was. They’d refused to eat human flesh, instead foraging in the bitterly cold forest for plants. Their acorns were no match for the meat Foster had eaten. He knew he’d catch up to them eventually.

Days later, in a small clearing, he caught up to one, fired the rifle, and killed him. Then it was just the other one. Foster could already taste the delicious warm meat in his mouth. He imagined it slithering down his throat, filling his belly. He caught sight of the other Miwok, who ran on in terror at the far end of the clearing. Foster shot him in the back. The fallen guide sprawled in the snow, blood seeping out and staining the virgin snow. Foster screamed a barbaric, gargled cry into the quiet forest, startling a bird.

Tonight, he would eat.

ONE

Tonopah, Nevada, present day

The ghost collided with Sam Winchester with surprising force, sending him sprawling onto the desert floor. He rolled as its spectral boot came down toward his head. Raising his shotgun, Sam aimed it at the phantom’s chest and fired. With a boom, shells erupted, spraying the ghost with rock salt. The apparition vanished in an angry swirl of smoke. While salt didn’t get rid of ghosts permanently, it usually bought Sam a little time. But the spirit of George Drechler wasn’t as affected as most. Sam glanced around the forsaken cemetery, reaching into his jacket pocket for the last of his ammunition. “I hope you’re right about where the bones are this time, Dean,” he shouted, struggling to his feet. “Drechler’s a mean one. Salt barely fazes him.”

A few yards away, his brother, Dean Winchester, stood chest deep in a grave, digging furiously with an old shovel. Sweat dripped from his brow and his shirt was drenched. “Hey, how was I supposed to know about some secret Murderer’s Row?”

This marked their third digging expedition on this hunt. They’d dug up a false grave at Drechler’s original house in nearby Goldfield, Nevada, then another in the main cemetery of Tonopah, and finally discovered Murderer’s Row in the town’s old archives. It stood apart from the graves of law-abiding Tonopah citizens, and was now forgotten by history.

Before Sam had a chance to reload, the ghost reappeared. “He’s back!”

Sam braced himself. Drechler circled him, eyes furious. Dressed in a dirty brown duster, leather vest, gun belt, and hat, he looked the part of an Old West gunslinger. The ghost glanced over his shoulder at Dean and then abandoned the attack on Sam and barreled toward his brother instead. Sam ran after him, catching him just as he hovered above the rim of the grave. Sam pulled out an iron dagger and sank it into the ghost’s back. Drechler spun, eyes fiery, then shrieked and vaporized, but Sam knew he would be back in a few seconds.

“You almost down to the coffin?” he called out.

Dean straightened, leaning his elbow on the shovel. “You’re welcome to come down here if you think you can dig faster, sunshine.”

Sam darted away from the graveside as the ghost reappeared. From the depths of his sweeping duster, Drechler produced a rusty Bowie knife and began circling Sam again. The ghost sprang, blade thrusting upward. Sam dodged, but the tip caught in his jacket, ripping the material. Sam lashed out with the iron again, driving it deep into the ghost’s chest. Drechler screamed and atomized.

Dean hurried, shoveling away mounds of dirt. Damn. How deep had they buried the guy?

At last Sam heard Dean’s shovel hit something hollow. Dean scraped the rest of the dirt away, then brought the edge of the shovel down hard on the exposed old wood. It splintered, and he got down on his knees, ripping away planks. Inside lay the bones of George Drechler, who’d murdered fifteen people when he was alive, and ten more after he died.

“Got it!”

Dean reached into his jacket and brought out a cylindrical container of salt. He poured it over the remains, glancing up to see if Sam was okay. Their eyes met as Sam searched the darkness for the spirit. He felt Drechler behind him suddenly and whirled just as the Bowie knife lashed out again. Sam thrust one hand up, striking the ghost’s arm and deflecting the blade.

Dean poured lighter fluid on the bones. As Sam struck out with the iron blade again, Dean leapt up out of the grave, pivoting at the edge. He struck a match and dropped it into the splintered coffin.

With a whump, the bones caught, fire lighting up the night. Drechler cried out in anguish as his ghost body lit up with flames at the same time. Salting and burning human remains was one way to vanquish a ghost forever. Embers glowed within the ghost’s form, creating jagged lines in his face and clothing. Fire snaked and devoured, ashes spiraling up into the night. Then Drechler vanished, whirling away into a puff of smoke.

Sam bent over, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Nice.”

Dean grinned back at him in the firelight, mud and dirt smeared on his sweaty face. “I need a beer.” He glanced toward the dim glow of city lights a few blocks away. “And I saw a Super Piggy Oink Oink Shack that we have got to check out. They’ve got this sandwich that’s BBQ boneless ribs wrapped in bacon.”

Sam shook his head. His brother’s monster-hunting ability was only rivaled by his impressive talent for finding the greasiest meat-serving dives in every town they visited.

They walked toward the glow of the city, crossing a dry section of rocks and scrub bushes. In the gloom, Sam could make out all the little iron crosses of the town’s main cemetery.

Murderer’s Row stood on the outskirts of Tonopah, Nevada, an old town from Nevada’s mining days. The Row wasn’t part of the regular cemetery, which was populated mainly by miners killed in a mine fire in 1911.

George Drechler was the brother of one of the miners, and decided to seek vengeance by killing citizens associated with the mine—owners, investors, even attorneys and accountants. Even when a posse caught him and executed him, his killing didn’t stop. By the time Dean and Sam discovered his trail, ten more people had died.

In town, Dean ordered more food than Sam thought anyone could possibly eat. With the brimming take-out bag, Sam and Dean returned to the Three Ring Motel on North Main Street. The sign featured a jovial clown waving his hand, and clowns adorned every door.

Sam glanced around uncomfortably. “I can’t believe you made me stay at this place. The sign looks just like the Cooper Circus clown.”

“C’mon, Sam. It’s festive.”

“Festive?” Sam pointed to the neighboring lot. “It’s right next to the creepy old miners’ cemetery. Great combination.”

Dean shrugged. “What could happen?”

Sam pointed at him. “Don’t say that. Do not say that.”

They entered their room, Dean flinging himself down on his bed and diving into the sack of food.

Sam sat down at the room’s table and opened his laptop. He was restless. Had to keep busy. The fiery flashes of Hell were worse when his mind fell idle.

While Dean sat propped up on one elbow, devouring his sandwich, Sam searched the internet. He scoured missing person reports and news accounts of the strange. Then he came across something.

“Hey Dean, listen to this.” His brother lowered his halfeaten Super Piggy Oink Oink Delight and turned to him. “Five hikers were killed over the last three years in the Tahoe National Forest. Rangers thought rogue bear, but it’s unusual for black bears to be this aggressive.”

Dean talked around a mouthful of pig. “What, you’re thinking wendigo?”

Sam lifted his eyebrows. “Could be.”

“Still remember the last one. That was brutal.”

“You want to check it out?”

“Let’s go.” He took another huge bite of the sandwich.

“Bobby?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. “Bobby. Best tracker we know.”

Like Sam and Dean, Bobby Singer was a hunter, part of a small group of people who knew about the existence of monsters and spirits. They’d tracked down violent creatures from vampires to demons to ghosts. Bobby had taught them a lot of what they knew about hunting. Over the years, when their dad was out on a case, Bobby took care of them and helped raise them. He was a second father to them, a curmudgeon with a heart of gold.

Sam dialed his cell, wondering if Bobby was at his friend’s cabin in Whitefish, Montana, or off somewhere on a case.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Bobby, it’s Sam.”

“This better be good. I just caught dinner.”

“I think we might be on to a wendigo.”

“Ech. Not my favorite member of the human-eating bunch. Where’d you pick up the trail?”

“Near Lake Tahoe.”

“Prime feeding territory. Lots of tourists coming and going.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“People missing?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re saying rogue bear?”

“Yep.”

“All right. I’m just wrapping things up in Eugene, Oregon. Ghost on campus here.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Just burned some nineteenth-century groundskeeper bones. I’ll head down. Where do you want to meet up?”

“There’s a little town near the Tahoe National Forest called Emigrant Gap. Most of the people have gone missing near there.”

“OK. Meet you there. I’ll bring my .30-30.”

“Figured you would,” Sam said. Bobby had been hunting creatures for years. He could track like no one they knew. “See you there tomorrow evening.”

Sam hung up and turned to Dean. “Bobby’s in.”

Dean crammed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and nodded. Then he lay back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Tomorrow it’ll just be us and nature.”

“Can’t wait,” Sam said soberly.

The last time they’d hunted a wendigo, they’d barely made it out of there, and their companions had not been so lucky. Their very competent guide had been killed, along with some innocent campers. He thought of the vastness of the forest, of the sheer speed and agility of the creature. Last time people had died. He only hoped this time would be different.

TWO

The next day Sam and Dean drove across Nevada along Highway 95 in the gleaming black Chevy Impala, Dean behind the wheel, Sam sprawled in the passenger seat. Rugged mountains lined the horizon, sagebrush dotting the high desert floor. A writer had once described this part of Nevada as “the loneliest place I ever found myself,” but Dean loved the West. Loved the high, open spaces and the history. He’d seen every classic western movie ever made. While “Back In Black” by AC/DC played on the radio, he imagined Pony Express riders leaning over their horses, racing toward the Pacific. They passed through the small towns of Hawthorne and Schurz, seeing the hulking remains of abandoned mines on the hillsides. Wild mustangs ran in the open spaces. They reached Carson City, Nevada, where Kit Carson and Mark Twain had once roamed the streets, then turned west toward Lake Tahoe. On Highway 50, they started climbing into the Sierra Nevada mountains. The sun sank low behind the peaks, painting the clouds a dazzling red and gold. Sam drifted in and out of sleep.

The car crested a hill and the lake suddenly came into view, a deep sapphire-blue pool amid the snowy peaks. Dean let his mind drift, and it inevitably took him to Castiel. The angel had resurrected Dean, and had then become his friend, fought side by side with him and Sam. Next to his brother and Bobby, Cas was the closest thing Dean had to family. He couldn’t believe he was gone. Sometimes the life of a hunter made him feel like he was destined to lose everyone too early. Ellen and Jo, his mom, his dad.

The job could make a person crazy. He knew Castiel had been dealing with huge issues—the silence of God, a war in heaven, the apocalypse—but he could have talked to Dean. They would have figured it out together. Cas didn’t have to make a deal with Crowley, the King of Hell. He didn’t have to swallow all those souls from Purgatory and become the Heavenly equivalent of an unstable nuclear reactor. Now his friend was gone, torn apart by the ravenous Leviathan too powerful to contain, even for an angel. Right now, somewhere out there, the Leviathan were growing stronger and stronger, duplicating person after person, posing as doctors, entrepreneurs, scientists, politicians. Dean and Sam stared down the barrel of a new Armageddon, hot from the oven, that once again threatened to destroy life as they knew it. And Dean didn’t have the belief he once had, that unfailing knowledge that they could tackle whatever came at them. He’d lost that somewhere along the road.

Damn it. Why did Cas have to do that? They could have used him in the upcoming fight, used his power and knowledge. But Dean missed more than that. He’d told Cas once that he was like a brother to him. Fat lot of good that had been in the end.

They descended into the lake basin, driving past steep cliffs. Out on the lake’s surface, white caps crested and fell. They drove through the town of Incline Village and entered California, passing through King’s Beach. Dean kept an eye out for good eateries. They turned north and drove through Truckee, once the most dangerous city in California, full of gunfighters and lynch mobs. As night fell and “Free Ride” by Edgar Winter played on the radio, they rolled into the small town of Emigrant Gap.

With only one main street, it wasn’t too hard to find Bobby. Dean spotted his van parked outside the Ritzert Roadhouse.

Sam stirred awake and they got out and stretched. A cold breeze sighed through the pine trees, the unmistakable scent of snow on the wind. Dean breathed in the high-altitude air, smelling earth and wet pine trees. Sam gathered up the case research he’d collected and they entered the grill.

Bobby Singer sat at the bar, a shot of Maker’s Mark in one hand. He leaned over a newspaper, making notes in a small notebook. His red flannel shirt and worn jeans were rumpled, and the blue, netted baseball cap on his head was just as soiled and beat up as ever.

“Bobby!” Dean greeted him.

Bobby turned on the barstool, taking Dean’s hand and patting him on the shoulder. He did the same with Sam.

“I was wondering when you idjits were going to show up.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Bobby,” Sam said.

Bobby motioned toward the empty barstools next to him. “Take a load off.”

They sat down, Dean ordering beers all round.

Bobby pointed to the newspaper he was reading. “There’s been another disappearance. Young kid, about twenty. Went back-country and didn’t come back. Rangers found blood and some torn clothing.”

Sam leaned in to look at the article. “Does it say where exactly?”

“Out near Sixmile Valley.” Bobby pulled out a topographic map and spread it on the bar. “I figure we can light out tomorrow. It’s about a four-mile hike in.”

Sam pulled the research folder out of his jacket and slid it over to Bobby. He studied the accounts, turning to the map on occasion, then nodded. “These attacks happened in the same basic area. As much as I hate to say it, I think you’re right. We’re looking for a wendigo.”

A wendigo was an incredibly fast, vicious creature that had once been human and that craved human flesh. Sam and Dean had fought one a few years ago. The thing had been hard as hell to find and kill. It had an uncanny ability to imitate human voices, crying out for help to lure in victims. Then it ate, not leaving much behind. The only weapon that could kill it was fire.

“I picked up some supplies on the way down,” Bobby told them. “A flamethrower and the makin’s for some Molotov cocktails.”

“And here I thought you were going to say s’mores,” Dean said. “I love a camp-out.”

“This ain’t a game, boys. These things are mean and hungry.”

Dean smiled. Bobby wasn’t openly emotive, but every now and then his affection came through in the form of gruff advice.

Bobby packed up the map and research and tucked it away in the folder. “I’m getting some sleep. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

“Okay, Bobby,” Sam said.

Dean turned to his brother. “We need to find some digs. And something to eat.”

That night Dean slept fitfully, images of the last wendigo hunt keeping him awake. He could still hear the screams. Dean was starting to feel worn out and hopeless about the hunting gig. They’d go out there and hunt the thing and then what? Another monster would be waiting somewhere else. No matter how many they killed, another always took its place. Sam would tell him that they saved lives, that that was important. Dean used to think that, too. He supposed he still did, on a good day. But they’d saved the world so many damn times already, and it was always ready to off itself again. Sometimes it was as if it wanted to end. Maybe they were just uselessly postponing the inevitable, all this suffering was for nothing. Dean’s head just wasn’t in the hunt like it used to be. He was feeling used up. He knew Bobby would warn him that was a dangerous way to be. You don’t have your head in the game, you’re dead.

Then there was Castiel. Dean felt so betrayed. If Cas hadn’t let those Leviathan bastards out of Purgatory, humanity wouldn’t be facing annihilation again. Sure, maybe Raphael would have busted them out anyway. Maybe it was better that it was Cas who did it. First, though, the power had gone straight to his head. He’d actually demanded they bow down before him, their new god. Only toward the end was he the Castiel that Dean remembered.

Dean flashed on the last time he saw him, wading into the deep waters of the reservoir before erupting with the blackness of thousands of Leviathan, all swimming eagerly out into the world. His friend had vanished in an explosion of darkness, leaving them alone to deal with the upcoming catastrophe. Sometimes Dean got so angry about it he wanted to put his fist through a wall.

He rolled over, trying to get comfortable. On the other bed, Sam murmured in the dark; he was having a nightmare. Dean worried about his brother. Knew that he was struggling a lot more than he let on. But he wasn’t letting Dean in like he used to. Wasn’t leaning on him like when they were kids. Dean felt shut out. He’d never admit it to Sam, but sometimes he felt like his brother just didn’t need him anymore. What was the point? Dean had protected him for as long as he could remember. His father had charged him with that duty, and he’d done his best. And then Hell itself had claimed Sam…

Last year Sam had made the ultimate sacrifice to save the Earth. He’d agreed to be Lucifer’s vessel, then flung himself and Lucifer into Hell. Castiel rescued him, but it took them a while to realize that not all of Sam had made it out. He had come back minus his soul, which remained locked in combat with Lucifer in the cage. When they finally managed to get his soul back in his body, a wall existed in Sam’s mind, blocking out memories of Hell.

Castiel destroyed that, too. He removed the wall, and Sam hadn’t been the same since. He was tortured with visions of Lucifer. Dean had a hell of a time convincing Sam they were hallucinations and not the actual fallen angel, sitting there tormenting him wherever he went. But pain helped. An old wound in the palm of Sam’s hand helped his brother differentiate what was real and what wasn’t. Pain seemed to focus Sam’s mind.

Dean rolled over, trying to make his mind go blank so he could just get some goddamned sleep. He was going to need it tomorrow. What waited for them in that forest was fast and deadly, and Dean had to get his head together if he wasn’t going to end up as wendigo jerky.

He thrashed around, then sat up on the edge of the bed. He stood up and walked into the room’s small, dingy kitchen. He pulled out a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. Filling the glass halfway, Dean downed the contents. Then he filled it again and drank more slowly. He was tired of the world threatening to explode. Tired of seeing his brother suffer. He needed a goddamn day off. Hell, he needed a goddamn life off.

Sam stirred in his sleep again, groaning. His brow knitted together. Damn Castiel. If he hadn’t removed that mental wall, things would be a lot easier for his brother. They needed every break they could get. But once again Cas had betrayed them, and now Dean had to watch his brother suffer daily through those hellish visions.

He walked back to the bed and sat down, watching the shadows of trees move on the thin curtains. Finishing the rest of his drink, he lay back on the bed, trying to force his mind to go quiet.

The morning came too early, with Bobby knocking on the door. Dean’s head throbbed dully from the whisky last night and a lack of sleep.

They drove to the trailhead and geared up, loading their packs with ammunition, Molotov cocktail ingredients, food, and water. They slung rifles over their shoulders, and Bobby took the lead, searching for the first trace of the creature. Dean followed him, carrying the flamethrower, and Sam took up the rear, watching their backs. The forest was quiet, with a few birds singing in the trees and the wind sighing peacefully through the branches. But Dean knew it wouldn’t be long before they were fighting for their lives.

THREE

Storm clouds moved in. The air in the forest hung wet and cold, and the cloud layer descended as the morning wore on, drifting eerily through the trees. A few times Sam could see the peaks beyond when the clouds parted, but the mists would swirl again, covering the view.

The soft pine needles beneath their feet felt spongy and wet, and the scent of snow lingered in the air, though it was still too warm for any flakes to fall. Sam’s breath frosted as he watched for movement in the trees.

Ahead of him Bobby stopped and bent down, studying a broken branch on a manzanita bush. “Something big came through here,” he said. “But could have been a buck.”

“Or a rogue bear?” Dean asked.

Bobby threw him a wry smile and stood up again, continuing on. They walked in silence, and quiet clung to the forest. A few times Sam heard a distant woodpecker and the complaining trill of a squirrel.

They hiked for two hours, moving deeper into the Tahoe National Forest. As they passed into a small clearing, Sam thought he saw movement in the trees on the far side, a blur of motion too fast for him to lock on to. Wendigos liked to move in trees. His heart picked up its pace, and he braced himself for a sudden attack from above.

“You guys see that?” he asked, stopping.

Dean turned, following Sam’s gaze into the massive ponderosa pines in front of them. “No.”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Bobby said. “I think we might be getting close.”

Dean looked grim. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

They moved slowly forward, Bobby studying the forest floor for any sign of prints or hair. He stooped again, studying a large human-shaped footprint in a patch of mud. “This is it.” He gazed up at the trees at the far edge of the clearing, leaning on his rifle. “Smell that?”

Sam whiffed the air. Decay.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Well, that can’t be good.”

“Come on.” Bobby waved them forward, led by his nose.

They passed through the clearing, Sam watching the branches above as they entered the trees. The fresh scent of wet pine hung heavily there, but above it all was the sickly sweet smell of decomposition. They moved quietly through the trees, avoiding fallen twigs and stepping over sodden logs.

Bobby held up a fist, the signal to stop. He gestured toward a distant point, and Sam saw a ramshackle wooden structure leaning against a massive granite boulder.

Bobby knelt down and slung off his pack. He made up two Molotov cocktails and handed one to Sam. Then he stood up, motioning for Dean to skirt left with the flamethrower and for Sam to skirt right. They split up, moving to surround the building. Sam gripped the Molotov, white-knuckling the bottle of gasoline. He held his lighter at the ready, grateful for the heavy feeling of the rifle against his shoulder. If he missed with the Molotov, the rifle would at least slow down the wendigo, buying time for Dean or Bobby to land home with fire.

As Sam drew nearer to the makeshift shed, the stench of decomposition grew stronger. It was an old structure, wood worn and splitting with years of sun exposure. A wagon wheel stood propped up against one side, and a rusted lantern hung from a tree branch above.

He saw Dean and Bobby circling around. Bobby motioned toward a rickety door on one side, the only obvious entry point. It hung on rusted hinges, no longer fitting into the doorframe. A simple wooden bar hung through two metal brackets served as the lock. That meant whoever lived in the shack wasn’t at home; there was no way to lock it like that from the inside. But it would be a good way to lock victims in, Sam thought bleakly.

Bobby approached the wooden slat and signaled for Sam and Dean to hang back. Cautiously he kicked it free with his boot, holding on to the Molotov with one hand and his lighter with the other. The board fell to the ground, and with a groan and thump the door swung open.

Instantly they were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. Sam fought back the urge to gag.

Bobby stared inside, then lifted his arm to his nose. “Nobody home.” He crept forward, coughing at the reek. Sam and Dean followed him inside.

A small room lay beyond. A simple wooden table, cut from rough logs, stood in the center. A rickety bench sat next to it. Dozens of items lay scattered across the earthen floor: an old candle, a used box of matches, a sleeping bag leaking stuffing, a soiled pillow, a collection of old books with crumbling spines, a deck of worn playing cards. Metal glinted in the dirt at the far side of the cabin.

Sam placed his bottle of gasoline on the table and pocketed the lighter. He walked to the gleaming metal and bent down. He pulled a dented gold pocket watch from the dirt, clicking it open to find the crystal cracked and grime on the face. An engraving on the back of the watch read “W.M.F. from S.M.F.” The watch was old, nineteenth century, and probably not from a recent victim.

Sam straightened up. Most of the items scattered on the floor were old. The playing cards had yellowed with age, the books spotted with mildew and tanned from the sun. In another corner lay some old daguerreotypes of a woman and a small boy, and an image of a general store and post office with the name “Foster’s Bar” painted on a sign above the door.

Bobby still had his mouth covered with his sleeve. “What is this place?”

Dean nudged the rank sleeping bag with his foot. “Something lives here.”

Bobby glanced around. “Where is that god-awful stench coming from? I don’t see any bodies.”

Sam looked down at the dirt. “Maybe it’s just seeped into the floor. Decomp liquid soaking the soil.”

“You think this is the wendigo’s digs?” Bobby asked. “Not your typical deep, dark cave.”

Dean winced at the stench. “For one thing, where are the bodies?”

A high keening wail sounded on the wind outside.

They fell silent, listening. Sam heard it again, a human cry for help. He hurried to the door of the shack, waiting.

Then it came again, and he could make out the words. “Help me!” A woman’s voice, in the distance.

“Is that—” he started to ask, turning toward Bobby.

“It could be the wendigo,” Bobby answered, joining him at the doorway.

Dean bent down in the dirt, gathering up a tattered notebook and a yellowing envelope. “Let’s bring some of this stuff. Could give us a lead.” He stuffed it into his pack, then slung it on his back. He joined them by the door.

Outside, the woman cried for help again, screaming from somewhere in the distant trees. She was either fighting for her life or it was the wendigo, imitating a human voice and trying to lure them closer.

Sam stepped aside as Dean moved past him, raising the flamethrower. “Let’s do this,” his brother said.

They moved toward the screams, Sam gripping the bottle of gasoline and placing his thumb on the lighter’s striking wheel.

FOUR

Together they crept toward the sound of the woman’s cries. Dean gripped the flamethrower, finger on the trigger. As they neared a dense cluster of trees, the cry suddenly stopped, cut off. Either the creature had just finished her off or there was no woman at all. They listened, pausing. Bobby studied the ground, pointing to more brush with broken branches. Up in the trees, a fresh break had caused a branch to fall. They listened. The reassuring hiss from the blue flame at the tip of the flamethrower was the only sound.

Bobby walked to the fallen branch, then studied the trees above for movement or sign.

“Anything?” Sam asked.

Bobby frowned. “This whole area is riddled with old mines. Thing could be holed up somewhere, right beneath our feet.”

Sam looked down. “That’s a reassuring thought.”

A crack of a branch brought their attention up. Dean saw a blur of movement, leaping from tree to tree, but it was too fast to make out. He aimed the flamethrower up, but the thing was gone before he could fire. He wasn’t exactly excited about the thought of setting the forest alight, either. He had to be careful. As careful as he could be and not end up dead, anyway.

Twenty feet away, high in the branches of a ponderosa, the thing moved again, circling. Bobby poised to throw the cocktail and instinctively the three formed a protective ring, backs to each other.

“When it comes down it’s going to come in fast and furious,” Bobby told them. “Brace yourselves.”

Then the attack came. Dean felt claws slice into his chest as a blur of movement streaked by him. He fired the flamethrower, but it missed its target. He spun around, moving away from Sam and Bobby. Another hit struck him on the back of his head and he went down. Blood streamed into his eye as he staggered to his feet. He heard Bobby cry out and saw Sam fly through the air and slam into a tree. Something growled, wet and hot, next to his ear, and he slammed his fist backward, meeting something fleshy and cold.

Dean brought up the flamethrower. He was going to gank this sucker. Sam wasn’t moving, leaning against the tree with his head sagging. Dean couldn’t even see Bobby. For a moment he feared that the thing had grabbed Bobby and taken to the trees. He heard Bobby shout and looked up, seeing his friend dangling from the wendigo’s arm. Bobby thrashed around, hands closing around the stock of the rifle slung on his back.

How damn strong could it be?

“Bobby!” Dean yelled.

Bobby wriggled the rifle around to the front of his jacket. His finger laced through the trigger and a deafening shot rang out. The bullet tore through the wendigo’s face. Bobby fell, crashing through branches and landing with a thud in a cluster of bushes.

Shrieking, the wendigo leapt down on top of him, claws raised. Another cacophonous boom rang through the forest and the wendigo staggered backward, shotgun pellets embedded in its chest. Sam had recovered and stood to the left, shotgun poised for another round.

Dean saw his chance and ran forward, firing the flamethrower. Bobby groaned and rolled free of the bush. The edge of the fire touched the wendigo’s arm and it howled, moving so fast that Dean could no longer see it. The blur moved into the dense trees, the cry on the wind fading as it ran away.

“It’s getting away!” Sam yelled.

“I see that!” Dean called back. He looked to Bobby, who wasn’t going to be jumping up any time soon to track the wendigo before the trail went cold. “And unless you got something that moves a hell of a lot faster than we do, we won’t catch up.”

Bobby crawled away from the burning bushes. Some of the pine needles were starting to catch and the fire spread. Dean flung down the flamethrower and rushed to his friend, dragging him clear of the flames.

“Damn wendigo messed up my ribs,” Bobby grumbled.

Sam started stamping out the flames and Dean joined him, kicking dirt onto the fire. The pine needles caught unbelievably fast, and Dean took off his coat and started swatting at them.

They were so engrossed in stopping the fire that they didn’t hear the person approach from behind them. Dean heard the cock of a handgun and a voice yelled, “Just what the hell are you boys doing?”

Dean spun around to find himself looking down the barrel of a .38.

FIVE

The ranger stood in a firing stance, pointing the gun at Dean. She was a petite woman with short, efficient blonde hair and an attitude that let Dean know she was not to be messed with. On her back towered a tremendous backcountry pack that looked like it weighed two times more than she did.

“We’re just trying to put the fire out,” Sam told her, holding his palms out in a placating gesture.

She pointed the gun at him. “I heard shots.”

Bobby stood up, wincing in pain. “That was me,” he said. “Caught sight of a buck.”

“And the fire?” she asked.

Dean put on his best well-meaning smile. He knew the flamethrower lay only a few feet away and dared a glance at it. Thankfully, it was obscured by brush. “I accidentally dropped my cigarette.”

“You smoke?” she asked dubiously.

“Oh, yeah. Packs and packs. I’m trying to quit, though,” he added.

“If you jerks are trying to burn game out of the forest, I’m going to cite you for so many tickets you’ll have to mortgage your grandmother’s teeth to pay the fines.”

Dean lifted his hands. “Oh, no. We wouldn’t do that. Bambi is safe with us.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Your friend there just said he took aim at a buck.”

Dean shifted his weight. “Is Bambi a buck?” He looked to his brother for help, and Sam shrugged hopelessly. “I thought Bambi was a… Bambi.”

The ranger lowered her gun, evidently taking them for clueless louts.

“Okay, let’s put this out,” she said. She dropped her huge pack and pulled out a small shovel. She went to work burying the flames in dirt and soon the blaze was extinguished. Her eyes fell on their pile of belongings. Dean had left his bag open, and peeking out were his silver .45, a shotgun, a bottle of holy water, a short sword, a large knife, and more bottles of gasoline for Molotov cocktails.

Bobby’s pack, which was only slightly open, revealed another rifle and the muzzle of a Mossberg pump-action shotgun.

Sam’s pack was zipped. Thank goodness for small miracles, Dean thought.

“You boys are planning quite a party,” she said. “What do you need all these guns for?”

Bobby responded, trying to mask the pain from his ribs. He spoke through clenched teeth and gripped his side nonchalantly. “We heard there was a rogue bear out here. Just wanted to be careful.”

She eyed the stash of weapons. “You have licenses for all these firearms?”

“Of course,” Bobby said cheerfully.

“Pepper spray is more effective against bears,” she told them. “You shoot a bear and ninety percent of the time you’re just going to make it mad.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, officer,” Dean said with as much chipper enthusiasm as he could muster.

“It’s ‘ranger,’” she told him. “Ranger Grace Cumberlin. You boys have a hunting license?”

Bobby reached into his jacket and pulled out a mess of paper and cards. They were all fake, of course, but they were good fakes. Hunters needed a lot of forged papers. Fake I.D.s to get them into morgues and police files, licenses for a vast array of weaponry.

She took the licenses and nodded, satisfied for now. But Dean could tell that she didn’t trust them one bit.

She handed the papers back to Bobby and indicated his side. “You okay?”

“Perfect. Just took a spill.”

“A spill. Uh-huh.”