Supernatural

by ALICE HENDERSON

  Be grateful for little things, he thought, like not suffocating in a cleft in a rock or having to cut your own foot off.

  Dean leant sideways and reached down with grasping fingers to grab the sack of eggs. A bit further in, the lip of rock his foot had gotten trapped under met the ground. Plenty of dirt had gathered there over the years. The space was too tight to bend over in, so he dug with his feet. Gouging out dirt with his boot toe, Dean created a trench.

  The loose soil piled up at his feet. The work sent sprays of earth up into the tiny confines and Dean spat out the bittersweet taste of dirt. He started to sweat under all his winter layers. Every few minutes, the wind blew a welcome gust of cold air his way.

  Finally, the trench was deep enough for the eggs. He pushed the sack in with his boot, then kicked the soil back over it. When it was done, he turned his head and started out of the cleft, taking care not to step down into the lip again.

  After a few minutes of squeezing and crawling, his head came out into the open. A white haze had consumed the forest. Dean could barely make out tree trunks only a few feet away. The wind blew even stronger, swirling snow up into a ground blizzard of ice needles that stung his eyes, making them tear.

  He knew which direction the stream lay in, but couldn’t see it at all. Hefting himself free of the crevice, he fell into almost hip-deep snow. He trudged in the direction of the stream, each step a tiring effort. He heard the water before he saw it, glad to locate the burbling little river.

  Hiking downriver, he hoped he’d recognize where he should break off to get back to the cabin. He worried about Sam and Bobby, wondering if they were out in the storm looking for him. Once it died down, he’d go back to the car and contact them.

  The storm had bleached the world of its color. The trees were no longer green, their trunks no longer brown or red. The world had gone monochromatic, a glass painting backdrop from a black-and-white 1930s film.

  As he struggled back to the cabin, he wondered if the aswang could survive in a storm like this, or if it, too, would be seeking shelter. Dean felt the reassuring weight of the spice container inside his jacket. He hoped that the reason it hadn’t worked on the eggs was their encasing shell. If it didn’t work at all, he was in serious trouble.

  THIRTY-ONE

  For the tenth time in five minutes, Sam looked at his phone’s clock. “We’re not going to get there before dark.”

  Bobby peered ahead at the line of cars in front of them. Tail lights burned through the haze of snow. “I know.”

  They’d just crawled through Emigrant Gap, and Bobby knew it took more than thirty minutes to reach Truckee on a good day. At this rate, they wouldn’t get there for another hour and a half or more.

  The sun still hung above the peaks to the west, but soon it would dip low. Not that it mattered; they’d hike out in the middle of the night if they had to. With agonizing slowness, the line of traffic ascended and descended, working through the mountains into the town of Truckee. As the gloaming set in, Bobby spied Donner Lake on the right, gleaming in the last of the light.

  “We’re close.”

  They peeled off at one of the first exits, near the Donner Party memorial. Bobby saw the statue rising on the side of the road, the brave figure of a man and woman with two little children.

  To avoid more traffic, they took side streets toward the main road that led to the trailhead and the ski slopes beyond. When they got there, two sheriff’s department SUVs blocked the road.

  As Bobby approached, a deputy stepped out of his car and held up his hand, telling him to stop. He slowed to a halt and rolled the window down.

  “What’s going on?” Bobby asked the deputy.

  “Road’s closed, sir. You can’t go through this way.”

  “Why?”

  “Avalanche danger. Whole mountain’s ready to go.” He sized them up. “You folks headed up to ski?”

  Bobby shook his head. “Hike.”

  “At night?”

  Sam leaned over. “We’re backcountry campers.”

  The deputy looked over his shoulder at the forest and mountains beyond. “Well, it’s going to be a while before you can go up there. The ski resort’s in the middle of evacuating all its guests. All those backcountry sites at the bottom of the slope are in extreme avalanche danger. I’m afraid we just can’t allow any hikers in there right now.”

  Bobby frowned. “How long until we can?”

  The deputy looked pensive. “Storm’s supposed to last at least two more days. Avalanche control is coming up with a plan for some controlled slides, but for now I suggest you find lodging in Truckee and check in with the sheriff’s station tomorrow.”

  Sam leaned across again to look at the deputy, flipping open his F.B.I. credentials. “Here’s the truth. This is an emergency. We have an agent out there tracking a homicide suspect, and we were supposed to meet him.”

  The ranger stared at his badge. “I’m sorry, but Feds or not, I can’t let anyone in. It’s just too dangerous. You say your colleague is out there right now?” The obvious worry in the ranger’s eyes did nothing to settle their unease.

  “Yes,” Bobby told him.

  “You should go check with the rangers then. They were patrolling the area, bringing in hikers. Your agent might be at the station.”

  If only, Bobby thought grimly, but said, “We’ll do that.”

  The deputy wrapped his knuckles on the car door. “All right then, folks. Good luck to you. Stay warm.”

  “You, too,” Sam told him.

  As Bobby backed up the car and turned around, he glanced at Sam in the growing darkness. “This isn’t good.”

  “We have to get to the ranger station. Maybe Dean is there.”

  Bobby nodded, but he didn’t let on to Sam that he thought that was about as likely as a junkyard dog ignoring a T-bone steak. There was no way Dean would have let a ranger evacuate him when the aswang was out there killing people.

  He just hoped the storm hadn’t gotten to Dean first.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The air smelled crisp and wet, and Dean’s breath frosted in the air as he labored onward. He reached the part of the creek where he thought he should angle off for the cabin. Eyes searching the forest, he tried to spy smoke from the chimney, but could only see the low cloud layer.

  He sniffed, detecting wood smoke, and followed the scent, but the wind tugged and pushed him, blowing the smoke wildly in all directions, and Dean had a tough time pinning down where it came from. He walked in a large semicircle, trying to keep the scent in front of him, losing it from time to time in the gusts.

  Finally, he saw the cabin appear out of the ethereal grey haze. He stood next to a tree for several minutes, studying it for any hint of movement. The door was still closed, smoke still billowing out of the chimney. If the aswang had returned, it wasn’t walking by any of the windows.

  He walked toward the front door. The smear of blood still covered the wood. He pushed it open, finding the place as empty as before.

  Dean took up a seat by the fire, pulling out the spice concoction to keep it at the ready. He could feel the heat stealing over his skin, thawing out his blood. He watched the door, tensed for a confrontation. Slowly, as he warmed up, the tension spilled out of him. His eyelids grew heavy. He jerked himself awake a few times, then sank into an exhausted doze.

  He started awake at a loud pounding noise and sprang up, hand tightening around the vial of spices. He glanced around the room, his heart hammering. Waiting for the sound again, he became aware that darkness had settled in and the fire had died. Now just glowing embers, it cast long eerie shadows around the room.

  The sound didn’t repeat. He wondered if he’d dreamed it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d startled himself awake with a terrifying nightmare. He waited a few more minutes, then patrolled through the bedroom and bathroom, ensuring he was still alone. When he didn’t find anything, he returned to the fireplace and threw more logs on the embers. They caught quic
kly, brightening the room.

  Dean sat down again. He considered going outside and checking the perimeter, but decided that being lured out wasn’t the best idea. If he was going to fight the aswang alone, he may as well do it where he’d be warm.

  Five minutes later, something heavy landed on the roof. There was a pause, then the sound of something heavy slamming down. Dean supposed it could be clumps of snow falling off tree branches onto the roof. Then came another thump and another. Something was walking up there.

  Soot sifted down the chimney, raining over the fire.

  Dean moved away from the hearth, gripping the bottle of spices. There was a scrabbling sound and more black char scattered downward. The thing was coming down the chimney like some kind of perverse Santa Claus.

  Dean backed up, leaving plenty of room to launch the bottle. He only had one shot and hoped a little went a long way. Taking a stance in the center of the living room, he braced himself for combat.

  A big clump of ash smothered the flames in half the fireplace. Scrabbling erupted inside the chimney, pieces of mortar and brick cascading down.

  Then a sudden crash rang out to Dean’s left, and the aswang came smashing through the window. A hooked wing caught Dean in the side of the head and he went down, falling against the edge of the couch. Ash and cold wind spiraled in a gale around the room. Dean jumped up as it darted at him. Hooked claws gouged a wad of stuffing out of the couch.

  Dean dumped some of the concoction on the aswang’s chest and it howled, the first sound Dean had heard it utter.

  The creature whipped around, fixing glowing coppery eyes on Dean. Primal fear washed over him, but he stood his ground. He’d never seen anything like it in all his years as a hunter, and now, in the gleaming firelight, he got his first good look. It was muscular and huge, more than six feet tall, with membranous wings that pulsed with veins, recalling the shells of its eggs. Each wing was tipped at its joint with a fearsome four-inch black chitinous claw. Its head was slender, with tremendous bat ears that quivered at every sound. A long, snaking proboscis emerged from a hole where the mouth should be, which sucked and pulsed, revealing a ring of serrated teeth. The eyes were vertical black pupils in orbs of copper. It stared at Dean with seething hatred.

  It was one ugly son of a bitch.

  Moving faster than Dean could track, it darted forward, ripping at his jacket with its talons. The material shredded and the weight of the blow sent him crashing back over the end of the couch. He landed hard on his head, then slammed over onto his back. Struggling to right himself, he barely had time to react before it landed squarely on his hips, pinning him down. He twisted under the weight.

  Jerking to a sitting position, he threw it off balance and it staggered across the floor. Dean swept his leg out, kicking its foot out from under it. The aswang crashed down, and Dean brought his fist up and punched it squarely in the trachea. Making a strangled gargling noise, it staggered backward as he leapt up. He launched another spray of the spice mixture at it, but it darted to one side.

  It shot out of the window.

  He could hear its wings beating very softly at first, then louder and louder. It must be circling the building. He moved to the exact center of the room, pivoting to face the windows on opposite sides of the cabin. The wing flaps sounded closer and more intense, and he braced himself, ready for it to burst in again.

  Then the wings grew quieter and quieter, fading into the distance. It was moving away. He’d won for now. He let his shoulders slump forward and exhaled.

  A wave of fire shot out of the fireplace, raining black soot all over him and the room. The aswang erupted from the flue like an arrow. Dean staggered backward as it collided with his chest, sending him sprawling into the kitchen area. He slammed into the Formica counter, winded. The aswang sneered down at him, the long proboscis attaching onto his face. A sticky wet tongue tasted his skin, then it started inhaling, vacuuming the sweat and grime off his face and leaving a sticky residue behind. Dean felt the graze of teeth.

  His grasping hands reached into a drawer and pulled out a steak knife. He drove it hard into the creature’s stomach. It jerked away.

  Dean darted out of reach and headed toward the bedroom, spices at the ready again.

  The aswang put a gnarled hand to its bleeding stomach. Then it snapped its gaze up, staring at Dean with utter contempt. With the hook of a wing, it wrenched open the cabinet under the sink. For a second it stood there, unmoving, staring at the empty cupboard, then it wheeled on Dean, enraged.

  Dean closed in, showering it with another dose of the spice concoction. It let out a cry of agony, skin bubbling and blistering on impact. With a screech of rage, it exploded back out through the shattered window.

  The sound of its beating wings, faint at first, grew louder as it flew away, and Dean suddenly realized why he and Sam had been so disoriented before when they listened for it. The closer it was, the quieter its wings sounded. People would let their guard down, thinking it was gone.

  Sneaky son of a bitch!

  Dean ran to the shattered window and stared upward, trying to see it in the sky, but only the grey swirls of the snowstorm greeted him.

  He turned back to the fireplace, trying to clear some of the debris from the hearth while staying vigilant. Twenty minutes passed quietly. The embers started to go out, and he didn’t have another match. He put more logs on and stoked it with the poker. He only had to stay warm tonight, and then, when the storm broke tomorrow, he’d hike out.

  A sudden pounding on the cabin door made him jump. He spun, staring at the closed door. More pounding erupted on the other side. Someone was knocking. He approached cautiously, peeking his head out of the broken window to see who it was. He couldn’t make out a face, just a hooded figure in a storm parka and a huge backcountry pack. Grace.

  He hurried to the door and opened it.

  “Agent Plant?” she breathed, staggering inside in a pair of ice-caked snowshoes. She took the pack off, letting it slide to the floor, then fell to her knees beside it.

  “Under the circumstances, maybe you can call me Dean?” He knelt down beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Lost. Dean.” She shook the snow off her hood and lowered it. “I can’t believe it, but I got lost out there. I’ve never seen a storm come up this fast.”

  She stared around the cabin, eyes landing on the fire. “Oh, fire. Can you help me over there?”

  He hooked a hand under her arm and hefted her up. She crossed the room in her snowshoes and collapsed on the stone hearth. Peeling off her soaked mittens and warming her fingers in the heat, she said, “Oh, this is blissful.”

  After a moment, she removed her winter hat and looked up at him. “Saw the light from the cabin.” Her eyes drifted from Dean’s face to the shattered window behind him. “What happened?”

  “Tree limb crashed through the window earlier.” No need to tell his secrets. Besides, he didn’t want to alarm her if the aswang wasn’t coming back.

  “This is the worst storm I’ve ever seen.” She bent over, unbuckling her snowshoes. “Normally, I wouldn’t have been carrying these things, but I was planning to do some snowshoeing in the high country on my day off. Didn’t think I’d need them at this elevation.”

  She shrugged out of her storm parka, then out of the fluffy fleece jacket she wore underneath.

  “You certainly have a lot of layers.”

  “Always be prepared for anything up here.”

  He stared down at her snowshoes. “Well, I could have used a pair of those out there today.”

  She glanced around. “Whose cabin is this, anyway?”

  Dean shrugged. “I have no idea. I happened across it, too. There are no photos, no personal mementos. Haven’t you been up this way before?”

  She shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure where ‘this way’ is. Batteries on my GPS went out two hours ago, and the replacement ones went dead in the cold. I have a map, but with the cloud ceiling so lo
w, I couldn’t get my bearings by finding any landmarks.” She studied the layout of the place. “It’s probably a rental if it’s so anonymous. There are a few up here.” She wiggled her fingers in the heat of the fire. “That’s good for you. It means they probably have a storage shed with skis, toboggans, snowshoes, all kinds of stuff for the tourists.”

  Dean hoped she was right. Come dawn, he’d look around the place for any outbuildings.

  She sighed, leaning back against the stones. “Man, I’m glad I found you. I can’t tell you how many times I kept thinking about being out there, lost, with that killer on the loose. Overactive imaginations and backcountry rangers are a bad combination.” She glanced around. “Where are your partners?”

  Dean thought of an easy lie. “They had to chase down another lead on the coast. Lucky bastards missed the storm.”

  He sat on the other side of the fireplace, watching Grace. She was calm for someone who had come so close to spending a night out in the storm. Maybe that was due to her training.

  He let his shoulders relax. His arm where he’d gotten stitches pulsed with pain.

  She closed her eyes, tilting her head back. “I didn’t relish the thought of building a snow cave. This is much better.”

  Feeling incredibly drowsy suddenly, Dean stood up, pulling a quilt off the back of the couch.

  “What are you doing?”

  He nodded toward the broken window. “I need to do something about this, or soon it won’t be that much warmer in here than outside.”

  She stood up. “Let me help you.”

  Dean retrieved some nails and a hammer he’d seen earlier in one of the kitchen drawers, and they nailed the blanket around the window frame. He stepped back, admiring their work. “Good as new.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “Yeah. Good as new.”

  She lay down on the couch then, crossing her legs. “I’m going to get some shut-eye.”