Supernatural Fresh Meat

by ALICE HENDERSON

  They heard a thump and branches breaking, and at the next set of boulders, Bobby saw blood spatter on the grey of granite. “Here!”

  They stopped. The directionality of the spray pattern showed that whatever had the man was traveling fast to the south. Bobby scanned the horizon in that direction, seeing a blur of movement in the trees some two hundred feet in the distance. “This way!”

  He ran, Sam and Dean just behind him, and another pitiful cry reached them through the trees. Sam brought out his flamethrower, and Dean pulled his .45.

  Bobby followed the blood spray, thick drops of it coating the brush and soil. A syrupy drool of it dribbled down the trunk of a ponderosa in front of them. Bobby scanned the branches above, but didn’t see any movement. They spread out a little, not going too far from each other, but enough that they could scan different parts of the forest.

  “Anything?” Sam called to Bobby.

  “Nothing.”

  “Me, either,” Dean called.

  They met back together and stood for a long time, straining to hear anything in the distance. Somewhere a woodpecker thrummed against a tree trunk. A raven flew by, its wing noise making Bobby start. It landed near the blood, gurgling in the weird way ravens do.

  Bobby moved outward in concentric circles, hoping to pick up the blood trail again, but it seemed to stop suddenly. If the thing had been leaping from tree to tree, the blood would have been visible. It was as if the victim had simply vanished.

  “Maybe I missed something,” he said. “Let’s go back to where the blood trail started.”

  They started back.

  A sudden rustling in the brush made them all pull out their guns and point them toward the sound.

  Ranger Grace Cumberlin appeared, the same gigantic pack on her back. Instantly they lowered their guns. She stopped. “You boys make more of a ruckus than an explosion in a fireworks factory. I could hear you a quarter mile away.” She glanced around, studying the forest. “What are you doing out here?”

  “We told you,” Sam said. “Hunting deer.”

  She eyed Dean’s gleaming, stainless handgun. “You’re hunting deer with a .45?”

  He gave her his best nonchalant smile and put the gun away.

  She glanced nervously at each of them, her hand on the butt of her service pistol. “Something about you boys isn’t right.” She spotted the flamethrowers strapped on Sam and Dean’s backs. “I think it’s time you leveled with me. You’re not deer hunters. You’re no more deer hunters than my aunt Lulu who collects Bambi figurines.”

  Bobby stepped forward. Grace clutched the butt of her revolver, and he held his hands up to indicate he meant no harm. “I’m going to reach into my jacket to get my I.D.”

  “Do it slow.”

  Carefully he fished out his F.B.I. credentials and held them out for her. “I’m Special Agent Cash, and these are Agents Plant and Young.” He nodded his head toward Dean and Sam respectively. “We’re out here investigating the recent rash of deaths. We don’t think it’s a rogue bear.”

  She studied his I.D. and then took her hand away from her gun. “Oh, you don’t, do you?”

  “No ma’am,” Dean said. “What can you tell us about these disappearances?”

  “First tell me why you need a flamethrower to take down this guy.”

  “It’s for intimidation,” Dean said awkwardly. “And back to my question? What can you tell us?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. I don’t really follow the case.”

  “How can that be? You patrol these woods.”

  “Lots of people go missing every year, Agent Plant, and it’s not due to bears or serial killers. They’re just stupid. Not enough water. No backcountry experience. No proper clothing in case of a storm. You boys got proper clothing? Rain gear? Emergency blankets?”

  “We’re prepared,” Dean told her.

  “Besides, we’re just out here to look around today, not make camp,” Bobby told her.

  “That’s just what I mean. The weather in the Sierra Nevadas can change on a dime. The day can start out sunny and warm and end up in the teens with snow. Then you’d go missing, or turn up dead in some ravine.”

  “That’s a… cheerful thought,” Dean said.

  Sam had been quiet, studying her. Finally he said, “So you haven’t heard anything about the attacks? Not even the couple who were escorted out of here recently? The ones with the kid?”

  “They didn’t tell me anything about it when I last radioed in. That’s really not my department. I mainly check permits, give people directions, do first aid if it’s needed.”

  Branches broke behind them and they all spun, Bobby ready to blow the source of the sound away. But it wasn’t a wendigo. A man, completely naked and covered with blood, marched out of the bushes, staring straight ahead.

  TWELVE

  The naked man marched right past, taking no notice of them, eyes glassy and staring. Bobby automatically stepped out of the way as he continued in a straight line toward the south.

  “What in the world?” Bobby breathed.

  As he passed the ranger, she lit out after him. “Sir?” she asked.

  He didn’t respond, just kept walking. Sam saw that his body was covered with strange marks, like stab wounds that had closed up. He hurried to catch up with Grace, Bobby and Dean following.

  Nearer now, he saw that the wounds were sealed with some kind of glistening adhesive, almost like super glue. Deep gashes covered the man’s chest, stomach, and kidneys.

  “Sir?” Grace tried again.

  Still he marched onward.

  She shucked off her jacket and draped it over his shoulders. If he felt the gesture, he didn’t give any indication. He walked right through a bush, the branches scratching his legs. Bile and blood dribbled down his back from one of the wounds.

  “I’ve got to get him back,” Grace told them.

  “He might be our vic.,” Bobby said, “the one who disappeared this morning.”

  “I’ll see that he reaches help.”

  The man tripped on a log, regained his balance, and kept walking.

  “I’ll go with you,” Bobby offered.

  “That really isn’t necessary.”

  The man walked face-first into a tree trunk, stepped to the side, and continued on.

  “I really think I should. I need to question him.”

  “I don’t think this guy’s going to be fit for questioning any time soon.”

  “Still,” Bobby insisted, “I’d like to help.”

  “Fine,” Grace said coldly. “But hurry up.”

  Sam and Dean walked alongside them. Sam stared around the forest, feeling eyes on him. “Agent Plant and I should stay out here, keep looking for signs of the killer.”

  “Good idea,” Bobby said. “I’ll call you when I learn something.”

  Sam nodded at him and watched as he disappeared over the next rise with the ranger and the marching man. He pulled out the map. “We need to make camp, Dean. We’re dead center where the attacks have been happening.”

  Dean looked around. “Some place defensible.”

  They walked around, settling on a flat spot where they would be able to see anything approach. No trees stood overhead, so they could avoid surprise drop-in visits this time.

  Sam built a fire while Dean walked around the perimeter, setting up an early warning system with some tripwire so they could hear anything approach on foot.

  The sun sank low and cold came with the darkness. Sam could smell sage on the wind. They sat down on their sleeping bags, watching the smoke rise and curl up into the black sky. The embers glowed bright yellow and orange and Sam watched them pulse and fade.

  Something rustled in the bushes and they leapt up, braced for a fight. A doe came through the underbrush, stepped over a log, and stared at them.

  “It’s just Bambi,” Dean said.

  “That’s Bambi’s mother.”

  The deer disappeared back into the underbrush. They sat down a
gain, tense, waiting, trying to conserve their strength. The stars came out, more dazzling than Sam had ever seen before. The Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, a glowing cloud of light.

  Dean made a line of Molotov cocktails next to the fire, waiting to be lit. Sam fiddled with his flamethrower, checking it for the twentieth time in the last hour.

  In the distance they heard a swooping noise, like a huge bird sweeping over the forest. It faded away.

  “Did you hear that?” Sam asked.

  Dean nodded, getting to his feet.

  The noise of beating wings returned, louder than ever. Sam jumped up, eyes scanning the starlit sky. The beating grew thunderous and Sam spun around, trying to find the source. “What the hell?” Then it faded, tapering away softly, the wing beats barely discernable.

  Sam was just looking back to Dean with a shrug when something blocked out the sky above him. Where stars had been, a dark shape descended, reptilian wings outspread. Glowing coppery eyes gleamed in the darkness. At the last second, two clawed feet whipped out and caught Sam by the shoulders. Talons hooked into the flesh below his collarbones. He cried out, thrashing, grabbing at the leathery feet. White-hot pain erupted in his chest muscles as the claws tore through him. The thing wrenched violently to one side, and Sam struggled to keep his balance. As he thrashed, he felt his feet leave the ground. He kicked, feeling pebbles cast away from his boots, then suddenly his feet swung free. He grabbed his knife out of his jeans pocket. Stabbing upward, he felt the blade sink into the tough flesh of an ankle. Warm liquid rained down over Sam’s hand and dribbled thickly onto his head. He dared a look down, seeing twenty feet of yawning space between him and the ground.

  “Sam!” Dean yelled, rushing forward. He slung his flamethrower around to his back and pulled out his rifle.

  Sam tried to look up, to make out what had him, but he couldn’t see anything more than a black silhouette against the stars.

  He heard the crack of a rifle, then another shot, and suddenly the thing banked and weaved. The pain in Sam’s shoulders erupted and he bit back a cry. It felt like any second his collarbones would snap and the claws would tear through his muscle, sending him crashing to the earth.

  As the creature banked rapidly to the left, another rifle shot rang out. It pitched forward. Sam watched as the ground sped toward him, alarmingly fast, too fast, and a huge, jagged rock loomed up in the foreground. He was going to hit it. Face first. He clenched his teeth against the pain as he careened toward the granite. Air streamed over him, causing his eyes to tear up. Sam put his legs out, hoping to buffer the crash, and suddenly the thing turned. For a moment it hovered, rising and lowering in the air with each powerful flap of its wings. Every time they sank and rose again, Sam could feel his flesh tearing.

  Then the talons slid out and he plummeted downward. The last thing he saw before he hit was Dean whirling around to fire the rifle again, while the dark shape closed in on him.

  THIRTEEN

  Dean fired the rifle, unable to make out the creature’s dimensions in the dark. He thought he managed to hit it at least once, but it sure as hell wasn’t slowing the thing down.

  Sam landed hard next to a fallen log, and Dean started backing away, hoping to lure the creature in his direction. “C’mon, you son of a bitch!” he shouted.

  He felt a blast of air from its wings before he heard it. Clawed feet knocked him flat on a bed of pine needles and branches. He clutched his rifle to his chest, rolled, and got up on one knee. He didn’t see his attacker. If the thing would just get low enough, maybe he’d be able to spot it against the trees. Fighting something jet black against the night sky was not getting the job done.

  Another whoosh of air blasted him from behind and a sharp pain bloomed in his arm as the creature grabbed him and threw him like a sack of wet noodles.

  Dean’s left arm windmilled as he flew through the air, but he managed to keep hold of the rifle. His back hit a tree trunk and he slid down the rough bark. He landed hard on his side, brought up the gun, and fired it point-blank into the dark shape above him.

  Nothing. Not even a whimper.

  A blinding wave of fire erupted to Dean’s left. Sam stood with his flamethrower, the entire arc of fire enveloping the creature.

  “Right on!” Dean shouted, jumping to his feet and punching a fist into the air. “Nice going, Sam!”

  The dark shape shook, wings flapping as it rose into the sky. It darted to the left so fast Dean didn’t actually see it move. Then it darted back to the right. The flames went out.

  Dean pulled out his .45 and fired the entire clip into the creature while Sam hit it with another blast of fire.

  It rose higher, wings beating in the darkness. Running back to his pack, Dean found his shotgun loaded with rock salt, then ran back. With a deafening blast, he fired two rounds into the creature as it tried to fan out the flames. Plummeting backward, it fell to the ground, its feet kicking. Dean saw a glimpse of leathery flesh, narrowed, coppery eyes and a hulking torso of muscle. Then it took to the air again, wings outspread.

  Dean grabbed more shells out of his jacket pocket and opened the breech of the gun. When he snapped it together again, the creature had vanished in the darkness. He and Sam waited, braced, staring into the sky. The wing beats grew louder and Dean aimed the muzzle of his shotgun at the sky, searching the surrounding trees, waiting for the telltale silhouette to block out the stars. The whoosh of air sounded louder and louder. Dean knew it was on top of them, somewhere, waiting to swoop in for another attack.

  Then the sound stopped.

  He got out his flashlight and shone it at the tops of the trees. But the thing hadn’t landed, at least not that he could see.

  They waited, moving closer, till they stood back to back.

  “Nothing hurt it,” Sam said. “Not bullets, not iron, not fire.”

  “Or rock salt.” Dean pointed in the direction it had disappeared. “What the hell was that? A friggin’ pterodactyl? It sure as hell wasn’t a wendigo.”

  Blood seeped down Sam’s chest and back. He could feel it soaking through his shirt. “That thing could fly, Dean.”

  “I noticed! It was ready to carry your ass off to feed its little dinosaur babies.”

  “What the hell was it?” Sam sounded a little shaken. “I’ve never heard of something that could do that. Have you? It had talons and leathery wings. And it didn’t make a sound. Even when I stabbed it, and you shot it.”

  “And you set it on fire.”

  Dean rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. “Whatever it is, we’re going to find out how to kill it and finish this job.” He pulled out his cell to call Bobby, but couldn’t get any reception.

  “I think I might need some stitches this time,” Sam said.

  “Let’s go. I can’t reach Bobby. We need to figure out what this thing is.” Dean checked his .45, then slung the rifle onto his back. Sam winced as he gathered his gear up. Then they hiked into the darkness, searching the sky.

  FOURTEEN

  Bobby and Grace finally reached her truck, parked at the Finder Mountain Trailhead. The man still hadn’t said anything.

  They had to fight to get him into the cab of the truck. He only wanted to walk forward. Finally, Bobby bound his legs together and hefted him onto the bench seat. The man stared forward, eyes blank, his legs continuing to move as if he were walking. He kicked the gearshift and kept shuffling his legs. Grace hurried around to the driver side and Bobby squeezed in next to the man. They had draped Grace’s jacket over him, but because he refused to stay still, that was all they could do. He reeked of old blood and something else, a chemical smell Bobby couldn’t place.

  “Can you hear me?” Bobby asked him for the tenth time as Grace fired up the truck. She pulled out onto the gravel road. “What’s wrong with him? I mean, other than shock?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it—those cuts all over him.”

  “They’re not cuts, they’re punctu
re wounds.”

  The truck jostled over a pothole, but the man seemed oblivious. He kicked the gearshift again, knocking it into neutral, and Grace cursed. “This is taking too long. We need to get him medical attention a.s.a.p.”

  The gravel road ended at a county highway and she turned toward Truckee, accelerating quickly. Bobby studied her face as she drove. Her chin stuck out defiantly and her cheek held a smear of mud. Her hands on the steering wheel were sticky with the man’s blood.

  She drove faster. Soon the lights of Truckee gleamed on the horizon. A few minutes later they pulled into the ambulance entrance of the E.R. Bobby stepped out and called to two nearby paramedics. “A man’s been hurt.”

  They rushed over, gently pulling the man from the cab of the truck. “What happened?” one asked.

  Grace stepped around to join them. “We don’t know. Found him like this up on Finder Mountain Trail.”

  “Why are his legs tied together?” one of the paramedics asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

  “He wouldn’t stop walking,” she told him. “We had to do that to get him in the truck.”

  One paramedic rushed off and returned with a gurney. They lifted him onto the stretcher and he kicked, trying to walk. His eyes stared upward, glassy and blank.

  Grace and Bobby followed them in, watching while an E.R. doctor took over. He wheeled the man into an examination area and pulled a blue sheet across for privacy. Bobby and Grace stood waiting tensely on the other side.

  They didn’t wait long. The doctor threw open the blue curtain and called, “Code Blue! Crash cart, stat!”

  Bobby peered in to where the man lay on the bed, still moving his legs, then moved aside as the code team rushed in. They performed C.P.R. and used the defibrillator, but the man continued to flatline.

  “Doctor,” one nurse said, “why is he still moving?”

  “It must be some reaction,” he told her, his eyes wild.

  Grace stopped a paramedic as he left the tiny area. “What’s happening?”