by Tim Waggoner
Paeon rushed into the room then, hair mussed, sweat pouring off him, clothes torn and smeared with gray-green stains. He lunged forward and grabbed Blight from behind, putting the other god in a headlock and pulling him away from Lena. Blight dropped his club and reached up with both of his large hands and grabbed hold of Paeon’s arm in an attempt to break Paeon’s grip. But Paeon held fast, and the two gods stood in the middle of the room in temporary stalemate.
“Run, Lena!” Paeon ordered. “Quickly, before he breaks free!”
Up to this point, Lena had managed to keep her fear at bay by forcing herself to approach this situation as if it were nothing more than a medical problem to solve. But her control over her emotions was rapidly failing, and she could feel the first stirrings of panic within her. If she didn’t do as Paeon commanded and get out of here, there was an excellent chance she would die, caught in the crossfire as the two gods warred. It was something of a miracle that she hadn’t been killed already. But she looked at Bill then and saw that he lay motionless once more, eyes closed. She was confident that he was only unconscious, but how much longer could he live without treatment? If she ran now, Bill would die, and it would be her fault for stabbing him. The Hippocratic oath told doctors that, above all, they should do no harm. Well, she’d done plenty of harm to that man, and she couldn’t bring herself to abandon him. So she remained where she was and tried to think clearly. There had to be some way for Paeon to defeat Blight, but what—
It came to her then. Blight was like a parasite and if you couldn’t remove a parasite chemically or surgically, there was only one way left to kill it, the most ancient way of all.
With fire.
She had nothing to start a fire with, but even if she had, would it be enough to harm Blight?
“Paeon!” she shouted. “Fire! Use fire!”
She had no idea if Paeon’s caduceus could do anything other than heal, but if it could affect the organic matter that comprised Blight’s body and raise its temperature high enough…
Paeon locked gazes with her, puzzled at first, but then understanding came into his eyes, and he smiled and nodded. He maintained his headlock on Blight and with his other hand extended the caduceus. Not toward the other god, however. Toward Bill.
The caduceus glowed a bright yellow, and without warning Bill’s body burst into flame. The agony brought him out of unconsciousness, and he screamed and thrashed on the table. Paeon spun Blight toward Bill and shoved him forward. The god stumbled and fell onto the burning man, and the green-gray fungus that was his body ignited as if it had been soaked in gasoline. Blight bellowed in pain and rage, and his cries joined with Bill’s. Flames rose to the ceiling, producing noxious black smoke that gave Lena a coughing fit. As she struggled to breathe, she watched as Paeon walked over to where Blight had dropped his tree-branch club, bent down, and picked it up.
Blight fell backwards, pulling Bill’s body with him. They landed in a burning heap on the floor and lay there, moaning as flames consumed them. Paeon stepped over to the bodies, looked at them for a moment, and then with a single thrust stabbed the tree branch downward, piercing both their bodies. An instant later, both Bill and Blight fell silent and remained that way. Paeon stepped back and gestured with his caduceus. It glowed briefly, and the flames rising upward from man and god diminished until they were gone, leaving behind a charred, smoking mound.
Lena—still coughing, eyes watering, and throat burning—couldn’t tell where Bill ended and Blight began. A moment later, part of the mound began to glow with a bright white light. The light detached itself, formed a sphere, and then shot toward Paeon, striking him in the chest. The impact caused him to sway a little, but otherwise, it appeared to do him no harm. To the contrary, he seemed invigorated, and Lena could feel power emanating from him.
She thought she understood what had happened. Paeon had defeated Blight, and Blight’s power became his. In the end, there shall be One.
Paeon tucked the caduceus away in his coat pocket before turning to give Lena a smile. He was no longer sweating, and his clothes were clean and looked as if they’d been freshly pressed. He wasn’t just re-energized; he had been renewed.
“That was a little closer than I might’ve liked, but I suppose I didn’t do all that badly considering it was my first battle,” Paeon said. “What do you think, Lena?”
Her voice came out as a raspy croak. “Why are you just standing there? Do something to help Bill!”
Paeon’s smile fell away. “I’m truly sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for him. He is beyond my power.”
“You mean he’s dead,” she said bitterly.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not the slightest bit sorry about that? You used him to help you defeat Blight. You actually set him on fire!”
Paeon shrugged. “It was your idea.”
“I meant for you to do it to Blight!”
She was yelling now, and Paeon’s brow furrowed. When he next spoke, his voice was tight and low, as if he were holding back anger.
“My ability to affect the physiology of another of my kind is limited at the moment, but the same is not true of humans. I was able to rapidly heat the oxygen in the man’s cells, which produced the desired effect.”
“Bill. His name was Bill.”
Paeon scowled. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Lena.”
“I don’t appreciate that you killed one of your patients! He came to you for healing!”
“Perhaps. He also may have aided Blight willingly.” He glanced back at Bill’s blackened corpse. “We will never know, unfortunately.”
“How could you do that?” she demanded.
Paeon’s gaze became arctic-cold. “It was a matter of survival. Would you rather I had set you aflame?”
Lena didn’t answer.
“I thought not. Besides, what does one life matter when compared with all those I will be able to save in the future, thanks to his—to Bill’s—sacrifice?”
“It’s not a sacrifice if you can’t choose it.”
“I am done arguing with you. We have patients waiting for us. I do not believe any of them or any of your staff was injured during my battle with Blight, but I want to make sure. Let us go.”
He started toward the door, stepping over Bill’s corpse to get there, but Lena made no move to follow him. When he realized this, he stopped and turned back to her.
“I said, let us go.”
“I thought you were a god,” Lena said. “But you’re really just a monster, aren’t you?”
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to come to a decision. Then he brought out his caduceus once more and pointed it at her.
“Who said I cannot be both?”
A black glow surrounded the mystic object this time, and Lena felt her body explode with pain. She slumped to the floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and rolled onto her side. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse erratic, and it felt like every cell of her body was bursting with agony.
“I have afflicted you with every cancer known to humankind,” Paeon said, “along with a few you have yet to discover. I would think that as an oncologist, you would find this a fascinating experience.”
Lena was in so much pain that she could barely understand Paeon’s words.
“Please…” she breathed, the word almost inaudible. “Make it stop.”
Paeon came over, once more stepping over Bill’s body to do so, and knelt by her side.
“From now on, you shall do as I say, without question and hesitation. Is that clear?” When she didn’t respond, he repeated, slowly, “Is. That. Clear?”
“Y—yes.”
Paeon smiled. “Good.”
The caduceus’s golden glow filled her vision, and just like that, the pain was gone. But not the memory of it, though. That would remain with her always, just as Paeon wished it—as a reminder.
Paeon stood and reached down to offer her his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she to
ok it and allowed him to help her stand.
“Now, let’s get back to work, shall we?”
Paeon headed for the door, and this time Lena followed obediently. He stepped over Bill once again, but Lena detoured around the man’s body, unable to bring herself to look at it anymore.
Once in the hallway, Paeon wrinkled his nose.
“Have your staff remove the body. It’s producing a most unpleasant odor.” He paused, then added, “Tell them to open some windows, too.”
SIX
Sam is sitting next to Gretchen Underwood on the side of a hill, between a pair of large elm trees—the same spot where they sat yesterday, and the day before that. They’re wearing flannel shirts, jeans, and thin jackets. The weather’s cool, especially with all the shade provided by the trees, and although Sam would prefer to have a heavier jacket, he doesn’t mind the temperature all that much. It’s a small price to pay to get to spend time alone with Gretchen.
It’s closing in on noon, and Sam’s getting hungry. They’ve got food—sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, cans of soda, some cheese crackers and packages of cookies for snacks—stored in a khaki backpack lying on the ground nearby. They’ve also got weapons. Sam has a .38 handgun which Julie loaned him, and Gretchen has a bolt-action rifle. The rifle has a scope, and Gretchen is lying on the ground, sighting through it. She’s watching the stream at the bottom of the hill, several dozen yards from their current position. The .38 is tucked into the back of Sam’s pants. He’s sitting cross-legged, and the gun feels too tight against his skin, but he does his best to ignore the sensation. No way is he going to remove the gun and lay it on the ground. His dad taught him that you never put down a weapon when you’re on a hunt.
The most important thing to remember about hunting is that it goes both ways. Whatever you’re after is probably hunting you as well, so always keep your weapons on you, Sammy.
Sam isn’t going to hold the .38, either. Another lesson John Winchester drilled into his sons was that you never put a weapon in your hand unless you plan to use it. It’s a different story for Gretchen, though. She’s using the rifle’s scope for surveillance right now.
They have one more weapon in addition to their knives and shotguns, but that’s with Stewart, inside his backpack. It’s a stake fashioned from white ash, its point honed to pinpoint sharpness. The stake’s wrapped in a special crimson cloth, both to protect it and keep it from touching anything else. Why it’s important that nothing touches the stake, Sam doesn’t know, and he hasn’t asked. One of the things he’s learned about the Underwoods over the last few days is that they aren’t particularly fond of answering questions. They aren’t rude about it, and they aren’t reluctant to talk—unless the topic relates to hunting, or more specifically, about how they hunt. Sam thinks it’s an odd habit. He’s been around hunters most of his life, and while many of them don’t like to talk about themselves, especially about whatever supernatural incident spurred them to become hunters in the first place, they were only too happy to share hunting techniques and lore. Sharing such information not only made them better hunters, it increased their odds of survival. But the Underwoods are exactly opposite. They talk about anything and everything, but when it comes to hunting, they only discuss the absolute basics of what they need to do to find and kill their target, and that’s it. Sam doubts Dean minds the Underwoods’ silence on the subject of hunting. He’s more of a doer than a talker anyway, and as for Sam, he wants out of the family business, so the less he has to talk about the hunting, the better as far as he’s concerned. Still, he can’t help thinking that there’s some reason the Underwoods don’t discuss hunting, and not knowing what that reason might be troubles him.
Since arriving at the Underwoods’ home, Sam and Dean have spent most of their time in the woods on stakeouts with the family, waiting for the Sheepsquatch to make an appearance, but so far they haven’t had any luck. Supposedly the creature was spotted drinking at this stream by a hunter—the regular kind—and Julie Underwood thinks this is the most likely place to catch it. Sam figures the hunter was drunk and only imagined he saw the Sheepsquatch. He hasn’t said anything to Gretchen, but he’s beginning to wonder if the creature is real at all. Over the years, he’s learned that for every type of supernatural being that exists, there are at least three more that are mere fantasy. Maybe Sheepsquatch is one of the latter. With a name like that, it has to be a joke, right? Sure, Gretchen told him it has another, older name—the White Thing—but that isn’t much better.
According to the Underwoods, other monsters stalk these hills as well, creatures with strange names like raven mocker, behinder, bammat, flat, skim, and toller. Sam has never heard of any of these before, and he’s not sure that the Underwoods aren’t joking about them. But even if they are, Julie certainly believes the Sheepsquatch is real. The damn thing’s been killing dogs, pigs, and cattle for months, she told them, and now a man name of Braydon Albright’s gone missing. Wife hasn’t seen or heard from him in over a week. I don’t know for certain that the Sheepsquatch took him, but I have my suspicions. Sam doesn’t care if the Sheepsquatch—or any of the other creatures the Underwoods mentioned—exists. He’s sick of hunting and killing, sick of death in all its forms. When he was an infant, his mother was killed by a demon, and sometimes it seems like one way or another he’s lived with death ever since. He wants to try living a normal life for a change, just to see what it’s like. A life where things like demons, ghosts, and monsters only exist in stories. So if this hunt turns out to be a wild goose chase, that’s fine with him. Besides, it’s a great excuse for hanging out with Gretchen.
Julie decided they should split up into two groups. She, Stewart, and Dean took a position closer to the stream, less than fifty feet from it, hidden in a cluster of small pine trees. They’re armed with twelve-gauge pump-action shotguns. According to Julie, bullets won’t do much more than make the beast mad, but if they—along with Gretchen—can manage to put enough rounds into the thing, it might be slowed down enough for one of them to ram the white ash stake into its heart. Julie picked Stewart to administer the coup de grace, and Sam knows Dean resents this. After all, he’s the oldest one here—not counting Julie, of course. And as for Sam… His main task seems to be keeping Gretchen company. His .38 doesn’t have the range to hit the Sheepsquatch from here, and while he’s carrying a hunting knife, as are the rest of them, if the creature gets close enough for him to use it, he knows it’ll probably be too late.
On the first day of the stakeout, Sam wondered if Julie wanted him to stay with Gretchen so he could guard her, but he quickly realized how foolish the idea was. Gretchen exuded total confidence, and she handled the rifle like a pro. The morning before they first set out for the woods they all practiced shooting behind the Underwoods’ house, Julie included. Not only did she want everyone to warm up, she wanted to make sure Sam and Dean were familiar with the weapons she was loaning them. They fired at paper bullseyes tacked to hay bales, but Sam paid more attention to Gretchen than he did to his target, and he quickly learned she was a crack shot. Now, Sam wonders if Julie put him back here with Gretchen because she sensed his lack of enthusiasm for hunting. He hopes that’s not the case. He’s been trying to hide his feelings from Dean, and especially from their dad, but if someone who only recently met him can tell the truth, what hope does he have of fooling the two people who know him better than anyone on Earth?
As much as Dean resents not getting to wield the white ash stake himself, Sam knows he’s even more resentful that he’s not the one alone with Gretchen. Not that there’s much the two of them can do. They can’t talk, not without risking giving themselves away to the Sheepsquatch if it’s near, and Gretchen spends all her time peering through her rifle scope, only interrupting her sentry duty to get up, stretch, and go behind a tree to pee. None of this makes for a particularly romantic time. He doesn’t mind—well, he minds a little—but the woods are so beautiful, so peaceful, that just being here is enough. The trees
are old, some of the oldest in the nation, and sitting here, listening to the sounds of the stream flowing, birds singing, animals making their way through the underbrush, Sam thinks it’s like being back in a time before humans had first set foot in North America, the land pure and unspoiled.
Sam’s thoughts are interrupted by the loud growling of his stomach. Embarrassed, he puts his hands on his belly and presses, trying to quiet his gut, but the action only makes it growl louder. Gretchen pulls away from the rifle scope, turns to look at him, and raises an eyebrow. Cheeks burning, all he can do is give an uncertain smile and shrug. Smiling back, she gets to her feet, leans the rifle against a tree trunk, then stretches. Sam admires the way her body moves and suddenly food is the furthest thing from his mind. Gretchen walks over to the backpack, crouches next to it, and slowly unzips it, trying to make as little noise as possible. She takes out a sandwich and a can of soda, hands them to Sam, and then gets the same for herself. She then walks over to sit next to Sam, her rifle within arm’s reach, and they begin unwrapping their sandwiches. As they’re doing this, they hear a loud sneeze, followed by Dean’s whispered, “Sonofabitch!”
Sam and Gretchen lock gazes, and an instant later they’re both struggling to hold in laughter. But an instant after that their laughter dies when they hear the sound of something large moving through the underbrush. Whatever it is, it’s heading in their direction. They drop their food and jump to their feet. Gretchen runs to retrieve her rifle while Sam draws the .38 and flicks off the safety. They then take cover behind the elm, Gretchen kneeling, rifle up, eye at the scope, weapon braced against the trunk and ready to fire. Sam stands behind her, .38 raised, left hand bracing his shooting arm, feet spread in a firing stance. His heart’s pounding, senses sharp and alert, and adrenaline surges through his body like electricity. He hates these moments before the fighting and killing begin, but even though he won’t admit it, not even to himself, these are the times when he feels most alive. Gretchen remains statue-still as they wait for whatever it is to reveal itself, but he can feel anticipation rolling off her like waves of energy. She’s remained patient and virtually motionless for the better part of three days, and now that the moment to act is finally here, she’s more than ready.
