by Tim Waggoner
Sam catches glimpses of the creature as it moves between the trees. It’s tall—seven, maybe eight feet—and covered in thick wool-like fur. It walks on two legs, and its arms end in a pair of paw-like hands with wicked-looking sharp black claws. Its head resembles a canine’s, and a pair of long tusk-like teeth protrude from its upper jaw. Large curved horns like those of a ram jut from its skull, and a long hairless tail like an opossum’s whips the air as it walks. A gut-churning stench emanates from the creature’s body, like sulfur, only a hundred times worse. Sam’s glad he didn’t have time to take a single bite of his sandwich, let alone eat the whole thing. If he did, he’d be puking it up right now. The creature snorts and grunts as it moves, almost as if it’s muttering to itself, although the sounds are solely animalistic and have no discernible pattern. As it draws closer, Sam is able to make out its eyes. He expects a monster like this to have seriously creepy eyes—glowing crimson or maybe an eerie green—but they look human, and that’s far worse.
The sulfurous stench makes Sam wonder if the Sheepsquatch has any connection to demons. Sulfur is their calling card, and if the creature is demonic in some way, that will make it even harder—and maybe impossible—to kill, at least with the weapons they have. And as for the white ash stake, he’s never heard of anything like that killing a demon. He hopes the Underwoods know what they’re doing.
Now that he’s gotten a look at the creature, he can see why people around here have dubbed it Sheepsquatch. It’s bipedal, as Bigfoot is supposed to be, and its matted white fur does resemble sheep’s wool to an extent. The dog face, tusk-teeth, and horns don’t fit the name, though, and he thinks White Thing suits the monster better.
The creature continues moving through the woods, past their position and down toward the stream, making surprisingly little noise for something so large. Neither Sam nor Gretchen take a shot at it. The plan is to wait until it’s drinking at the stream and then attack, hopefully taking it by surprise. Unless of course, the creature senses them and attacks first. But so far it’s shown no sign that it’s aware of the presence of humans in its woods. It doesn’t sniff the air, doesn’t stop and turn its head from side to side, searching. It just keeps walking toward the stream. Sam and Gretchen shift position around the tree in order to keep the Sheepsquatch in sight. Sam’s worried that the thing heard Dean sneeze and will head toward him, Julie, and Stewart, but it doesn’t. It continues to the stream, gets down on all fours, lowers its snout to the water, and begins drinking, lapping like a dog, its tongue long and black.
He’s startled when Gretchen fires. The rifle’s report echoes through the woods like thunder, and the Sheepsquatch leaps to its feet and spins around, snarling as it faces their direction. Sam didn’t see Gretchen’s first round strike the beast, but given how good a shot she is, he assumes the bullet found its target. She reloads, fires again, and this time he sees the Sheepsquatch jerk back as the round hits its chest. Seconds later, crimson darkens the creature’s white fur. The monster lets out a terrible scream then, the sound something like the cry of a mountain cat combined with a raptor’s shriek, and it starts running toward them.
Gretchen reloads, fires again. Sam keeps his .38 trained on the monster, but although his instincts are shouting at him to shoot, he knows it’s not in range, so he holds his fire. As the creature starts to pick up speed, Dean, Julie, and Stewart emerge from hiding and let loose with their shotguns. The blasts strike the Sheepsquatch on the left, tearing chunks out of its face, shoulder, and arm. This time its scream is one of pain, and it stumbles and goes down on one knee. Dean and Julie advance, firing again, but Stewart drops his gun. He’s wearing the backpack that holds the white ash stake, and he shrugs it off, opens it, removes the stake from the crimson cloth it’s wrapped in, discards the pack, and stands, the stake gripped tight in his right hand.
Dean and Julie continue blasting away at the creature, and the Sheepsquatch’s screams become deafening. The entire left side of its body is covered with blood, and it falls to all fours now, apparently weakening. Sam can’t believe the creature is going down so easily. Maybe it’s not as tough as it looks. Stewart shouts that he’s going in, and Dean and Julie stop firing. Stewart, a huge grin on his face as if he’s having the time of his life, races forward, moving so fast he’s almost a blur. Since the Sheepsquatch is on all fours, Stewart is going to have to try and stake it from the back, and while the stake is eighteen inches long, Sam isn’t certain Stewart will be able to force it through the creature’s hide and thick back muscles to reach the heart. When Stewart is within six feet of the Sheepsquatch, he releases a loud yee-haw! and leaps into the air, clearly intending to land on the creature’s back. It’s like he’s a cowboy in an old-time western, preparing to mount his horse in the showiest way possible. But as Stewart descends, the Sheepsquatch spins around and lashes out with its right arm, swatting Stewart out of the air as if he’s nothing more than an irritating insect. Stewart flies toward a sycamore tree and slams into it back-first. There’s a horrible cracking sound of bones breaking, then Stewart bounces off the tree and falls to the ground, motionless. Sam sees blood on Stewart’s clothes, and he knows that the creature managed to snag him with its claws when it struck him.
Julie lets out a wordless cry of despair and runs toward her child. Dean, face a mask of controlled anger, steps toward the Sheepsquatch, firing round after round into its body, the creature howling in pain and fury. Gretchen drops her rifle and races toward her brother, moving with the same uncanny speed as he did. Sam follows after her, running as fast as he can, but compared to her he might as well be standing still. She reaches Stewart soon after their mother, and as Julie kneels next to her son, Gretchen bends down, snatches the stake from his hand, turns, and races toward the Sheepsquatch, leaving Julie to tend to Stewart.
Dean ejects his last shell, and when he tries to fire his shotgun again, nothing happens. The Sheepsquatch rises to its feet, its white fur splashed with red all over its body, and it looks at Dean, hatred blazing from those too-human eyes. It shuffles toward him, snarling, claws raised and ready to rend flesh. Dean draws his hunting knife, fear in his gaze, but he stands his ground.
And then Gretchen is racing past him. She runs straight at the Sheepsquatch without hesitation and slams into its chest. The creature grabs hold of her and starts to claw at her back, but then it gasps, stiffens, and falls to the ground, carrying Gretchen with it.
Dean gets to her before Sam can, and he pulls her out of the Sheepsquatch’s arms and helps her to her feet. The monster lies on its side, only a small portion of the white ash stake visible in its chest. Gretchen managed to almost bury the entire length of wood in the Sheepsquatch’s body. He didn’t know she was that strong. He’s not sure even John Winchester could shove the stake in that far.
“You okay?” Dean says to Gretchen.
Sam reaches the two of them then, and even though he knows it’s stupid, he’s jealous that Dean got to her before he did.
“I think so,” Gretchen says.
Dean takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her around to examine her back. The Sheepsquatch wasn’t able to do much damage to her before she staked him, but it did manage to slash through her clothes and cut into the skin beneath. It’s hard to tell without a closer examination, but from what Sam can see, the cuts look deep.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” he says. Julie brought a backpack filled with medical supplies, and Sam starts to head toward where she, Dean, and Stewart were hiding. But Gretchen steps forward and takes hold of his arm, stopping him.
“There’s no need,” she says. “I’ll be all right.”
“But you’re cut,” Sam insists. “And if that thing has any toxins on its claws…”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Stewart’s the one I’m worried about.”
“It’ll take more than that to put me down for good,” Stewart says.
The three of them turn to see Julie and Stewart walking toward them. Julie has an a
rm around her son’s waist to steady him, and he has an arm draped over her shoulders. His face and hands are scraped and bruised, and there’s blood on his clothes, but Sam thinks he looks pretty damn good for a man who should by all rights be dead.
“Dude,” Dean says, “how are you walking? For that matter, how are you even breathing? I heard your bones snap when you hit that tree.”
“Guess it sounded worse than it was,” Stewart says.
Dean looks at him for a moment before shooting Sam a quick glance. Sam shrugs as if to say, Don’t look at me. I don’t understand it either.
Julie and Stewart stop when they reach the others, and then all five of them turn to look at the Sheepsquatch. The creature hasn’t so much as twitched since the stake entered its body, and Sam is certain—well, as certain as you can ever be when it comes to supernatural beings—that it’s dead.
Julie reaches out with her free hand and squeezes Gretchen’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, honey.”
Gretchen smiles. “Thanks, Mom.”
Stewart scowls. “You got lucky. If we hadn’t softened him up for you…”
“Shush,” Julie says. “Don’t spoil your sister’s moment.”
Stewart shushes, but he doesn’t look too happy about it.
“I don’t think he looks as squatchy as he used to,” Dean says.
They return their attention to the monster’s corpse, and Sam sees what his brother means. The body seems smaller than it was, and the fur isn’t as thick. Its horns and tusk-teeth are also smaller, and as they watch, both teeth and horns continue to recede into the creature’s head. Its tail retracts, too, and within moments, where a dead Sheepsquatch once lay there is a dead naked man. He’s a skinny guy who looks to be in his late fifties, with short gray hair and thick stubble. His body retains all the wounds he suffered during the fight, which means he’s pretty much a mess, and the end of the white-ash stake still protrudes from his chest.
“It’s Braydon Albright,” Julie says.
“The missing man?” Sam asks, and she nods.
“What was he?” Dean asks. “Some kind of shape-changer? A were-squatch?”
“I guess so,” Julie says. “Only last time he changed, he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—change back.”
“How’d he get like that?” Gretchen asks.
“No way to know for certain,” Julie says. “Maybe he got cursed somehow. Maybe he made a deal with a demon to get the power to change. It doesn’t really matter. All I care about is that the sonofabitch is dead.”
Julie removes her hands from her children, steps toward Albright’s body, and gives it a vicious kick to the head.
“That’s for killing my husband, asshole.”
* * *
“The gods of this town certainly have been busy,” Dean said. Incident reports lay spread out on the table before him. “In addition to the murders—of which there are plenty—I’ve got at least ten suspicious ‘accidents’ here. One poor bastard was bitten by what witnesses said were ‘several hundred venomous snakes.’ Tell me that doesn’t sound…” He trailed off when he realized Sam wasn’t listening to him. His brother had his own stack of reports in front of him, but instead of looking at them, he was staring at the wall, his gaze unfocused. “What’s wrong? A town full of warring gods not interesting enough to hold your attention?”
“Hmmm?” Sam frowned at first, but then his expression became apologetic. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Whatever it was, it wasn’t about this case.”
“I was thinking about the time Dad left us with the Underwoods in West Virginia.”
Dean frowned. “Why would you be—” He broke off as he realized why Sam would be recalling that incident now. “I get it. Was it any help?”
Sam shook his head.
“Too bad.” Dean closed the report he’d been looking at and began stacking the others on top of it. “I didn’t find anything useful. No patterns to the killings, no similarities in location, no family names that keep cropping up.”
“Same here.” Sam slid his half of the reports to the middle of the table, and Dean placed his stack on top of it.
The brothers sat on opposite sides of a round table in a small room. Despite the sign on the door that said CONFERENCE ROOM and the official-looking framed map of Illinois hanging on the wall, the coffee maker on the counter, the mini-fridge in the corner, and the vending machine stocked with snack cakes and candy bars told Dean this place was used primarily as a break room by the sheriff and his deputies. If Sam hadn’t been there, Dean would’ve put some money into the vending machines and snagged himself a couple packages of sweet, sweet junk food, but it wouldn’t be worth listening to Sam nag him about his diet, so he made do with a Styrofoam cup of black coffee that tasted like lukewarm ink-colored water. Sam had a cup, too, his doctored with creamer and sugar substitute, but after one sip, he’d given up on it. Smart man.
The door opened and a boyish-faced man with red hair cut close to his scalp poked his head in.
“Anything else I can do for you, agents?” the deputy asked.
At least this guy was young enough not to remark on their fake identities. He hadn’t so much as blinked when they’d introduced themselves.
“We’re good,” Sam said. “Thanks.”
“You’ve been a big help,” Dean added.
The deputy grinned. “Happy to be of service,” he said, and then closed the door.
Sam gave Dean a look. “‘You’ve been a big help?’ Really?”
“Everyone needs a pat on the head now and then.” Dean took another sip of his coffee and grimaced. “So what’s our next move?”
“We could talk with some of the victims’ family and friends. Ask a few questions, see what they have to say.”
The cheap office clock on the wall said it was after midnight.
“Little late for that,” Dean said. “Besides, who would we start with?” He gestured toward the stack of reports. “Lot of names in those files.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose we could hit a motel, catch some Zs, get started bright and early tomorrow,” Dean said.
As far as Dean was concerned, one of the most difficult things about being a hunter was getting enough sleep. You never knew what kind of hours you’d be working when you were on a case. A number of supernatural predators hunted at night, but there were just as many who hunted by day or even around the clock. Plus, when you knew there was something nasty out there killing people, it was hard to justify taking a break to rest. What if someone was killed while you were sleeping? Sure, you weren’t the one sinking fangs into a victim’s flesh, but it felt as if you were responsible, at least partially. If you’d been stronger and more dedicated, you wouldn’t have needed to sleep, and that poor bastard who’d died while you were snoozing might very well still be alive. But hunters were only human, and like anyone else, if they didn’t get enough rest, they weren’t sharp enough to do their job efficiently. And when it came to hunting, if you screwed up, you didn’t get a reprimand from your supervisor or a bad performance review that would go in your permanent file. You lost your life—and the lives of anyone you were trying to help. It helped Dean to think of sleep as another tool in the hunter’s arsenal. Like lore and regular weapons’ practice, sleep prepared you to do your best on a hunt.
But although he was the one to suggest sleep, Dean wasn’t sure it was the best course of action right now. The situation in Corinth was like nothing they had ever encountered before. It was an infestation of gods, gods who were fighting in the streets and killing each other, with humans as collateral damage. If they slept tonight, even if only for a few hours, how many people would have died by the time they woke?
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I’m thinking we may have to put in an all-nighter on this one.”
“I think you’re right.”
Sam gathered up the files, and the brothers left the conference room and headed for the main reception area. Deputy Big
Help—the only person on duty since everyone else had been called out to the latest crime scene—sat behind the front desk. Sam and Dean returned the files, thanked him, and told him to make sure the sheriff knew they appreciated his cooperation. They started toward the double glass doors of the entrance, but just as Dean was about to push them open, he stopped and turned back around to face the deputy.
“One last thing: You know where we can get some coffee around here this time of night?”
The deputy opened his mouth to answer, but Dean cut him off.
“Not the stuff in your conference room. I’m talking real coffee.”
The deputy looked crestfallen, and Dean realized he’d made the last pot.
“Not that yours was bad,” Dean said quickly. “It’s just that the Bureau has a policy of agents not accepting more than one free cup of coffee from local law enforcement. We don’t want to, uh, be a drain on your budget.”
The deputy cocked his head to the side, as if he were trying to decide if Dean was putting him on or not. Finally, he said, “There’s a twenty-four-hour donut shop a couple blocks west of here. They have pretty decent coffee. Great chocolate-covered crullers, too.”
“Chocolate?” Dean said.
* * *
“That guy was right,” Dean said, his words muffled by a mouthful of donut. “These crullers are amazing!”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Sam said.
The brothers sat in a booth inside a twenty-four-hour restaurant named Doughnutz. Slogan: You’ll go nuts for Doughnutz! They’d changed in the car, and now they were back in civvies. Comfortable clothes, awesome-tasting donuts—as far as Dean was concerned, the night was finally starting to look up. Now if they could just find a scuzzy dive bar with some extremely hot women in it… Dean sighed. Too bad they had to work all night.
