Supernatural: Carved in Flesh (18 page)

Harrison grinned with cruel satisfaction. This was working out even better than he’d hoped. It would all be over within moments, and then he’d be rid of that arrogant prick once and for—

Conrad, looking a bit disheveled but by no means panicked, reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and removed an envelope. He opened it and flung the contents in Byron’s faces. A fine yellow powder spread outward in a small cloud, and both of Byron’s heads inhaled it. The second one sneezed.

“Stop,” Conrad said.

Byron stiffened.

“Release me.”

Byron removed all four hands from Conrad’s person. Conrad pulled himself to his feet, smoothed out his pants, and adjusted his tie.

“It was a valiant effort, Harrison, but electricity, against me? Please! I was working with electricity before Benjamin Franklin was a spark in his daddy’s eye.” Without glancing at Byron he said, “Stand,” and Harrison’s creature did. But then, Harrison supposed it wasn’t his creature anymore, was it?

“How did you put it, Harrison? Oh yes.” Conrad gave the mortician a slow, wicked smile. “‘Drain him. Suck him dry.’”

Byron started forward, and Harrison knew that he was finally going to find out what death was like. He was surprised to discover he wasn’t looking forward to it as much as he’d anticipated.

The Winchester brothers traipsed through the woods behind Lyle’s house in search of the Double-Header. Now that they had a better idea what they were up against, they’d come better armed. Dean carried both his Colt and the Winchester 1887 shotgun, and Sam carried his Beretta and the Baikal sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. Both had back-up pistols as well as KA-BAR knives and plenty of extra ammo. In addition, they each carried several flares. Frankenmutt had gone up like a pile of dry kindling, and while they didn’t know if the Double-Header would be as flammable, they figured the flares were extra insurance.
Besides,
Dean had pointed out,
maybe he’ll be afraid of fire, just like in the movies. You know, “Fire bad!”

As they walked, Sam fought like hell to keep from yawning. He didn’t want Dean to worry about him, and he knew his brother was watching him. Despite what he’d told Dean about his weariness being no big deal, Sam was starting to wonder if something more was going on with him than simple exhaustion. No matter what he did, he couldn’t manage to fully wake. Neither sleep nor copious amounts of caffeine seemed to help. He felt slow, not just physically, but mentally, too, like he had molasses running through his veins instead of blood. If they did find the Double-Header, Sam worried that he wouldn’t react fast enough, and he’d end up getting his brother killed. To add to all that, the place where Frankenmutt had bitten him had started to hurt again. The wound throbbed with every step he took, and it was an effort to keep from limping. He hadn’t examined the wound yet—he couldn’t very well do so with his brother around, not without alerting him that something was wrong—but he had the feeling that it wasn’t looking too good.

He thought about what Dean had said earlier, about how his crazy might have turned inward, which was why he’d been having nightmares about Trish. If that was true, maybe both his weariness and the pain in his leg were additional symptoms of the crazy. The bite on his leg had stopped hurting, and looked like it was healing normally, so why should it suddenly start up again? What if he was having hallucinations, but instead of
seeing
things this time, he was
feeling
them?

Forget it,
he told himself.
One problem at a time. First we gank the Double-Header, then I can worry about my leg.

“I hate hunting new monsters,” Dean said. “Too unpredictable.”

“On the bright side, a two-headed, four-armed naked guy ought to be easy enough to spot.” Sam said.

“That’s another thing: couldn’t the mad scientist who made the Double-Header have been considerate enough to at least put a pair of shorts on him? I really don’t want to see his monster dork swinging in the wind when he charges us.”

They’d considered trying the same technique they used to lure Frankenmutt—using Sam’s phone to simulate a crying baby—but had decided against it. For one thing, the Double-Header had just had a nice big meal of Lyle’s life energy, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t be hungry again for a while. For another, unlike Frankenmutt, the Double-Header was human, or at least he had been, and it was hard to say how intelligent he was. From what Lyle had described, it sounded as if the creature was acting at least partially animalistic—why else would he be digging through Lyle’s trash looking for a snack, and in broad daylight? But he had to retain a certain degree of cunning, at least, and without a driving hunger to goad him into ignoring his instincts, there was a good chance he’d sense that the baby cries were part of a trap. So they’d decided to do things the old-fashioned way: walking through the woods and offering themselves as a pair of meals that the Double-Header, full though he might be, would find too tempting to pass up.

“He probably has a... a...” Sam struggled to recall the word he was looking for. It was increasingly becoming an effort to think clearly. “...a
lair
somewhere close by. It gets pretty chilly after dark this time of year, and he’d need somewhere to hole up for the night.”

Dean frowned at him, and Sam knew his brother had noted his verbal hesitation. “Probably not a cave. This isn’t really cave-y country. I vote for an old barn or maybe an abandoned house.”

“Sounds good. I say we keep our eyes out for—”

A branch snapped behind them. The sound wasn’t loud at all, and anyone else might have ignored it, but Sam and Dean’s instincts had been honed to a razor-sharp edge over the years. The two of them whirled around, shotguns raised and ready to fire...

... only to find themselves looking at a wide-eyed and very surprised rabbit.

The stare-down lasted only a few seconds before the rabbit turned tail and scurried off, running in a zigzag pattern through underbrush and scattered leaves.

Dean turned to Sam and grinned. “Why do I suddenly feel like Elmer Fudd?”

Sam was about to reply when his instincts kicked in again, screaming a warning. He started to turn, but he was too slow, and something struck his chest with pile-driver force. The impact sent him flying backward, and he landed hard, losing his grip on his shotgun in the process. Stunned and feeling as if he’d just gone ten rounds with Godzilla, Sam struggled to sit up. He saw Dean fighting with the Double-Header, the creature no doubt responsible for knocking Sam off his pins. With its top pair of hands the Double-Header had grabbed hold of the barrel of Dean’s shotgun and was pushing it this way and that, preventing Dean from getting a good shot. With the bottom pair, the creature had grabbed Dean under the arms and lifted him into the air as if he was a child. Cussing a blue streak, Dean repeatedly kicked the Double-Header in the gut, and lower, but if the creature felt any pain as a result of the blows, he didn’t show it. One of his heads grinned, the other laughed, and drool ran from the corners of both mouths. As a hunter, Sam had seen some truly disturbing things over the years, but this scene ranked near the top of his personal Most Freakish list.

Sam knew he should do something, but his head was still reeling from the blow he’d taken, and his chest burned like fire. He figured he had a cracked rib or two at the very least. Normally, he would have been able to push past the pain and disorientation and go to his brother’s aid, but added to the deep weariness that had taken hold of him, it was too much. He couldn’t think straight, and although he wanted nothing more than to get off his ass and go help his brother, he had no idea what he should do.

The Double-Header started shaking Dean as if he were a shotgun-toting rag doll, and both heads laughed in delight. As Sam watched, shadows appeared on the pair of the creature’s arms that were holding Dean off the ground, the darkness roiling and seething as if alive. The shadows, which looked something like animated black tattoos, slithered down the arms until they were concentrated in the hands pressed to Dean’s sides. Dean let out a cry that was half shout, half moan, and renewed his exertions, desperate to break free of the Double-Header’s grip.

The Double-Header was draining Dean’s life force. Dean’s energy was waning fast, and within seconds he was moving more slowly, the fight leaving him along with his strength.

Fighting against his lethargy, Sam moved into a crouching position, drew his Beretta, and fired. His aim was off, and instead of hitting the darker right head dead center at the base of the skull as he planned, the head’s right ear vanished in a spray of red mist and splintered cartilage. Still, the wound had the desired effect. Startled and in pain, the Double-Header released its grip on both Dean and his shotgun, and whirled around to see who had hurt it. Dean crumpled to the ground and lay there, dazed but alive.

The creature reached up with one of its hands to gingerly touch the ragged bloody ruin where the ear had been. When he removed his hand, the fingers came away slick with blood. He examined them with two pairs of eyes, both heads seeming puzzled, as if they couldn’t quite comprehend what they were looking at. Then it must have hit them, for one head wailed in despair and the other started crying.

They’re like little kids,
Sam thought.
Toddlers trapped in one huge, monstrous body.

He felt sorry for the Double-Header, and was reminded of the way the Frankenstein monster was sometimes portrayed—as a childlike innocent who had never asked to be reborn as a freakish abomination, and who only wanted to be left alone.

Both heads looked up at Sam, expressions twisting into masks of hate. Two mouths bellowed in single rage, and the creature charged.

The time for sympathy was over. Sam squeezed off three more rounds as the Double-Header ran toward him. On any other day, Sam would have put all three into the creature’s heart, but right then it was an effort to hold the gun steady, and his vision was blurry around the edges. The first round only managed to take off the last two fingers on one of the hands. Painful, but hardly a kill shot. The second round struck the left shoulder, but while the impact made the Double-Header stagger for a second, it didn’t slow it down. Better, but still not good enough. The third round was, as the saying goes, the money shot. It hit the right head—which Sam thought of as the main one, since it appeared to be original to the body—and tore away a good chunk of the skull in a spray of red.

The Double-Header, or maybe it was the One-and-a-Half-Header now, came to a halt only a couple feet away from Sam. It swayed on its feet, the fingers on all four hands twitching spastically. The wounded head lolled on its neck, eyes wide and staring. The second head turned to look at its companion, gaze dull and uncomprehending. The hands on the second head’s side of the body tried to reach up, probably intending to touch the wounded head, just as the creature had explored the ragged ear stump a moment before, but the limbs jerked and spasmed, flailing the air as if the Double-Header was having some kind of seizure.

Sam thought he knew what was happening. The second, fairer head was wired into the body’s overall nervous system, but the connections weren’t as strong as they could be. The first head was the dominant one, responsible for primary control of the body. Without it, the second head struggled to do the job on its own. Sam kept his Beretta trained on the Double-Header. If he could have trusted his aim, he would’ve put a round into the second head to end the creature’s misery, but as it was, he decided to hold off firing for a few moments. It was possible that the second head would be unable to keep the heart and lungs functioning by itself, and the creature would die soon. If that was the case, all he would have to do was wait for it to collapse, and it would be game over.

Sam watched the Double-Header lurch and flail, moving like a marionette whose puppeteer was having an epileptic fit.

He caught more movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned, swiveling the Beretta toward whatever new threat presented itself. He expected it to be another creature, but instead what he saw was a slender man wearing a suit and tie standing near an elm tree. It looked as if he’d been hiding and had stepped out of concealment to get a better look at what was happening. He raised his right hand—Sam saw it had some kind of black mark on the palm—and gestured. Sam wondered if this could be the hazy figure he’d glimpsed several times since arriving in Brennan, finally come into sharper focus.

He didn’t have time to wonder long. The Double-Header gained a modicum of control over its uncooperative body and took a single lurching step forward. Then it took a second step.

The surviving head glared at Sam, murder in its eyes, and it stretched all four hands toward him. Writhing black shadows appeared on the creature’s arms, and Sam knew that the Double-Header planned to drain his life force to avenge the death of its companion.

Sam swung the Beretta back around, aimed at the creature’s heart, and fired.

He’d aimed too low, and the round entered the Double-Header’s midsection. The impact caused the creature to double over, but it quickly straightened. Blood ran from the wound, but the creature ignored it and continued toward Sam.