Supernatural Fresh Meat (18 page)

“Wait!” she said, hurrying to her desk. She pulled out a manila folder stuffed with papers and returned, handing it to Bobby. “When you first called, I did some research. I made copies for you, from the old book, from some history books, and a few newspaper and crime reports I dug up.”

Bobby took it. “Thank you.”

They said goodbye again and headed out to Bobby’s van. Sam looked at the clock on his phone. It was now too many hours since Dean was supposed to check in. He didn’t like this. Even if Dean’s phone had died, he could have hiked out to the car and charged up his phone with the power converter. It certainly wouldn’t have taken him five hours to do that. Either he was hot on the trail of something, or he was in trouble.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Dean continued on, following the blood trail and keeping watch for the skinny figure on the ridgeline. Snow continued to fall, now reaching above his knees. Every few minutes he checked his map and compass, looking backward to familiarize himself with how the trail would look when he turned back. But even with his map, he wasn’t exactly sure where he was. With the ground covered in snow, it was almost impossible to see when he crossed actual marked trails that appeared on the map. Though a couple of times he had spotted trail markers in the trees and been able to pinpoint his location.

It had now been more than half an hour since he was positive where he was. He consoled himself with the thought that, if necessary, he could just walk directly backward in a straight line, keeping track of his own old depressions in the snow. The blood continued to be visible, but just barely. The red sank far down into the snow layers, which gave Dean hope that the source was warm and still alive.

He walked for twenty more minutes, slogging through the deep, exhausting snow, his feet getting ever colder. Soon he couldn’t feel the toes on his left foot at all, though underneath his rain parka, coat, and pants he was dry, which kept him reasonably warm as long as he kept moving.

Dean crested a small rise, almost slipping on an ice-covered section of granite. The wind kicked up, blowing the snow perpendicular to the ground. For a second he couldn’t see and had to stop, closing his eyes against the gale. It buffeted his back, forcing him off the rock. He struggled to remain standing as snow spiraled blindingly around him. The wind shoved him back a step, and he turned away from it, letting it hit him in the back instead of the face. He could hear a great rushing sound from another blast of wind in the trees. When it hit him, he stumbled forward a step. His parka hood flapped and fluttered around his head. Then the wind eased off.

Dean backtracked to the rock where he’d stepped off, and saw that the blood trail had been completely obliterated. The snow had buried the red trace, and the depressions of footprints had been swallowed by more powder. He walked straight forward, trying to remember exactly where he had stepped off the rock so he could continue in a straight line. He was pretty sure he found the place and started walking again, staggering in the deepening snow.

After a while he began to doubt if he was still on the right path after all. He strained to pick up any strange sounds, but could only hear the roar of the wind. Feeling tired and hungry, he retrieved a pack of jerky from his pack, which he chewed as he resumed walking.

He wondered how Bobby and Sam were doing, if they were on their way back yet. By now they would know something was wrong with Dean. He was overdue to check in by more than fifteen hours. But he couldn’t just leave Jason. He decided his best bet was to try to pick up the trail again, find out if Jason was still alive.

Dean headed on in as straight a line as he could manage. The snow continued to cascade down—it hadn’t stopped since he’d woken up. The clouds hung so thickly that the light had a dim, grey cast to it, making it darker than it should be. A chill had settled into Dean’s bones, and now he kept moving in order to get warm. He stumbled along, finding his water bottle in the pack and drinking without pausing.

Half an hour later, he had to admit to himself that the trail was gone. The snowstorm had obliterated it, laying a pristine, sparkling layer of white over everything.

Dean was exhausted from pushing through the deep snow. He decided that he had to return to his car, recharge his phone, try to get warm. Get Bobby and Sam to pick up some snowshoes on their way in.

His stomach churning with frustration, Dean paused to get his bearings before starting back.

As he looked around, he saw a column of smoke rising up through a clump of trees in the distance. He could smell it on the wind, the scent of a campfire.

Dean started off in the direction of the smoke. If it was a forest fire, it could mean signs of a struggle, maybe a Molotov mishap. Jason might be nearby. If it was a cabin, Dean relished the thought of getting warm.

He pressed close to the trees, approaching cautiously. He could really smell the smoke now, a scent that reminded him of days in front of the fireplace when he was little.

As he got nearer, he saw that it was a little cabin. Tiny, with space for only a couple of rooms, the structure sported a wooden frame and a fireplace pieced together with small granite stones. Dean continued slowly.

He was thirty feet away from the front door when he noticed the blood smear above the door handle. The door stood slightly ajar.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Cautiously, Dean approached the door to the cabin. With his left hand he pulled out the bottle with the spice concoction, keeping his .45 in his right. Above the scent of wood smoke, Dean smelled something else, a sickly sweet aroma of bodily fluids. A mixture of bile and sweat, it hung in the air around the cabin.

He crept toward the door, checking the roof and the perimeter. The blood was spread thickly, and near the handle was a bloody handprint. It might have been from Jason staggering into the place. He could be inside by the fire.

Aiming his gun in front of him, Dean pushed the door all the way open with his foot. It swung open on squeaking hinges and Dean winced. The cabin had only one story, and as he peered inside, he could see two rooms. The main room held a table, two wooden benches, a few chairs, and a fireplace, with a basic kitchen area in one corner. Through an open curtain hanging in a doorway, Dean spied an antique wooden bed layered with woolen blankets.

Drops of blood splattered the floor and trailed across the room to the fireplace.

Dean entered carefully, checking corners and behind the door. He crept to the bedroom and kicked the curtain all the way open, aiming the gun inside. No one lay on the bed. Dean looked under it, and then in the closet. He moved quietly to a small bathroom at the far end of the bedroom. Kicking open the door, he found an empty toilet and tub.

Cautiously, he returned to the cabin’s main room. The fire had been laid some time ago. Most of the logs had fallen to ash, and embers gleamed in the grate. Blood dripped down from the firewood basket.

He walked to the small kitchen. Blood spattered the sink, and a first aid kit lay open on the counter, its contents strewn across the worktop. Someone had come in here to get warm and fixed up, then left again.

Dean crossed the room to the front door and locked himself in. The person might be back. If it was Jason, Dean would let him in.

Feeling the warmth creep back into his face, Dean sat by the fireplace and unlaced his boots. Inside, his feet had long since gone numb. He shucked off his socks, revealing bright red toes. At least they weren’t white or black—no frostbite. He warmed them by the fire, which was almost too hot after being so long in the cold.

When he could feel his toes again, he looked around for a power outlet or a phone. No luck. This was a true backcountry cabin. He didn’t even see a generator. There were no photographs on display, no personal papers stuffed in the desk, no books or diaries in the bedroom. The cabin was completely anonymous.

He opened the kitchen cabinets, finding only dishes and an old box of baking soda. Finally, Dean looked in the cabinet under the sink. Strange shapes were piled up there. He stared. Something glistened beneath the pipes. He pulled out his flashlight. Grey, membranous orbs glistened in the beam of light. Lines like veins ran thickly across their surfaces. It took Dean a second to realize what he was looking at.

Eggs.

Dozens of them.

Dean grabbed a throw rug, placing it in front of the sink. He started pulling out the eggs, wincing at the slick, leathery feel of them. They weren’t hard, but mushy, and inside he could feel little bodies forming, could feel their bones and joints and little heads. The veins running through the shells pulsed.

He piled them on the rug, then pulled them toward the fireplace. Dropping one into the flames, he waited to see what would happen.

Nothing. The shell didn’t even blister. The heat had no effect. Inside the egg, he could make out the outline of the baby aswang, curled up as if it were enjoying a soak in a hot tub.

He pulled it out with a pair of fireplace tongs.

Dean sprinkled the spice concoction on one of the eggs. Again, nothing. No sizzling, no puckering. He tried rock salt. Same result. He pulled out his .45 and fired a round point-blank at the shell. The bullet ricocheted off the egg, then the fireplace, then lodged in the wooden wall of the cabin.

He stared at the eggs, realizing that what killed the parent would probably be the only thing to destroy the eggs. He needed the stingray barb.

In the meantime, he could at least get the eggs away from the aswang. He would hide them.

Using the carpet like a giant sack, Dean gathered up the loose ends and tied it shut with a piece of cord he found in a kitchen drawer. Donning his boots again, he hefted the sack over his shoulder and left the cabin. He had to move far away and hide the eggs.

Outside, the wind was still gusting, throwing up so much dry snow that Dean was instantly gripped in a complete whiteout. He stood his ground as the gale pushed at his back. He couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began. As soon as the wind eased a bit, he set off.

He only hoped he could find his way back to the cabin. He would need to hole up until the storm blew through. The aswang wouldn’t be happy when it found its eggs gone, but maybe it wouldn’t be back that night. Besides, he might not be able to kill it, but he could sure as hell douse it with the spice concoction and drive it away.

Dean continued into the cold whiteness.

TWENTY-NINE

Barreling east along I-80, Bobby looked over at Sam, who placed his phone dejectedly in his lap. They’d been on the road for hours, with no further vampire incidents.

“Any luck?”

Sam shook his head. “Going straight to voicemail.”

“I still say the battery might be dead.”

Sam shrugged. “Then why wouldn’t he recharge it at the Impala?”

“Hot on the trail?”

“I hope that’s what it is.”

Sam dialed another number, then hung up. “Jason isn’t answering his, either.”

“We’ll be there soon. Dean will be fine.”

Sam looked over at him. “What about Dean’s head not being in the game?”