Supernatural

by ALICE HENDERSON

  Then they heard the woman begging for help, this time closer, her voice reduced to a whisper, but growing nearer. “Is someone out there?”

  Bobby saw a shadow under the trees, a figure moving falteringly toward them.

  “Hello? There’s something out here! It got my husband!”

  The dark shape staggered forward, thin arms grabbing trees for support.

  “Incoming,” Bobby whispered.

  With Jason staying at Bobby’s back, Dean and Sam pivoted outward, staring into the dark.

  “Please help me,” whispered the figure. Bobby held his ground, despite the urge to rush over and offer aid.

  It crept toward them, glancing behind in fear.

  Bobby took a step forward.

  The wendigo rushed him, its open mouth full of needle teeth. He dodged to one side, lighting his Molotov, then flung it at the wendigo. The missile crashed over the thing’s spindly shoulders, fire raining over its torso. It howled in agony, darting away into the dark. They saw it fall to the ground and roll, the flames darkening until they were extinguished.

  “Damn it!” Bobby cursed.

  They watched that part of the dark forest. No one moved.

  Then it dropped down on Sam from above. Sam jerked his shoulders violently, throwing it off. It fell in the dirt and Sam fired off the flamethrower, a tongue of flame billowing out just as the wendigo leapt up to avoid the blast.

  It grabbed a tree branch and swung itself deftly upward, landing feet first on the limb. Its eyes narrowed and it glared down at them.

  Dean blasted his flamethrower, but the wendigo leapt clear.

  “Thing’s slipperier than a conger eel,” Bobby cursed. He lit another Molotov and launched it at the wendigo as it landed near the camp fire.

  It roared with rage as its arm ignited. Slapping desperately, it smothered the flames and snarled. Dean crept toward it, ready to fire again.

  Suddenly it sprang forward, growling, jaws open and ready to bite. It shot through the air toward Dean, but instead of backing away, Dean ran to meet it. It slashed an arm at him. Pulling out his Bowie knife, he thrust it upward, into the creature’s chest. Roaring, it landed in front of him. Dean shoved the flamethrower inside the gaping knife wound and pressed the trigger.

  Fire lit up the wendigo’s insides. It howled in agony, spinning away from Dean and tripping into the camp fire. Seams of fire erupted inside its torso. Flames caught its legs. Brilliant white and gold filled the creature. It turned its head up, arms thrown out, flailing, giving out a deafening, shrill shriek of anguish. Ash began at its feet and billowed upward. Then suddenly the wendigo was made of dust, a grey whispering column in a skinny humanoid shape. A gust of mountain wind swept through the trees and hit it, scattering the ash in a hundred directions.

  They’d got it.

  The wendigo was toast.

  Bobby let out a celebratory whoop and turned to the others.

  He saw Dean falter, gripping his arm. Blood sprayed outward between his fingers as Dean tried to clamp down on the flow. Gritting his teeth, Dean toppled over into the dirt.

  TEN

  Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders, practically dragging him. “C’mon, Dean, just a little farther.”

  The wendigo’s claws had ripped through Dean’s brachial artery, and he’d already lost too much blood.

  “You said that half an hour ago, Sammy. I’m starting to not believe you.” Dean flashed his brother a half-hearted smile, then winced with pain.

  They’d made a tourniquet out of Sam’s belt, but Dean had already lost a lot of blood. Despite the cold, his skin was slick with sweat. He was breathing way too fast, staggering forward in a confused state.

  “Well, then we’re a half hour closer,” Sam told him.

  Dean’s face was completely drained of color. Even his lips had gone white.

  “Pick up the pace, Dean,” Sam urged.

  His brother stared up at him. “Maybe if you weren’t such a friggin’ giant, it’d be easier to lean on you.”

  They hurried as fast as they could, with Dean’s hand on Sam’s shoulder for support. Bobby walked on his other side, making sure periodically that the tourniquet held. Jason took up the rear, limping and sucking in air between clenched teeth. Sam didn’t think this ordeal had done Jason any favors. Poor dude should spend the next few weeks sitting in a bed reading a stack of good books.

  The hike through the night seemed to last forever. Each time they went over a rise, Sam was sure it would be the last one, that they’d see city lights below, and each time only the dark forest greeted them.

  Dean got worse, leaning more heavily on Sam, who kept his brother upright. Sam pushed down the fear that kept rising up inside him. They were going to make it. Dean would get fixed up.

  Bobby met Sam’s eyes. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

  Dean glanced blearily at him. “You don’t like the looks of what? I look like a friggin’ world champion cage fighter right now.”

  “Well, he’s still ornery as hell,” Bobby said.

  “Yep,” Sam answered.

  “You do know I’m standing right here, right?” Dean asked. “You don’t have to cluck over me like a couple of mother hens.”

  “Too bad,” Bobby said. “You got to pick up the pace, son.”

  “Fine,” Dean said angrily, and did.

  Sam thought they should probably fashion a stretcher, but he didn’t like the idea of pausing to scrounge up materials.

  They struggled over another incline, and to Sam’s huge relief, lights twinkled in the distance. “We’re out!”

  “Thank god,” Dean murmured.

  Another half-mile and they reached the trailhead and their cars. Sam drove Dean straight to the emergency room in Truckee.

  While the doctor stitched Dean up and gave him a transfusion, Bobby and Sam took turns sitting nervously or pacing. They both suggested a doctor have another look at Jason, but the hunter stubbornly refused. “They’ve already seen me once,” he reasoned. “Bones just have to finish healing.”

  Moments later the doctor appeared. She was a short Chinese-American woman, and spoke to them compassionately. “Mr. Blackwood will be fine. But I want him to spend the night.” Sam knew there was about as much chance of that as Dean attending a Backstreet Boys concert and buying the T-shirt. “But he doesn’t seem to be very agreeable to that.”

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t be,” Sam said apologetically.

  Bobby stepped forward. “I’ll talk to him.”

  She nodded. “Great. He’s in room 102.”

  While Bobby disappeared down the corridor, the doctor narrowed her eyes at Sam. “You should really talk to him about his hobby. Filming himself doing crazy feats in the hopes of breaking in as a stuntman could prove extremely dangerous. I think he’s kind of proud of his wounds.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She shook Sam’s hand, then turned, heading back through a set of swinging double doors.

  Jason stood up. “That’s a relief.”

  Sam finally allowed himself to breathe. “I’ll say.”

  “Hard thing about this business,” Jason said. “I’ll bet that’s not the first close call you two have had.”

  Sam heard Bobby’s raised voice on the other side of the swinging doors. “Dean, get back here.”

  “I don’t need rest and hospital food,” he heard Dean bellow. “I need a hamburger—no, a great hamburger and a cold beer.”

  “Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn?”

  The swinging doors burst open and Dean appeared, his face much more full of color than when Sam had last seen him. His cheeks were almost rosy. “Let’s roll,” he rumbled.

  Reluctantly, Sam left the hospital with him. In Truckee they celebrated at the Liberty Bar. Bobby and Dean knocked back a few shots of whisky, and Sam drank beer with Jason.

  “That was one tough mother,” Jason said. “Glad you all were there.”

  They clinked glasses. It
was the end of another hunt, and Sam knew soon he’d have to say goodbye to Bobby. Every time they wrapped up a case, Sam was filled with a mix of pride, elation, relief, and worry about what waited for them next.

  Dean still looked a little peaked, and Sam knew he should have spent the night at the hospital.

  Finally Bobby stood up. The moment had arrived. “Best be going. Got to pack up my things and head north. Want to be over the Oregon border by tomorrow morning.”

  Bobby shook hands with Sam and Dean, then with Jason. It was always hard to say goodbye. For as long as Sam could remember, Bobby had pretty much been their second father, and in some ways a more attendant father than John had been. They all said goodbye to Jason, who waved at the door of the bar and went out to his truck.

  Before he left, Bobby told them about a possible rakshasa in Utah that warranted checking out.

  After they finished their drinks and ate, Sam and Dean headed out, too. While Dean slept in the passenger seat, Sam drove eastward across Nevada. The sun rose ahead of him, bathing the green and brown landscape in gold. Sharp mountain ridges rose in the distance. On all sides of him, there were no signs of civilization except the road. He passed another car only occasionally.

  They slept over on the Utah/Nevada border in a classy little joint decorated with fishing regalia. Where the heck people fished in this thirsty country, Sam had no idea.

  The next day they continued into Utah, Dean still sleeping most of the time in the passenger seat after his brush with blood loss.

  Sam’s cell phone jangled in his jacket pocket. He fished it out. “Yes?”

  “It’s Bobby.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You boys see the morning news?”

  “No, we pretty much just left our motel.”

  “There’s been another disappearance in the Tahoe National Forest.”

  “What?”

  “Deer hunter kissed his wife goodbye at five a.m. yesterday to meet his friends at a hunting camp in the forest. He never arrived. His buddies found a pool of blood and their friend’s rifle. Said they heard something fast, up in the trees.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s after we wasted the wendigo. Think there’s a second one?”

  “Must be,” Bobby said. “Maybe another Donner Party survivor.”

  “How could we have missed that?”

  “I don’t know. We were a little distracted, what with Dean on the edge of passing into oblivion.”

  “Good point.”

  Dean stirred, yawned, and straightened up. “What’s up?”

  “There was another killing in the Tahoe National Forest this morning.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  To Bobby Sam said, “We’ve got to get back there.”

  “Already on my way.”

  “We’re turning around now.”

  Sam slowed and pulled a U-turn on the highway.

  ELEVEN

  The Winchesters made fast time, arriving in Truckee in the late afternoon. Bobby was waiting at the Java Joint Cafe, an old 1930s diner. He’d arrived in town earlier and posed as an F.B.I. agent to get access to the police reports.

  Sam and Dean slid into the booth opposite him. Bobby was eating the biggest chicken pot pie Sam had ever seen. He slid a topographic map over to them.

  “I’ve marked the spot where the hunters found their friend’s rifle and the pool of blood,” he said in a quiet voice.

  The waitress came over, all cheer. “Anything to drink?”

  They placed their orders and Bobby continued when she left. “I say we hike out near this spot, stake it out. Something doesn’t feel right to me. My gut’s got more to say than the town gossip at a church bingo night.”

  Dean slid the map over to Sam. He studied it for a few minutes. “This area isn’t far from the Donner Lake camp where the emigrants over-wintered. You really think it’s another wendigo?”

  “It would be odd,” Bobby said, “them being so close. From everything I’ve read, wendigos are solitary.”

  “Should we call Jason?” Sam asked.

  Bobby shook his head. “You saw that guy limping. He was this close to collapsing the whole time we were out.”

  Dean nodded. “Dude needs time to recover.”

  Sam eyed him. “You’re not doing so hot, either.”

  “A little pale’s a lot different from broken ribs and a messed up leg.” Dean regarded his brother with waning patience.

  “A little pale? Dean, you almost died.”

  “I’m fine.” He brushed off Sam’s concern, shifting his weight in the seat and staring out the far window.

  “When you boys are done holding each other’s hand, we need to find out some more information. You got your suits?”

  Sam nodded. They had the customary black suits and ties tucked away in the car’s trunk.

  “Head over to Fish and Game and see if any other big puddles of blood have turned up in the last year or so. Maybe we can figure out where this thing hangs out.”

  “Maybe the wendigos were related in life, and that’s why they occupy the same territory,” Sam suggested, thinking about the Donner Party.

  “What do you mean?” Dean asked.

  “Well, maybe they were part of the same family, people who stuck together through the whole Donner Party ordeal.”

  “And they’re still sticking together?” Bobby said with distaste.

  “The family who slays together stays together,” Dean said, grinning and picking a French fry off his plate.

  At the morgue, dressed in their best suits, Sam and Dean flashed F.B.I. credentials and were referred to the ranger service for reports of hunting mishaps. The chief ranger’s office was full of maps and books, and he cleared off two chairs for them. Chief Ranger Willis McGovern was a tall, red-faced man with an impressive beard that rivaled Grizzly Adams’ and a bit of a gut starting above his belt. He smoothed back his balding brown hair and motioned for them to sit down.

  “We don’t get a lot of F.B.I. visits,” McGovern told them.

  “Our superiors believe this warrants a visit,” Dean told him in his best authoritative voice.

  Sam pulled out a little black notebook he kept for just such occasions. “We understand a man went missing this morning, and a large pool of blood was found, but no body.”

  McGovern nodded. “U-yep. Yep. That’s right. But you probably want to talk to the sheriff, not the Forest Service.”

  Dean leaned forward in his seat. “We’ve been there already. What we want to know from you, Chief Ranger McGovern, is if there have been similar animal attacks in the past.”

  McGovern fiddled with an imaginary speck of dust on his desk blotter. “Well, actually, yes. Some people think there might be a rogue bear out there.”

  Sam jotted down an imaginary note. “I see. And how many attacks have there been?”

  “Well, quite a few, going back a ways. I only took over last year. But I don’t take much stock in the bear theory. You ask me, some nut job’s out there.”

  “Why not a bear?” Dean asked.

  “Well, black bears are pretty shy. It’s rare for one to become predaceous on humans. They’re mostly vegetarians. Only about two percent of their diet is meat. When they do kill something big, they like to cache their meat and protect it aggressively. But a bear’s never been spotted around these… well… blood pools we’ve found. There have never even been bear tracks.”

  “So you think human, then?”

  “That’s my theory. Course no one takes me seriously. People hear ‘mauled hiker’ and they instantly think bear or mountain lion.” He leaned forward. “Let me tell you, humans do a hell of a lot more mauling of each other than those predators do.”

  “Can you show us where these blood traces have been found?” Sam asked.

  The ranger dug around in his desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. “I’ll do you one better. Let me
make a copy of the reports.”

  He left the room and returned a minute later with a second folder. “Here you go.” He handed it to Dean.

  Dean stood up. “Well, thank you for your time.”

  Sam tucked his notebook into his inside jacket pocket and stood up. “Yes. Thank you.”

  They both shook his hand and left the office.

  “We have to hike out there again.” Sam took the folder, opening it to thumb through the files. “We just need to figure out the range of this thing’s hunting grounds.”

  Pooling the information from the police reports Bobby obtained and the Department of Fish and Game animal attack reports, they were able to pinpoint several areas of high activity.

  Bright and early next morning, Bobby geared up once again and headed into the Tahoe National Forest with Sam and Dean. It was getting colder every day, and his breath frosted in the air. They made fast time, hiking without stopping once. In less than an hour, they reached the site where the deer hunters had found their buddy’s rifle. A game trail wending through the area had been sealed off with tape where the pool of blood had been. Most of it had seeped into the ground. Located along the edge of a clearing, the spot offered a lot of places where a predator could sneak up on a man.

  Bobby knelt, looking for footprints, broken sticks, anything that would give them a clue.

  As he bent over, a thick red strand of viscous liquid dripped onto the shoulder of his shirt. He looked up into the trees. Some of the needles there had a rusty hue, others dripped with slowly drying bits of something.

  “It took him up into the trees,” Bobby said. He studied the trunk of the pine tree. It was untouched. “And it didn’t climb, either.”

  They stood staring up and suddenly a man’s scream rent the silence.

  “This way!” Dean shouted, taking off through the trees. Sam and Bobby followed. A strangled cry sounded from somewhere in front of them. They bounded around boulders and manzanita bushes, tearing through the trees toward the sound.

  Bobby felt a wild rush, not sure if they were running toward a living victim or straight into another wendigo’s trap.