“Positive.”
Dean stood up. Near the lodge door, Susan still worked to free the man who belonged to the boot. Dean ran over to help. She’d gotten his face free. It was Steven, the snow ranger. He was still breathing.
She reached up, slapping a handheld electronic device in Dean’s freezing hand. “You know how to use one of these?”
Dean studied the red plastic case and the small LCD screen. “What the heck is it?”
“It’s an avalanche beacon transceiver. Switch it to receive mode and cover the slide area. It should respond if you come close to anyone buried who’s wearing a beacon.”
Dean grabbed another shovel from a fallen pack and took the transceiver. Switching it to receive mode, he read the display, which showed directionality and distance to any beacon signals. He walked around first in front of the lodge, thinking that if he and Hank got swept that way, others might have, too. It picked up a signal about twenty feet to the left of where Hank was furiously digging himself out. Dean watched the LCD screen, closing in on the location.
“Got one!” Dean yelled.
He started digging with the shovel, acutely aware of how much time had passed since people got buried. Too much time. If this person didn’t have an air pocket, they were probably already dead.
“I’m coming!” Hank shouted. He was still working to dig out his thighs.
Dean dug in with the shovel, eyes starting to hurt in the brilliant white of the snow. The wind whipped around the sides of the lodge, bringing with it biting cold. Dean found the sleeve of a jacket, with no arm inside. He pulled it aside, looking beneath. He followed the sleeve to the body of the jacket and felt something hard inside. He cleared snow around it, realizing it was a man’s rib cage. “Hold on!” Dean yelled. He worked sideways, toward the head, and cleared enough snow from the person’s face for him to breathe. But he wasn’t breathing.
“Hey,” Dean shouted. His eyes were closed. Dean recognized him as one of the ski patrol guys who’d helped Hank drag the howitzer out of the drift. He shoveled around the man’s chest to give his lungs room to expand.
Suddenly, Hank was beside him. “It’s Bill,” he said. “Watch out.” He bent down, clearing Bill’s airway of a chunk of ice. Then he performed C.P.R. for two minutes. Dean was impressed. Hank seemed to be indestructible. Bill coughed, spewing water all over Hank. Hank slapped him on the arm. “Right on! You made it!”
Bill laughed weakly. “What a ride! All I needed were my skis.”
Hank stood up. Someone shouted from the lodge. It was Don, the mountain manager, emerging from the one remaining door. Don’s words were being whipped away by the wind, but Dean managed to make out that he was saying two of the ski patrol team were safe inside: “Scott” and a name Dean didn’t catch.
“Ambrose!” shouted Hank, noticing the overly protective ski patroller’s absence. They scanned the disturbed patch of snow.
With Don’s help, Susan finished digging Steven out. Then they rushed over and started clearing compacted snow away from Bill.
Dean stared around, and then he saw Ambrose. Or what was left of him. The avalanche had carried him into a security light pole in the parking lot. From what Dean could see, a four-by-four truck had smashed into him after that and then been scraped away, taking half of Ambrose’s body with it. His top half lay on the snow, sightless eyes staring up into the grey sky, his bottom half lay bleeding, half buried in front of the demolished truck.
“I think I found Ambrose,” Dean said flatly, pointing him out to Hank.
Hank sat back on the snow. “Oh, Jesus.”
Susan started walking that way and Dean joined her. She stared ahead blankly, her face gone slack. When she reached Ambrose’s torso, she reached out and put one gloved hand on his. His jaw was broken and part of his scalp had been torn off. It dripped blood into the snow. She bent down to touch his face, and Dean placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Something churning in the avalanche must have torn through the back of his jacket, gouging long tears in the material. Blood seeped from the holes.
Dean bent closer, and saw that the skin beneath wasn’t torn. Puncture marks covered Ambrose’s lower back above the kidneys. He parted the rips in the jacket, seeing that Ambrose’s lungs had been sucked out through his ribs and past his spine. Dean drew in a sharp breath, glancing around for the aswang. His hand felt for the container of spices, and his fingers closed around it. He couldn’t believe it was actually still in his coat.
In the blinding snow, he could only see about forty feet out into the parking lot. The avalanche had stopped about twenty feet from where he stood, the cars on the far side blasted by the air mass, but not buried.
The scent of bile and urine blew around him on the wind. He pulled out his .45 with the spice-soaked bullets, ready to take a shot.
“Look what the avalanche did to him,” Susan said. “It tore him to pieces.”
Hank joined them. Don walked up beside them, solemnly taking in the view of their friend.
“All members of the ski patrol accounted for,” Hank said to Don.
Dean scanned around again, seeing another patch of blood in the snow about ten feet from Ambrose’s legs. He walked toward it. It stained the snow next to another light pole. When Dean reached it, he heard something scratch on the far side of the post. The post was wide, almost three feet, plenty of room to hide behind.
Dean lifted his gun, pointing it and circling. Standing on the opposite side was a familiar figure. His black hood was still pulled tightly around his face, but this time Dean could see him clearly. It was Jimmy from the Aces and Eights Saloon, the barkeep who’d been so eager to join them on the hunt. He clutched one hand to his upper arm, which streamed blood. The wound wasn’t from the avalanche, though. It was a gunshot wound, exactly where Dean had hit the person who’d been trailing him.
“Jimmy?” Dean said.
Jimmy’s eyes flashed reflectively. He opened his mouth, teeth growing long and sharp. Dean pulled out his Bowie knife from his hip sheath and Jimmy snarled at him, moving away from the pole. A sudden powerful blast of wind gusted down on top of them, throwing them off balance. It screamed over the top of the snow, sending up a blinding ground blizzard. Dean caught sight of Jimmy moving away, back toward the lodge. He staggered in the wind, running after him.
“We have to get inside!” he heard Don yell.
Voices shouted from the lodge, and as Dean ran, he saw Grace standing by the door, arguing with Jason. He towered over her, angrily pointing at her, and she stood defiantly shouting back.
Dean forced his exhausted body to run faster. Jimmy ran up to Grace and shoved Jason down hard in the snow. Then he brought his boot down on Jason’s head and grabbed Grace, forcing her through the doors into the lodge.
“Get inside! Get behind something solid!” Don was still shouting from somewhere ahead of Dean. Dean couldn’t make out where the mountain manager was.
Suddenly, running became almost impossible. The ground shook beneath him. The wind kicked up higher, swirling around him and obscuring the lodge.
He heard shouts and followed them. The grey hulk of the building swam up before him. Beneath his feet, the snow shifted, making it impossible to make headway.
“It’s released another one!” he heard Don yell. “Get inside!”
In the blinding snowstorm, Dean could see the ski patrol members running toward the lodge. He saw Susan’s red parka and focused on it in the gale. He tripped, realized he’d reached the stairs to the lodge, and bounded up them. Don stood at the door, ushering people inside.
“There’s no time!”
As Dean entered the ruins of the lodge, he spotted Jimmy dragging Grace through the employees-only door that led to the crew rooms below. He glanced around for Jason, but didn’t see him. Then he took off for the employee door, wrenching it open.
He was halfway down the cement stairs when a massive shockwave hit the building. He slammed against the far side of the stairwell, then los
t his footing and stumbled, grabbing the railing as he went. He caught himself before he hit the bottom. The whole building started shaking and heaving as if someone had tossed it into a washing machine. Dean held on to the metal railing. Bricks came loose, raining down on him, and he heard the shrieking of massive beams breaking up above his head. Then the ceiling collapsed. Dean pitched forward, his head hitting a pile of dusty bricks. He could hear other people screaming as the floor beneath him buckled upward, and then the wall closed in on him, crushing the full weight of the ceiling into his back, compressing him. He felt the air squeeze out of his lungs and his grasping fingers found a rough wooden beam that had fallen in front of him.
The roar became deafening. Every jostle and upward thrust of the building sent debris slamming into Dean’s body. He couldn’t get a breath. He could hear a woman screaming about her leg somewhere close by, and a man’s voice pleading with the avalanche to stop.
But it thundered on, taking over Dean’s entire world, suffocating him.
FORTY-EIGHT
Straining under the massive downward pull, Sam extracted his fingers and tried to find a lower spot to move to. He felt along the rock, finding a crack to wedge them in about a foot down. Then he let his body ease downward, his right foot feeling for a toehold. He scraped his boot along the rough granite, finding a tiny lip of rock. He tested his weight on it, and it held. Then he moved his left foot down, trying not to let the agonizing weight pulling at his back yank him too far. He felt a small protuberance of rock and rested his left foot on it. It held too. He carefully dislodged the axe, aimed for a crevice to the right of his chest, and drove the toothed side in. He tugged on it, and it remained embedded.
More dirt and tiny rocks spilled down over him. The female vampire’s boot couldn’t reach him now. She cursed.
“Pull me up!” she yelled. “He’s too low.”
Little victories, Sam thought. He clung to the rock face, feeling his strength drain away by the minute, his arms and legs starting to shake with muscle fatigue.
The ridiculous position they hung in now meant that neither Sam nor Bobby could fight, just make tiny defensive moves. And Sam knew he couldn’t hold on forever. The vampires knew that, too. They hovered at the top of the ridge, staring down and grinning. Maybe they wouldn’t have to climb down and finish off Sam at all.
Sam decided to climb up, taking a route to his left that wouldn’t allow the vampires to lower themselves down and kick him off. If they did attempt to reach him, they’d be in the same clinging-to-the-rock situation Sam was, and he guessed they wouldn’t risk it. This way they wouldn’t be able to attack him until he reached the top.
He moved his left hand out of its crevice and felt around for another handhold. When he found one, he followed suit with his feet. Then he heaved himself upward, pulling Bobby’s dead weight. His finger bones felt like they might snap, but he held on. He swung the ice axe out and in, biting into a fresh nook in the rock. He continued to drag himself upward, finding handholds and toeholds where he could, swinging the ice axe, wedging it in tightly enough to support both him and Bobby.
Bobby had grown quiet. Sam put all his concentration into pulling them up the cliff face, one little step at a time, one handhold after another handhold. The wind howled around him, though at least he was a little sheltered on this side of the rock. He worked his way steadily upward, thinking each time he’d see the top of the ridge, only to be confronted with more rock face.
Then, with the next heave upward, he reached it. He could see clear over the ridge to the clouds filling the valley on the other side.
A blinding kick to his face snapped his head back. Bright stars flashed as blood spilled from his nose and filled his mouth. Sam reached up with his left hand, trying to grab the vampire’s leg and fling her off the cliff. But they both kept their distance, just out of sight at the top of the ridge. Sam’s searching hand felt around for a boot.
Blue Spikes’ heel drove into the back of his head. Black Overcoat snaked his hand down and grabbed the axe head, wriggling it free. She kicked Sam again in the back of the head, slamming his face into the sharp granite. Blood from a cut in his forehead trickled down into his eyes, blurring his vision. She kicked him again and again. He reached up with his left hand, grabbing her boot, but she wrenched it away, then cracked the back of his head with her heel, driving his face into the jagged rock once more.
Sam felt the axe rip free of its hold and reached for the rock wall desperately with his left hand while trying to wedge it in again with his right. Another swift kick to his head disoriented him. He felt the ice axe start to slip out of his hand. As he strained to hold on to that lifeline, the female vampire pulled him violently to the right, wrenching his left hand away from its hold. He started to fall backward, his feet the only thing holding him and Bobby up. The weight on the rope tugged inexorably downward and Sam’s hand searched the granite surface for anything to cling to.
He and Bobby were going to die.
Suddenly, the weight on the rope vanished. Sam heard Bobby shout, his voice falling away. Sam’s arms reached out, scraping along the granite, the toothed axe ripping down the side of the rock face. Then it caught. Sam’s left hand struggled for a hold and he scrambled his feet against the cliff, both finding purchase. He clung to the wall, breath coming in gasps.
Blinking his eyes clear, he looked down. The end of the lifeline flapped loose. Bobby had cut the rope. The sheer cliff face stretched below, ending two hundred feet down in a jumble of rocks. A few snow-covered ledges protruded out, but he didn’t see Bobby on any of them.
“Bobby!” Sam shouted. “Bobby!”
A gust of wind came screaming around the ridge, pinning him against the rock. No one answered.
Above, he heard the vampires laugh.
FORTY-NINE
Dean came to slowly. He couldn’t quite remember where he was and tried to move his body, but something pressed down on him, making it impossible. He could barely breathe. As he tried to suck in air, he instantly went into a coughing fit. Dust drifted thickly around him and a strange red haze permeated the air.
Across from him in the gloom, a red ‘exit’ sign glowed above a hopelessly askew doorway. Heavy beams lay in front of it, along with broken ceiling tiles and plaster dust. Wiring hung down in clumps, sparking and swinging.
Dean remembered. There had been another avalanche.
He lay on his stomach, something heavy across his upper back. He tried to crane his neck around to see, but couldn’t. Someone whimpered nearby.
“Hello?” he said, spitting out plaster dust.
A man continued to mutter and plead softly.
He could hear something moving near him, but couldn’t tell if it was shifting debris or someone crawling around.
“We’re dead, we’re dead,” the man muttered.
“No, we’re not,” Dean told him, and started coughing again.
When the fit subsided, he glanced around for anything he could use as a pry bar. A few feet away, a piece of rebar lay against a pile of cement rubble. Dean’s left arm was free, and he reached for the rebar. At first he could barely graze it with the tips of his fingers, but he managed to grip it enough to drag it a little nearer, then grasp it properly. Something above him groaned and shifted, pushing even harder down on him.
The man whimpered softly.
“Hey, buddy,” Dean called out. “You free? Can you give me a hand here?”
But the man just went on crying.
Another groan filled the gloom, and Dean felt the debris on his back shift again. But this time the weight eased. Suddenly, he could take a deep breath. Pushing with his legs, he managed to wriggle out from under the debris. When he scrambled free, he sat up and looked back. Part of the stone wall from above had crashed over the staircase. He’d been pinned under one end of a massive beam. Luckily, as more debris fell on the other end of the beam, it had lifted off him.
He tried to stand and found that he could only cr
ouch. The ceiling had caved in all around him. He followed the sound of the crying man. Dean recognized him as Bill, who he’d helped dig out of the first avalanche. A massive head injury yawned in his forehead. His eyes were unfocused and glassy. Dean shucked off his jacket and folded it tightly, then pressed it against the wound.
“Anyone else down here?” Dean yelled. “Jason!”
He listened, hearing only the sparking of the wires and water dripping from somewhere nearby.
He told Bill to put pressure on the wound and moved away in the darkness. Crawling over debris and walking bent over when the space allowed it, Dean entered the neighboring room. It was the locker room where he’d originally seen the avalanche control team.
One wall had completely caved in, the lockers fallen over against the benches in the center of the room. It left a space big enough to protect someone. Dean bent down and peered in. The red emergency lighting had kicked on, and he could just make out the shapes of two bodies in the confined space.
“Hey,” he said.
A hand reached out for him, and he grasped it. Pulling gently, he dragged the person out. It was Steven, the snow ranger.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “I can get Hank out. He was next to me in there. We’re both okay, I think.”
Dean nodded and continued on, crawling through the wreckage. Beyond the crew locker room lay the equipment room. Dean moved to it at a crouch. He wondered if anyone who’d been on the floor above when the avalanche hit could possibly have survived. He wondered if Don had dashed down here at the last minute, but somehow he doubted he could have made it in time.
As Dean made his way toward the equipment room, Steven and Hank emerged from the locker room and crawled away toward Bill. “Everyone should try to stay together,” Dean told them.
Steven nodded dreamily, showing signs of shock.
Dean could hear Bill’s voice echoing down the hall. “Hey, dude. You seen my car? It was parked out in the lot. We’re probably going to go out later and cruise around.”
Supernatural Fresh Meat Page 20