Supernatural--Children of Anubis

by Tim Waggoner

  Nathan walked to the closest body, and Greg followed. Of the five, there were three men and two women, ages ranging from mid-twenties to late forties. Greg wondered what their relationships to each other had been. Family? Friends? He supposed it didn’t matter now. Their souls had gone into the afterlife, leaving behind the meat they’d once inhabited. But now that he was standing in the presence of the bodies, he was having second thoughts about what he and his grandfather were about to do.

  “Grandfather, these people… They have relatives and friends. If we take them as neteru…”

  “Their loved ones will have nothing to bury and no graves to visit in the years to come. This is unfortunately true, but our need is great. Anubis gave us the ability to create guardians. It is our god’s wish that we do this—as long as we do not abuse the power. And remember, we are doing this to protect our god as much as we are to protect ourselves.”

  His grandfather’s explanation rang hollow to Greg. He couldn’t escape the feeling that what they were doing was wrong. But he nodded and said no more on the matter.

  Although Everton and his staff had done a good job preparing the bodies for burial, it was obvious to Greg that they had been in poor shape when they’d been brought here. Cuts and abrasions had been sewn or sealed with glue and covered by makeup, and a couple of the heads were slightly tilted, indicating broken necks or even decapitation. Everton might be less than ethical when it came to making extra profit, but his skills at body preparation appeared to be quite good. Still, the repairs that had been done to these bodies were merely cosmetic, and there was no telling how intact they were internally.

  Nathan noticed Greg looking closely at the bodies and said, “Do not worry. Once they become neteru they will be whole and strong—at least for the time they last.”

  On the drive to the funeral home, Nathan had explained to Greg how what the jakkals called kheper—the rebirth— worked. Unlike werewolves, the jakkals’ bite did not transfer their condition to others. It did something else, something miraculous.

  “Always use the right wrist,” Nathan said. “One bite, no more. Swift and sure.”

  Nathan took the right wrist of the corpse closest to them—a stout man with a great deal of body hair—in his hands, bent down, and opened his mouth. His teeth grew sharp, and with a single fast motion, he bit into the wrist’s soft flesh. He remained like that for several seconds before pulling his teeth from the wrist and allowing the arm to drop back to the table. He wrinkled his face in disgust.

  “I hate the taste of embalming fluid,” Nathan said.

  They watched the corpse closely, and after a few moments, the fingers on its right hand twitched. Then, without any more warning, it opened eyes that glowed with crimson light and abruptly sat up. The man turned to look at them, but there was no sign of awareness in those glowing eyes. He had become neteru, a soulless guardian who would obey the commands of the jakkal who’d revived him.

  Nathan smiled at Greg.

  “That’s one. Only four more to go.”

  Greg didn’t feel right about forcibly resurrecting these people when they had no choice in the matter. But Nathan was his Elder, and his pack was in danger.

  Greg selected a corpse from the four remaining and walked toward it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of the Impala, Joshua on her lap. The cold didn’t bother werewolves much, but she wore a jacket and she’d put Joshua’s coat on him. She wanted to make sure he was comfortable. She was his big sister, after all. But now that she had fled her family and taken Joshua with her, she was starting to have second thoughts.

  The hunter named Dean had told her where the car was parked. The plan was for her to wait there with Joshua while Dean and Garth tried to help Sam escape her family. Then, if all went well, Garth would take her to live with his pack. She didn’t like the idea of never seeing Greg again, but she had to think about Joshua’s future as much as her own. She didn’t want her little brother to grow up hunting humans. His best chance was for him to be raised among Garth’s people.

  She was well aware that she had put the rest of her family in danger. She’d shown Dean and Garth where her mother had hidden their weapons, and now they were armed with silver once again. The hunters would shoot her family if necessary, maybe even kill them. She understood they’d do so out of self-defense, but that didn’t make her feel any better about it. Her family were murderers—monsters—but despite this, she still loved them. They were her pack. By freeing Dean and Garth, she’d signed their death warrants.

  Maybe I’m not so different from them after all, she thought.

  As if picking up on her conflicted emotions, Joshua began to fuss. She hushed him and began rocking him gently back and forth. He soon quieted and nodded off. As she held him, she listened. She’d heard the howls of her family as the Hunt began, but since then she’d heard nothing. No more howls, and more importantly, no gunshots.

  She began to worry that her family would win, and why not? They were strong, swift, and utterly without mercy. How could two human hunters and one not-so-savage werewolf possibly hope to defeat them? If her family survived—a prospect that seemed more and more likely—they would attack Greg and his family next. After the Hunt, her parents and brothers would be riding high on bloodlust, and they would be eager for the killing to continue.

  She shifted Joshua to one arm, and with her free hand she slipped her phone out of her pocket and began to text. She was grateful that she’d been impulsive enough to ask Greg to exchange numbers. It just might save his life.

  This is Morgan.

  I think my dad plans to break his promise and attack you and your family tonight.

  Protect yourselves!!!

  She sent the text. But as soon as she did, she began to have doubts. What if Greg didn’t see the message in time? What if he did see it, but he had trouble convincing his family they were in danger? She needed to go to Greg and explain the situation to his family in person. That was her best chance to convince them. She quickly sent Greg another text. On my way.

  She changed and then, holding Joshua close, began running toward town. In her werewolf form, she was swift and tireless, and she wasn’t restricted to the roads and could run cross-country.

  But no matter how fast she ran, she feared it might not be fast enough.

  * * *

  The stink of formaldehyde filled the station wagon, and even with all the windows rolled down, Greg had to breathe through his mouth to keep from gagging. Once all five neteru had been reanimated, Nathan and Greg had led them out of Everton’s funeral home and packed them into the car. Three of the living corpses fit in the vehicle’s back seat, while the remaining two curled up in the station wagon’s cargo area. They must’ve made quite a sight as they drove through town, Greg thought. Two jakkals and five resurrected and very naked dead people in a station wagon. Any police officer who pulled them over would be in for a surprise.

  Despite the undeniably grotesque nature of the neteru, Greg was amazed that a simple bite could restore life—if only temporarily—to the dead. Truly, Anubis had given his children great gifts. But Greg didn’t know if he’d ever get the taste of embalming fluid out of his mouth.

  Nathan had explained that the magic which animated the neteru would last for approximately twelve hours. Less, if the corpses were forced to exert themselves. After that, they would begin to rapidly decay and would soon collapse into sand. Until that moment they would fight fiercely and with superhuman strength at the jakkals’ command. The only way they could be stopped before their time was up was if their bodies were destroyed. The neteru sounded formidable, and Greg hoped they would be a match for the werewolves, but he really didn’t know.

  Nathan had the radio on and tuned to a classical music station, which seemed perfectly appropriate given jakkals’ affinity for the ancient past. He had the volume up and hummed along to the music as he drove.

  The cold November wind blowing in t
hrough the open windows was pleasant, almost calming. Greg found himself wondering what Morgan was doing now. Did she know that her father and brothers had threatened his family? Did she know that he had wounded one of her brothers, and did she hate him because of it? He hoped not. He could text her and find out, of course, but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea. His family planned to fight the werewolves the next time they came to Happyland, which he supposed made him and Morgan enemies, technically. It was better for them to avoid any further contact.

  A terrible thought occurred to him then: what if Morgan came to Happyland with the rest of her family? What if during the resultant battle the two of them ended up facing one another? He didn’t want to hurt her. Whatever happened, he hoped it wouldn’t come down to that.

  He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and when he took it out he wasn’t surprised to find he’d received a pair of texts from Morgan. Just as his family had anticipated, the werewolves were planning on attacking them before the twenty-four-hour grace period was up. But it was the second text—On my way—that both thrilled and concerned him. He was excited at the prospect of seeing Morgan again, but he was afraid of how his family might react to her presence. Could he convince them that she wasn’t their enemy? And if he couldn’t, what would they do to her?

  “Anything important?” Nathan asked.

  Greg debated whether to tell his grandfather about Morgan, how she wasn’t like the rest of her family, that she was on their side. But in the end, he couldn’t risk it. Jakkals hated werewolves, and he feared he couldn’t convince his grandfather that Morgan could be trusted.

  “No,” he lied. “Everyone is just about finished setting the new traps.”

  He didn’t know if this was true, but he figured it was a likely guess, which made it kind of like the truth. Sort of.

  “Good,” Nathan said.

  They drove on for a few more moments in silence before Greg spoke again.

  “Grandfather, are you worried about fighting the werewolves again? Our people weren’t meant to be warriors.”

  “We are meant to be whatever Anubis wants us to be,” Nathan said. “No, I am not afraid, for I know my god is with me. We jakkals have been running from one place to another since our species was born. It is a relief to finally take a stand, however events play out. But we will not be without weapons. We have our bite from which the iwiw cannot easily heal, we have our traps, and we have them.” Nathan jerked his chin toward the neteru. “And if it becomes necessary, we shall revive Anubis and he will fight for us as well.” Nathan gave Greg a smile. “Have faith, my grandson.”

  Greg returned the smile but didn’t otherwise reply. Faith was all well and good, but a dozen automatic weapons loaded with silver rounds would be of a lot more use when the werewolves came. He turned back to the window, let the wind blow over his face, and tried not to think of what the next few hours might bring.

  * * *

  Sam ran through the dark. He wasn’t scared, exactly. He’d been close to death too many times to be frightened. But just because he wasn’t scared of dying didn’t mean he looked forward to doing it—especially when it meant being ripped apart by a pack of bloodthirsty werewolves. So while he wasn’t scared, he was determined to avoid his pursuers and fight back once they caught up to him. And they would catch him eventually, sooner rather than later.

  He had a couple of things going for him, though. He’d already been through a portion of these woods when he and Dean had first approached the Crowders’ house. And the Impala was close by. The Crowders had taken their keys along with their weapons, but there were more in the Impala’s trunk, including silver ones. Sam would have to break a window to get into the car, and he’d just have to listen to Dean complain until they got it replaced.

  He had one other thing going for him. The Crowders would do everything they could to draw out the Hunt, to build the anticipation that would make the final kill all the sweeter. From the news reports he’d read, Clay Fuller had been killed several miles from the Crowders’ home. Even if they’d given the man a huge head start, they could’ve easily caught him before he’d gone as far as he had. They’d let him run as long as they could to prolong their fun, so Sam knew he had some time. The question was whether it would be enough.

  Sam headed toward the Impala. Over the years, he and Dean had been forced to find their way in all kinds of conditions and they had both learned to memorize the routes they took, in case they had to retrace their steps. He might not come out of the woods at the exact spot where the Impala was parked, but it would be close enough. The trick would be getting into the trunk and arming himself before any of the werewolves figured out what he was doing.

  He judged he was within a quarter mile of the Impala when he heard soft growling somewhere off to his left—between him and the car. Sam caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively ducked and avoided a sweeping strike from a werewolf. One of the twins, he thought. The werewolf’s claws struck the trunk of a tree and a large chunk of bark was torn off.

  Sam reached toward the ground, fingers scrabbling to find anything he might be able to use as a weapon. His hand closed around a rock the size of his fist. Sam straightened up and slammed the rock into the left side of the werewolf’s head. There was a sickening crunch. The werewolf let out a roar of pain, staggered, then collapsed to one knee. Sam hit him again. This time the werewolf slumped to the ground, moaning.

  Still holding onto the rock, Sam started running again. He heard rustling to his left and knew another werewolf was there, blocking his way to the Impala. He veered right and headed deeper into the woods. He knew the twin he’d struck would recover far sooner than he’d like, but for the moment, he now faced three werewolves instead of four. As if that was much better.

  He continued running, mind racing. He tried to think of some kind of plan, but he came up blank. The problem with werewolves was while the animal part of them was predictable, the human part was anything but. That made it difficult—if not impossible—to plan when fighting them. Something he and Dean had first learned the hard way when they’d been kids.

  * * *

  Near Seattle, Washington. 1992

  The werewolf’s long white hair trailed behind her as she ran toward them, rippling in the wind like the tail of a kite. Sam gripped the silver blade so tight his hand hurt, but he didn’t raise the weapon. He’d never seen a creature this terrifying before—all teeth and claws and mad hunger—and he froze. All he could do was stare at the old woman werewolf as she came at him. He couldn’t even close his eyes or turn his head, couldn’t even blink as death rushed toward him.

  Dean stood, raised Bobby’s revolver, and fired. Once, twice, three times. The first two shots missed as near as Sam could tell, but the third struck the werewolf in the chest. Her eyes rolled white and she collapsed to the ground. She lay on the asphalt as rain pattered on her body.

  The instant the werewolf went down, Sam’s paralysis broke. He tried to look at Dean and saw his brother still holding the revolver in a two-handed grip, eyes wide and body trembling.

  “Dean? You okay?”

  Dean continued staring at the werewolf’s lifeless form for several moments before finally answering Sam’s question.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  He didn’t sound good, but Sam knew they didn’t have any more time to talk. Someone would’ve heard the gunshots and called security—which meant they had to get out of here. Now. Sam stood and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Can you drive?”

  The question snapped Dean back to reality. “I got us here, didn’t I?”

  Without another word, the brothers ran to Bobby’s pickup and climbed inside. Dean had replaced Bobby’s gun in his jacket pocket, but once they were inside the truck, he didn’t return it to the glovebox. They put on safety belts, Dean fished the keys out of his pocket, and with a hand that still shook slightly, started the vehicle.

  Sam was looking at Dean when he saw a blur
of shadowy movement. It seemed to come from behind the pickup, but when he turned to look, he saw nothing. He figured he was just jumpy from what had happened, and he thought no more of it.

  Dean backed out of the parking space and then headed for the exit. Sam saw red-and-blue lights in the distance approaching rapidly. Dean saw them, too, and he tromped on the gas pedal. The pickup swerved from side to side on the wet asphalt before Dean got control of it once more, and they roared out of the visitors’ lot and onto the road. Sam turned around to watch, afraid he’d see a dozen police cars on their tail, lights flashing and sirens wailing. But no one was behind them. A hospital security vehicle had stopped in the lot they’d just vacated. They’d probably found the werewolf, Sam thought. Werewolves reverted to human form in death, and the security officers who arrived on the scene would discover a normal-looking—albeit dead—human woman, with a wound on one arm and a large bullet hole in her chest. No one would know that she’d been a monster. They would think she was a harmless old woman who’d been killed by an unknown assailant for an unknown reason. No one would ever know the truth. Bobby had once told Sam that protecting people from the knowledge that the supernatural was real was, in its own way, equally as important as saving lives.

  If folks knew the truth about what really goes bump in the night, they’d never feel safe again. We help give them peace of mind, and even if it’s a damn lie, it’s a necessary one.

  So people would think that he and Dean were murderers. Not that the brothers would ever be caught—hopefully—but that’s what everyone would assume, and it made Sam sad. He didn’t want credit for killing the werewolf, especially since Dean had been the one to shoot it. But the idea made him finally realize, perhaps for the first time in his life, that hunters were killers. Yes, they only killed to protect others, but that didn’t change the fact that they still took lives, even if they were unnatural ones. If he grew up to become a hunter, he’d have to kill. A lot. What effect would that kind of life have on a person? Would they become as cold-hearted a predator as the things they hunted? Is that what had happened to Dad? Had he become something he wasn’t proud of, something he didn’t want to expose his boys to? Maybe that was part of the reason he was gone so much of the time. Maybe, in his own way, he was trying to protect his sons.