Supernatural: Carved in Flesh

by Tim Waggoner

  Harrison almost said, “And what if I don’t?” but he already knew the answer to that question, so he simply nodded.

  Without another word, Conrad turned and left the chamber. As soon as he was gone, the temperature began to rise. Harrison got to his feet, still wheezing. He rubbed the frost burns on his throat. He’d do as Conrad ordered. He’d bring Byron home, and the two—or maybe it was three—of them would wait for the grim-faced prick to return. They’d have a surprise in store for Mr. Dippel. Oh yes they would.

  Humming and ignoring his sore throat, Harrison turned his attention back to Mason. He wondered what the man would look like with a purple face. Like an eggplant with hair and eyes, he decided. He couldn’t wait to find out.

  He withdrew a container of cleansing wipes from the makeup kit and began removing the white from Mason’s face.

  EIGHT

  “Have you guys ever done it?”

  Sam’s cheeks burned, and he had to swallow before he could talk. “Excuse me?”

  Trish rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she did so. “Gone hunting, I mean. Has your dad ever taken you?”

  Sam was about to say no, but Dean kicked him in the leg. The three of them had been sitting at the kitchen table for the last hour playing euchre, although Sam had watched Trish more than the cards. During those rare moments when Sam wasn’t looking at Trish, he’d been checking on his brother to see if he was watching her, too. Of course he was. Trish was smart, funny, beautiful, with an air of sadness about her that Sam found irresistible. He was sure Dean felt the same way. How could he not? Most of the time Sam didn’t mind being the younger brother, but every once in a while, he caught Trish looking at Dean in a way she didn’t look at him, and he wished he was the oldest.

  “Sure we have,” Dean said. “Lots of times.”

  Sam gave his brother a look, but he didn’t say anything. Partly because he didn’t want to make Dean mad, but mostly because he didn’t want to look like a whiney little kid in front of Trish. He didn’t like lying to her, but—he rationalized—he wasn’t really. Dean was. Keeping your mouth shut wasn’t the same as lying, was it? But if that was the case, then why did he feel so lousy about it?

  “That’s so cool!” Trish glanced over her shoulder at the basement door behind them. Even though it was closed, and had been the entire time they’d been playing, the nervous way she looked at it made Sam think she half expected her father to be standing there listening. Walter’s “workshop,” as he called it, was set up in the basement, and he’d been working down there for the last couple hours, forging whatever documents his hunter clientele needed.

  She turned back to them. “Dad hates it whenever I ask anything about hunting.” She lowered her voice, even though there was no way her dad could have heard her from down in the basement. “My uncle was a hunter. He got killed by a werewolf.”

  “Werewolves are bad-ass,” Dean said, almost admiringly. Then he looked at Trish, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “What else is new?” Sam said with a smirk.

  He hoped to score a couple points with Trish by getting a dig in, but when Dean kicked him in the leg again—much harder this time—he let out an ow! of pain, and he figured that cost him whatever coolness points he might have gained.

  Trish lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “It was the same werewolf that killed my mom.”

  “Damn,” Dean said. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Me, too,” Sam hurried to say, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was apologizing for. It just felt like the right thing to do.

  Trish kept laying down cards as she spoke, and although Sam felt funny continuing to play the game considering the topic of conversation, he kept on, as did Dean.

  “One summer my family was on a camping trip. I was only nine. My uncle Ryan—my mom’s brother—came along. He’d just gotten divorced from my aunt and was depressed. My parents thought the camping trip might help him get away, clear his head a little, you know?”

  Sam didn’t know, not exactly, but he nodded anyway, as did Dean, who probably did really know—or at least had a better idea of what Trish was talking about.

  “We went on a night hike. Dad hoped we’d see some bats, maybe spot some owls. Mom and Uncle Ryan came along, but before long he said he wasn’t feeling good and was going to head back to camp and turn in. He left, and after a couple minutes, Mom decided to go back, too. She didn’t say anything, but I figure she was worried that he planned to crawl into his tent and drink himself blind. Dad wanted all of us to go back, but Mom told him that it would be a shame for me to miss out on getting to experience the woods at night. Truth was, she probably wanted to keep me away from camp in case Ryan got upset with her for checking up on him and started yelling or something. Dad wasn’t worried about Mom finding her way back to camp on her own in the dark. They were both experienced campers and hikers, and they could handle themselves in the wild just fine. Besides, there was a full moon that night, so there was plenty of light to see by.”

  She glanced at the basement door once again, as if reassuring herself that her father wasn’t going to open it any moment and walk through. After the better part of a minute passed, she resumed her story, continuing to play euchre as she spoke.

  “I don’t know how much longer Dad and I kept hiking. Half an hour, maybe. Whatever it was, it was long enough. When we got back to camp, we found...” She trailed off and looked at the cards remaining in her hand, frowning as if she didn’t remember what they were for. “You know how in horror movies people can always hear the monster attack someone in the woods, no matter how far away they are? We didn’t hear anything at all. No growls or snarls. No screams. Only crickets chirping and night birds singing, as if everything was normal. Dad figures Uncle Ryan tried to fight off the werewolf and protect Mom, but even though he had a rifle with him, he never got off a shot. The damned thing was too fast. Not that it would’ve mattered, since he didn’t have silver bullets. When the werewolf finished with him, it went after Mom. She tried to run, but she didn’t get far from camp before it caught up to her and took her down. She ran in the opposite direction from where Dad and I were. She was trying to lead the werewolf away from us.”

  She stared at the cards for another moment before tossing them onto the table. A second later, Dean did the same, and Sam followed his brother’s lead.

  “What happened to the werewolf?” Dean asked.

  “A couple hunters—your kind of hunters, not the regular kind—had been on its trail for several weeks. They finally tracked it down and killed it before dawn. Stabbed it in the heart with a silver blade. If they’d only found it a few hours earlier...”

  None of them spoke for several moments. It was Dean who eventually broke the silence.

  “It was your aunt, wasn’t it?” he said. “The werewolf, I mean.”

  Trish nodded. “The hunters found us sometime after sunrise. We were still in the camp, both of us in shock. From what they told us, when people change into werewolves they become mindless animals, filled with nothing but hunger, hate, and rage. But some unconscious part of them is driven to prey on those they view as a threat, or who they have some kind of grudge against.” She forced a smile. “My aunt and uncle didn’t exactly have an amicable divorce.” Her smile faded. “I’m thirsty. Do you guys want a drink?”

  The brother shook their heads. Trish got up from the table, went to the sink, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it straight down. She then put the empty glass in the sink and leaned on the counter, arms crossed as she continued her story.

  “Dad didn’t believe the hunters at first. Who would? But they eventually convinced him that what they claimed was true, and they advised him not to say anything about werewolves when he reported the deaths. He agreed and the hunters brought my aunt’s body to our camp and... made it look like she was attacked by an animal, too. Dad and I stayed away while they did it. After what had happened to M
om and Ryan, it was the last thing either of us wanted to witness. Then the hunters wished us good luck and left. We got in our pickup and Dad drove us to town to report what had happened.

  “The next several days were pretty awful, as you might imagine. Dad told the police that my aunt had come along on the camping trip as a last-ditch effort to fix their marriage. He told them he’d taken me on a hike before dawn so we could watch the sunrise together while the others slept. He said that everyone was dead when we got back, and so we jumped in the pickup and raced to town. The police suspected my dad of committing the murders at first, and I think they might’ve continued if I hadn’t backed up his story. After we’d buried everyone, the hunters stopped by our home to see how we were doing. Dad asked them dozens of questions about what it was like to be a hunter, how many of the monsters everyone thought were pretend were actually real, and how he could become a hunter, too. But even filled with sorrow and anger as he was, it was obvious to the hunters that my dad was too gentle a man to follow in their footsteps. As Dad taught art at a local college, that gave the hunters an idea, though. They said that in their line of work they often needed official-looking documents and identification. They didn’t use the word counterfeit, maybe because I’d refused to leave Dad’s side since the murders and they didn’t want to say anything in front of me that made them look like criminals. They said they had a hard time finding anyone to make such documents, let alone someone who could do it right. That’s how Dad started working in, as he calls it, ‘hunter support.’”

  After she was finished, she swallowed. “I’m still so thirsty. Guess I talked a lot, huh?” She turned around and refilled her water glass.

  Sam felt sorry for Trish, but he didn’t know what to say or do. His own mother had died when Sam was a baby, so he felt sympathy for Trish’s loss, but he couldn’t say that he shared it, exactly. He’d never gotten the chance to know his mom, but Trish had been nine when hers had died. Because of that, her mom’s death must have hit her so much harder than he could imagine. In a weird way, though, he was jealous of her. At least she’d had nine years with her mom. She had photos of the two of them together, maybe even videos. If so, she’d always be able to watch them and know what her mother’s voice sounded like, how she moved, how she smiled. Trish had memories of her mom. He didn’t have any of his, not a single one.

  Trish stood at the sink, her back to them, when the glass suddenly shattered in her hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sam.” Her voice had changed. It was deeper, guttural. “You’re jealous of me. You think you had it worse than me because your mom died when you were a baby. You know what? That’s makes me angry.”

  She turned around. Her eyes had become a feral yellow, her fingernails had lengthened into cruel, hooked claws, and her mouth was filled with sharp teeth.

  “Very angry.”

  She raised her clawed hands and ran snarling toward Sam and Dean, spittle running from the corners of her mouth, hunger blazing in her eyes.

  Sam only had time to think I’m sorry before she tore into him.

  * * *

  Sam woke up to what he first thought was an earthquake, but he quickly realized it was just Dean shaking him by the shoulders.

  “I’m awake,” he said, pushing Dean away from him.

  “It’s about damn time! I’ve been shaking you for almost five minutes, but you didn’t respond. I was about to give up and haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”

  Sam glanced around, still foggy-brained. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the crapmobile, seatbelt unbuckled. The passenger door was open and Dean stood outside, looking equal parts worried and pissed.

  “Guess I dropped off. Sorry.” He hauled himself out of the car and nearly fell when his legs buckled underneath his weight. He managed to grab hold of the open door and keep himself upright, but it was a near thing. His body felt heavy and slow, as if it was filled with wet sand.

  “Dude, something’s wrong with you!” Dean said.

  “I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not, but all I am is tired. Once in a while everything catches up with you. After we’ve taken care of whatever’s going on in this town, I’ll zonk out and sleep as long as it takes to get my energy back, all right? Until then, I’ll just have to make do.”

  Dean still didn’t look happy, but he didn’t protest, which as far as Sam was concerned, was good enough. Trying to look as if he wasn’t fighting to stay awake, he glanced around to see where they were. Dean had parked the car on a gravel shoulder. Trees lined both sides of a narrow blacktopped country lane that had no lines painted on it.

  Back road, Sam thought. Probably not too far outside town.

  His dream came back to him then, images and emotions slamming into his mind with sledgehammer force. He drew in a surprised breath, and Dean looked alarmed. He started forward, but Sam waved him off.

  “I’m okay. I just remembered what I dreamed about during the drive, that’s all.”

  Dean’s eyes narrowed as if he were scrutinizing Sam, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or attempting to cover up how bad his condition really was.

  “It was about Trish again,” he said.

  Dean relaxed a bit. “Another rough one, huh?”

  “Yeah. It started out normal enough. It was about the euchre game when she told us how her mom and uncle died. Remember?”

  Dean nodded. “Like it was yesterday.”

  “But at the end it turned... weird.”

  For a second, he was afraid Dean was going to ask him how weird, but he was grateful that his brother didn’t press him for more details.

  They looked at each other for a few moments without speaking.

  “Maybe your crazy’s starting to affect your dreams,” Dean said. “It could be a good sign. Instead of producing hallucinations, your brain is shifting over to having regular old bad dreams. Maybe in time they’ll fade, too.”

  Sam thought about the shadowy figure he’d seen when they’d carried Frankenmutt’s corpse to the car.

  “Maybe,” he said, trying not to sound doubtful. He changed the subject. “So—why are we here?”

  “Maybe you’re so tired lately because you’re catching a cold,” Dean said. “Your nose has got to be clogged with snot, otherwise you’d smell why we’re here.”

  Sam frowned, drew in a deep breath through his nose, and regretted it instantly. Even though they were standing outside of the car, the stink of Frankenmutt was overpowering. Sam wondered if maybe Dean was right and something was wrong with him. How else could he have missed the beast’s rank odor of decay? Was it possible for anyone to be that sleepy? Maybe it was his crazy again. If his mind could make him think he was seeing and hearing things that weren’t there, maybe it could make him unable to perceive something that was. The thought wasn’t a comforting one.

  “I take it that this is where we say goodbye to Frankenmutt,” Sam said.

  “Stinkenstein. I changed his name. And yeah, if we don’t dump his rotting carcass soon, we’ll never be able to get his Frankenfunk off of us.”

  Sam gave his brother a look. “You’re having way too much fun with the Franken-names.”

  “In this job, you take the perks where you can get them. C’mon, help me haul its corpse into the woods. Then we can go back to the motel and take a couple dozen showers apiece.”

  “You think we should burn it?”

  Dean nodded. “Yeah. So far it hasn’t shown any signs that it’s going to get back up and start tearing people’s throats out, but why take chances? If nothing else, burning it will kill the stink—I hope.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Fire always works in Frankenstein movies, right?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Then again, fire kills just about everything. That’s the beauty of it.”

  The brothers headed to the rear of the car, and Dean inserted the key into the trunk lock, but he didn’t turn it right away. “You might want to try and breathe through your mouth for the n
ext few minutes.”

  Sam nodded and Dean began to turn the key. His phone rang. Leaving the key in the lock, he pulled out his phone and answered it.

  “Hello?” He listened, then glanced at Sam. “Yeah, this is he. Who’s this?” He listened some more. “Sure, yeah, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” He disconnected and tucked the phone back in his pocket.

  “Who was it?” Sam asked.

  “Local police. They found the card we left with Lyle Swanson—on his body. His withered, dried-up body. We got ourselves another victim of The Pruning.”

  “Think the Double-Header paid him a return visit?”

  “That’d be my guess. Whoever’s making these monsters, it’s like they’ve got a damn assembly line going. Let’s go torch Stinkenstein and haul ass over to Lyle’s.”

  Dean turned the key and the trunk popped open. A stench wave hit them like a solid wall, and both brothers took a couple steps backward.

  “Can’t we just burn him right there in the trunk?” Sam asked.

  “Tempting, but we might blow up the car in the process. Not that it would be any great loss,” Dean added. “C’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the better.”

  Sam nodded, and they got to work. One good thing about the stench: at least it kept him awake.

  * * *

  Conrad knelt naked on the floor of what once was the warehouse for Kingston Bicycles. The facility had no electricity and hadn’t for many years, but that didn’t trouble him. The warehouse’s windows were dirty and streaked, but enough light filtered through for his needs. Besides, electric light was still something of a novelty to Conrad. He’d gotten by for the majority of his long existence with candles or lamplight. Just because the world had changed didn’t mean he had to as well. Sometimes the old ways were best.

  Case in point: hanging from the rafters in front of him was a piglet. He’d purchased the animal from a local farmer several days before, and had kept it tied up in a corner of the warehouse on a bed of sawdust with straw scattered over it. He’d made sure the animal had plenty of food and water—it was important that it be healthy and strong—and when he’d gotten the chance, he’d even taken it out for short walks to give it some exercise. Now it dangled at the end of a rope, wriggling and squealing, back hooves bound tight, head pointed at the floor. Conrad didn’t mind the noises the animal made. On the contrary, he appreciated them, for they were sounds of life, and the more life the piglet had in it, the better.