by Tim Waggoner
Despite appearances, Dean could sense right away that the figure wasn’t human. Not anymore, anyway. There was the way he’d appeared... the word manifested came to mind, but it was more than that. Dean could feel the wrongness emanating from the Rifleman, rolling off of him like waves of heat rising from coal-black asphalt in July. He was unnatural, plain and simple, his existence an insult to life itself. Dean could almost feel the woods around them drawing back from the apparition, recoiling from the presence of something worse than death.
The brothers didn’t hesitate. Dean hurled the poker at the same instant Sam flung the contents of his plastic bag. Iron and salt struck the ghost, and the Rifleman’s mouth opened in a silent scream of rage as the substance of his body dissipated into wispy shreds like fog.
Before he vanished, the ghost managed to get off a single shot, his gun booming loud as cannon fire.
Dean felt a rush of elation. They’d done it! They might not have banished the ghost for good, but they’d driven it off. Not bad for their first real hunt!
His excitement left him when he remembered the Rifleman had managed to fire his gun before disappearing. He was all right, but...
He turned to Sam, who was staring at the now empty doorway, an expression of awe on his face. “Are you okay?” Dean demanded.
Without taking his eyes off the doorway, Sam nodded.
Relieved, Dean turned to Trish. “So, what do you think about—”
He saw her lying on the ground, eyes wide and staring, the front of her sweater soaked with blood.
* * *
Dean sat up in bed. Darkness surrounded him, and for an instant, he didn’t know where he was. He realized he was holding something in his right hand, and it took him a second before he recognized the Colt. He must have grabbed it from under the pillow as he awoke. Damn good thing he hadn’t fired it.
He sat still for a time, skin slick with sweat, as his pulse and breathing slowly returned to normal. He could hear Sam’s breathing, slow, soft, and steady, coming from the bed next to him. He was glad he hadn’t woken his brother. As wiped out as he’d been lately, he needed all the rest he could get.
Dean remained there, thinking about Trish Hansen, until the sun rose.
TEN
Sam opened his eyes, yawned, and stretched. He didn’t feel rested by any means, but he didn’t feel as if he was going to slip back into unconsciousness any second either, and he figured that was an improvement. He sat up and saw Dean sitting at the table, working on the laptop.
“Maybe we should switch roles. How about you do the research from now on, and I fix cars and chase women?”
“In your dreams,” Dean muttered. He grimaced then, as if regretting his choice of words. “Coffee’s on your nightstand. It’s probably cold by now.”
“As long as it’s got caffeine, I don’t care.” Sam picked up the cup and took a sip. “How are you feeling this...” He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 9:34. “Morning?” he guessed.
Dean nodded. “I should be asking you that question.”
“I wasn’t a snack for a two-headed energy vampire yesterday.”
“I’ve got to admit I’m dragging a little, but I’ll be okay. I figure losing life force is like losing blood. You have to give your body time to build the supply back up.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” Sam had gone to bed in a T-shirt and sweat pants the night before. Both he and Dean had showered before turning in, and he couldn’t smell any traces of Frankenstink in the room. Then again, his senses had been dulled lately, so the room could reek, and he might not know it. They’d stuffed their funkified clothes into a plastic garbage bag, tied it tight, and then stuffed that into another bag and tied that one even tighter. They’d then tossed the clothes into the car’s trunk. When they had time, they’d hit a coin-operated laundry, or maybe just burn the damn things and be done with it.
Sam moved to the foot of the bed and sat cross-legged while he sipped his tepid coffee. “So what game did you bring back from the darkest jungles of the Internet, oh mighty hunter?”
Dean gave him a look. “You must be feeling better if you’re cracking jokes that bad. But since you asked...” Dean entered a series of keystrokes, then turned the laptop around so Sam could see the screen. “Look familiar?”
Sam got off the bed and walked over to the table for a closer look. The image on the screen was an ink drawing of a man. Only his head and shoulders were visible, but from what Sam could see of his outfit, he guessed the man had lived in either the seventeenth or eighteenth century. The longish curled hair—which Sam thought might well be a wig—helped date the image.
“Actually, he does. That’s the guy we saw after we fought the Double-Header, right?”
The resemblance was uncanny. Aside from the hair, they could have been looking at a photograph instead of a drawing.
“You’re looking at Johann Conrad Dippel, a German theologian, physician, and alchemist, born 1673, died 1734.”
“Sounds like our guy,” Sam said. “What led you to him?”
Dean smiled. “Check out where he was born.”
Sam leaned closer and read the text that accompanied the image of Dippel.
“He was born at Castle Frankenstein? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope. Turns out Castle Frankenstein’s a real place in Germany. No mad scientists lived there, though. Not unless you count our boy Dippel.” Dean leaned closer to the screen as he skim-read. “According to this, he was fond of dissecting things. He even carried out experiments to try and transfer a soul from one dead body to another. Then he wrote about it in a dissertation called Maladies and Remedies of the Life of the Flesh, in which he also claimed to have discovered the Elixir of Life. Eventually he set up a lab somewhere in west Germany. A local minister accused him of grave robbing, experimenting on corpses, and—naturally—consorting with the Devil. It doesn’t say if he was ever run out of town by pitchfork-wielding villagers, but it does say his ‘controversial theories’ got him banned from countries like Sweden and Russia. Historical records get patchy after that, but shortly before he died—or at least was presumed dead—he announced he’d discovered a potion that would make him immortal. That’s it. I’d say that makes him Suspect Number One, wouldn’t you?”
“Hell, yeah. So, what, Mary Shelley heard about Dippel and used him as inspiration for her novel?”
“That’s what the Interweb says, although it also says there’s no definite proof. But given what we’ve seen—not to mention smelled—over the last couple days, I’d say it’s a good bet.”
“So I guess, in a way, we really are looking for Dr. Frankenstein.”
“Pretty cool, right?”
“Yeah.” Sam sipped more coffee as he mulled over the information Dean had related to him. “Any idea why an immortal German alchemist is creating monsters in modern-day Ohio?”
Dean shrugged. “The cost of living is cheaper here?”
“Probably easier to keep a low profile in a small town. That way if one of your experiments breaks loose, it’s less likely to be noticed.”
“It would be kind of hard for something like Frankenmutt or the Double-Header to stroll down a street in New York without raising a few eyebrows.”
Besides, it fit a pattern Sam and Dean had become very familiar with over the years. While large cities had their share of supernatural entities, for the most part monsters and malicious spirits tended to inhabit out-of-the-way places so they could keep a low profile while hunting their prey. The Leviathan were, of course, a notable exception to this modus operandi. Given their shape-shifting abilities, they preferred to hide in plain sight.
“I don’t suppose the ‘Interweb’ said anything about how to kill an immortal alchemist,” Sam said.
“Not a word. But I figure we can try any of the standard ganking techniques, with decapitation being at the top of the list.”
“Fire might be good, too. Both Frankenmutt and the Double-Header caught fire
easily enough and burned fast. Whatever Dippel did to their bodies to bring them back to life, it made them extra flammable. It stands to reason that he used a similar process to extend his own life—the same chemicals and mystic rites—and if so...”
“He’ll burn as easy as dry grass,” Dean finished.
“Let’s hope so. Now all we have to do is figure out how to find him.”
Dean shook his head. “What a name, huh? Dippel. Not as cool or scary as Frankenstein. Kind of dorky, actually. What are the chances the man has changed it after three hundred years?”
“You’ve seen the Frankenstein movies,” Sam said. “No matter which actor plays the doctor, what’s the one thing that always stays the same about him?”
Dean answered right away. “Ego. Frankenstein always thinks he can play God.”
Sam nodded. “A guy like that, I’m betting he’d never change his name. He’s too proud.”
“Makes sense. So, about finding him. I have an idea. Every Dr. Frankenstein needs an Igor, right? An assistant to help him carry out his unnatural experiments. I think we may have already met Dippel’s Igor.”
“Dr. Martinez,” Sam said.
“Mr. NuFlesh himself. Looks like Dippel’s decided to blend a little twenty-first-century know-how with his sixteenth-century alchemy.”
“Two great tastes that taste great together,” Sam said.
Dean raised his eyebrows. “That one wasn’t bad, Sammy. Almost made me crack a smile.”
Sam finished the last of his cold coffee. He was already starting to feel tired again. He fought back a yawn.
“Let me hit the bathroom and get ready real quick, and then we can head over to—”
The motel room spun crazily around him. The next thing he knew he was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling. Dean was patting his cheek, and not gently, either.
Sam pushed his hand away. “How long this time?”
“Too friggin’ long,” Dean growled. “I took a look at your leg while you were out. That bite wound’s not looking too good—and that’s an understatement.”
Sam glanced down the length of his body and saw that Dean had rolled up the leg of his sweat pants all the way to his knee. The skin where Frankenmutt had bit him had turned black, and dozens of ebon threads had spread out from the wound, covering that side of his leg from knee to ankle.
“You had to have seen this when you took a shower last night,” Dean said, accusation in his voice. “Unless you’re a prude who showers with his eyes closed because you’re embarrassed to see yourself naked.”
Sam struggled to sit up, and almost fell back again. He would have, too, if Dean hadn’t reached out to steady him.
“Yeah. It’s worse today, though.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say anything? I know your brains are thoroughly scrambled right now, but I refuse to believe you’ve become that stupid!”
Sam couldn’t help smiling. “For a second there, you sounded like Bobby.”
“Don’t change the subject. We’ve got to do something about this infection, or whatever the hell it is, before it—”
“Kills me?” Sam finished.
“Or turns you into something like Dippel.”
“What can we do? I was bitten by a monster dog created by an undead alchemist. Big Pharma doesn’t make a pill for that. Whatever this infection is, it’s at least partially magical in nature, so science alone isn’t going to cure it. If Cass was here, he could wave his hand and make me all better, but he’s not, so we’re just going to have to keep charging ahead and see what happens.”
“What happens? Take a real good look at your leg. I can tell you what’s going to happen—that black crap’s going to continue spreading until it covers your whole goddamned leg. And after that... well, whatever happens after that, I guarantee you neither of us is going to like it.”
“You’re just lucky the Double-Header used his hands to drain your battery,” Sam said. “If he’d bitten you, we might both be in trouble.”
“Look, forget Dippel for now. We’ll take care of him after we get you fixed up. There’s got to be something in the lore about how to counteract this. All we have to do is find it.”
“There’s only one man who understands what’s happening to me, and that’s Dippel. Once we find him, maybe he can tell us what to do to counteract the infection, and if he won’t cooperate, maybe he’ll have some notes or journals we can look through. Maybe he’s even upgraded to a computer by now.”
“Oh, he’ll cooperate all right,” Dean said. “I’ll make sure of it.”
His face was stone, his tone like ice, and Sam knew he was remembering the time he’d spent in Hell learning the secrets of torturing the damned. Dean rarely spoke of that time, and when he did, he never went into any real detail, but Sam knew his brother recalled every horrific moment he’d spent in Hell, and that included everything he’d learned there.
Sam almost felt sorry for Dippel.
He decided now wasn’t a good time to tell his brother about the other effect the... death infection, for lack of a better term, was having on him. During the battle with the Double-Header, Sam had seen shadow energy swirling around the monster’s arms as it attempted to drain Dean’s life force, but Dean hadn’t mentioned seeing that. He hadn’t seen the shadowy figure either, though he had seen Dippel watching them. Sam had initially thought they were hallucinations, but he’d since come to a different conclusion. He had Frankenmutt’s taint inside him now, and it had altered his perception, giving him a kind of death vision, allowing him to perceive the dark energy the Double-Header had summoned. Sam now thought the shadow figure was real, but Dean couldn’t see it. Only he could. He didn’t know what the figure was. Maybe nothing more than a local ghost drawn by the death energy released by Dippel’s creations like a moth to a flame. He supposed it was one more thing they’d have to figure out as they went.
He was afraid Dean would dismiss his death vision as another symptom of his “scrambled brains,” or worse, he’d see it as a sign the infection was more advanced than he feared. Better to keep it to himself for now, Sam decided, although he knew Dean would be pissed when the truth eventually came out. He usually was.
Dean took hold of Sam’s arm and helped him to stand.
“Does it hurt to put any weight on it?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. “Actually, it’s mostly just numb.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think it sounds. All right, you hit the john—or maybe I should say the Johann—and then we’ll go see what we can shake loose from the Phantom of the Strip Mall.”
Sam was about to chide his brother for making light of Dr. Martinez’s appearance, when his sense of smell, dulled these last couple days, suddenly kicked in. He sniffed the air and frowned.
“Do you smell smoke?”
* * *
Conrad stood in the parking lot of the Wickline Inn, no more than a dozen feet from the hunters’ door. Thanks to the gift from his lady, he had no trouble tracking them. This close, the rune engraved in his palm burned with a cold so intense it was almost unbearable. But bear it he would, for it was a boon granted to him by his dark mistress, and thus the agony was not a burden, but an honor.
He could have gone after the hunters at any time, but his long years had taught him not only the value of patience, but also of planning. So after the pair had slain Harrison’s two-headed beast, Conrad had returned to the bicycle company—a far cry from the castle where he’d been born, but serviceable enough—and proceeded to think.
He’d spent the better part of the night developing and discarding one plan after another for ridding himself of the hunters. Some plans were too complex and presented numerous possibilities for failure, others left too much to chance, while still others would draw too much attention, and that he wished to avoid at all costs. He was the closest he’d been to achieving his goal in three centuries, and he didn’t want to abandon the town, and Catherine, unless he had no other choice. In t
he end, as the first rays of dawn pinked the horizon, he finally decided. The plan was a simple one—which was why it had taken so long to occur to him, he supposed—but there was an elegance to it as well, along with an irony that he found as delicious as he did irresistible.
In alchemy, everything came down to the four basic elements from which all creation sprang: Earth, Air, Water...
And Fire.
He withdrew a glass vial from his jacket pocket and pried out the wax stopper. Inside was the mummified body of a tiny lizard-like creature. He’d been saving the little fellow for a special occasion, and it seemed that it had finally arrived.
He shook it out gently onto his left hand, the one unmarked by his lady. He held it up to his mouth and gently breathed on it. Instantly, its parchment-dry skin became a bright crimson, the flesh swelling with liquid, becoming soft and moist. It stirred in his palm, tiny ebon eyes blinking in the morning light.
Conrad raised the creature close to his lips once more and whispered a single word.
“Hunters.”
The salamander’s body temperature began to rise, and by the time Conrad crossed the distance to the motel room door, its heat had become almost as painful as the cold blazing from the rune on his other hand. He knelt, lowered his hand, and gently deposited the creature onto the ground. It scuttled forward and pressed its nose against the surface of the door. Conrad could feel waves of heat rolling off its body as if it were a blast furnace instead of a tiny lizard. A second later, the wood at the base of the door where the salamander’s snout touched it began to blacken and smolder, and the creature pushed itself forward, burning a tunnel as it went.
If all went as he planned, Conrad would leave with more than the satisfaction of knowing the two hunters were dead, sweet as that would be, he would have obtained the last element necessary to fulfill the promise he’d made to his dark mistress so many long years before. All he needed to do was wait and for the Reaper to make an appearance. If a couple deaths didn’t bring one of his kind out of the woodwork, what would?