Supernatural--Joyride

by John Passarella

  “And their clothing,” Dean said, referencing the streakers.

  “Acting without filters, no restraint,” Sam said. During their debrief in the hospital conference room, Gruber mentioned incidents that hadn’t yet made the news, including the restaurant server tossing a plate of spaghetti and meatballs at the windshield of a bad tipper, and the mail carrier who decided delivering mail to mailboxes was less satisfying than tossing it in the street and driving over it. “Even giving into their baser impulses. Worst case, something is unleashing their ids. Everyone has a dark thought now and then, but some of these people are acting out their worst impulses.”

  “‘Told’ you?” Dean asked. “Past tense. What changed your mind—or gut?”

  “Talking to Nancy about the attempted suicide. I don’t think that was a suppressed impulse brought to the fore.”

  “The psychic joyride,” Dean said, nodding. “And the hidden hit list.”

  “But she had no enemies.”

  “That she knew of,” Dean said. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  “Today, in the emergency room, was totally random,” Sam replied. “That orderly did not act on a dark impulse. And how could the so-called hit list maker know that Davick would get frustrated with the wait, pick a fight, and make himself a target for that orderly?” Sam shook his head. “For those few moments after Luther’s eyes flashed red, something else was at the wheel.”

  “We’ve already agreed the streaking, pranks and vandalism incidents don’t fit the demon MO,” Dean said. “What about a trickster? They love mischief, pranks. And murder’s not a deal-breaker.”

  “Not their style,” Sam said. “What did Bobby say? They target the high and mighty to bring them down.”

  “Nothing high and mighty about a graphic designer or an orderly,” Dean agreed.

  “And that trickster sense of humor is lacking,” Sam said. “Even a gallows sense of humor.” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sam cut him off. “Other than the streakers.”

  “So, where’s that leave us?”

  Sam spread his arms wide. “Back to the lore. Follow the possession angle. Something that takes control of human hosts.”

  “What if time is a factor?”

  “How so?” Sam asked, finally pulling off his own necktie.

  “The possessions have been short,” Dean said. “A few seconds up to an hour tops. Maybe they can only maintain control for a limited amount of time.”

  “Streakers may have lasted the longest,” Sam said. “Maybe extreme behavior causes them to lose control faster. If they tap into what the host secretly would like to say or do, they stay in the driver’s seat longer. But if they try to kill the host or have the host murder someone, the host rebels enough to force them out.”

  “Like having a pleasant dream versus a nightmare,” Dean said. “You want the dream to last, but the nightmare can’t end fast enough.”

  “Speaking of nightmares,” Sam said, sniffing the sleeve of his jacket. “I still smell that puke bucket.”

  “Gift that keeps on giving.”

  “Mind if I take the shower first?”

  “Be my guest,” Dean said.

  While Sam changed and showered, Dean hung up his own suit jacket and pulled out the laptop. He’d leave the lore-sifting to his brother. While they talked, he’d had an idea on how to prove the mass blackouts were connected to the bouts of mischief and mayhem that followed. Television news had the attention span of a toddler, always focusing on the shiny new thing. A fire here, a car crash there, hazy security footage of a convenience store robbery after the break. Local papers, if they were still in business, were short-staffed and had to make coverage choices wisely. But the Internet, the great accumulator, could fill in the gaps. Any stories he’d missed or that had been covered well after the fact would have an online home. Even blog posts sometimes served a purpose. Once you weeded out the flat-earthers and tinfoil hat society.

  First, he examined any article or blog post covering the short period between the mass blackout and the initial reports of odd behavior, combing through the online police blotter for Moyer. Anything that didn’t raise an eyebrow, he skipped. He examined human interest stories, came across an article about a nearby 5K race to raise money for a local boy who needed surgery. Judging by the finish-line pictures, it was not a clothing optional run. And, of course, the usual fires, car accidents and shoplifting sprees. Nothing meriting a raised eyebrow until the weirdness began. And much of what he’d heard about from Gruber hadn’t been covered anywhere yet, either formally or in social media posts.

  If nothing had happened to trigger the mischief after the blackout, maybe it happened before the blackout. Skipping back a week, with the benefit of foresight, he looked for any stories leading up to the blackout that might have been a harbinger of what was to come. He moved forward, day by day, skimming articles, seeking anything related to fainting, loss of consciousness or random bouts of narcolepsy. Whoever or whatever was responsible for knocking out the whole town at once may have had a trial run beforehand to work out any kinks.

  He examined the police blotter again, checked their social media presence on the off chance any locals reported anything odd there. Seemed like a lot of people lived most of their waking lives on social media, so reporting something there rather than calling 911 might seem perfectly natural to them.

  As he came closer to blackout day, he despaired of finding any connection between the blackout and the dirty deeds that followed. But not establishing that connection felt like ignoring the elephant in the room. They all agreed the events were connected and they were staring right at them, but the explanation remained elusive.

  Social media finally arched his eyebrow when he read of an explosion in the hours of the afternoon before the blackout. Something big enough and loud enough to be heard by multiple people, though some didn’t realize it at the time. Police investigated and discovered the explosion had been caused by old, unstable dynamite stored in the rotted loft of a barn on a long-abandoned farm. Apparently, a lightning strike during an afternoon storm dislodged one of the crates, setting off the explosion. Only those in homes nearest the blast distinguished the explosion as a separate event from the storm. Everyone else assumed lightning blew a transformer. Nobody had been present or injured at the barn. And the police disposed of the rest of the dynamite with a controlled explosion.

  Disappointed, Dean shoved the laptop away. “Frigging dead end.”

  Sam emerged from the bathroom in street clothes, his hair wet. “What is?”

  Dean explained his fruitless search for a connection.

  “Lore?”

  Passing the digital baton to his brother, Dean said, “All yours.”

  * * *

  Sam settled down at the narrow desk with the laptop. From open browser tabs, he saw that Dean had been looking into possible causes for the midnight blackouts, including an article about an explosion of unstable dynamite on an abandoned farm the afternoon before the incident. Curious, Sam checked the address against county records. The owner, Martin Warhurst Jr., had died last year, and the property was currently tied up in probate court. Martin had inherited the farm and land over forty years ago, when his father died, but he’d stayed in New York and never worked there himself. The explosion was due, in part, to the long-term neglect of an absentee owner who lived most of his life a thousand miles from Moyer—an owner who had died the better part of a year ago. Hard to see any connection to the blackouts eight hours later. No wonder Dean considered the lead a dead end.

  Rather than waste any more time down that rabbit hole, Sam decided to course-correct with research relevant to the shadows. Wading through the mass of supernatural lore could take months for the uninitiated. Hunters had an advantage. Experience. And the Winchester family had decades of experience. You saved a lot of time when you knew what was irrelevant.

  Focusing on the jittery shadows and the red eye flares, Sam searched his bookmarked sites. Only a
couple minutes into his search, his phone rang, breaking his concentration. “Yeah,” he said, distracted, then recovered, remembering his cover identity. “Go for Agent Blair.”

  Gruber’s voice. “It’s official,” he said, sounding weary. “I’m never leaving this hospital.”

  “Job offer?” Sam asked.

  “Funny,” Gruber said, a smile coming through the line. “But no. I’m still a cop, unfortunately.”

  “What happened?”

  “Patient decided to perform liposuction on himself.”

  “I assume the patient was not a doctor.”

  “Truck driver,” Gruber replied.

  “Not ideal.”

  “With kidney stones,” Gruber added. “Liposuction wasn’t scheduled.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Passed out from shock and blood loss. Or both,” Gruber said. “Point is: I couldn’t question him.”

  “That’s not why you called.”

  “No,” Gruber admitted. “I found some security footage I’d like to run by you and your partner.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s better if you see it yourself.”

  “Be there in fifteen minutes,” Sam said. “Thirty, tops.”

  “Who’s got two thumbs to twiddle?”

  “Funny,” Sam said and disconnected.

  The shower cut off as Sam rapped on the bathroom door.

  “Dude, you had your turn,” Dean called. “Find something?”

  “No,” Sam said, “but Gruber wants our opinion on something.”

  Dean opened the door, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Something?”

  “Security footage.”

  “Couldn’t wait?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I’ll drop you off,” Dean said and closed the door again.

  “Not interested?”

  “It’s not that,” Dean called through the door. “I want to interview more blackout victims.”

  “Any particular reason?” Sam asked as he closed the laptop and slipped it into its case.

  “We’re missing something,” Dean said. “Out there somewhere, somebody saw it or heard or experienced it—and remembers. And anyone working that shift is probably working now—or soon will be.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Dean stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed the car keys.

  The long day continued into night, but at least Sam had rid himself of the bucket odor. As they climbed into the Impala to go their separate ways, Sam made a mental note to have their suits dry-cleaned.

  TWELVE

  Gruber met Sam in the hospital lobby and walked with him to the security office.

  To pass the time, Sam asked, “So, how did the truck driver get his hands on a scalpel?”

  “Not a scalpel,” Gruber said. “Pocket knife from his jeans. And, obviously, he didn’t bother to sterilize the damn thing. Or his hands, which he used to reach inside his gut and… Never mind, you probably don’t want to know the details. Doctor says if the wound doesn’t kill him, the inevitable staph infection will. They’re pumping him full of antibiotics.”

  After a moment, a security guard let them in, then excused himself to grab a cup of coffee. Gruber sat at a desk facing a computer with security footage frozen on it. Grabbing the nearest chair, Sam positioned himself to Gruber’s left.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “We have recorded footage from two cameras in the emergency room,” Gruber said. He switched to a split-screen view and played the recording from the two cameras side by side. One camera had a view from the fish tank wall toward the restrooms and the hallway leading back to the curtained treatment areas; the other camera faced the front of the emergency room from behind the clerical station. The time stamps on both playbacks matched and they picked up moments before the fighting began. Both cameras recorded in black and white. Neither recorded sound, but it was evident that an argument had begun even before the ponytailed man with the vomit bucket climbed out of his seat and turned to face Archie Davick.

  “That’s Cal Bonkowski with the bucket.”

  As Sam remembered, the fighting escalated quickly from the moment Cal’s bucket splashed leather jacket man.

  “Biker-chic there is Augie Mills.”

  The fighting spread like a brushfire after a long drought. The slightest contact set people off, shoving, punching, kicking. Nobody turned the other cheek. And it soon overwhelmed the room. Sam watched the digital recording of himself and Dean, attempting to break up combatants, stop squabbles before they turned violent and bloody. But no sooner had they pried apart two fighters than another pair squared off. In spots, whole groups clawed and punched and kicked each other, in what looked like an ultraviolent rugby scrum.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Focus on the fighters who never give up,” Gruber said. “Some never stop until they are unconscious, cuffed or zip-tied. The others seem to get swept up in the madness but—”

  “They bail at the first opportunity.”

  “All it takes is one good punch, a solid kick, a bloody nose,” Gruber said, “and they decide enough is enough. That’s what I’d call normal behavior. Everyone’s tough until they get punched in the mouth. They’re willing to see reason at that point.”

  “The ones cowering behind overturned chairs and tables.”

  “You and Tench are in the middle of the worst of it,” Gruber said. “By choice. You put yourselves in harm’s way. But I think you were too close to the action to see what was happening with the others.”

  “So, some had the stomach for it,” Sam reasoned, “to keep fighting, while others called it quits. Makes sense. They were already hurt or sick.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you,” Gruber said. “But some who kept fighting were in worse shape than some who tagged out. Bonkowski could barely keep himself from heaving in his bucket until the fight started.”

  Sam thought it possible that whatever possessed the Moyer residents had control of those who refused to quit, but he couldn’t really make that point with Gruber. If he started talking about possession, he had a good idea where the conversation would lead. Instead, he asked, “You see a pattern?”

  “I made a list of the fighters and the quitters,” Gruber said. “I know a bunch of them—Moyer’s a relatively small town and I make a point to know the residents—and the ones I don’t know, I looked up while I was waiting to talk to Mr. DIY Liposuction.”

  “This is a county hospital,” Sam said. “Are we outside the city limits?”

  “Yes, we are,” Gruber said.

  “They’re all from Moyer,” Sam guessed. “The fighters?”

  “Every single one,” Gruber said, nodding. “A few of the quitters are from Moyer, but most are not. Majority are from here, Bakersburg.”

  “Was anyone outside Moyer affected by the blackout?” Sam asked.

  “Been asking around,” Gruber said. “So far, nobody outside Moyer lost consciousness at midnight.”

  “So, whatever it was, it specifically targeted Moyer residents.”

  “How is that even possible?” Gruber asked. “If you draw an outline around the town’s borders, it’s not a perfect circle, not even a square. Looks more like a long rectangle on end, tilting east. You can’t release a chemical agent or anything else dead center and limit the effects to the border but not beyond.”

  Sam thought he’d noticed something during the playback of the security footage, but needed confirmation. “Can you replay that?”

  “The whole thing?”

  Sam nodded. Gruber zipped backward to the first argument, then hit play.

  Sam watched as the bickering and threats between Davick and Bonkowski turned into an emergency room riot. But this time, he kept his eyes attuned to the Moyer fighters, the ones who wouldn’t quit until unconscious or forcibly restrained.

  Gruber leaned toward the screen. “What do you see?”

  “Look at their faces,” Sam said, po
inting. “Whenever they take a hit to the face, punch to a kidney, or a kick to a shin.”

  Nodding, Gruber said, “Their faces never seem to change.”

  “They were sick or injured before this began,” Sam said. “But you’d never know it. While they fought, they didn’t feel pain.”

  “Huh.”

  “But later, after the fighting ends, they seem to feel the new wounds, wincing, clutching their sides, rubbing bruises, hands pressed to facial lacerations.”

  Sam wondered if whatever possessed the Moyer residents could switch off pain receptors. Maybe they could live the experience à la carte. Emotions switched on, pain awareness nullified. That might be a way to make the experience—the joyride—last longer. Unfortunately, once the intruder vacated the body, the human host suffered the consequences of the ordeal. Legal, physical… and mental.

  THIRTEEN

  Dean stopped at the diner first. Pete, the short-order cook, worked his normal shift, but had nothing new to add. No additional memories unlocked beyond the momentary recovery when he burned his forearms before sinking back into unconsciousness. True to her word, Marie had refused to cover Donnie’s shift. Whether the young man had another case of true love or a hot date lined up for the night, he was stuck doling out late-night meals. Before the blackout, he and his date had too much to drink and fell asleep watching a streaming horror movie before the clock struck midnight.

  “Wouldn’t have taken much to knock me out even if I’d been awake,” he said as he filled a serving tray. “We’d planned to go to Gyrations later, zone out to some EDM, but never made it.”

  Not a fan of electronic dance music, Dean figured the kid was lucky but declined to tell him so. Instead Dean asked him to point out any regulars who might have been in the diner the previous night. A few, sporting fresh bandages, were easy to spot. Dean made a circuit of the diner.

  Gabe and Linda, a couple who looked like they had ordered one of everything from the menu, made it through the witching hour relatively unscathed. They’d been sitting in the same booth waiting for their order. Both had merely slumped unconscious in the booth, unlike their unlucky server, Marie.