Supernatural--Joyride

by John Passarella

  In front, a gray-bearded man in a trucker hat and bib overalls carried a lime-green gas-powered chainsaw. Sam heard the idling motor rumble. A step behind Gray Beard, a bald man wearing sunglasses and an orange safety vest over a plaid shirt, jeans and work boots carried a sledgehammer in a two-handed grip. None of them spoke to any of the others, but even from a distance, their single-minded purpose was evident.

  “Yeah, I don’t think they’re coming to check out books,” Sam said, his throat suddenly dry.

  “Cat’s out of the bag,” Dean reminded him.

  “Gruber,” Sam said. “Looks like we’ve got our hands full. We’re surrounded.”

  “What?”

  “Angry villagers,” Dean said. “Possessed and dangerous.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  “No!” Bonnie’s voice cried. “Save Ethan and Addie!”

  “He—She’s right,” Dean said.

  “We’ll handle this,” Sam added with more confidence than he felt.

  “Okay,” Gruber said. “I’ll send help. Whatever help I can…”

  Before Gruber ended the call, Sam warned him, “Remember, everyone who was in Moyer during either blackout event—whether they were asleep or awake—is susceptible to possession!”

  “Okay, that eliminates… almost nobody in town,” Gruber said. “But good to know.”

  Gruber was safe from possession but, other than Sam, he might be the only one. Sam disconnected, raised his eyebrows and looked at Dean. “So…?”

  “Our last stand will not be in a library,” Dean replied. “Us or them, right? Kill or be killed.”

  “Dude, you’re okay with killing civilians?”

  “Of course not,” Dean said. “But I’m less okay with them killing us.”

  “We’ll drive the shadows out,” Sam said. “Kill them one by one.”

  “They’ve got the numbers,” Dean said. “And too many frigging weapons.”

  “I’ll get help,” Barry said through Bonnie. “My fellow runaways and some of the delinquents will fight them… for a chance to end this. Once and for all.”

  “Team Rebel?” Dean asked.

  “Team Rebel. I like that.” Bonnie smiled, nodding emphatically this time. “I’ll see if I can get them to follow me away from here… away from you and Bonnie. But if they felt Deke… wink out of existence, they’ll know you’re dangerous.”

  “Good luck,” Sam said.

  “We thought we were free back then. Maybe this time… will be different.”

  Swaying, Bonnie’s eyes became vacant—lights on, nobody home—and Sam readied himself to catch her if she fainted. Darkness spilled out of her, spread across the floor like a widening inkblot, then gathered itself, rose as a black silhouette and soared through a gap between the automatic doors out into the parking lot. He swooped around the parking lot, crossing in front of the approaching possessed mob, then soared away. Only one of the mob took the bait, an old woman with a meat cleaver. Her possessor pulled itself free from her and followed Barry. The woman, unburdened, staggered and fell sideways to the blacktop.

  Bonnie, on the other hand, regained her balance and her focus. “He’s gone,” she said, stating the obvious—or lamenting the loss.

  “He said you were aware?”

  “Felt like eavesdropping on a conversation two rooms away,” she said. “But I heard it all.” She looked through the wide windows above the rows of study carrels and four-foot-high bookshelves, and the double glass doors, their only protection from a mob intent on killing them through no fault of their unwilling hosts. “Oh, no!”

  “Lock yourself in your office,” Dean said. “Wait for help to arrive, in case things go sideways.”

  “I’ll lock the front doors first,” she said, rushing to the control panel and switching the doors from automatic mode to closed. “No need to welcome them with open arms.”

  As Bonnie retreated to her office, Dean unzipped the duffel bag and flipped it over on the counter, dumping out their anti-shadow-people arsenal. He handed one of the stun guns to the librarian. “Take this,” he said. “It will expel a shadow from a possessed human.”

  Won’t help if the expelled shadow decides to jump inside her next, Sam thought, but kept quiet about his concern.

  For the Winchesters, the harsh reality was simple. They would be fighting innocent civilians, which meant they had to hold back to avoid maiming or killing the unknowing hosts. But the possessing shadows faced no such compunctions. Open season on hunters. Worse, Sam couldn’t trust Dean to have his back. If a free shadow mind-jacked Dean, Sam would stand alone against the entire bloodthirsty mob.

  THIRTY-THREE

  A whole building protected only by glass—wraparound windows and plate-glass doors. And none of it bulletproof. With the installation of computers in the middle of the library, anti-theft security was a legitimate concern. For all Sam knew, every window and door into the library was wired. In their current circumstances, none of that mattered. Already stretched dangerously thin, the Moyer Police Department would deem a library theft the lowest priority imaginable, maybe one step above a recidivist jaywalker. Besides, Gruber had promised help with so little confidence in his tone, he might as well have said, “You guys are on your own.”

  Sam turned a slow three-sixty, counted more than a dozen townspeople. Pay special attention to the few with guns, he thought. The rest would need to come close to inflict damage. Unless they decide to hurl shovels and pitchforks.

  “Circuit breakers?” Dean called to Bonnie, who stood in the office doorway, the door open wide enough for her to peek out—for now.

  “Utility closet,” she said. “Why?”

  “Too bright in here,” Dean said. “Need to cut the lights.”

  “You want to fight in the dark?”

  Outside, the sun had set but dusk had not yet given way to night. Inside, the library was bright as a business office. Made the darkness of shadow people easier to spot, but might neutralize one of the Winchesters’ weapons.

  “Strobe lights,” Dean said. “More effective in the dark.”

  “I’ll flip the breakers,” Bonnie said, starting toward the lobby again.

  A series of pops sounded from outside. Metal clanged. One window cracked. Another shattered.

  “Down!” Dean shouted as he crossed the lobby and took cover behind the low bookshelf. Sam crouched on the other side. Bonnie ducked, keeping her head below the counter, and scrambled back through the door into her office.

  “Get inside and lock it!” Sam called.

  Both Winchesters held shotguns rigged with black lights and loaded with salt rounds. Dean had stuffed a stun gun in his jacket. But Sam’s remained on the counter, out of reach. Since their shotguns held salt rounds, neither could put down suppressing fire for the other. They had automatics with real bullets in the duffel but had decided to stick to anti-shadow weaponry rather than risk killing a possessed human.

  Gray Beard with his chainsaw stood outside the double doors of the library, almost as if he expected them to part for him. Then he stepped aside for the younger, bald man with the sledgehammer. If the Winchesters had had more time, they could have barricaded the plate-glass doors—but not the windows.

  “Sitting ducks,” Dean muttered, loud enough for Sam to hear.

  As if to emphasize that point, several more shots popped. Another window cracked, then shattered. A bullet thudded into a book on a shelf behind Dean. A second round blew out a fluorescent light over Sam.

  “Hey, at least they’re poor shots,” Sam said.

  With the blown light, a shadow fell across Sam. He noticed Dean staring at the shadow, wary, waiting for—

  —the sledgehammer crashed into one of the front doors, blasting a shower of glass into the library where it clinked and clattered across the counter and tile floor.

  A dark shadow raced along the floor, veered toward Dean.

  “Not this time!” Dean shouted, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket as da
rkness raced up his legs. “Sam!”

  Sam guessed what he intended and thought it might work.

  Dean jammed the stun gun against his chest—darkness flowed up his arms, torso, neck and face, blotting out his face as he squeezed the trigger. His body spasmed, causing him to fall back off his heels and crash into the low shelf before he slid to the floor.

  Sam’s black light was on and waiting. He swung the shotgun barrel toward Dean, conscious of Mr. Sledgehammer ducking to step through the open lower panel of the door. As Dean stumbled and fell, the shadow shot upward, expelled from Dean’s body mid-possession. After an agonizing moment waiting for a clear shot, Sam fired a salt round at the shadow, between its silhouette head and torso. Like Deke, it shattered in eerie silence and flutter-faded away.

  The possessors of Moyer people paused in shock or consternation after one of their number died. In Gray Beard’s hand, the lime-green chainsaw continued to idle. Risking gunfire, Sam stood and reached across the counter to where Dean had emptied the duffel bag, grabbing two tasers, and tossing one to Dean.

  “Long range,” he said. “Ready?”

  Dean nodded, flicking on his mounted black light.

  Sam fired the taser at Mr. Sledgehammer, who stiffened and trembled before he fell to the ground with his weapon. The electrical charge expelled a shadow and Dean took the shot, shattering another of Caleb’s goons. The possessed townspeople roared in anger, charging the shattered door, with Gray Beard ducking through the opening first.

  Sam pumped another round into the chamber as Dean tasered the old man through his overalls. A third shadow bit the dust. But the rest of the Moyer mob spread out, breaking windows and climbing through the narrow and jagged gaps. With blood-streaked faces, arms, legs and hands, the mob looked like extras in a zombie movie. The possessed with guns stayed back, firing into the library, but they either lacked the patience or the skill to hit targets from a distance.

  Crouching behind the low bookshelf, Sam pressed his stun gun to a woman in a business suit wielding a large pair of scissors like a dagger. As she dropped, Sam scooped up his shotgun, tracked the shadow person flung from her body and drilled it with a salt round. A man behind her attempted to spear Sam’s side with a pitchfork. Rolling across the aisle, Sam evaded the rusty tines and scrambled behind the computer island.

  A fireman in full gear swung an ax at one of the front windows. He lost his helmet pushing through the broken glass, and the dark streaks on his clothes indicated that he’d abandoned a fire to join Caleb’s goons. As soon as his boots hit the floor, he bull-rushed Dean, who fired a salt round at his chest to no effect.

  The fireman swung his red-bladed ax in a wide vertical arc, bringing it down with enough force to cleave Dean’s skull down to his collarbone. Dean twisted aside and crashed into one of the metal shelves, snagged between split metal.

  From one knee, Dean fired his taser at an awkward angle. One prong caught in the turnout jacket, the other missed the mark. The fireman knocked the taser from Dean’s hand. He freed the ax and tried to ram it into Dean’s face. Swinging his arm up, Dean batted the handle aside and ducked under the blow.

  Dean circled around the end of a bookshelf to put it between him and the aspiring ax murderer. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sam tangling with two teenagers swinging hockey sticks like clubs. Dean clawed in his jacket pocket for the stun gun. He’d need contact with the fireman’s skin to expel the shadow, but the turnout gear protected most of the fireman’s body. Fortunately, he’d lost his helmet, exposing his face, and he wore no gloves. Dean had a portable strobe light in his other pocket, but the bright fluorescent lighting nullified the paralyzing effect of the strobe.

  Through a gap in the bookshelf, Dean saw the fireman backing away. Dean looked up at one of the fluorescent panels, only a few feet above the top of the bookshelf. Without a second thought, he climbed the shelves like a ladder. Bracing himself, he drove the stock of the shotgun up into the panel, breaking the plastic, then shattering the long tubes inside. Take out enough of the lights and the strobe light would—

  The fireman roared as he charged the tall shelf, slamming his shoulder into it. Clinging to the top, Dean felt it begin to tilt. Dean would be pinned between his shelf and the next, or crushed beneath it if he dropped to the floor. Twisting around, he leaped to the next shelf, almost losing his grip on the shotgun. He scrambled on top and flattened himself as the falling shelf collided with his, striking it hard and high.

  “Crap!” Dean said as his shelf began to fall, and the domino effect took over.

  Dean jumped from one tumbling shelf to the next. He swung at the fluorescent light panels at every chance he got, but his luck was hit or miss. The fireman scrambled after him, climbing up the fallen shelves like steps and jumping between the bookcases.

  Before the last shelf stuck the wall, Dean raced ahead of the chain reaction and dropped behind the last shelf. That shelf would stop when it hit the wall, leaving a gap for him to wait.

  Dean swept the books off the shelves. He needed a clear view, no obstructions for his arm or the shotgun. As expected, the last shelf hit the wall and shuddered to a stop. He swung the barrel of the shotgun through the shelves, swatting one of the fireman’s legs out from under him mid-leap. The man missed his mark, toppling backward.

  Dean hooked an arm under the man’s shoulder and pulled him close, but lost his grip on the shotgun. He snagged it by the black light mounted at the front of the barrel and jammed the stun gun against the fireman’s exposed neck. The shadow welled up from within the man’s body, moments away from darting clear. If Dean shifted his grip on the shotgun barrel, he’d lose the black light effect—and the shadow would possess Dean. If he kept the black light trained on the shadow, it could use its increased substance to slice Dean’s throat, as the other shadow had lacerated Maurice’s arm.

  Dean stretched past the fireman, pushed the stun gun against the hovering shadow and pulled the trigger.

  The shadow whipped around, its silhouette stretching like taffy, flexing and doubling over. Holes began to gape inside it, stretching and resealing themselves. Dean tugged the groaning fireman out of his way, tossed the shotgun barrel upward and caught it by the action. He grabbed the stock and fired a salt round. The shadow blew apart, raining down like black fireworks before fading away.

  Nearby, Sam grabbed one hockey stick in both hands and yanked backward into a somersault, heaving the hockey player holding it into his teammate behind Sam. They crashed together in a heap.

  Sam zapped the first one, reaching back for his dropped shotgun, but Dean had approached and blasted the expelled shadow. Sam zapped the player underneath and Dean took out the second shadow.

  In a few minutes they took out the remaining possessed townspeople, but not before Dean had to stun himself again to shake off a possession in progress. Sitting on the floor, he asked, “That the last of them?”

  Over a dozen dazed and injured townspeople cradled bruised or lacerated limbs, wondering what the hell had happened to them and why they had gathered in the town’s library of all places. The woman in the business suit, rubbed her head and said, “Somebody call 911…”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. Then he noticed movement outside the shattered front doors; two men in uniform. “Little late, but cavalry’s here.”

  “Cops?”

  “Two of them, but—” Sam frowned.

  “What?”

  “Pulled their guns,” Sam said. “And they look…”

  “Like extras from Night of the Living Dead?”

  Sam considered for a moment, and nodded. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

  “With friends like these…”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Senior Patrol Officer Gruber double-checked the address. “This is it.”

  “I’m aware,” Hardigan said drily, sitting on the other side of the bulky computer console, in the passenger seat of the police cruiser.

  Of course, he knows, Gruber thought, you don�
��t take part in a conspiracy to cover up the deaths of seventy people and not remember where they died.

  As they strode toward the rundown farmhouse, Gruber swept the peeling and rotted clapboard exterior with his flashlight. The roving beam revealed the shadow people haunting the place. Some darted away from the light, but others ignored it. Gruber tried to count them, but their strange movement—darting, shifting, flowing—and their uniform appearance made any tally difficult.

  “What the hell is this?” Hardigan asked nervously.

  “A haunting or resurrection or mass possession,” Gruber said. “Whatever it is, we’re not prepared.”

  “I’m not afraid of shadows, Gruber,” Hardigan grumbled.

  “You should be.”

  Flashing red lights swept into view and a second patrol car pulled up next to Gruber’s.

  “Who is it?” Hardigan asked.

  “Backup,” Gruber said. “Bowman and Morrissey.”

  “Good… That’s good,” Hardigan said, nodding slowly.

  The chief hadn’t heard them on the radio and now appeared nervous and a little guilty, confronting the past. When the two men joined them, Hardigan continued to stare at the house, almost entranced. Gruber wondered if he ever had nightmares about dumping the remains of fifty strangers in a mass grave. Meanwhile, Bowman and Morrissey awaited orders.

  “Circle around back,” Gruber told them. “We’ll take the front.” As they hurried away, Gruber called after them, “Tasers only! No guns!”

  The two men exchanged shrugs and pulled their tasers out of their duty belts. Then they resumed their jog toward the back of the house, avoiding the weathered wraparound porch and its creaky floorboards.

  “Ready?” Gruber said to Hardigan, who simply nodded.