Supernatural Fresh Meat

NINE




Bobby finished laying the logs for the fire and used his flint and steel to get the flames going. The kindling caught immediately, and he blew on the fire to make it billow outward. Pine caught and crackled, warming his face and hands.

He sat back on his bed roll, grateful for a moment of peace. His ribs were killing him, but he probably felt better than Jason. The young hunter leaned against a tree a few feet away, his head down. A branch broke and Bobby whirled around with his shotgun to see Sam and Dean coming through the brush, their arms full of more fallen wood.

Sam dumped his pile next to Bobby and sat down crosslegged. “It’s quiet out there.”

“Thing’s probably pissed off as hell we took its lunch away,” Bobby answered.

Dean spilled his pile of wood down and joined them. He nodded toward Jason. “He asleep?”

“Nah. Just recovering. That was a hell of a fight.”

“Who could sleep in the middle of this?” Jason asked, not even lifting his head.

Sam laughed. “Good point.”

Bobby rearranged one of the burning logs with his foot. “At least we have a ready supply of fire now.”

Dean held out his hands to warm them. The night was cold, in the lower thirties, Bobby guessed.

“Just try not to fall into the fire when that thing comes back, you idjits.”

Sam smiled.

Jason glanced around, suddenly alert. “So we just wait for this thing to show up?”

Dean turned to him. “It’ll want to draw us out. Separate us. It’ll probably call to us again, sounding like someone who’s wounded. Just don’t fall for it.”

They waited tensely. Bobby idly poked at the fire with a stick. Sam kept staring at a tree opposite the fire. He flinched, then brought his hand up, driving his thumb into the scar in his palm.

“You okay?” Bobby asked.

Sam flinched. “Huh?” He tore his gaze away from the trees.

“There ain’t nothin’ there but a tree, Sam.”

Sam laughed, a sad, forced laugh. “I know.”

This wasn’t good. He was probably seeing Lucifer again. Bobby worried about the kid. He hated that Sam was suffering those visions of Hell. And it was dangerous going on a hunt when Sam wasn’t all there. Now that they’d stolen the wendigo’s food, tonight’s battle was going to be worse than fighting an enraged grizzly bear while wearing a jacket made of prime rib and bacon.

In the distance, a scream suddenly tore through the quiet. Sam jumped, and Dean spun in that direction.

“Here we go,” Bobby said, standing up.

Jason stood up too, with some difficulty, leaning against the tree.

Sam and Dean slung on their flamethrowers and stood back-to-back with Bobby. Jason pulled out a Molotov.

“Help me!” a woman’s voice pleaded. Then she screamed again.

“Are you sure?…” Jason started.

“Yes. It’s the wendigo.”

“Oh god!” she cried.

“But what if?…”

“It’s not human,” Bobby told Jason firmly. “Don’t leave the fire.”

“Stephen?” she called. “Are you out there? Help me!”

Jason stared in the direction of the voice. “Stephen? That’s pretty specific.”

“It’s just trying to fool us.”

Dean turned to Jason. “Bobby’s right. The one we fought in Colorado did the same thing. Just hold your ground.”

Jason hobbled over to them, gripping his Molotov. Together they formed a ring, each man facing outward.

The woman’s voice cried out again, trailing off into an agonized scream.

“It’s taking everything in me not to go after her,” Jason said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not a her. It’s the damn wendigo,” Bobby told him.

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“No, but one thing we can be sure of—you go out there now, that thing’s going to rip you to shreds.”

They stood in tense silence. Bobby hoped to god he was right, that some woman wasn’t out there, dying an agonizing death while they stood by.

“Carol?” a man’s voice called. “Carol? Jesus, where are you?”

“Oh, god,” Jason said. “It is a couple.”

He started to move away and Bobby grabbed his shoulder. “No, it’s not. It wants you to think that, and it’s working.”

The man cried out in surprise, then screamed.

“Don’t buy into it,” Dean warned.

Jason almost broke away from them, but faltered, staying in place.

The man’s scream became a strangled cry, fading off into the forest as if he were being dragged away at tremendous speed.

Then they heard the woman begging for help, this time closer, her voice reduced to a whisper, but growing nearer. “Is someone out there?”

Bobby saw a shadow under the trees, a figure moving falteringly toward them.

“Hello? There’s something out here! It got my husband!”

The dark shape staggered forward, thin arms grabbing trees for support.

“Incoming,” Bobby whispered.

With Jason staying at Bobby’s back, Dean and Sam pivoted outward, staring into the dark.

“Please help me,” whispered the figure. Bobby held his ground, despite the urge to rush over and offer aid.

It crept toward them, glancing behind in fear.

Bobby took a step forward.

The wendigo rushed him, its open mouth full of needle teeth. He dodged to one side, lighting his Molotov, then flung it at the wendigo. The missile crashed over the thing’s spindly shoulders, fire raining over its torso. It howled in agony, darting away into the dark. They saw it fall to the ground and roll, the flames darkening until they were extinguished.

“Damn it!” Bobby cursed.

They watched that part of the dark forest. No one moved.

Then it dropped down on Sam from above. Sam jerked his shoulders violently, throwing it off. It fell in the dirt and Sam fired off the flamethrower, a tongue of flame billowing out just as the wendigo leapt up to avoid the blast.

It grabbed a tree branch and swung itself deftly upward, landing feet first on the limb. Its eyes narrowed and it glared down at them.

Dean blasted his flamethrower, but the wendigo leapt clear.

“Thing’s slipperier than a conger eel,” Bobby cursed. He lit another Molotov and launched it at the wendigo as it landed near the camp fire.

It roared with rage as its arm ignited. Slapping desperately, it smothered the flames and snarled. Dean crept toward it, ready to fire again.

Suddenly it sprang forward, growling, jaws open and ready to bite. It shot through the air toward Dean, but instead of backing away, Dean ran to meet it. It slashed an arm at him. Pulling out his Bowie knife, he thrust it upward, into the creature’s chest. Roaring, it landed in front of him. Dean shoved the flamethrower inside the gaping knife wound and pressed the trigger.

Fire lit up the wendigo’s insides. It howled in agony, spinning away from Dean and tripping into the camp fire. Seams of fire erupted inside its torso. Flames caught its legs. Brilliant white and gold filled the creature. It turned its head up, arms thrown out, flailing, giving out a deafening, shrill shriek of anguish. Ash began at its feet and billowed upward. Then suddenly the wendigo was made of dust, a grey whispering column in a skinny humanoid shape. A gust of mountain wind swept through the trees and hit it, scattering the ash in a hundred directions.

They’d got it.

The wendigo was toast.

Bobby let out a celebratory whoop and turned to the others.

He saw Dean falter, gripping his arm. Blood sprayed outward between his fingers as Dean tried to clamp down on the flow. Gritting his teeth, Dean toppled over into the dirt.