Supernatural Fresh Meat

ONE




Tonopah, Nevada, present day

The ghost collided with Sam Winchester with surprising force, sending him sprawling onto the desert floor. He rolled as its spectral boot came down toward his head. Raising his shotgun, Sam aimed it at the phantom’s chest and fired. With a boom, shells erupted, spraying the ghost with rock salt. The apparition vanished in an angry swirl of smoke. While salt didn’t get rid of ghosts permanently, it usually bought Sam a little time. But the spirit of George Drechler wasn’t as affected as most. Sam glanced around the forsaken cemetery, reaching into his jacket pocket for the last of his ammunition. “I hope you’re right about where the bones are this time, Dean,” he shouted, struggling to his feet. “Drechler’s a mean one. Salt barely fazes him.”

A few yards away, his brother, Dean Winchester, stood chest deep in a grave, digging furiously with an old shovel. Sweat dripped from his brow and his shirt was drenched. “Hey, how was I supposed to know about some secret Murderer’s Row?”

This marked their third digging expedition on this hunt. They’d dug up a false grave at Drechler’s original house in nearby Goldfield, Nevada, then another in the main cemetery of Tonopah, and finally discovered Murderer’s Row in the town’s old archives. It stood apart from the graves of law-abiding Tonopah citizens, and was now forgotten by history.

Before Sam had a chance to reload, the ghost reappeared. “He’s back!”

Sam braced himself. Drechler circled him, eyes furious. Dressed in a dirty brown duster, leather vest, gun belt, and hat, he looked the part of an Old West gunslinger. The ghost glanced over his shoulder at Dean and then abandoned the attack on Sam and barreled toward his brother instead. Sam ran after him, catching him just as he hovered above the rim of the grave. Sam pulled out an iron dagger and sank it into the ghost’s back. Drechler spun, eyes fiery, then shrieked and vaporized, but Sam knew he would be back in a few seconds.

“You almost down to the coffin?” he called out.

Dean straightened, leaning his elbow on the shovel. “You’re welcome to come down here if you think you can dig faster, sunshine.”

Sam darted away from the graveside as the ghost reappeared. From the depths of his sweeping duster, Drechler produced a rusty Bowie knife and began circling Sam again. The ghost sprang, blade thrusting upward. Sam dodged, but the tip caught in his jacket, ripping the material. Sam lashed out with the iron again, driving it deep into the ghost’s chest. Drechler screamed and atomized.

Dean hurried, shoveling away mounds of dirt. Damn. How deep had they buried the guy?

At last Sam heard Dean’s shovel hit something hollow. Dean scraped the rest of the dirt away, then brought the edge of the shovel down hard on the exposed old wood. It splintered, and he got down on his knees, ripping away planks. Inside lay the bones of George Drechler, who’d murdered fifteen people when he was alive, and ten more after he died.

“Got it!”

Dean reached into his jacket and brought out a cylindrical container of salt. He poured it over the remains, glancing up to see if Sam was okay. Their eyes met as Sam searched the darkness for the spirit. He felt Drechler behind him suddenly and whirled just as the Bowie knife lashed out again. Sam thrust one hand up, striking the ghost’s arm and deflecting the blade.

Dean poured lighter fluid on the bones. As Sam struck out with the iron blade again, Dean leapt up out of the grave, pivoting at the edge. He struck a match and dropped it into the splintered coffin.

With a whump, the bones caught, fire lighting up the night. Drechler cried out in anguish as his ghost body lit up with flames at the same time. Salting and burning human remains was one way to vanquish a ghost forever. Embers glowed within the ghost’s form, creating jagged lines in his face and clothing. Fire snaked and devoured, ashes spiraling up into the night. Then Drechler vanished, whirling away into a puff of smoke.

Sam bent over, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Nice.”

Dean grinned back at him in the firelight, mud and dirt smeared on his sweaty face. “I need a beer.” He glanced toward the dim glow of city lights a few blocks away. “And I saw a Super Piggy Oink Oink Shack that we have got to check out. They’ve got this sandwich that’s BBQ boneless ribs wrapped in bacon.”

Sam shook his head. His brother’s monster-hunting ability was only rivaled by his impressive talent for finding the greasiest meat-serving dives in every town they visited.

They walked toward the glow of the city, crossing a dry section of rocks and scrub bushes. In the gloom, Sam could make out all the little iron crosses of the town’s main cemetery.

Murderer’s Row stood on the outskirts of Tonopah, Nevada, an old town from Nevada’s mining days. The Row wasn’t part of the regular cemetery, which was populated mainly by miners killed in a mine fire in 1911.

George Drechler was the brother of one of the miners, and decided to seek vengeance by killing citizens associated with the mine—owners, investors, even attorneys and accountants. Even when a posse caught him and executed him, his killing didn’t stop. By the time Dean and Sam discovered his trail, ten more people had died.

In town, Dean ordered more food than Sam thought anyone could possibly eat. With the brimming take-out bag, Sam and Dean returned to the Three Ring Motel on North Main Street. The sign featured a jovial clown waving his hand, and clowns adorned every door.

Sam glanced around uncomfortably. “I can’t believe you made me stay at this place. The sign looks just like the Cooper Circus clown.”

“C’mon, Sam. It’s festive.”

“Festive?” Sam pointed to the neighboring lot. “It’s right next to the creepy old miners’ cemetery. Great combination.”

Dean shrugged. “What could happen?”

Sam pointed at him. “Don’t say that. Do not say that.”

They entered their room, Dean flinging himself down on his bed and diving into the sack of food.

Sam sat down at the room’s table and opened his laptop. He was restless. Had to keep busy. The fiery flashes of Hell were worse when his mind fell idle.

While Dean sat propped up on one elbow, devouring his sandwich, Sam searched the internet. He scoured missing person reports and news accounts of the strange. Then he came across something.

“Hey Dean, listen to this.” His brother lowered his halfeaten Super Piggy Oink Oink Delight and turned to him. “Five hikers were killed over the last three years in the Tahoe National Forest. Rangers thought rogue bear, but it’s unusual for black bears to be this aggressive.”

Dean talked around a mouthful of pig. “What, you’re thinking wendigo?”

Sam lifted his eyebrows. “Could be.”

“Still remember the last one. That was brutal.”

“You want to check it out?”

“Let’s go.” He took another huge bite of the sandwich.

“Bobby?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. “Bobby. Best tracker we know.”

Like Sam and Dean, Bobby Singer was a hunter, part of a small group of people who knew about the existence of monsters and spirits. They’d tracked down violent creatures from vampires to demons to ghosts. Bobby had taught them a lot of what they knew about hunting. Over the years, when their dad was out on a case, Bobby took care of them and helped raise them. He was a second father to them, a curmudgeon with a heart of gold.

Sam dialed his cell, wondering if Bobby was at his friend’s cabin in Whitefish, Montana, or off somewhere on a case.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Bobby, it’s Sam.”

“This better be good. I just caught dinner.”

“I think we might be on to a wendigo.”

“Ech. Not my favorite member of the human-eating bunch. Where’d you pick up the trail?”

“Near Lake Tahoe.”

“Prime feeding territory. Lots of tourists coming and going.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“People missing?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re saying rogue bear?”

“Yep.”

“All right. I’m just wrapping things up in Eugene, Oregon. Ghost on campus here.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Just burned some nineteenth-century groundskeeper bones. I’ll head down. Where do you want to meet up?”

“There’s a little town near the Tahoe National Forest called Emigrant Gap. Most of the people have gone missing near there.”

“OK. Meet you there. I’ll bring my .30-30.”

“Figured you would,” Sam said. Bobby had been hunting creatures for years. He could track like no one they knew. “See you there tomorrow evening.”

Sam hung up and turned to Dean. “Bobby’s in.”

Dean crammed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and nodded. Then he lay back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Tomorrow it’ll just be us and nature.”

“Can’t wait,” Sam said soberly.

The last time they’d hunted a wendigo, they’d barely made it out of there, and their companions had not been so lucky. Their very competent guide had been killed, along with some innocent campers. He thought of the vastness of the forest, of the sheer speed and agility of the creature. Last time people had died. He only hoped this time would be different.