Supernatural Fresh Meat

THIRTY-FOUR




As snow cascaded down over Truckee, Sam and Bobby drove up an old fire road. Sam gripped the armrest as the van rumbled over the rough ground, jostling them and their gear. The road had been washed out so many times that huge gullies created dangerous pits along its entire length. Bobby was doing the best he could, but the heavy snowfall masked the location of the potholes and ravines, and they lurched and skidded all over the place. Sam’s snowshoes slid off the backseat and skittered around in the back.

He aimed his flashlight at the topographic map on his lap. “Okay, there should be another road coming up on the right.”

In a few more minutes, the headlights shone on the intersection, which was marked only with a small metal sign bearing the fire number 145GPH24. Bobby turned onto it and they rumbled on.

“We’re almost there,” Sam told him.

It was the closest they would be able to get to where they’d left Dean. They had tried again to get through the roadblock with no success. Most of the guests had been evacuated from the Tahoe Summit Ski Resort, and absolutely no one was being allowed up the road to the trailhead where the Impala sat. Dean would not be happy that his baby was getting buried in feet upon feet of snow.

As the car jerked and lurched, Sam tried Dean’s cell again. Straight to voicemail. He tried Jason’s, too, with the same result.

The van jammed up against a boulder hidden under the snow, and Bobby had to reverse and try again. “Can’t make anything out in this storm!” he cursed.

“Just a little farther,” Sam said, consulting the map again. “There’s another road on the right in 0.2 miles.”

When they reached it, Bobby turned right, but the road ascended steeply and became even more washed out and treacherous.

“I don’t know how far we’re going to make it. This looks more like a fire break than a fire road.”

Branches scraped along the sides of the van as they climbed. A few times the vegetation grew so thick on either side that Sam thought the car might get wedged. But they pushed through.

“Not far now,” he assured Bobby. “The secondary trail should come into view in the next couple minutes.”

They rose higher, the tires spinning on patches of ice beneath the snow. They saw a large pullout, and Sam checked their GPS location against the map. “This is it, Bobby.”

Bobby parked in the wide gravel spot and they geared up in the warmth of the van. Sam donned a Capilene shirt, fleece pullover, and rainproof parka. On his bottom half he wore Capilene long johns and a pair of warm pile pants under waterproof rain paints. He slid on a warm black balaclava and a Turtle Fur hat. Then he stepped outside, his breath instantly sucked out by the sheer cold of the air.

He buckled on the snowshoes over his waterproof boots and cinched a pair of gaiters around his ankles and calves. No snow was getting in.

On the other side of the van, he could hear Bobby tightening up his snowshoes. Starting to feel warm despite the temperatures being in the low twenties, Sam strapped his rifle to his back, grabbed a handgun, the stingray whip, three bottles of the spice concoction, and stuffed them all in his parka pockets. In his pack he put food, water, an emergency blanket, map, compass, phone, phone charger, and extra batteries. On the bottom he lashed a waterproof bag with a tent and his sleeping bag.

“You ready?” Bobby asked from behind him.

Sam turned to his friend. Bobby was so thickly suited up in cold weather gear that he looked like the Michelin Man, if the Michelin Man walked around with an arsenal strapped to his back. Bobby placed four jars of the spice concoction into pockets in his parka, too.

“I’m ready,” Sam told him.

Side by side, they lowered their snow goggles in place, grabbed their trekking poles, and started off into the dark and the heart of the blizzard.