Supernatural Fresh Meat

THIRTY-EIGHT




Dean reached the spot where he’d seen the man. Dark blood in the snow meant he’d definitely hit his target. He ran on, pack thumping against his back.

He followed the blood, glancing up into the trees to be sure nothing dropped down on him. The drops got farther and farther between, indicating the man could run fast. He came upon a patch of disturbed snow, a big puddle of blood in the middle of it. Dean circled the area, looking for another drop, but didn’t find anything. Heavy snow cascaded around him, already starting to obscure the blood patch.

Dean pressed himself against a tree and peered out cautiously, eyes searching for any hint of motion. He didn’t see anything. He waited, listening. Then he turned to retrace his steps, disappointed. The last thing he wanted on top of everything else was that thing out there, tailing them. And where was Jason? Dead? Frozen?

As Dean turned to rejoin Grace, he looked back at the disturbed snow. Was it possible the thing had buried itself?

He reached down, finding icy chunks of older snow under the fresh powder. He felt an old log and a few bushes, but nothing animal. Finally, he turned back, and found to his alarm that the snow had already completely obscured the blood trail. He could barely make out the depressions where his snowshoes had been. He followed his route back, finding Grace sitting down on a stump in the snow.

“You okay?” she asked, standing up. “What did you shoot at?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“And by ‘something’ you mean serial killer?”

Dean was quiet.

“So you leave me here to fight the killer on my own?”

“No, I left to fight the killer on my own.”

“While he doubles back and makes a meat rug out of me to match his scalp throw pillows.”

“He might be more of a leg bone end table kind of guy. Haven’t decided yet.”

“Thanks for that.” She glanced around nervously. “So it’s nothing?”

“It was something, but it’s prowling, not attacking for some reason.”

“Well, that makes me feel loads better.” She started walking again, hurrying. “On toward the avalanche zone.”

Dean checked behind them once more before slinging his rifle around to his back. He reached into his pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of his silver .45.

They came to the edge of the dense section of forest and entered a small meadow with a few dead trees standing stark and grey against the white.

They were halfway across it when Dean heard the now-familiar deep rumble of another avalanche above them.