Supernatural Fresh Meat

THREE




Storm clouds moved in. The air in the forest hung wet and cold, and the cloud layer descended as the morning wore on, drifting eerily through the trees. A few times Sam could see the peaks beyond when the clouds parted, but the mists would swirl again, covering the view.

The soft pine needles beneath their feet felt spongy and wet, and the scent of snow lingered in the air, though it was still too warm for any flakes to fall. Sam’s breath frosted as he watched for movement in the trees.

Ahead of him Bobby stopped and bent down, studying a broken branch on a manzanita bush. “Something big came through here,” he said. “But could have been a buck.”

“Or a rogue bear?” Dean asked.

Bobby threw him a wry smile and stood up again, continuing on. They walked in silence, and quiet clung to the forest. A few times Sam heard a distant woodpecker and the complaining trill of a squirrel.

They hiked for two hours, moving deeper into the Tahoe National Forest. As they passed into a small clearing, Sam thought he saw movement in the trees on the far side, a blur of motion too fast for him to lock on to. Wendigos liked to move in trees. His heart picked up its pace, and he braced himself for a sudden attack from above.

“You guys see that?” he asked, stopping.

Dean turned, following Sam’s gaze into the massive ponderosa pines in front of them. “No.”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Bobby said. “I think we might be getting close.”

Dean looked grim. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

They moved slowly forward, Bobby studying the forest floor for any sign of prints or hair. He stooped again, studying a large human-shaped footprint in a patch of mud. “This is it.” He gazed up at the trees at the far edge of the clearing, leaning on his rifle. “Smell that?”

Sam whiffed the air. Decay.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Well, that can’t be good.”

“Come on.” Bobby waved them forward, led by his nose.

They passed through the clearing, Sam watching the branches above as they entered the trees. The fresh scent of wet pine hung heavily there, but above it all was the sickly sweet smell of decomposition. They moved quietly through the trees, avoiding fallen twigs and stepping over sodden logs.

Bobby held up a fist, the signal to stop. He gestured toward a distant point, and Sam saw a ramshackle wooden structure leaning against a massive granite boulder.

Bobby knelt down and slung off his pack. He made up two Molotov cocktails and handed one to Sam. Then he stood up, motioning for Dean to skirt left with the flamethrower and for Sam to skirt right. They split up, moving to surround the building. Sam gripped the Molotov, white-knuckling the bottle of gasoline. He held his lighter at the ready, grateful for the heavy feeling of the rifle against his shoulder. If he missed with the Molotov, the rifle would at least slow down the wendigo, buying time for Dean or Bobby to land home with fire.

As Sam drew nearer to the makeshift shed, the stench of decomposition grew stronger. It was an old structure, wood worn and splitting with years of sun exposure. A wagon wheel stood propped up against one side, and a rusted lantern hung from a tree branch above.

He saw Dean and Bobby circling around. Bobby motioned toward a rickety door on one side, the only obvious entry point. It hung on rusted hinges, no longer fitting into the doorframe. A simple wooden bar hung through two metal brackets served as the lock. That meant whoever lived in the shack wasn’t at home; there was no way to lock it like that from the inside. But it would be a good way to lock victims in, Sam thought bleakly.

Bobby approached the wooden slat and signaled for Sam and Dean to hang back. Cautiously he kicked it free with his boot, holding on to the Molotov with one hand and his lighter with the other. The board fell to the ground, and with a groan and thump the door swung open.

Instantly they were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. Sam fought back the urge to gag.

Bobby stared inside, then lifted his arm to his nose. “Nobody home.” He crept forward, coughing at the reek. Sam and Dean followed him inside.

A small room lay beyond. A simple wooden table, cut from rough logs, stood in the center. A rickety bench sat next to it. Dozens of items lay scattered across the earthen floor: an old candle, a used box of matches, a sleeping bag leaking stuffing, a soiled pillow, a collection of old books with crumbling spines, a deck of worn playing cards. Metal glinted in the dirt at the far side of the cabin.

Sam placed his bottle of gasoline on the table and pocketed the lighter. He walked to the gleaming metal and bent down. He pulled a dented gold pocket watch from the dirt, clicking it open to find the crystal cracked and grime on the face. An engraving on the back of the watch read “W.M.F. from S.M.F.” The watch was old, nineteenth century, and probably not from a recent victim.

Sam straightened up. Most of the items scattered on the floor were old. The playing cards had yellowed with age, the books spotted with mildew and tanned from the sun. In another corner lay some old daguerreotypes of a woman and a small boy, and an image of a general store and post office with the name “Foster’s Bar” painted on a sign above the door.

Bobby still had his mouth covered with his sleeve. “What is this place?”

Dean nudged the rank sleeping bag with his foot. “Something lives here.”

Bobby glanced around. “Where is that god-awful stench coming from? I don’t see any bodies.”

Sam looked down at the dirt. “Maybe it’s just seeped into the floor. Decomp liquid soaking the soil.”

“You think this is the wendigo’s digs?” Bobby asked. “Not your typical deep, dark cave.”

Dean winced at the stench. “For one thing, where are the bodies?”

A high keening wail sounded on the wind outside.

They fell silent, listening. Sam heard it again, a human cry for help. He hurried to the door of the shack, waiting.

Then it came again, and he could make out the words. “Help me!” A woman’s voice, in the distance.

“Is that—” he started to ask, turning toward Bobby.

“It could be the wendigo,” Bobby answered, joining him at the doorway.

Dean bent down in the dirt, gathering up a tattered notebook and a yellowing envelope. “Let’s bring some of this stuff. Could give us a lead.” He stuffed it into his pack, then slung it on his back. He joined them by the door.

Outside, the woman cried for help again, screaming from somewhere in the distant trees. She was either fighting for her life or it was the wendigo, imitating a human voice and trying to lure them closer.

Sam stepped aside as Dean moved past him, raising the flamethrower. “Let’s do this,” his brother said.

They moved toward the screams, Sam gripping the bottle of gasoline and placing his thumb on the lighter’s striking wheel.