Supernatural Fresh Meat

FORTY-SEVEN




With what felt like infuriating slowness, Dean shoveled out snow from around his waist and hips with his hands.

He shouted up to Susan near the lodge building. “There’s another one here!” But she didn’t turn. He waved at her, but she was busily digging someone else out and couldn’t hear him. Dean looked around for anyone else, but Susan was the only person he could see out and moving. It was up to him to save this guy.

The bare fingers flexed, grasping for help.

“Hold on,” Dean shouted, not even sure if the guy could hear him.

He dug down to the tops of his thighs, throwing up snow around himself. He reached his left knee, and suddenly he was able to lift his leg. He tore it free from the snow, then used the resulting hole to pull out his other leg. He heaved himself up and out and staggered over to the clasping hand.

He squeezed the fingers to let the buried man know he was there, and started digging. But doing it by hand was just too slow. He had to find a shovel, fast. Throwing off his parka to mark the spot, Dean ran toward Susan, who was crouched over a foot sticking out of the snow.

“I need a shovel,” he told her.

She dug hurriedly, trying to find the victim’s head to get them some air. She pointed to her left without looking up.

“Try that pack there.”

A blue avalanche control pack lay on its side above the snow. He grabbed the shovel lashed to the outside. As he straightened up, he spotted Jason, digging in the snow a few feet away in the gale.

Dean turned around, locating his coat’s color in all the white. When he saw the expanse of the slide, he was grateful he’d thought to mark the spot, or he might not have been able to find the guy again.

He ran back, squeezing the guy’s fingers again to let him know to hold on. But this time, the fingers didn’t grip back. Dean estimated where the guy’s head should be, and started digging down. He found another hand, and worked upward from it. Throwing shovel after shovel over his shoulder, Dean dug as fast as he could, his fingers going numb in the howling wind. When he unearthed a crown of brown hair in the snow, he planted the shovel to his side. He dug down in front of the face with his hands, his fingers reaching past the forehead and freeing up some space in front of the nose and mouth. He was rewarded with a loud gasp of air. The man looked up, and Dean instantly recognized him as Hank, the ski patrol guy who’d suffered from exposure.

“Thank you,” Hank croaked. “Get my arms free. I’ll dig myself the rest of the way out while you help others.”

Dean nodded, grabbing the shovel again and digging out Hank’s arms and torso.

“You sure about this?” he asked, handing over the shovel. “You can get out?”

“Positive.”

Dean stood up. Near the lodge door, Susan still worked to free the man who belonged to the boot. Dean ran over to help. She’d gotten his face free. It was Steven, the snow ranger. He was still breathing.

She reached up, slapping a handheld electronic device in Dean’s freezing hand. “You know how to use one of these?”

Dean studied the red plastic case and the small LCD screen. “What the heck is it?”

“It’s an avalanche beacon transceiver. Switch it to receive mode and cover the slide area. It should respond if you come close to anyone buried who’s wearing a beacon.”

Dean grabbed another shovel from a fallen pack and took the transceiver. Switching it to receive mode, he read the display, which showed directionality and distance to any beacon signals. He walked around first in front of the lodge, thinking that if he and Hank got swept that way, others might have, too. It picked up a signal about twenty feet to the left of where Hank was furiously digging himself out. Dean watched the LCD screen, closing in on the location.

“Got one!” Dean yelled.

He started digging with the shovel, acutely aware of how much time had passed since people got buried. Too much time. If this person didn’t have an air pocket, they were probably already dead.

“I’m coming!” Hank shouted. He was still working to dig out his thighs.

Dean dug in with the shovel, eyes starting to hurt in the brilliant white of the snow. The wind whipped around the sides of the lodge, bringing with it biting cold. Dean found the sleeve of a jacket, with no arm inside. He pulled it aside, looking beneath. He followed the sleeve to the body of the jacket and felt something hard inside. He cleared snow around it, realizing it was a man’s rib cage. “Hold on!” Dean yelled. He worked sideways, toward the head, and cleared enough snow from the person’s face for him to breathe. But he wasn’t breathing.

“Hey,” Dean shouted. His eyes were closed. Dean recognized him as one of the ski patrol guys who’d helped Hank drag the howitzer out of the drift. He shoveled around the man’s chest to give his lungs room to expand.

Suddenly, Hank was beside him. “It’s Bill,” he said. “Watch out.” He bent down, clearing Bill’s airway of a chunk of ice. Then he performed C.P.R. for two minutes. Dean was impressed. Hank seemed to be indestructible. Bill coughed, spewing water all over Hank. Hank slapped him on the arm. “Right on! You made it!”

Bill laughed weakly. “What a ride! All I needed were my skis.”

Hank stood up. Someone shouted from the lodge. It was Don, the mountain manager, emerging from the one remaining door. Don’s words were being whipped away by the wind, but Dean managed to make out that he was saying two of the ski patrol team were safe inside: “Scott” and a name Dean didn’t catch.

“Ambrose!” shouted Hank, noticing the overly protective ski patroller’s absence. They scanned the disturbed patch of snow.

With Don’s help, Susan finished digging Steven out. Then they rushed over and started clearing compacted snow away from Bill.

Dean stared around, and then he saw Ambrose. Or what was left of him. The avalanche had carried him into a security light pole in the parking lot. From what Dean could see, a four-by-four truck had smashed into him after that and then been scraped away, taking half of Ambrose’s body with it. His top half lay on the snow, sightless eyes staring up into the grey sky, his bottom half lay bleeding, half buried in front of the demolished truck.

“I think I found Ambrose,” Dean said flatly, pointing him out to Hank.

Hank sat back on the snow. “Oh, Jesus.”

Susan started walking that way and Dean joined her. She stared ahead blankly, her face gone slack. When she reached Ambrose’s torso, she reached out and put one gloved hand on his. His jaw was broken and part of his scalp had been torn off. It dripped blood into the snow. She bent down to touch his face, and Dean placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Something churning in the avalanche must have torn through the back of his jacket, gouging long tears in the material. Blood seeped from the holes.

Dean bent closer, and saw that the skin beneath wasn’t torn. Puncture marks covered Ambrose’s lower back above the kidneys. He parted the rips in the jacket, seeing that Ambrose’s lungs had been sucked out through his ribs and past his spine. Dean drew in a sharp breath, glancing around for the aswang. His hand felt for the container of spices, and his fingers closed around it. He couldn’t believe it was actually still in his coat.

In the blinding snow, he could only see about forty feet out into the parking lot. The avalanche had stopped about twenty feet from where he stood, the cars on the far side blasted by the air mass, but not buried.

The scent of bile and urine blew around him on the wind. He pulled out his .45 with the spice-soaked bullets, ready to take a shot.

“Look what the avalanche did to him,” Susan said. “It tore him to pieces.”

Hank joined them. Don walked up beside them, solemnly taking in the view of their friend.

“All members of the ski patrol accounted for,” Hank said to Don.

Dean scanned around again, seeing another patch of blood in the snow about ten feet from Ambrose’s legs. He walked toward it. It stained the snow next to another light pole. When Dean reached it, he heard something scratch on the far side of the post. The post was wide, almost three feet, plenty of room to hide behind.

Dean lifted his gun, pointing it and circling. Standing on the opposite side was a familiar figure. His black hood was still pulled tightly around his face, but this time Dean could see him clearly. It was Jimmy from the Aces and Eights Saloon, the barkeep who’d been so eager to join them on the hunt. He clutched one hand to his upper arm, which streamed blood. The wound wasn’t from the avalanche, though. It was a gunshot wound, exactly where Dean had hit the person who’d been trailing him.

“Jimmy?” Dean said.

Jimmy’s eyes flashed reflectively. He opened his mouth, teeth growing long and sharp. Dean pulled out his Bowie knife from his hip sheath and Jimmy snarled at him, moving away from the pole. A sudden powerful blast of wind gusted down on top of them, throwing them off balance. It screamed over the top of the snow, sending up a blinding ground blizzard. Dean caught sight of Jimmy moving away, back toward the lodge. He staggered in the wind, running after him.

“We have to get inside!” he heard Don yell.

Voices shouted from the lodge, and as Dean ran, he saw Grace standing by the door, arguing with Jason. He towered over her, angrily pointing at her, and she stood defiantly shouting back.

Dean forced his exhausted body to run faster. Jimmy ran up to Grace and shoved Jason down hard in the snow. Then he brought his boot down on Jason’s head and grabbed Grace, forcing her through the doors into the lodge.

“Get inside! Get behind something solid!” Don was still shouting from somewhere ahead of Dean. Dean couldn’t make out where the mountain manager was.

Suddenly, running became almost impossible. The ground shook beneath him. The wind kicked up higher, swirling around him and obscuring the lodge.

He heard shouts and followed them. The grey hulk of the building swam up before him. Beneath his feet, the snow shifted, making it impossible to make headway.

“It’s released another one!” he heard Don yell. “Get inside!”

In the blinding snowstorm, Dean could see the ski patrol members running toward the lodge. He saw Susan’s red parka and focused on it in the gale. He tripped, realized he’d reached the stairs to the lodge, and bounded up them. Don stood at the door, ushering people inside.

“There’s no time!”

As Dean entered the ruins of the lodge, he spotted Jimmy dragging Grace through the employees-only door that led to the crew rooms below. He glanced around for Jason, but didn’t see him. Then he took off for the employee door, wrenching it open.

He was halfway down the cement stairs when a massive shockwave hit the building. He slammed against the far side of the stairwell, then lost his footing and stumbled, grabbing the railing as he went. He caught himself before he hit the bottom. The whole building started shaking and heaving as if someone had tossed it into a washing machine. Dean held on to the metal railing. Bricks came loose, raining down on him, and he heard the shrieking of massive beams breaking up above his head. Then the ceiling collapsed. Dean pitched forward, his head hitting a pile of dusty bricks. He could hear other people screaming as the floor beneath him buckled upward, and then the wall closed in on him, crushing the full weight of the ceiling into his back, compressing him. He felt the air squeeze out of his lungs and his grasping fingers found a rough wooden beam that had fallen in front of him.

The roar became deafening. Every jostle and upward thrust of the building sent debris slamming into Dean’s body. He couldn’t get a breath. He could hear a woman screaming about her leg somewhere close by, and a man’s voice pleading with the avalanche to stop.

But it thundered on, taking over Dean’s entire world, suffocating him.