Supernatural Fresh Meat

FIVE




The ranger stood in a firing stance, pointing the gun at Dean. She was a petite woman with short, efficient blonde hair and an attitude that let Dean know she was not to be messed with. On her back towered a tremendous backcountry pack that looked like it weighed two times more than she did.

“We’re just trying to put the fire out,” Sam told her, holding his palms out in a placating gesture.

She pointed the gun at him. “I heard shots.”

Bobby stood up, wincing in pain. “That was me,” he said. “Caught sight of a buck.”

“And the fire?” she asked.

Dean put on his best well-meaning smile. He knew the flamethrower lay only a few feet away and dared a glance at it. Thankfully, it was obscured by brush. “I accidentally dropped my cigarette.”

“You smoke?” she asked dubiously.

“Oh, yeah. Packs and packs. I’m trying to quit, though,” he added.

“If you jerks are trying to burn game out of the forest, I’m going to cite you for so many tickets you’ll have to mortgage your grandmother’s teeth to pay the fines.”

Dean lifted his hands. “Oh, no. We wouldn’t do that. Bambi is safe with us.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Your friend there just said he took aim at a buck.”

Dean shifted his weight. “Is Bambi a buck?” He looked to his brother for help, and Sam shrugged hopelessly. “I thought Bambi was a… Bambi.”

The ranger lowered her gun, evidently taking them for clueless louts.

“Okay, let’s put this out,” she said. She dropped her huge pack and pulled out a small shovel. She went to work burying the flames in dirt and soon the blaze was extinguished. Her eyes fell on their pile of belongings. Dean had left his bag open, and peeking out were his silver .45, a shotgun, a bottle of holy water, a short sword, a large knife, and more bottles of gasoline for Molotov cocktails.

Bobby’s pack, which was only slightly open, revealed another rifle and the muzzle of a Mossberg pump-action shotgun.

Sam’s pack was zipped. Thank goodness for small miracles, Dean thought.

“You boys are planning quite a party,” she said. “What do you need all these guns for?”

Bobby responded, trying to mask the pain from his ribs. He spoke through clenched teeth and gripped his side nonchalantly. “We heard there was a rogue bear out here. Just wanted to be careful.”

She eyed the stash of weapons. “You have licenses for all these firearms?”

“Of course,” Bobby said cheerfully.

“Pepper spray is more effective against bears,” she told them. “You shoot a bear and ninety percent of the time you’re just going to make it mad.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, officer,” Dean said with as much chipper enthusiasm as he could muster.

“It’s ‘ranger,’” she told him. “Ranger Grace Cumberlin. You boys have a hunting license?”

Bobby reached into his jacket and pulled out a mess of paper and cards. They were all fake, of course, but they were good fakes. Hunters needed a lot of forged papers. Fake I.D.s to get them into morgues and police files, licenses for a vast array of weaponry.

She took the licenses and nodded, satisfied for now. But Dean could tell that she didn’t trust them one bit.

She handed the papers back to Bobby and indicated his side. “You okay?”

“Perfect. Just took a spill.”

“A spill. Uh-huh.”

Dean winced. Yeah, she was so not buying this. But she probably couldn’t guess the truth, either. Probably just thought they were suspicious losers.

She picked up her massive pack and slung it on her shoulders like it weighed as much as a box of tissues. “You boys be careful. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean nodded, putting on his best smile again.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Yeah, she is having none of it.

With a final disdainful glance over her shoulder, she walked away, disappearing into the trees.

“That was close,” Bobby said when she was out of earshot. “Thought she was going to haul us in.”

Dean watched her retreating form, then went to pick up the flamethrower from the brush. “Yeah, I think she could have lashed us onto that pack and hiked out with us, too.”

Sam looked at Bobby. “You doing okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“Can you still track?” Dean asked.

“Well, I’m not giving up now,” he growled.

They slung their packs on and Bobby searched the ground where the wendigo had run off. “Let’s go,” he said.

They hiked until dark, and the trail had gone cold. Bobby’s ribs were much worse than he was letting on, and the temperature dropped considerably as the sun set behind the mountains. They were without jackets and sleeping bags, so finally Dean came to the hard conclusion that they should go back and regroup. They were no good to anyone dead.

He stopped. “We have to go back.”

Bobby paused, turning around.

Sam said, “I was thinking the same thing. We need more firepower.”

“This thing’s too fast for Molotovs. We’d have to get lucky. Another flamethrower wouldn’t hurt,” Bobby said. “If we could figure out where its main lair is, we could surprise it there and kill it. Might be our only chance.”

Dean nodded. “I’m in.”

They turned and headed out of the forest, the cold seeping into Dean’s bones. He only hoped they could find that lair before more people disappeared.