Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,3
returned to the Three Ring Motel on North Main Street. The sign featured a jovial clown waving his hand, and clowns adorned every door.
Sam glanced around uncomfortably. “I can’t believe you made me stay at this place. The sign looks just like the Cooper Circus clown.”
“C’mon, Sam. It’s festive.”
“Festive?” Sam pointed to the neighboring lot. “It’s right next to the creepy old miners’ cemetery. Great combination.”
Dean shrugged. “What could happen?”
Sam pointed at him. “Don’t say that. Do not say that.”
They entered their room, Dean flinging himself down on his bed and diving into the sack of food.
Sam sat down at the room’s table and opened his laptop. He was restless. Had to keep busy. The fiery flashes of Hell were worse when his mind fell idle.
While Dean sat propped up on one elbow, devouring his sandwich, Sam searched the internet. He scoured missing person reports and news accounts of the strange. Then he came across something.
“Hey Dean, listen to this.” His brother lowered his halfeaten Super Piggy Oink Oink Delight and turned to him. “Five hikers were killed over the last three years in the Tahoe National Forest. Rangers thought rogue bear, but it’s unusual for black bears to be this aggressive.”
Dean talked around a mouthful of pig. “What, you’re thinking wendigo?”
Sam lifted his eyebrows. “Could be.”
“Still remember the last one. That was brutal.”
“You want to check it out?”
“Let’s go.” He took another huge bite of the sandwich.
“Bobby?” Sam asked.
Dean nodded. “Bobby. Best tracker we know.”
Like Sam and Dean, Bobby Singer was a hunter, part of a small group of people who knew about the existence of monsters and spirits. They’d tracked down violent creatures from vampires to demons to ghosts. Bobby had taught them a lot of what they knew about hunting. Over the years, when their dad was out on a case, Bobby took care of them and helped raise them. He was a second father to them, a curmudgeon with a heart of gold.
Sam dialed his cell, wondering if Bobby was at his friend’s cabin in Whitefish, Montana, or off somewhere on a case.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Bobby, it’s Sam.”
“This better be good. I just caught dinner.”
“I think we might be on to a wendigo.”
“Ech. Not my favorite member of the human-eating bunch. Where’d you pick up the trail?”
“Near Lake Tahoe.”
“Prime feeding territory. Lots of tourists coming and going.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“People missing?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re saying rogue bear?”
“Yep.”
“All right. I’m just wrapping things up in Eugene, Oregon. Ghost on campus here.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Just burned some nineteenth-century groundskeeper bones. I’ll head down. Where do you want to meet up?”
“There’s a little town near the Tahoe National Forest called Emigrant Gap. Most of the people have gone missing near there.”
“OK. Meet you there. I’ll bring my .30-30.”
“Figured you would,” Sam said. Bobby had been hunting creatures for years. He could track like no one they knew. “See you there tomorrow evening.”
Sam hung up and turned to Dean. “Bobby’s in.”
Dean crammed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and nodded. Then he lay back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Tomorrow it’ll just be us and nature.”
“Can’t wait,” Sam said soberly.
The last time they’d hunted a wendigo, they’d barely made it out of there, and their companions had not been so lucky. Their very competent guide had been killed, along with some innocent campers. He thought of the vastness of the forest, of the sheer speed and agility of the creature. Last time people had died. He only hoped this time would be different.
TWO
The next day Sam and Dean drove across Nevada along Highway 95 in the gleaming black Chevy Impala, Dean behind the wheel, Sam sprawled in the passenger seat. Rugged mountains lined the horizon, sagebrush dotting the high desert floor. A writer had once described this part of Nevada as “the loneliest place I ever found myself,” but Dean loved the West. Loved the high, open spaces and the history. He’d seen every classic western movie ever made. While “Back In Black” by AC/DC played on the radio, he imagined Pony Express riders leaning over their horses, racing toward the Pacific. They passed through the small towns of Hawthorne and Schurz, seeing the hulking remains of abandoned mines on the hillsides. Wild mustangs ran in the open spaces. They reached Carson City, Nevada, where Kit Carson and Mark Twain had once roamed the streets, then turned west toward Lake Tahoe. On Highway 50, they started climbing into the Sierra Nevada mountains. The sun sank low