Supernatural Fresh Meat (32 page)

Sam used the rope to tie Bobby’s torn pack together, then helped Bobby heave the pack on and fasten the hip and chest straps.

“Now we really have to make it fast to the resort. The more we’re out with injuries like this, the faster we’re going to weaken.”

Blood had crusted around Bobby’s eye, and they used some snow to clear it away. Bobby strapped his snowshoes back on and continued into the forest. Sam hurriedly put his pack back on and took up the rear.

Already the brief glimpse he’d had of their surroundings were gone. The clouds had returned, packing in tightly around them. He watched Bobby making fast headway in front of him. He glanced backward, seeing a patch of red where Bobby had been resting to put on his snowshoes.

He was bleeding a lot worse than he let on.

FIFTY-FOUR

“Is he gone?” Jimmy asked from the vent.

Dean blinked, unable to do anything else.

“Oh, damn. He got you, too.”

He pulled himself out a little farther, and now Dean could see his shoulders and head. The black hoodie was ripped, the hood pulled down to reveal Jimmy’s shortly cropped blond hair.

“Listen, that stuff wears off. It just takes time, and he may have bitten you more than once, but play it cool. If he’s distracted, he might not remember to bite you again before you get your body back.”

Dean stared at Jimmy.

“I’m going to try to dig myself out. Get help. I don’t think I can fight him on my own. If I can’t get out, I’ll come back and try to get the jump on him somehow.”

He shimmied back into the hole, leaving Dean alone and wondering what the hell he was going to do.

Cold began to creep around Dean. He still wore his parka and warm layers beneath, but the wall he leaned against felt unbearably cold. He guessed that on the other side of it, snow pressed in. He tried to imagine the scene from above. Was any part of the lodge still visible? How much snow had buried them?

His mind felt fuzzy. The desire to sleep pressed in on him, his dry eyes longing to close for a while, but he couldn’t let himself drift into unconsciousness.

Somewhere, far away down the corridors and in another devastated room, Dean heard a woman’s voice. “Is anyone alive in here?”

It was Susan. Maybe she had dug down. Maybe she was with rescuers. Hope filled him.

“My leg is trapped. Can someone help me?”

He squeezed his eyes shut.
Damn it!

“Hello?”

Dean willed her to be quiet.

“Can someone come help me?”

Shut up, shut up, shut up,
he pleaded with her silently,
because someone
is
coming.

FIFTY-FIVE

Sam looked back at Bobby, who now trailed him. “We need to rest,” he said.

His friend waved him on. Blood from Bobby’s head wound soaked the parka. They had tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure, but it kept opening up again with Bobby’s exertions.

Sam bit his lip. He knew Bobby was going to hate him for this. “Why don’t we put up your tent? I’ll set you up in there, all warm, and come back and get you after I reach the resort.”

Bobby stopped, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What are you, some kind of idjit?” He gestured dismissively at his head. “You think I haven’t had worse than this? Son, I’ve been near death so many times it would astound you. Now shut your trap and keep hiking. I’m fine, god damn it.”

Yeah. Bobby hated that.

Sam turned around and kept walking, stopping every half-hour to double check the map. They’d had precious few glimpses of the cliffs around them, but were fairly certain they were headed in the right direction. But now the light was starting to fade, and with both of them injured, he knew that the plummeting temperature would be brutal.

Still, they had at least an hour of daylight left, and were determined to make it count. They hiked through the forest, the snow drifts many feet deep in places. Sam listened to the rhythmic pace of his snowshoes as they moved through the powder.

Bobby shivered and muttered to himself, and Sam started to worry about hypothermia. They had laid out in the snow all night. Their only water was what Sam had in his water bottle, and that was almost gone. Dehydration and blood loss were taking their toll.

Sam felt colder than he ever had before. Sometimes Lucifer walked beside him, whispering of the fires of Hell, of the warmth there. Lucifer told him to lie down in the snow and sleep.

Shaking his head, Sam pushed away the images.

He’d stopped the bleeding on his forehead and washed most of the dried blood from his face with snow, but he felt it sticking in his hair and woolen hat. His battered fingers stung in the cold despite the gloves. Still, none of his injuries were as bad as Bobby’s. That blow to the head was a nasty one, and he definitely had a concussion. His wrist may not be broken, but it was badly swollen.

As he trudged, Sam’s thoughts wandered to the Donner Party. He imagined the Forlorn Hope slogging through the snow like this with makeshift snowshoes. Sam’s stomach rumbled. He and Bobby had split the last of the jerky more than an hour ago. He couldn’t imagine being out here and not having eaten for a week. Mired in during a blizzard, the Forlorn Hope had been reduced to eating the oxhide laces of their snowshoes. The desperation of eating the very mode of conveyance that could deliver you to safety was a bleak act.

His thoughts turned to Dean. His brother had always been there for him, defending him no matter what, always looking out for him. There was no way he was going to let Dean down. No way.

He glanced back at Bobby, who was still grumbling.

Bobby tore off his warm cap and threw it down in the snow, then kept walking.

“Bobby.”

Bobby tore off his gloves and started to unzip his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s too damn hot. I’m burning up in all these layers.”

Sam rushed back to him. “Bobby. It’s not hot. It’s freezing.”

“Maybe you’re freezing. I’m burning up.” He shucked off his jacket, casting it aside. “It ain’t enough that we can’t get the floors clean. Now we have to deal with this.”

“Floors?” Bobby shoved past him, leaving his warm clothes behind. Sam picked them up. “Bobby, put these back on.”

He waved at Sam dismissively. “Hell if I will.”

The anger, the illusion of warmth… Sam stopped. This was advanced hypothermia. They had to stop now and build a fire, or Bobby would be dead within a few hours.

FIFTY-SIX

Dean snapped awake, horrified that he’d dozed off. He was useless. Uselessness had taken over his whole life. He was unable to help Sam in the aftermath of Hell. Every time he saved the world, it was ready to off itself again. Now here he was, unable to even lift his pinkie, struggling merely to stay awake while people around him died.

He could feel the weight of his .45 in his jacket pocket. He still had it, with the bullets soaked in the spice concoction. If he could just reach it somehow, unload it into Jason, maybe getting the mixture inside his body would do some damage.

His breath frosted in the air, and he knew then that it wouldn’t be long before the place really cooled down. It could be night outside. He had no idea how much time had passed since the avalanche or how long he’d been unconscious. It could be days. The air felt stale and thin, making him breathe shallowly.

Across from him the mountain manager lay awake again, eyes finding Dean’s in the gloom. Dean blinked at him.

Movement in the narrow corridor let them know someone was coming. Don’s eyes went wild, his pupils darting around as Jason entered the room.

Dean closed his eyes. He heard Jason’s clawed feet crunching on the debris of broken glass, insulation, and destroyed ski equipment. The footsteps moved away from Dean and he allowed his eyes to open just a slit.

Jason stood over Don, studying him. The proboscis snaked in the air, and Dean could hear Jason sniffing as he had before. He was going to take one of Don’s organs.

Frustration welled up inside Dean. He willed himself to move, to move
anything,
just an inch.
Just one inch.

Suddenly his foot twitched. He felt the toe of his boot nudge a fallen ceiling tile.

His arms hung limply at his sides, and he concentrated on moving his hands.
Just an inch.

His right hand came forward. Dean slid it upward into his pocket. Jason’s back was still to him. His fingers closed around the welcome cold of the .45. With great effort, he pulled it out.

Jason flipped Don over onto his back, and Dean could hear the man hyperventilating in fear. Dean slid the .45 onto his lap, unable to lift it higher than a couple of inches. He used his leg to steady himself, sliding the gun toward his kneecap to get some elevation on the barrel.

Jason tore open Don’s parka, exposing the bare skin. Dark bruises covered Don’s flesh, the avalanche already having taken a toll. The aswang bent over him, exposing his side to Dean, and Dean took his chance. He fired three rounds. The shots rang out deafeningly in the tiny space and Dean thrilled to the scent of cordite.

Jason staggered backward, gripping his side, and let out a piercing scream. He whirled toward Dean, eyes narrowing. Dean could hear Jason’s flesh bubbling already, the bullets working their way through his organs.

Jason advanced on him, and Dean fired again, hitting him in the face, the chest, then again in the stomach. He unloaded the whole clip, knowing that if Jason survived, he’d take the gun, and probably a whole hell of a lot more—like Dean’s heart and brain.

Smoke billowed out from the bullet holes, the smell of sizzling meat stealing over the room. Jason reached him, clawed hand coming down hard on Dean’s gun. It flew out of his grip, landing in the far corner near the hallway entrance. The crack and pop of roasting meat filled Dean’s ears as Jason bent down over him. Dean tried to kick him, but all he could do was weakly punch Jason in the chest and face. He grabbed the feeding tube, trying to tear it off, but his hand wouldn’t close tightly enough around the glistening flesh. He could see bits of cooking fat jumping out of the bullet holes.

Jason grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. Dean felt his veins throb. His head swam, red filling his vision. He tried to breathe, but couldn’t. Then the proboscis attached itself to Dean’s chest. The needle teeth bit down and he felt cold venom entering his body. The aswang held him there, hand tightly around Dean’s throat. The lethargic feeling of paralysis returned, stealing over him. He ached for a breath, but the clenched hand around his trachea made it impossible.

Dean’s world went black.

FIFTY-SEVEN