Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,15

with Jason following them in his beat-up Chevy pickup, they drove back in the darkness toward Emigrant Gap.

They restocked in Reno in a twenty-four-hour outfitter that had everything from warm jammies to guns, crossbows, combat boots, and night-vision goggles. They even got a second flamethrower for Sam. Dean had to love Nevada.

Jason limped up to the cashier, who tried not to stare. Jason was right. The wendigo had messed him up good.

In a low voice, Sam said, “Sure we want to take Jason on this hunt? Look at him.”

Bobby frowned. “Was wondering that myself.”

“Me, too,” Dean added. “But he’ll be helpful. If he can keep up.”

“He has got useful intel,” Bobby conceded.

While Jason finished checking out, Bobby grabbed the Reno Gazette off the stacks. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“A family of five just went missing out by the Yuba River.”

Jason joined them. “That’s right where Sawtooth Ridge is.”

Bobby read more. “A search by helicopter using FLIR didn’t pick up anything.”

“They’re probably underground where the FLIR won’t be able to see them,” Sam said.

“What the hell’s a flerr?” Dean asked.

Bobby stroked his beard, reading the rest of the article. “Forward-looking infrared,” he said distractedly. “Says here they’ve only been missing for a day.”

Sam paid and picked up the gear. “They could still be alive.”

“Yep,” Bobby agreed.

Jason took the paper from Bobby and read over it. “We have to go now,” he said. “There still might be time.”

They hurried out to the parking lot, loaded up their cars, and hit Highway 80, driving as fast as they could toward the wilderness and the abandoned mine. This time they could not fail.

EIGHT

Bobby was starting to get used to the hiking route through the Tahoe National Forest. They made their way through the pine trees, weaving between huge boulder fields of grey granite. The afternoon sun came out for a while, filling the air with the fragrant scent of sun-warmed pine. They passed the bright orange and yellow of a tremendous lichen-covered boulder and scrambled down a steep slope of scree. They were completely off trail now, Bobby leading them on with a compass and the map. He had a GPS unit in his pocket, too, but he never counted on something that ran on batteries in a life and death situation like this.

In the west, storm clouds clustered around the peaks, with a fresh dusting of snow visible whenever they parted. The sun dipped below the mountains and instantly cold settled into Bobby’s bones.

They climbed up a steep slope to a ridge. He could feel his legs burning with the effort, and every breath he took was painful. He was just grateful the thing hadn’t cracked his ribs like it had Jason’s. Bruised ribs he could live with, and more importantly, bruised ribs he could fight with.

Jason struggled along in the back, his brow beaded with sweat. Bobby could tell he was in pain, but he hid it as best he could and never complained.

At the end of the ridge, they descended into a meadow. On the far side, a tremendous cliff towered above them. A black hole yawned in the rock, ancient wooden beams fortifying the opening. The mine. No sooner had he spotted it than the reek of decaying flesh assaulted his senses.

“Christ!” he cussed, bringing his arm up to his nose. “That’s a god-awful stench.”

The others groaned, trying in vain to block the smell.

“First one in’s a rotten egg,” Bobby said, wrinkling his nose.

Jason stopped, slinging his pack off his back. “This is it,” he said. He pulled out a bottle of gasoline and jammed a rag down its neck.

Bobby followed suit and Sam and Dean checked their flamethrowers.

“You’ll want to turn those off all the way,” Bobby told them.

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Methane. If this mine has any pent-up gas, you’ll send us all to high heaven.”

Dean nodded and the two of them extinguished the pilot lights.

“You see any sign of the family?” Sam asked.

Bobby searched the ground, looking for footprints or drag marks. He didn’t see any. The thing probably took them screaming from tree to tree.

In the distance a chickaree cursed at them, trilling near an old stump. They were the most cantankerous damn squirrels Bobby had ever met. Once, in Whitefish, they’d tried to make off with his cereal while he unloaded groceries, and when he took it away, they cursed at him.

He drew closer to the mine entrance, gripping the Molotov, ready to light it. Still no prints. Then, right at the mouth, he