Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,7
to skirt right. They split up, moving to surround the building. Sam gripped the Molotov, white-knuckling the bottle of gasoline. He held his lighter at the ready, grateful for the heavy feeling of the rifle against his shoulder. If he missed with the Molotov, the rifle would at least slow down the wendigo, buying time for Dean or Bobby to land home with fire.
As Sam drew nearer to the makeshift shed, the stench of decomposition grew stronger. It was an old structure, wood worn and splitting with years of sun exposure. A wagon wheel stood propped up against one side, and a rusted lantern hung from a tree branch above.
He saw Dean and Bobby circling around. Bobby motioned toward a rickety door on one side, the only obvious entry point. It hung on rusted hinges, no longer fitting into the doorframe. A simple wooden bar hung through two metal brackets served as the lock. That meant whoever lived in the shack wasn’t at home; there was no way to lock it like that from the inside. But it would be a good way to lock victims in, Sam thought bleakly.
Bobby approached the wooden slat and signaled for Sam and Dean to hang back. Cautiously he kicked it free with his boot, holding on to the Molotov with one hand and his lighter with the other. The board fell to the ground, and with a groan and thump the door swung open.
Instantly they were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. Sam fought back the urge to gag.
Bobby stared inside, then lifted his arm to his nose. “Nobody home.” He crept forward, coughing at the reek. Sam and Dean followed him inside.
A small room lay beyond. A simple wooden table, cut from rough logs, stood in the center. A rickety bench sat next to it. Dozens of items lay scattered across the earthen floor: an old candle, a used box of matches, a sleeping bag leaking stuffing, a soiled pillow, a collection of old books with crumbling spines, a deck of worn playing cards. Metal glinted in the dirt at the far side of the cabin.
Sam placed his bottle of gasoline on the table and pocketed the lighter. He walked to the gleaming metal and bent down. He pulled a dented gold pocket watch from the dirt, clicking it open to find the crystal cracked and grime on the face. An engraving on the back of the watch read “W.M.F. from S.M.F.” The watch was old, nineteenth century, and probably not from a recent victim.
Sam straightened up. Most of the items scattered on the floor were old. The playing cards had yellowed with age, the books spotted with mildew and tanned from the sun. In another corner lay some old daguerreotypes of a woman and a small boy, and an image of a general store and post office with the name “Foster’s Bar” painted on a sign above the door.
Bobby still had his mouth covered with his sleeve. “What is this place?”
Dean nudged the rank sleeping bag with his foot. “Something lives here.”
Bobby glanced around. “Where is that god-awful stench coming from? I don’t see any bodies.”
Sam looked down at the dirt. “Maybe it’s just seeped into the floor. Decomp liquid soaking the soil.”
“You think this is the wendigo’s digs?” Bobby asked. “Not your typical deep, dark cave.”
Dean winced at the stench. “For one thing, where are the bodies?”
A high keening wail sounded on the wind outside.
They fell silent, listening. Sam heard it again, a human cry for help. He hurried to the door of the shack, waiting.
Then it came again, and he could make out the words. “Help me!” A woman’s voice, in the distance.
“Is that—” he started to ask, turning toward Bobby.
“It could be the wendigo,” Bobby answered, joining him at the doorway.
Dean bent down in the dirt, gathering up a tattered notebook and a yellowing envelope. “Let’s bring some of this stuff. Could give us a lead.” He stuffed it into his pack, then slung it on his back. He joined them by the door.
Outside, the woman cried for help again, screaming from somewhere in the distant trees. She was either fighting for her life or it was the wendigo, imitating a human voice and trying to lure them closer.
Sam stepped aside as Dean moved past him, raising the flamethrower. “Let’s do this,” his brother said.
They moved toward the screams, Sam gripping the bottle of gasoline and placing his thumb on the lighter’s striking wheel.