Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,1
members of the group to save the others. They suggested dueling, or a lottery system for food. They would kill and eat whoever “won” the lottery. Then the animal handler Antonio had died, and next Franklin Graves, who had made the snowshoes for everyone in the Forlorn Hope. Then Patrick Dolan went crazy, running off into the cold and stripping all his clothes off. He’d come back later and died, too. Foster had carved off chunks of the man’s side, tearing into the warm meat with a savage desperation. Twelve-year-old Lemuel Murphy succumbed next; they dried some of the meat and continued on.
Now it had been days since their food supply ran out. They sat around the fire, no one saying anything. Some started to eat the oxhide bindings of their snowshoes. Foster wondered if they’d hold the lottery, or if some accident would befall one of the members: a fall off a cliff, or a plunge into an icy river. Or maybe certain people could die for the group without them even holding a lottery. People who didn’t really count as people anyway.
As they had a hundred times before over the last few weeks, Foster’s eyes narrowed on the Miwoks. He stood up, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and stared at them. Immediately they noticed his movement. They’d been keeping an eye on him lately, watching him warily. Foster suspected that one of the party had warned the two guides that they might be butchered. If so, then they probably intended them harm. He should get to them first. They weren’t really human anyway, were they? Not like the whites of his party. They were no more than savages. Not civilized men like him. Their sacrifice so that he could eat would be of little consequence.
One of the Miwoks, Luis, nudged his friend and pointed at Foster. The other one (Foster didn’t know his name, Salvador?)—it’s not like they were real people with meaningful names, anyway, they were really only one step away from animals—turned in alarm. Cautiously the Miwoks rose to their feet. They didn’t carry guns, just knives. They were starving, too, and had walked until their moccasins wore through, exposing their bloody, bare feet.
It made them easier to track in the snow, bloody footprints wherever they walked, even when they wrapped their feet in wool.
Foster unslung the rifle from his shoulder and pointed it at them. The Miwoks ran. The rest of the Forlorn Hope looked on with disinterest, too exhausted to take any notice.
Foster trailed the Miwok guides through the trees, following the blotches of red in their wake. They were far more starved and weaker than he was. They’d refused to eat human flesh, instead foraging in the bitterly cold forest for plants. Their acorns were no match for the meat Foster had eaten. He knew he’d catch up to them eventually.
Days later, in a small clearing, he caught up to one, fired the rifle, and killed him. Then it was just the other one. Foster could already taste the delicious warm meat in his mouth. He imagined it slithering down his throat, filling his belly. He caught sight of the other Miwok, who ran on in terror at the far end of the clearing. Foster shot him in the back. The fallen guide sprawled in the snow, blood seeping out and staining the virgin snow. Foster screamed a barbaric, gargled cry into the quiet forest, startling a bird.
Tonight, he would eat.
ONE
Tonopah, Nevada, present day
The ghost collided with Sam Winchester with surprising force, sending him sprawling onto the desert floor. He rolled as its spectral boot came down toward his head. Raising his shotgun, Sam aimed it at the phantom’s chest and fired. With a boom, shells erupted, spraying the ghost with rock salt. The apparition vanished in an angry swirl of smoke. While salt didn’t get rid of ghosts permanently, it usually bought Sam a little time. But the spirit of George Drechler wasn’t as affected as most. Sam glanced around the forsaken cemetery, reaching into his jacket pocket for the last of his ammunition. “I hope you’re right about where the bones are this time, Dean,” he shouted, struggling to his feet. “Drechler’s a mean one. Salt barely fazes him.”
A few yards away, his brother, Dean Winchester, stood chest deep in a grave, digging furiously with an old shovel. Sweat dripped from his brow and his shirt was drenched. “Hey, how was I supposed to know about some secret Murderer’s Row?”