Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,62

snow as they walked, searching for another blood trail, but not seeing anything but white. He put his sunglasses on as the whiteness grew too much to look at. With his scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, though, the lenses kept fogging up. Having to choose between squinting and having a numb face, he chose the numb face. He couldn’t afford to go snow-blind.

He thought he heard something moving behind them and spun around. Only forest greeted him, their tracks vanishing into its depths. He continued on, hearing a distinct rustling behind them again. He jerked around, stopping.

By the time Grace noticed he’d stopped, she was thirty feet ahead of him. “What is it?” she called back.

He stared around the forest, then turned to her and pointed at his ear.

She glanced around, then over to him. “What is it?” she repeated in a whisper.

“I thought I heard something. A rustling.”

She scanned the area. “It’s probably your parka hood. It can play tricks on you in the wind, making you think you’re hearing things as it flaps against your head.” She pulled hers down, exposing her ears. “Mine does all the time.”

Dean lowered his hood and listened. All he could hear was the wind. It howled around them, instantly chilling his face and exposed head.

They stood for five minutes, just listening, until, reluctantly, Dean pulled his hood up. “Okay. Let’s go.”

She did the same and started out ahead of him.

He followed in her footprints, taking advantage of her trailblazing to stare around them furtively. He did not relish the idea of a fight. He was more trussed up than the little brother in A Christmas Story. He thought if someone knocked him over in all his gear he’d just land on his back like a turtle, feet and arms flailing ridiculously.

Then he had the unmistakable hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling of being watched. He stopped, whirling around.

Behind them, staring out from a tree some thirty feet away, was the gaunt figure. He stood just at the range of visibility, with tendrils of grey sweeping around him. The hood was still pulled low over the face, but Dean could just see inside it now, making out a pale face and a pair of snow goggles.

Instantly, Dean grabbed his rifle and fired. The man moved fast, but Dean was pretty sure he’d hit him in the upper arm. Mist swallowed the retreating figure, but Dean was not going to let him get away this time. He was tired of checking over his shoulder every two minutes.

“Stay here!” he shouted to Grace, then took off running on the snowshoes in pursuit.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Dean reached the spot where he’d seen the man. Dark blood in the snow meant he’d definitely hit his target. He ran on, pack thumping against his back.

He followed the blood, glancing up into the trees to be sure nothing dropped down on him. The drops got farther and farther between, indicating the man could run fast. He came upon a patch of disturbed snow, a big puddle of blood in the middle of it. Dean circled the area, looking for another drop, but didn’t find anything. Heavy snow cascaded around him, already starting to obscure the blood patch.

Dean pressed himself against a tree and peered out cautiously, eyes searching for any hint of motion. He didn’t see anything. He waited, listening. Then he turned to retrace his steps, disappointed. The last thing he wanted on top of everything else was that thing out there, tailing them. And where was Jason? Dead? Frozen?

As Dean turned to rejoin Grace, he looked back at the disturbed snow. Was it possible the thing had buried itself?

He reached down, finding icy chunks of older snow under the fresh powder. He felt an old log and a few bushes, but nothing animal. Finally, he turned back, and found to his alarm that the snow had already completely obscured the blood trail. He could barely make out the depressions where his snowshoes had been. He followed his route back, finding Grace sitting down on a stump in the snow.

“You okay?” she asked, standing up. “What did you shoot at?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“And by ‘something’ you mean serial killer?”

Dean was quiet.

“So you leave me here to fight the killer on my own?”

“No, I left to fight the killer on my own.”

“While he doubles back and makes a meat rug out of me to match his scalp throw pillows.”

“He might be more of a leg bone end table kind of guy. Haven’t decided