Supernatural Fresh Meat Read online

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  SUPERNATURAL

  FRESH MEAT

  ALICE HENDERSON

  SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

  TITAN BOOKS

  Supernatural: Fresh Meat

  Print edition ISBN: 9781781161128

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161159

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: January 2013

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  Copyright © 2012 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

  SUPERNATURAL and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

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  With the exception of the characters from The CW’s Supernatural series, this publication, including any of its contents or references, has not been prepared, approved, endorsed or licensed by any third party, corporation or product referenced herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in the United States.

  To Jason, for his never-ending encouragement

  To Norma, for our adventures in the western wilds

  To Gordon, for bestowing on me the love of monsters

  HISTORIAN’S NOTE

  This novel takes place during season seven, between “Shut Up, Dr. Phil” and “Slash Fiction.”

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Sierra Nevada Mountains, 1846

  All he could think about was food. Every fiber of his being thrummed with the thought of it. Every agonizing moment was consumed with contemplating how he could find it, when he would feel it between his teeth, how it would fill up his anguished stomach. At night he dreamed of food: beefsteak; hot stew with potatoes and carrots; warm buttery biscuits; fresh roasted corn and fried chicken. He would start awake sometimes just as he sat down to a feast in his dreams, and he would scream in the darkness, hot tears streaking his face at the loss of even an imagined morsel of food. In the night, he would shove fistful after fistful of snow into his mouth, trying to bury the terrible hunger. In the last few weeks he had eaten bark and lichen and an old pair of leather boots that had given out. He’d devoured part of a boiled wool blanket, eaten tree sap, and sucked on sticks, wishing they were chicken bones he could break apart and suck the marrow out of. With a euphoric longing he thought of fragrant liver and onions, of pork chops smothered in apple sauce, of freshly made bread lathered with honey butter. Then he would weep, the hunger no longer solely in his stomach but infused throughout his entire being, in his bones, in his aching skin, inside his fevered brain.

  He had to have food. He had to have meat. His small group had snowshoed away from the Donner Party camp twenty-four days ago. Their goal was to reach Bear Valley, beyond the treacherous mountains, and bring back rescuers and supplies. They had brought along meat from the camp, a few scraps from butchered pack animals, but that food was all gone now. They had hoped to find rabbits and deer along the way, but hadn’t found much. It was as if the entire forest had rebelled against the terrible winter and the animals had fled.

  Months ago, before the snows fell, their guide Charles Stanton had trekked out to the great valley of California and returned with supplies, mules, and two Miwok guides. He’d distributed the supplies among the emigrants, and then urged everyone to hike out immediately. But they had been too tired. Then the snows came and they were all trapped.

  Now Stanton was of no use to anyone. He’d originally led the snowshoe group, which they had named the Forlorn Hope. But a few weeks ago he’d sat down in the snow and lit up a pipe. He puffed away on it, then encouraged the others to go on ahead. He said he’d catch up that night, but no one really thought he would, even Stanton. He’d gone snow-blind, his body starved beyond endurance. No one said anything when he didn’t join them at camp that night. Everyone knew he was dead.

  Now it was just the Miwok guides leading them through the endless pine forests and exhaustingly deep snow drifts. Foster couldn’t stand another day of hearing the Forlorn Hope’s snowshoes crunching in the ice-crusted snow. He couldn’t bear the thought of another pitiful night clustered around a fire, no one talking, and everyone staring ahead with h
ollow, grey eyes.

  He didn’t believe the Miwoks actually knew the way anymore, either. Where was the game? They were supposed to be experts in this forest, but they hadn’t found any meat in days. Foster had already been snowbound near a lake with his family, starving, for more than two months prior to this.

  Now the Forlorn Hope sat around a meager fire, the sun already set beyond the mountains. Cold seeped into Foster’s bones. He watched the Miwoks sitting together on the opposite side of the fire, talking softly in a language he didn’t understand. They’d been with the emigrants since October in Nevada, but they weren’t really part of the group. And now they were lost. Foster knew it. His stomach groaned and rumbled, protesting against the torture his body had endured since they’d gotten snowbound. Was he just supposed to keep following them around aimlessly? They could be going in circles for all he knew.

  Foster watched the Miwoks, talking and pointing into the forest, deciding the next stage of the route. They didn’t know. They were lost. Or maybe they did know, and just wanted to lead the emigrants to their deaths. Maybe it was all a plot.

  Foster placed a hand on his aching stomach. A few weeks ago they had talked about sacrificing 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?”

  This marked their third digging expedition on this hunt. They’d dug up a false grave at Drechler’s original house in nearby Goldfield, Nevada, then another in the main cemetery of Tonopah, and finally discovered Murderer’s Row in the town’s old archives. It stood apart from the graves of law-abiding Tonopah citizens, and was now forgotten by history.

  Before Sam had a chance to reload, the ghost reappeared. “He’s back!”

  Sam braced himself. Drechler circled him, eyes furious. Dressed in a dirty brown duster, leather vest, gun belt, and hat, he looked the part of an Old West gunslinger. The ghost glanced over his shoulder at Dean and then abandoned the attack on Sam and barreled toward his brother instead. Sam ran after him, catching him just as he hovered above the rim of the grave. Sam pulled out an iron dagger and sank it into the ghost’s back. Drechler spun, eyes fiery, then shrieked and vaporized, but Sam knew he would be back in a few seconds.

  “You almost down to the coffin?” he called out.

  Dean straightened, leaning his elbow on the shovel. “You’re welcome to come down here if you think you can dig faster, sunshine.”

  Sam darted away from the graveside as the ghost reappeared. From the depths of his sweeping duster, Drechler produced a rusty Bowie knife and began circling Sam again. The ghost sprang, blade thrusting upward. Sam dodged, but the tip caught in his jacket, ripping the material. Sam lashed out with the iron again, driving it deep into the ghost’s chest. Drechler screamed and atomized.

  Dean hurried, shoveling away mounds of dirt. Damn. How deep had they buried the guy?

  At last Sam heard Dean’s shovel hit something hollow. Dean scraped the rest of the dirt away, then brought the edge of the shovel down hard on the exposed old wood. It splintered, and he got down on his knees, ripping away planks. Inside lay the bones of George Drechler, who’d murdered fifteen people when he was alive, and ten more after he died.

  “Got it!”

  Dean reached into his jacket and brought out a cylindrical container of salt. He poured it over the remains, glancing up to see if Sam was okay. Their eyes met as Sam searched the darkness for the spirit. He felt Drechler behind him suddenly and whirled just as the Bowie knife lashed out again. Sam thrust one hand up, striking the ghost’s arm and deflecting the blade.

  Dean poured lighter fluid on the bones. As Sam struck out with the iron blade again, Dean leapt up out of the grave, pivoting at the edge. He struck a match and dropped it into the splintered coffin.

  With a whump, the bones caught, fire lighting up the night. Drechler cried out in anguish as his ghost body lit up with flames at the same time. Salting and burning human remains was one way to vanquish a ghost f
orever. Embers glowed within the ghost’s form, creating jagged lines in his face and clothing. Fire snaked and devoured, ashes spiraling up into the night. Then Drechler vanished, whirling away into a puff of smoke.

  Sam bent over, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Nice.”

  Dean grinned back at him in the firelight, mud and dirt smeared on his sweaty face. “I need a beer.” He glanced toward the dim glow of city lights a few blocks away. “And I saw a Super Piggy Oink Oink Shack that we have got to check out. They’ve got this sandwich that’s BBQ boneless ribs wrapped in bacon.”

  Sam shook his head. His brother’s monster-hunting ability was only rivaled by his impressive talent for finding the greasiest meat-serving dives in every town they visited.

  They walked toward the glow of the city, crossing a dry section of rocks and scrub bushes. In the gloom, Sam could make out all the little iron crosses of the town’s main cemetery.

  Murderer’s Row stood on the outskirts of Tonopah, Nevada, an old town from Nevada’s mining days. The Row wasn’t part of the regular cemetery, which was populated mainly by miners killed in a mine fire in 1911.

  George Drechler was the brother of one of the miners, and decided to seek vengeance by killing citizens associated with the mine—owners, investors, even attorneys and accountants. Even when a posse caught him and executed him, his killing didn’t stop. By the time Dean and Sam discovered his trail, ten more people had died.

  In town, Dean ordered more food than Sam thought anyone could possibly eat. With the brimming take-out bag, Sam and Dean returned to the Three Ring Motel on North Main Street. The sign featured a jovial clown waving his hand, and clowns adorned every door.

  Sam glanced around uncomfortably. “I can’t believe you made me stay at this place. The sign looks just like the Cooper Circus clown.”

  “C’mon, Sam. It’s festive.”

  “Festive?” Sam pointed to the neighboring lot. “It’s right next to the creepy old miners’ cemetery. Great combination.”