Episode Thirteen: Hollow

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Crouching carefully, gun still aimed at the canvas, Dean grasped the filthy material with his thumb and forefinger and quickly jerked it up.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean jumped backwards and almost squeezed off a shot as a huge black rat scuttled from its hiding place and headed in his direction. The rodent seemed to sense impending doom, and at the last minute made a sideways dash into the dark void beneath the nearby shelving.

Dean blinked, exhaled, and then shot an annoyed glance in his brother’s general direction.

The "look" failed to stop a chortle from Sam as he explained to Waterston than his fellow "cop" had an aversion to rodents and similar vermin. “He’d rather face a wild hog than a rat,” he clarified, finally loosening his grip on the Glock. Or a Tulpa, for that matter…

“Son, you pair ever faced a wild boar? Cus I’m telling you I’d take the rat any day of the week.” The Sheriff stowed his revolver back into the holster on his belt and clipped the leather strap into place that secured it. He held Sam’s gaze for a second, unsure how to take the unlikely duo he found himself working with.

“Actually, yeah,” Sam answered honesty. “And Dean would still take the hog any day, believe me.” And a whole lot worse things, he added silently under his breath.

“Are you guys gonna quit makin’ eyes at each other and get down here?” Dean’s somewhat annoyed voice echoed from the chamber below, suggesting both men join him. “Because "Ricky Rodent" wasn’t the only thing under the tarp…”

The sheriff let his gaze finally drop from his companion and clambered into the basement. So far, the "out of towners" were finding all the leads, and he didn’t want that to continue. Waterston didn’t care about credit, but he didn’t want the case suddenly wrenching from his department and turning into a state police or fed case either.

As Waterston crossed over to where Dean was once again kneeling, he pulled out a small flashlight from his utility belt and let its beam intersect with that of the young hunter’s, shedding more light on the scene.

“Looks like this time we’re dealing with human remains,” Dean pointed to several skulls piled atop various other bones. Some of them still had wispy hairs attached to the bony white craniums, but there was no decaying flesh or sinew. These bodies had been dead much longer than their animal counterparts. “Better send for the coroner and some more backup, Sheriff. Animals don’t padlock their prey in cellars…”

* * * *

Outside the Shack
Two Hours Later

Sam watched as several coroners’ assistants continued to wheel out the remains they’d found earlier in black body bags. Death, once again, had found him. To the young hunter it sometimes felt like he should have been born a “Reaper,” because that was all he seemed to do- find people when it was too late.

“Hey, space cadet, want some coffee?” Sam looked up from his musings to see his brother approaching with two Styrofoam cups and a bag that undoubtedly held food of some variety. “Heard anything from the Sheriff yet?”

“Nope, he’s still talking with the County Coroner.” Sam shook his head and took the cup he was offered suspiciously. He squinted, eyeing his brother for that tell-tale glint in his eye, and then removed the lid to sniff at the liquid.

Dean found the reaction amusing and swiftly took the coffee, swapping it with his own before taking a long swig. “Dude, you’re too uptight. I’m way more inventive than spiking your drink.” His lips curled into a small smile and he bit down on a fresh chocolate-topped donut, stuffing far too much into his mouth at once.

Sam wasn’t convinced about the inventive part, but he took a sip of the piping hot beverage he’d been given and was thankful for it. It wasn’t a cold day, but somehow the woods seemed to hold a chill that gradually seeped into his bones the longer he stayed in them. Maybe it was something only he sensed- part of his gift. Or maybe, it was something none of the others out here wanted to admit to feeling.

“You guys still hanging around?” Waterston finally appeared from the shack, a slight frown on his face as he realized his two newest friends weren’t about to leave him to work on his own.

Dean nodded, trying to answer through a mouthful of food. “Like I said, we finish what we start.” He stuffed the empty donut bag in his pocket and walked towards the Sheriff still chewing.

“Any news from the coroner?” Sam queried, cutting off his brother’s muffled mumblings and bad manners.

Waterston put a hand on his hip and sighed. “Well, there’s not much to go on with just bones until he gets back to the lab, but Mike thinks they’ve been dead as much as ten years.” The cop pursed his lips. “I guess maybe the Walden's didn’t leave town after all.”

Dean cocked his head as he finally finished munching. “What, the kid too? I didn’t see anything down there that looked like a kid’s bones.”

The Sheriff looked away. If he were honest, he hadn’t wanted to take a good look at anything in the house. In all his years as a cop he’d never seen such a mess, and it bothered him on some level he couldn’t even begin to understand.

Waterston rubbed at his jaw, finally admitting what Dean already suspected. “Well no, Mike’s taken away five bodies, and as far as our records show there were six family members.” He looked bemusedly at the young man whose eyes had just widened slightly in comprehension. “But what difference does that make? The Walden kid has to be dead, right? Or where the hell is he?”

Sam glanced to Dean, all thoughts of pranks suddenly forgotten. Dean was onto something, and Sam had already guessed what. Still, Dean was never the greatest interrogator. He lacked a certain finesse that was always a requirement to get the job done properly.

“Can I ask how old the Waldens' son was when they vanished?” Sam questioned carefully. “And what exactly was wrong with him?”

“Hmmn, Jerry would have been around eight, I think.” The Sheriff paused, trying to sift through gossip he’d been told when he’d moved to Jackson after taking on the job of the county’s protector. “I’m not really sure what was wrong with the kid. Some kinda skin disorder if I recall correctly. Course, I was just a deputy back then, and I didn’t live in Jackson, so…” As an afterthought he turned, looking across to the house at one of his deputies. “Dave, wanna come over here and answer a few questions while I deal with the press?”

A short, ginger haired deputy that looked no more than twenty began jogging towards them, his eyes twinkling with an eagerness to please.

Oh great, he’s sticking us with a rookie. Dean didn’t know why, but Waterston was beginning to annoy him. “He’s kinda young. Wouldn’t he have been just a kid back then?”

Waterston nodded, already walking away from them towards a local reporter. “Yup, but he knew the family.” He shrugged, not understanding why the long-dead Walden’s medical history could be so important. “Knock yourselves out, boys. Meantime, I got a killer to catch while you’re out playing Dr. Kildare…”

Dean shook his head. “That guy has no freakin’ clue what he’s dealing with.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Sam concluded as Dave finally joined them.

“So,” Dean leaned forward to read the deputy’s badge, “Deputy Caruso, can you tell us what you know about Jerry Walden?”

Caruso seemed surprised, but nodded. “Yes, sir, I knew Jerry a little. We used to play together years back, until he got too sick.” The deputy looked to Dean and then Sam, wondering where the questions could possibly be going.

“When you say sick, what exactly was wrong with Jerry?” Sam took another sip of his coffee and noticed the inexperienced cop looking at it longingly. I’m not the only one who feels the chill around here.

“Oh, Jerry had a skin disorder, you know, like psoriasis, only much worse.” Dave shrugged, not really knowing the details. “Last time I saw him it had gotten pretty gross. You could almost see the muscles and tissue under his skin. People around here had already started callin’ him a freak. I thought that’s why his folks left town.”

“Except they didn’t,” Dean corrected. “Somebody or something fixed ‘em up for the next chow time, main course and dessert.”

Caruso flinched at the elder hunter’s description and Dean guessed the youngster hadn’t seen the carnage inside the Walden home. If he had he’d have been a decidedly deeper shade of green by now. Still, that didn’t stop the hunter from liking the kid. He was keen, but most of all, he reminded Dean of Sam.

“So, um, when you knew Jerry, did he ever talk to you about getting any treatment?” Sam cut off any further ‘chow time’ comments from his brother and got back to the details. “Do you know who the family doctor was?”

“I don’t know who they’re doc was, but I know Jerry used to make regular visits to the Kentucky River Medical Center. We’ve only a small town here and that’s the nearest hospital.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks, Deputy Caruso. You’ve been a great help.”

Caruso turned to leave. “No problem. Anything to help catch the creep that did this.” He looked slightly saddened. “You know, they haven’t even found Jerry’s body yet?”

“Yeah, we know,” Dean declared somberly, not wanting the cop to know what they truly suspected. Once Caruso was out of earshot, he added, “That’s because Jerry’s been sinking his teeth into more than mom’s meatloaf for the past few years.”

Sam grimaced. “You have a way with words, you know that? I mean, c’mon, Dean, show some respect!”

Dean grinned and tossed his empty coffee cup at his brother. “Dude, you’re the college boy, I’m just the ass-kickin’ ghost killer. I don’t need to be eloquent.”

“Huh?” Sam couldn’t believe his brother’s last admission. No way would he come out with a line like that unless there was a catch. That catch was about to drop like a ten-ton concrete demolition ball.

“That,” Dean offered smugly, “is why you’re the one going into Kentucky River Medical Center to get the kid’s medical records.”

Sam stopped dead, wafting his hands in the air in defeat. “Dean, no matter how good a talker I am, no way will they release medical records to just anyone. I took pre-law, not medicine, remember?”

Dean turned, but continued to slowly walk backwards with an ear-to-ear smirk. “Dude, do what I do, use that manly charm of yours. Unless you’re too in touch with your feminine side after buying all that perfume you spiked my stuff with.” He winked impishly. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine after all the House reruns you watch, Gregory.”

Sam’s expression couldn’t have been more pained if he’d tried. It was true that late at night when he couldn’t sleep he did tend to watch anything that got him away from the real world and demon hunting. After all, the last thing he was about to watch was Medium or the likes. Still, he had thought Dean had been blissfully unaware of what he’d been tuning into. Apparently not. And now it was biting him in the ass, big time.

“Dean…”

“Gotcha,” Dean’s chuckle filled the woodland as he hiked back to the Impala, his "torture mission" of the day starting out well.

* * * *

Kentucky River Medical Center
Some Time Later…

Dean pulled the Impala into the medical center’s lot and looked over at his brother with a smile.

Sam was sitting in the passenger seat, blissfully unaware of Dean’s amused look as he fiddled with his tie. It was a habit he didn’t realize he had, but one that entertained his brother every time he saw him in a “monkey suit.” It was a nervous fidget, and Dean liked to see his brother squirm that way; it was kind of funny.

Eventually, Sam stopped looking in the mirror and tugging at the tie, and glanced over, sensing Dean’s gaze. “What?” He snapped, knowing Dean was loving every minute of sending him into the hospital. Dude, this is so not fair…

“Nothing,” Dean offered back innocently as he killed the Chevy’s grumbling V8. “Just making sure you look the part, Doc.”

“You’ll be the first to know if I don’t.” Sam bobbed his head out of the car’s open window and searched out the hospital entrance. “So, I grab the records, read and copy. What if they ask why I want them in the first place?”

Dean shrugged, thinking up a suitable lie as he leaned over to open the Impala’s glove box. “Tell them you’re working for the coroner’s office and you need the kid’s files to match or exclude him from the recently discovered remains. Something like that.” After a quick rummage, he offered up a recently made I.D. card with a grin.

Sam snatched the card, immediately scrutinizing it to see just what embarrassing title he’d been given this time. Dean hadn’t disappointed. “Dr. Hugh Laurie M.E? Are you kidding me? No way am I going in there with this thing!” He flicked the I.D. over to his brother who promptly flipped it back.

“Hey, I made that just for you, Gregory. I thought you might like to pay homage to your favorite TV doc.” The familiar and all-too cheeky grin appeared. “I thought you’d be happy I hadn’t used a rock legend.”

Sam huffed but grabbed the card from where it had fallen. “Yeah, well Osbourne was getting kinda old.” He pushed open the Chevy’s door and pulled his tall frame out into the afternoon sun. As an afterthought, he leaned back down to peer in through the window. “You know, I barely saw more than two episodes of House but from what I recall, you’d fit this part so much better than me.”

“Huh?” Dean stopped tinkering with the radio and looked up, one brow creasing. “Dude, how’d you figure that?”

Sam smiled. Gotcha! “Because House is an acerbic smartass who thinks he’s always right. Sound familiar?” Before Dean could answer, Sam stepped away from the car and continued to chortle all the way to the hospital entrance.

Dean scowled and gave in with twiddling the radio, instead slapping in a Def Leppard CD and searching out ‘Animal.’ As the music began to blurt out, he ramped up the volume and muttered under his breath, “Yeah, but House is always right…” Not that he could tell Sammy that, or it would be admitting he’d watched too from his bed as his little brother had tuned in on many a sleepless, tormented night.

* * * *

Sam reappeared from the hospital just under two hours later, his face flushed red and his gait indicating he might launch into a sprint any second.

Dean leaned forward, unsure whether to crank the Impala ready for a swift getaway or wait. As Sam neared and no one seemed to give chase, the elder brother relaxed somewhat and sat back in his seat.

When Sam yanked open the Chevy’s door just a little too hard and slumped gratefully into the passenger seat, Dean couldn’t resist asking, “What kept you, Gregory?”

Sam tossed the small briefcase he’d taken with him across the car into his brother’s lap. “Next time, I’ll stick with the rock legend,” he groused, pulling off his tie and tossing it on the back seat heatedly.

“What? They didn’t buy Dr. Laurie?” Dean flipped open the latches on the case and began sifting through all the files Sam had been able to retrieve. When he suddenly realized the papers may have been in Greek for all he could understand them, he tossed the case back to Sam.

“Oh no,” Sam explained, some of the extra color now finally fading from his cheeks. “Pretty much the opposite. The nurse in charge of the pediatrics records liked me just a little too much. Why do you think I was so long? She followed me around like a damn limpet. Couldn’t get over the name coincidence…”

“So,” Dean hunched his shoulders, mischievous thoughts filling his head. “What was the problem, was she like eighty, or just plain fugly?”

Sam began reorganizing Jerry’s files. “Neither, she was pretty much your type, cute, blonde, not a lot of upstairs brain.”

Dean’s expression changed to one of mirthful suspicion. “Whoa…no wonder you were a long time…”

“Dean! No, I so didn’t go there!” Sam sighed. Just because big brother would have had a little fun didn’t mean he had, or indeed would. He still thought too much of Sarah for that.

“And you didn’t even get me her number?” Dean exhaled deeply in disappointment and pointed to the now tidied contents of the case. “At least tell me you understand some of that, because to me it’s like trying to figure out EVP without Goldwave.”

"I picked out bits and pieces while I was copying it, but a lot of it is too technical, Dean. Like I said earlier, pre-law, not medicine.” Every few seconds, Sam glanced to the hospital entrance, unable to shake the feeling that bimbo-nurse was about to stalk him. “Can we go through this back at the motel?”

Dean ignored the last comment, instead focusing on what Sam had managed to decipher. “The bits you picked out? Spill, Gregory, or I’ll invite your nurse friend over for a beer.”

Sam pulled a face but sifted to the third sheet of paper he’d copied along with several photos. “It’s just like Deputy Caruso said, Jerry had a pretty unique skin disorder caused by a genetic mutation. Not only were the pigment forming cells of his skin unique, but so was the way Jerry’s body handled light.” He handed over the pictures with a slight grimace.

Dean took the stills, turning them around until he could determine which way up they should go. What he was looking at on the top picture didn’t even resemble anything human. It was like looking at a corpse that had been mangled in a meat grinder. Sections of bone and sinew were clearly visible through thinner, almost opaque layers of tissue. The worst part was looking at the eyes.

Jerry’s eyeballs seemed to pop from raw looking hollows in his skull, and as Dean brought the photo closer he could actually see parts of the kid’s brain through transparent sections of his orbital bone.

“Freaky,” Dean admitted, sifting to an older picture of Jerry that was at least recognizable as a person. “Looks like whatever this mutation was, it got worse as he aged.” He looked up from the garish images. “Does it say why the kid turned into The Thing or was it just one of nature’s little glitches?”

“According to the doctors reports they think it was a unique combination of genes passed on from the father, coupled with some flawed DNA on mom’s side. Basically, a chance in several billion or more.” Sam tapped the paperwork. “Get this, though. The guy who brought Jerry up? George Walden? He wasn’t Jerry’s biological dad. His DNA wasn’t a match when the doctors did tests to try and help the kid.”

Dean whistled. “Whoa, mommy must have been playing housewife with the local Bible salesman.”

“Think it has any bearing on what’s happening now?”

Dean cocked his head and shrugged. “Nah, it’s pretty much irrelevant who the kid’s dad is. Looking at these pictures I’d guess Bethany’s invisible fantasy creature isn’t such a fantasy anymore, though.” He scanned the photos again, starting with the almost normal image of a bouncing baby boy, and finishing with the half translucent monster Jerry had become. “I’m thinking the more Jerry aged the more invisible his body became until he was totally transparent. The question is, why kill his parents and turn into Hannibal Lector?”

Sam took the copied photos from his brother and studied them. “What if every time you looked in the mirror you saw that? Imagine being a kid and seeing your features just seemingly melt away. Your own friends start to make fun of you; maybe your parents resent you- especially your father, because he knows you’re not really his kid…” The young hunter tossed the pictures back into his case. “Remember the movie Hollow Man? Kevin Bacon’s character went over the edge after just a few days. Jerry had a lifetime to crack.”

“Hollow what?” Dean’s face contorted.

“Hollow…” Sam began to explain, but gave in with a smirk. “Oh, that’s right, you prefer the daytime wonders of the fabric softener bear and chick flicks like Titanic.”

“Jerk!” Dean cuffed his brother playfully and then leaned forward to crank the Impala. “I saw the movie,” he confessed with a grin, “but Jerry isn’t an experiment gone wrong like Bacon’s character. He’s a flesh-eating monster of nature.” He pulled the Chevy from the lot and headed from the main road back onto the winding track that cut through the woods to Jackson.

Sam read his brother’s thoughts. “You’re thinking this isn’t our kind of gig, after all, aren’t you? Even though Jerry’s like nothing anyone’s seen before.”

Dean’s face lit up at Sam’s unintended pun. “Man, nothing anybody can see, period,” he corrected, taking a sharp left to avoid a rut in the road. “You have to admit; once the local cops know what they’re dealing with this is something they can handle. They don’t need us.”

Sam looked out the window, disappointment showing on his usually affable features. “You just want to hand over what we’ve discovered and leave?”

“I’m just saying it’s an option.” Dean stole a glance over and realized Sam wanted this case, supernatural or not. In fact, maybe it was the lack of a real creature or demon that was drawing him to it. Maybe they could save a few lives without having to face their own family skeletons for a change. “Okay,” he surrendered. “What say we switch on the scanner and see how our good friend Sheriff Waterston has been doing in our absence?”

Sam nodded, flicking on the concealed unit beneath the dash and tuning in to the local police frequencies. After a few pops and crackles, radio chatter began to fill the Impala.

“All available units, this is Sheriff Waterston on the Forest Creek trail requesting backup. We have an officer down, I repeat officer down…”

Sam looked straight to Dean an unreadable expression on his face. “Still think we can leave this to the locals?”

Dean floored the gas pedal, his face turning stoic, but he didn’t answer. He simply steered the Impala towards Forest Creek as fast as its grunting suspension would allow.

* * * *

Forest Creek Trail
Thirty Five Minutes later…

The sun was slowly setting as Dean once again parked in the Kentucky woodland. The last vestiges of the day’s sunshine were melting into a faded orange glow that filled the evening sky. The hues weren’t quite dark enough to be called a shade of red, and yet it still made Dean shudder as if the heavens were colored with blood.

If an officer was down, in all likelihood it meant another person had met their death at the hands of Jerry Walden. Sam was right, the kid, or rather eighteen year old may be human, but there was certainly nothing ‘natural’ about him. That made it their kind of gig.

Dean climbed from the Impala and headed straight for its trunk, intent on arming himself before anything else. Before he could reach the rear of the car, Waterston broke through his own yellow police tape and joined the elder hunter. The Sheriff’s face was a mask of anger and pent up frustration that Dean could relate to. It was the face Sam wore every time the word "demon" was mentioned.

“You state boys sure did a whole lot of good with your extra help,” Waterston’s tone was more than sarcastic, it was acidic. “While you were out chasing ghosts one of my men got taken by this damn animal. Dave was just a kid. He had a great career ahead of him…”

Dean stopped in his tracks and couldn’t help but glance at Sam. Dave Caruso had been the young ginger haired cop they’d spoken with only hours earlier. Dean had liked the kid, and now he was probably being used as supper while they stood around talking about it.

“What happened?” Sam exhaled deeply as he asked the question, but the pitch of his voice told the true tale of just how he felt. He was as angry as the Sheriff, as angry as he knew Dean was under that brash façade of his.

Waterston pointed beyond the tape and through the trees to a small clearing. “We’d just begun sweeping the area for Bethany’s dad when I heard Deputy Caruso cry out. I tried to run over, but I just wasn’t fast enough. All I could see was Dave being dragged down to the floor and away through the bushes…” The sheriff stopped, shaking his head in disbelief. “It was just like Bethany said. There was nothing there…I couldn’t see a damn thing.”

Sam nodded consolingly, his voice still low. “We know,” he confided, “and we think we know what we’re dealing with here, but you have to call your men out of the woods. It’ll be dark soon and they’re no match for…” The hunter’s words trailed as he realized he had no clue how to describe Jerry.

The boy had become something less than human, but still, he was no animal.

“They’re no match for the predator that’s about to tear them a new one, Sheriff,” Dean finished for his brother and then cocked his pump action shotgun. “Call your boys back in, or there’s gonna be a massacre tonight.”

He tossed an SKB to Sam and then stuffed several spare clips for his forty-five into his jacket pocket. As an afterthought, he retrieved another item and stowed it quickly in an inside pocket.

“After all the help you’ve been, you expect me to just up and follow your orders?” The Sheriff turned, looked over his shoulder at the woodland around him and then shook his head. “I have a responsibility to the citizens of Jackson and the surrounding county. I can’t just call off a manhunt because you have some crazy idea. And I won’t give up on Deputy Caruso until I find a body, dammit!”

Dean shot Sam a glance as the younger hunter stowed the infrared camera and thermal scanner into a shoulder bag. For a moment he thought about telling the cop before him the truth. Hell, he’d never believe me that Jerry Walden is the thing out there tearing flesh apart like a wildcat…“Sheriff, I don’t intend giving up either. I think Dave was a good kid. I don’t want to see any more of your men get hurt alongside him. This thing eats raw flesh like a delicacy. It hunts like no animal you’ve ever seen. Now will you just call them back in?” The way it was barked, the sentence was more of an order than a request.

Sam slammed the trunk lid down and looked at his brother in amazement. In that one split second, Dean had sounded just like their father, growling out his commands marine style.

Still, Waterston wouldn’t yield to common sense. “My men stay in the field. They’ve got the dogs out there and I’ve more backup on the way.”

Dean raised a brow. “More backup? Geez, you’re providing breakfast as well as supper!”

The Sheriff whirled, about to tell both state cops to get the hell out of his face, jurisdiction or not, but the radio clipped to his shoulder began to buzz as the dispatcher’s voice came through.

“Sheriff Waterston, this is dispatch. I have a call for you from Mrs. McCaffrey. I’m patching you through…”

Waterston unclipped the unit and his eyes narrowed as he looked first to Dean and then Sam. He walked away, just far enough so the boys couldn’t hear his conversation, but turned to keep a watch on them while he talked. “Hi, Melissa,” he spoke into the mike, “what can I do for you?” his tone changed from anger to deep concern the more he listened. “You’re sure?” He demanded.

When Bethany’s mom confirmed her last statement he quickly signed off and jogged to his own cruiser to retrieve a shotgun of his own.

Dean and Sam looked to one another and then approached the cop, knowing something new was going down.

“More bad news?” Dean came straight to the point.

Waterston grabbed his hat from the car and tugged it on. “You could say that,” he growled through clenched teeth. “That was Bethany’s mom. Seems like Bethany doesn’t think local law enforcement is doing enough about her dad. She’s taken his best rifle and headed back out into the woods to look for him herself.”

“Bethany’s out here?” Dean grimaced as he looked around the darkening backdrop. It was bad enough Caruso had been taken, but at least he had police training on his side, the girl had nothing but a little false bravado and a large gun. His worried gaze met Sam’s. “We better find Jerry, and fast…”

“Now wait,” Waterston held up his free hand. “Just what the hell has Jerry Walden got to do with any of this? The kid’s dead.”

Dean didn’t have time to try and explain so he ignored the question. “Radio your men and tell them we’re coming in. I don’t want some yahoo deputies shooting at my ass. Tell them to stick together too. The more they spread out, the more they’re inviting this thing to attack.”

Sam nodded. “Sheriff, if you can get any infrared scanners, maybe from the fire department? It’s the only way you’re going to see what you’re fighting.”

Waterston took the radio back from its place on his shoulder and for once agreed with the brothers; even if he had no clue what the hell they thought they were hunting. “I’ll make the calls, but I want a damn good explanation before you leave here.”

Dean shrugged, checking the sights on his silver automatic. “Dude, we can stick around all night and tell camp fire stories, but if we do you better make an extra call.”

“What for?”

“A truck load of body bags.” Dean’s throat bobbed as he gulped and Waterston knew he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic- he was deadly serious.

* * * *

Forest Creek Trail
Half a mile into the undergrowth

Deputy Frank Miller pushed through a heavy patch of brush, careful not to scratch himself on the thorny branches that teased at his body. He was a local man, but had never really been out in this section of woods at night before. Hunting just wasn’t his thing. Frank was more the type to spend his free time doing yard work, or maybe playing the occasional round of golf if he could be bothered to make the trip to the nearest course.

Right now, Frank wished he’d taken up his companion’s offer of tagging along on his last hunt. Deputy Rich Graf was well known for his skills with a knife as well as a rifle, and Miller wished he’d learned some of those skills.

“See anything?” Miller craned his neck to glance over to where Graf was using his rifle butt to prod the leaves and twisted roots at his feet.

Graf shook his head, his upper lip curling into a negative expression. “Not even any tracks,” he grumbled, “and man, after what the Sheriff saw, there should be a shit load of ‘em out here.”

Miller suddenly wanted to shiver. He’d heard the rumors about what they were hunting, heck the whole department had, but until now he just hadn’t considered that the gossip might actually hold some truth.

The deputy looked past Graf, further into the darkening countryside. As far as the eye could see, fellow cops walked a line through the shrubbery. He was safe among so many fellow officers, wasn’t he? Nothing dare attack them, surely?

Miller ran a palm along his police issue shotgun’s barrel and let the cold metal give him comfort. A few more hours and he’d be home safe in bed. Sure, I bet that’s what Caruso thought…

“Frank,” Graf’s husky voice cut through the night forcing Miller to shift his gaze. “Frank! Down!” His partner was pointingfrantically for him to hit the dirt, and Frank wasn’t about to argue.

Miller hit the emerald carpet that covered the woodland floor with a grunt and rolled over. He locked eyes with Graf who had assumed a somewhat more professional pose on his stomach, rifle outstretched before him. “Frank, I saw something move to the left of that Bur Oak. Just a blur, but I swear it was something on two feet, not four.” Graf hunkered down and put an eye to his rifle’s nightscope.

“You think it’s what we’re after?” Miller’s heart began to pound in his chest and it dawned on him with sudden realization that he was not cut out to be a cop. Cruising town streets and arresting the odd burglar was fine. Being stalked by an invisible, flesh-eating foe was not. He rolled on his back, breathing hard.

In the distance, the tracking dogs barking continued, as did the now fading voices of his departing companions. Frank gulped, feeling bile rise in his throat from simple fear. Why isn’t Rich answering?

The deputy took two deep breaths, willing himself to roll back and check on his friend. Graf was probably just busy with the nightscope, scouring their surroundings, after all. But…

Miller twisted his body to the right, his shotgun clasped tightly to his trembling body. As the woodland floor to his left came into view, he screamed.

Where Graf had lay only seconds earlier was a thick, viscous pool of blood, and smack in the center, staring blindly back at Miller was his partner’s severed head.

Miller tried to scream again, but his second cry was stifled by an invisible hand reaching across his mouth. The deputy kicked back, biting down hard on his foe’s fingers until he drew blood. The red liquid was visible for a few seconds, and then faded into nothing, just like its owner’s body.

The cop’s eyes grew wide, both from the shock of what was happening and lack of oxygen as his air supply was slowly cut off. In a last ditched attempt, he tugged his shotgun back with one hand and squeezed off the trigger, not caring if the buckshot hit him as well as his attacker.

Thousands of pellets strafed the air, embedding into the surrounding trees and anything in there path. Miller vaguely heard a muffled grunt before falling unconscious, but he had no clue if he’d hit what he had tried to aim at.

* * * *

Sam brought the infrared camera from his left to his right in a slow arcing movement until he was sure there was nothing in the woods in front of them. He continued to sweep as the brothers moved forward, while Dean kept a constant vigil behind in case of an attack from the rear.

“You getting anything?” Dean was on edge. The hairs on the back of his neck were sticking up just enough to tell him that this hunt was going to be a deadly one if they weren’t careful.

“Apart from neck ache staring at this thing. Nope.” Sam took his eyes from the camera and looked up into the imposing darkness.

It was weird, but there wasn’t a sound in the woodland, not a cricket, not the fluttering of a bat overhead. He stopped, listening harder as a memory of the wendigo in Colorado brought fresh concern to his features. It was like something was eating at him, something that told the younger hunter to turn.

Sam brought the camera around to his left but didn’t get time to check out the viewfinder. Instead, his ears had caught the sudden sound of a muted cry, followed by a gunshot. He looked up, squinting to check for movement as shafts of moonlight began to filter through the treetops, giving at least a little illumination to the scene.

“Dean!”

Dean spun around, automatic brought up in a defensive posture as he reacted to his brother’s warning.

He never got to see what he was trying to aim at.

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