Shackles: Part One
New Orleans, 2005
The air hung like a thick curtain; it coated his throat and clogged his airway. He constricted his vocal chords in a vain attempt to clear the honey deep humidity of the South from his throat and hoped that the simple, innocuous sound would somehow relieve the intense quiet of the nearly abandoned street. When he had hopped in the Impala and headed down to the Big Easy he had thought he was in for the time of his life: topless women, Voodoo Queens, and beignets as far as his eyes could see. Instead, he was standing in puddle that he was almost sure was urine while being eyed by a suspicious wino with blood shot eyes and a mouth that moved in the silent gesture of words.
No sound ever emerged from the cavernous black hole. Instead, the poor bastard leaned against the faded brick corner of one of the many "adult bookstores" that littered the streets. His eyes darted from side to side as if he were forever looking to escape his surroundings. His clothes were tattered and stained with an amalgam of fluids. Dean wasn't sure if the fluids were emanating from the drool coming from the man's mouth or if he had picked the stains up via mishaps and adventures that only he knew. Each tear in the fabric revealed his ashy chocolate colored skin. It took little effort for the building to hold the man's malnourished frame while he sipped generously from the fifth of bourbon that some wasteful soul had haphazardly throne in a nearby trash can half an hour earlier.
He had spent the last few minutes staring at the wino. Watching as he sipped from the bottle and sang his silent solo. The man was strange, there was no doubt about that, but wasn't the very essence of his existence, his family's existence, to spot the strange and learn how to destroy or coexist with it?
The man had made no move to harm him but that didn't mean that he was about to put his guard down. Hell no, he kept one eye on the shadows and the other on the putrid fellow with a gaping mouth and searching eyes. While he did not begrudge the man's existence, he did bemoan the fact that he was standing in the street waiting for some nameless vigilante to tell him her sob story.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be by his father's side. That was his duty. That was his right. He was supposed to be riding down the highway with the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. Just the image of his car fading into the void of an endless blacktop as it ate up miles between where he was going and where he had been made him smile. From the moment his father had placed him and his younger brother Sam in the backseat and told them that they were going to chase, hunt, and fight monsters, Dean Winchester had loved the road and all of its mysteries. As long as he was driving, he wasn't forced to think about all of the things he was missing: a mother, a father who cared instead of scolded, and a brother who would pick up the phone when he was on the other end.
Yes, as long as he was chasing monsters he could forget about his own demons.
And honestly, three weeks ago, he would have been overjoyed to be standing on a piss-covered street in New Orleans hanging with the locals. But something had happened, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his father had sent him to the Gulf to put distance between himself and his oldest son. Dean tried not to let it bother him that his father refused to open up and tell him what had made him withdraw and harbor secrets for the past few weeks. Heaven knows, John Winchester wasn't known for his "family meetings." The thought of Sam, John, and himself sitting at a table and actually having any sort of familial conversation caused a deep chuckle to form and seep into the heat drenched air.
The unexpected sound drew a glance from his drunken companion. Those bulbous eyes focused on him for a long, assessing moment. However, the wayward soul made no outward motion to move toward him. He didn't think that the man had the energy to move given his emaciated appearance. Dean searched his witty repertoire for something to say to put himself and the other fellow at ease, but stopped when he saw the man slump with artless abandon to the street below. The change in the unknown man's behavior was sudden but not entirely unexpected given his state of intoxication.
The almost empty bottle of bourbon rolled with tiny clinks to stop only inches away from the old man's chapped feet. For months after his mother's death, Dean could remember cleaning up his father when he had been in a similar condition. The ghost of his recent smile faded as he thought of the countless times that John had come stumbling into whatever half priced escape he had deemed appropriate for the night.
Sometimes he was jovial. On those nights, he would sit Dean on the end of the bed and tell him stories of past hunts and good times with his mother while Sammy slept in the bed next to them. Other nights he would berate and question, quizzing Dean with the authority of a rabid headmaster. John's questions were slurred and violent as he paced back and forth. He wanted to know what Dean would do if some hidden creature of the night came bursting through the door. He wanted to know what Dean would be capable of doing. How would he protect his little brother?
And then, there were the nights that John came in too late for Dean to wait up for him. Instead, he would curl up in a ball and eventually fall asleep in whatever piece of furniture was closest to the window. On those nights, John hadn't said a word. Instead, the smell of alcohol and cigar smoke had clung to him and spoke in a language of dark secrets and unwanted danger. Those were the nights that his father usual came in with a new bruise or a fresh cut; sometimes, to ease the pain in his soul, his father had went out looking for fights. If he couldn't kill the demon who murdered his wife, then he could beat the living shit out of a nameless biker in a seedy bar.
It was those nights that Dean would hear his father crying softly.
When he was feeling particularly daring, he would risk his father's wrath and pry open his eyes—just wide enough—so he could see his father, the mighty John Winchester, holding his head in his hands and repeating one word over and over again: Mary.
It was for that quietly weeping man that Dean fought. He wanted his father to know that he was not alone. He wanted his father to know that at least Dean believed in family and wanted to preserve the few precious memories that he had of his mother. All it would take would be one call from his father and he would have gladly left his post and road happily back over the Mason Dixon line. But his father wasn't going to call. He knew that even as his hand reached down to ensure that his phone would be within reach if it were to make the slightest sound.
No his father wasn't going to call. John Winchester was far from New Orleans, running from his past and into a future as bleak as the night.
In fact, if it hadn't been for the interference of Bobby Singer, Dean would be with his father right now. He would be by his old man's side as they road along the black edges of the asphalt. But as usual, Bobby spouted some quaint southern philosophy that stiffened the resolve of John Winchester. Dean had tried to make his case; he was not going to New Orleans, because a hunter was never safe unless he had someone he trusted watching his back.
His father had nodded in agreement with Dean's sentiment and placed a large hand on his shoulder. The smile he had given his son was one that Dean had seen a thousand times: wide, full of love, and tinged with sadness. In lieu of a hug, he had applied gentle pressure to Dean's shoulder before removing his hand and picking up his duffle. With Dean watching, his father had gathered all of his belongings and headed toward the door. His parting advice had been another sad smile, followed by a short, gruffly given farewell: "Sometimes son, you have to learn to trust yourself."
So, with no other choice, Dean had loaded up his own duffle, rifles, and sundry other battle accoutrements and headed toward New Orleans. He had to admit that he had been a bit surprised when he had walked outside the motel to discover that his father had left him the Impala. It was almost as if leaving the car with his son had been John's apology for the fact that he hadn't always been the best father. Or maybe it was to reconcile with Dean, because he was leaving him behind. Dean refused to think that the car was a parting gift. Something his father had given him, because he thought they would never see each other again.
He would see his father again. As soon as this job was over, Dean was heading to Stanford to get Sammy and they were going to track their father down. It was time that his family realized that they were stronger together than they ever were apart. The thought of barging into Sam's room and tossing his pocket protectors around brought back his smile.
Sam thought that he could run from this life. He thought that he could bury his nose in books and facts and forget about where he had come from and the things that he had seen. Well, it was about time that his egg-headed little brother remembered that there was more to life than school books and writing papers.
Life had taught Dean more than any book ever could.
For example at the moment, he looked down at his watch; he was beginning to think that he was being good and stood up by the mysterious young woman that he was supposed to have met at this very spot over an hour ago. Since he father had been so eager to cut and run, it had been Bobby who had given Dean the information he needed about the job. Bobby's had told Dean that he was coming to New Orleans to meet a woman.
Before Dean could release a sigh, much less a quick witted reply involving sexual innuendo, Bobby had cut him off saying: "You just keep your damn hands to yourself this time boy. That girl's been through hell and half a Georgia and she doesn't need you comin' in screwing around, playing hide the wienerschnitzel."
Given the tone of Bobby's voice, Dean was well aware that the old man was very serious about him keeping his hands off this sainted portrait of womanhood. Dean had also listened carefully as Bobby had given him a rough sketch of the young woman's life. Her name was Naomi Laurent. Her father, mother, and sister were all killed by demons four years prior. Bobby went on to explain that because of the deaths of her parents Naomi was being chased by a very powerful voodoo queen.
Dean had been a bit perplexed as to how a demon killing would have anything to do with voodoo. When he had told Bobby as much, the older hunter's reply had been; "You just keep your damn mouth shut. If she wants you to know what happened to her then she will tell you. Otherwise, you just hold the gun and shoot where she points."
With that said, Bobby had hung up the phone and Dean had continued driving down the interstate. He had to admit, he was a little impressed with the legend surrounding the young woman. His conversation with Bobby had prompted him to stop at a few hunter hang outs between Tulsa, where he had been with his father, and New Orleans.
Naomi Laurent wasn't a hunter and not many people knew anything about her, but one thing was for sure, everyone who knew even an iota about her past respected the hell out of her. The legend, as it had been told to Dean, stated that she was only fifteen when she walked in and found her father planning her wedding to a man she had never met. According to a very flowery hunter with tobacco lodged between his gums and lips, Naomi took one look at her young caller and forgot the fact that she had no idea who he was. Apparently, it had only taken one look from him for her to fall in love. The eloquent gentleman, who Dean later learned was called "Snake", went on to say that it was a whirlwind courtship which led to marriage.
Naomi and her "white knight" as the young man to whom she was married was often called left for Paris the day after their wedding. Little is known about her time in Paris. Dean was able to surmise that while there, the young woman had realized that something was wrong with her husband—like the fact that his eyes turned black on their own volition. There was also some talk about him having her under some sort of spell as well, but the larger consensus believed that he was possessed by a demon. Either way upon realizing that he was not the noble fellow that she once thought he was, she fought her way out of the home she had built with him and had come home to a family that hated the very sight of her. Again, Dean was met with the supposition that her family hated her because they too had been possessed by demons or under a spell.
At this point in the story, Dean had been regaled with tales of torture. Sometimes Naomi had been beaten, or molested, or violated under a plethora accounts of degradation that one person can inflict on the other. In other versions of the tale, she had saved her younger brother from dying at the hands of their possessed father before burning the entire house down with her hell-infested family inside. However, each retelling of the story had the same ending. Naomi Laurent lost her family, but made it her life's mission to protect the streets of New Orleans from things that even hunter's feared.
Every bar, truck stop, and den of iniquity that Dean had pulled into had spoken her name with deference and awe. They called her Lady de la Nuit. Lady of the Night. When Dean had been given the moniker by a burly man sporting a ZZTop beard, he had laughed out right and stated that she sounded more like a hooker than a heroine. Long beard hadn't like the insinuation, so he had picked Dean up by the collar of his leather jacket and promptly thrown him out of the bar.
If he were being honest with himself, he would admit that she, Lady de la Nuit, intrigued him enough for him to continue to stand underneath a street lamp in the shady part of New Orleans surrounded by winos, prostitutes, and other unidentified creatures of the night. Of course, he didn't believe anything he had heard from his travels. She protected New Orleans from things that even hunters feared? The very thought of any such entity made Dean scoff. He had seen his father fight countless hell spawn without even flinching. It was hard to believe that some hoity-toity Parisian miss could fight off and defeat something that John Winchester would run from (even if there were such creatures.)
He wanted to meet the woman and debunk the legend that made hard nosed bikers and gape toothed criminal types bow their heads. Hell, a few of them even crossed themselves at the mention of her name! The whole story was farfetched and created by some undersexed whack-a-doo who thought that adding a pretty lady to a story would give the tourist something to yammer about. Truth be known, this woman, this Naomi Laurent, was probably some bon-bon eating, muumuu wearing yokel who yowled in terror at the sight of an uplifted toilet seat much less a voodoo queen. No, Dean wasn't going any damn where. His father wasn't going to call him. His brother didn't want to talk to him, but he could wait here all night to unwind the gossamer thread that had strung together the tale of this fabled lady.
Damn. Shit. Hell. Naomi Laurent glanced at her watch and let out yet another stream of mental expletives. She was late. She was late to meet the hunter that Bobby Singer had sent to help her with a problem more precious than any amount of gold. Of course, her tardiness was not something that she had planned. Oh no, she had planned to meet Dean Winchester at the corner of St. Charles and Napoleon at 7:30. From the moment she had left her home, her night had gone to pieces.
First Ms. Ruthie, her live in housekeeper and long time friend, had called a few moments after Naomi's departure to tell her that Oliver had a fever. At the thought of anything being wrong with her little brother, Naomi had turned her red pick up truck around and went back home. Oliver's forehead had been drenched with sweat and his dark brown eyes had looked pleadingly at Naomi. She knew that he wanted her to stay, but he didn't ask. He knew that the work she was doing was far too important. Instead, he had coughed and told her to get out. She had smiled at the authoritative voice that her sickly sibling had tried to use. Ms. Ruthie assured her that everything would be fine and that she probably didn't want to keep the hunter waiting for too long.
Naomi had nodded in acquiescence as Ms. Ruthie stated that she could take care of one sick child. Naomi knew that the older woman could. Ms. Ruthie had been with her family since Naomi was a small girl. She could still remember the sweet taste of candied pralines and creamy hot chocolate that the older woman had given her when she had been sick. The woman doted on her and the rest of her family with the fussiness of an overbearing grandmother. However, even with the conciliation that Ollie would be with Ms. Ruthie, Naomi still went into his room to give him one last kiss on his forehead along with the promise that she would bring him some rocky road ice cream on her way back home. Her brother had nodded at her offer and held up his pinky finger as he did every time she walked out the door.
"Don't die." He told her as he coughed long and deep.
Naomi gave in to the urge to kiss him again before locking her pinky with his; "I'll be around to bug you for a long time kid. Now get some rest."
She had given Ms. Ruthie instructions to call her if Ollie's fever went up even a tenth of a degree. The older woman had nodded and had given her a kiss on the cheek before Naomi had once again traveled out into the night.
Her truck broke down at 7:23. She had known that it was coming. The damn truck was as old as the hills and Ms. Ruthie kept harping that it was time for Naomi to buy another car. Her housekeeper just couldn't seem to wrap her mind around the fact that there was no money in the family coffers that would allow for such a purchase. Needless to say, Naomi had soon found herself on the side of the road peering into the mouth of her vehicle as she tried to figure out what in the hell had popped off or fallen out this time. Of course, it was hard for her to see anything what with the large breath of smoke that had puffed up and slapped her in the face the moment she had peered inside.
There was a part of her that wanted to jump up and down in frustration, and an even larger part wanted to find a crowbar and begin pounding on the jalopy with fervent disregard for the fact that it was her only mode of transportation. Of course, she hadn't done either. She had merely kicked the front tire and shouted a word that would have had Ms. Ruthie cleaning her mouth out with lye soap. She hadn't had time to call for a tow and the more sadistic side of her was slightly satisfied with the fact that she was leaving the old beater in a neighborhood where passing junkies might devour what was left of it in an effort to sell their findings for their next fix. So, she had left the truck sitting on the side of the road and had restarted her sojourn to the corner of St. Charles and Napoleon on foot.
Bobby had told her that the hunter she was going to meet was driving a '67 Chevrolet Impala. She just hoped that when she finally got to her destination that he and his car would still be there. Of course, it had been her own stupidity that she had not thought to tell Bobby to give the other hunter her phone number. Naively, she had thought that the night would go according to plan.
She should have known better.
Now because of her choice in vehicle, Naomi would feel honor bound to spend the rest of her evening apologizing to some uneducated mullet wearing man who shot first and asked questions later. Of course, Bobby hadn't said that was what Dean Winchester looked like, but given his choice in vehicle she couldn't help but imagine a man with a potbelly leaning against the hood of the Impala. In her imagination, he was wearing a Led Zepplin shirt and had a mustache that curved at both ends. She knew that it was petty to judge another person by their vehicle. She was sure that if she had to be identified by her currently defunct pick up that another person may think that she was a muumuu wearing yokel with two good teeth in her mouth.
In all honesty, she didn't care if Dean Winchester turned out to be an albino hippy with a foot fetish. He was in New Orleans to help her. Bobby Singer, a man that she trusted as much as Ms. Ruthie had given her his seal of approval. He had said that Dean Winchester was the kind of man that she would want by her side given her current circumstances. Since Bobby wasn't the kind of man to spout out such pleasantries, Naomi already respected the hunter. She just wished that his first impression of her wouldn't be that she was some lazy female who thought that everyone would wait for her to arrive. She wasn't that kind of woman.
She hated that kind of woman.
Naomi liked to think of herself as an honest woman who wanted to help people. That need to help was why she had researched and studied from the moment she had escaped from Stephen and found her way back home. In fact, it had been Bobby Singer who had taught her most of what she knew about the night and what lurked in it. The man had a special place in her heart despite his cantankerous manner. He had given her the skills to look, learn, and watch what moved in the distance. He had taught her that there was more to this world than the evil of man.
Naomi's thoughts of Bobby and what he had done for her were scattered like leaves in the wind when she heard a familiar shuffle from behind her. After all, the undead had a distinctive gait. She turned around to see two corpses shuffling toward her. From the looks of them, they were recently turned. Madame Renauld preferred to raise the newly dead, because their brain matter was still intact enough to receive and process basic instruction. Neither body looked as if they had been dead for more than a few weeks. The woman, who looked to be around fifty-five and dressed in her funeral garb of black, stumbled toward her. Drool slid down her mouth as she took long efficient strides toward Naomi.
Naomi was not impressed with the drooling effect. She knew that the woman was not drooling in anticipation of tearing into her young, nubile flesh. The woman was simply secreting formaldehyde.
Her companion was male. Given the fact that he looked to be around twenty-three and sported a gun shot would that gaped open at the back of his skull, Naomi was able to quickly surmise that he was none other than Bertrand Lowell; the young black man who had killed himself because his mother did not approve of his relationship with a young Hispanic woman from the other side of the parish. His face, unlike that of the older zombie, had been plastered on the news for the past two weeks.
Given the fact that Madame Renauld had no clue that she would be at this exact spot tonight; Naomi was not under the impression that this was a personal attack. However, it still pissed her off. She hoped that her savior in the Impala would wait just a few more minutes while she took care of this immediate threat. With a sigh, she dropped her bag and looked at her opponents. They were circling. Zombies loved to circle their victims. She supposed in their rapidly disintegrating minds, they found it threatening and befuddling to those they planned to kill.
They just picked the wrong girl for their first night out.
Grandma Zombie was the first to make her move. Despite what most horror movies portray, the newly dead could move rather swiftly regardless of rigor mortis. Especially if the magic that brought them back was dark enough. Anyway, grandma lunged at Naomi with the intent to kill. Her jaws, still seeping with the noxious fluid, were open in anticipation of biting a large chunk out of her throat.
Naomi remained calm. That was her secret. Nothing scared her anymore, because she had nothing left to be scared of. She watched, in silent detachment as the monster leapt toward her. She waited for the perfect moment before she moved with graceful dignity. Her leg shot up like a dancer stretching to connect with the jaw of grandma. The zombie growled at having its teeth knocked together and stumbled backward. Still breathing evenly, Naomi searched her surroundings looking for something to end the threat. Both corpses continued to advance.
She spotted her quarry in the form of a standard gardening hoe. Some inattentive landscaper must have left it behind while trying to get the hell out of this neighborhood before the sun went down.
There were other humans out. Naomi made eye contact with a few as they moved quickly to get out of the way of her and the zombies. Junkies dipped into crevices that only they knew existed. Prostitutes moved hurriedly down sidewalks; the click clack of their hills echoing furiously. There was even a cop. Yes, a member of the community who was meant to protect and serve. Naomi saw him and he averted his eyes. They all new what she was doing. They all knew what she was. And it scared them to the point of avoidance.
She was used to being alone. Slowly, so as not to alert the zombies to the presence of anyone other than herself, Naomi began to move toward her chosen weapon. The movements of the three mimicked an odd ballet. With every step she took, the two undead moved as well. They would parry to each of her thrust and vice versa. She wanted them to think that they were evenly matched. She could find no lore either confirming or denying that these creatures thought at all, but as with any opponent one had to take every possibility into consideration. Fortunately, Naomi knew she had brain cells on her side, so she hoped her prey had no idea that she was leading them to the spot of their demise. Of course, it would have been helpful if one of the awestruck bystanders would have picked up the garden hoe and handed it to her, but if someone did that then they would have to acknowledge the fact that the crescent city was currently under the chaotic rule of a voodoo priestess. She envied their ignorance and loathed their methods of handling it.
The even rhythm of her heartbeat guided her toward the gardening tool. The zombies lashed out and sought first blood with ever step, but Naomi drowned out the threat of immediate danger by following her heart. It might sound cliché to others, but the soothing syncopated rhythm of that one particular organ made her focus. As long as she remained calm, the world and all of its dangerous wonders remained crystal clear. She was not going to die tonight.
Swiftly, she used her foot to kick the tool in the air and caught it before it could clatter back to the ground. She made sure to keep the sharp end toward the zombie. Of course, she wasn't lucky enough to have found a weapon with a nice serrated edge, but she would make due with the blunt object that had been provided.
Being the more voracious of the two, grandma lunged again. This provided Naomi with the perfect opportunity to remove the zombie's head. She used the zombie's momentum against it and struck mid air. It only took a few seconds for the gardening hoe, moving with the force of Naomi's violent movements, to hit home. The zombie was soon cleaved to the wooden door of an abandoned home with the gardening hoe that had been left behind.
Naomi screamed out in pain when she realized that Bertrand had used her preoccupation with his companion to attack her from behind. His teeth tore violently into her shoulder. She could feel the pressure and the pain as he bit and ripped away flesh and fabric. Still she fought to remain calm. She had made a promise to her brother. She was not going to die tonight. With a precise kick to the remaining zombie's stomach, she was able to force him away from her body. There were no more weapons strewn around the yard. The only remnants of any human occupation consisted of a needle, a honey bun wrapper, and a crumbled pack of Marlboro Lights. None of which were deadly to the undead.
Shit. Damn. Hell. Naomi looked around for something, anything. She smiled when she saw the police cruiser. The officer who had made eye contact with her moments earlier had opened the door of the vehicle to remove a pad and a piece of paper. He was standing at the back of the car talking to a suspect or a stool pigeon. Naomi didn't know what their relation was to one another and didn't care. Instead, she picked Bertrand up and moved quickly toward the car. Her shoulder screamed in pain as she drug, fought, lifted the man. The officer and his companion looked her way with wide eyes. They had seen her struggling. They had seen her as she had been bitten. Neither had helped, but now they both wore offended expressions as she brought her unclean existence into the real world they inhabited.
Bertrand bit her again. This time he sunk his teeth into the flesh above her knee. White hot pain burned into her nerve endings. Her breath caught and she stumbled. She wanted to fall to the ground and wail at the agony provided by the still clamping jaws of the predator she held. However, if she were to stumble, then the monster would be set free. She could not allow that to happen. She would not allow others to die, because they did not or chose not to realize that humans were not the only inhabitants of the Earth. So as usual, she fought internally to maintain the pain and used the last bit of energy she could muster to haul Bertrand's flailing body toward the car.
He snipped and snapped as she fought to put his head in the correct position between the door and the driver's seat. Again, Officer Friendly and company continued to stare. Naomi didn't have time to be offended. Instead, she slammed the door as hard as she could on Bertrand's neck. The zombie yelled. The sound wasn't one of agony—that he could no longer feel—no, this sound echoed with the volatile rage of defeat.
His torso, hands and feet continued to thrash haphazardly. As long as he was moving, she knew that she had not finished her job, because the truly dead were a fixed point— meaning, the world moved around them, but they remained cold, ambivalent, and unmoving to the meanderings of those that moved above ground.
She slammed the door again to discover that Bertrand Lowell as a zombie had a hell of a lot more fight in him than the human Bertrand. Alive, he had allowed others to dictate the choices he made and had ended his life, because he did not want to defy their expectations. Dead, the man was the very epitome of a fighter. His neck was barely hanging on, but still he managed to fight the good fight and kick the crap out of Naomi. Finally, on the third violent slam of the door, Bertrand's head fell onto the front seat of the cruiser.
Naomi closed her eyes and pushed down the pain. She picked up the severed head and knocked it into the street. She made no move to remove the gore from the officer's seat, just as he had made no move when he had seen her fighting for her life. She limped toward the spot where she had previously dropped her bag. Once she had it slung over her uninjured shoulder, she limped passed the officer, junkies, prostitutes, and onlookers who had watched her battle and defeat the undead. She walked past them unaffected and made no effort to acknowledge their presence.
She could feel the venom seeping through her shoulder and knee. It was hot and warm. When a person is bitten by a zombie, they do not immediately turn into a mindless creature. As with all things, there is a process. First, the person begins to stumble around and act as if they are inebriated. Their speech is slurred and their gait unsteady. If this stage is not annihilated with the correct medicine, then the victim will eventually fall asleep. During this stage, the venom begins to move more quickly through the victim's system.
Ms. Ruthie had told her that the sleeping body absorbs the poison more quickly because the conscious mind can not fight off the intruder. While this made no sense to Naomi, she believed the other woman. After all, she had never lied to Naomi before.
After sleeping, the person woke up with an insatiable hunger. Depending on the proclivity of that person, or the vice that they avoided most in life, he or she would wake up with the need to break free of those shackles. So, the soul had to die first. From the moment that a person intentionally seeks out what he or she knows they should not have, their soul is tarnished and begins to die. When the soul is dead, the person dies as well, meaning that when a freshly bitten person loses his or her soul, the body rejects what is left of that soul or the blackened specter it is replaced with and begins to die. Naomi had seen the process drag out for several weeks and she had also seen a person simply fall over in the street.
She only knew, as she walked through the mass of people that had refused to help her, that she had just been bitten. She still had time to stop the virus, before she turned into one of the things she hunted.
"Hey!" An unnamed voice broke ranks from the onlookers to shout at her, "Who is going to clean this up?"
Naomi continued to walk. She felt light headed and groggy. She needed to get to Dean Winchester and then get home as soon as possible. She owed these people nothing.
She had done her civic duty. They could clean up and rebury the dead.
After all, she was late for an appointment.
"Hold your horse's boy. If she told you she would be there, then she'll be there." Bobby's voice was stern and worried.
Dean had called him to let him know that he wasn't going to wait on the living legend any longer. He had things to do and the longer he waited on her the farther his father traveled away from him. Bobby had become violently adamant that something must have gone wrong.
"Bobby, she didn't tell me anything. I haven't even met the woman"
There was a long, beleaguered sigh from the other end of the line. Dean could imagine the look of frustration on the older man's face; "I know she talked to me, not you. But I am telling you, my girl would not stand you up. Something is wrong. Damn wrong."
"Your girl? Is there something you want to share with the rest of the class Bobby?"
"Quit being so damn perverted. I've known her for a long time. She isn't the kind of woman that would keep a man waiting, for any reason. There is something wrong. If you would quit standing on the street corner like a two dollar hooker, maybe you could scout around. Hell, I thought you were a hunter."
He had never liked to have his manhood called into question. John Winchester had made it clear that his boys were to act like men, behave like men, and fight like men from the moment they lost their mother. And to have someone, even Bobby, question their manhood raised Dean's hackles. His father hadn't failed.
"Did you ever think that she just lied Bobby? I have bigger things to worry about than the problems of some overrated Buffy wannabe. I have an obligation to my family, but I do not have an obligation to this…"
Dean's voice trailed off when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a young woman. She was several inches shorter than him and her head was covered with the wildest, thickest curls he had ever seen. Her face was dirty and her arms and legs were covered with blood. His eyes roamed over her torn blue t-shirt and injured leg. She looked like she had been rode hard and put up wet. He was shocked that she was still able to look up at him calmly.
Her amber eyes were misted with pain, and he could tell that she was fighting with every breath she had, to remain upright. However, her body was far more stubborn than she, and she swayed forward. Her hands pressed gently into his chest. Even through his own shirt he could feel the otherworldly coolness of her skin. Dean didn't know how much blood she had lost, but he knew that what ever had happened, she was about to fall down and out in the middle of the urine covered street.
"Bobby, I've got to let you go. I've got an injured woman here. She may need to go the hospital." Dean didn't give Bobby time to reply. He hung up the phone and gently led the woman under the street lamp so he could get a better look at her. Her fair skin had no bruises. The only injury he could see was the vicious cuts on her arms and legs.
"What in the hell happened to you?" He didn't really expect an answer. Most trauma victims didn't feel like talking. And this woman looked like she had been through a trauma.
So, when she smiled at him, you could have knocked him over with a feather. Her lips were full and unmarred with out lipstick or lip gloss. Given her current state of injury, that should have been the last thing on Dean's mind, but he was a man who appreciated the finer things in life. He just happened to notice that her lips were one of those finer things.
"You should see the other guy." She whispered, still smiling.
Anger poured through Dean's veins like hot lava. He didn't like the idea that someone had hurt this woman, any woman for that matter. But if a man had violently used this woman, he was going to find the son of a bitch and beat him within an inch of his life and dump his body in the nearest woods as an offering to some blood crazed creature.
"Who is he? Who is this guy who hurt you?" He kept his voice calm and conversational less she get skittish or begin to cry. He couldn't deal with tears. In fact, he wasn't used to dealing with women unless they were underneath him and naked. In his mind, women were a lot like cars. They were fun to get inside and take for a ride, but before one was permanently put in a garage the owner had to make sure their purchase wasn't going to put a strain on your finances. And you sure as hell had to be wary of previous owners if you happened to purchase a used one.
"Zombies." She swayed again. " If my damn truck hadn't broken down…Damn zombies. Damn voodoo. Can't even meet Impala Man without being waylaid."
"Impala Man? Me?" He grinned. Here she was The Lady of the Friggin' Night, injured, and swaying in his arms due to blood loss. She didn't look like a legend. She looked like a beaten little girl. "Naomi?" He stopped for a moment when what she had said fully registered in his mind. "Wait, zombies? Did you just say zombies? As in Night of the Living Dead zombies?"
She nodded, and then grimaced when the movement made her head feel even lighter than it already did. Dean knew he should get her out of the street; evidently she had lost a lot of blood and most likely needed to go to the hospital, but nobody had said a damn thing about zombies.
"Yup." Her voice was a bit slurred when she spoke; "Was bit twice by one. Hurt like a son of a bitch. Need to get home."
"You were bitten by a zombie?" Dean felt like he had been dropped into a poorly plotted George Romero flick. The woman standing in front of him had just been bitten by a zombie and she wanted to go home? He couldn't let that happen. "I can't let you go home. You are a danger to others…"
She laughed. It was low and throaty and just a bit shaky, like she didn't get to laugh very often. "Not like movies. I need Ms. Ruthie to help. Ollie needs ice cream too."
She was delirious. Dean was about to give her the common platitudes that a person under duress deserves, but he was distracted by the sound of shuffling come from behind him. He turned to see the drunk from earlier. The poor guy was finally upright and teetering toward Dean and Naomi on legs that didn't seem quite steady.
So, Dean Winchester goes to New Orleans and ends up between a drunk and a crazy woman… His situation appeared to be the beginning of a very bad joke. He just wasn't interested in being the punch line. Even though she was off her rocker, Dean felt as if Naomi was the lesser of two evils, so he let go of her and made his way toward the drunk. He was afraid that the man would become disoriented considering that he had just awakened on the side of the street. Dean was afraid that because of this he might become violent, and whatever Naomi had been through, he didn't know if she could handle much more violence.
"Hey!" Dean tried to keep his voice light. He didn't want to scare the drunk.
Slowly, the man turned toward Dean, those large, bulbous eyes of his glistened in the glow of the street lamp. When his eyes were on Dean's, he turned his head at an angle. Almost like he was sizing him up. Finally, Dean's instincts focused. Finally, the scales fell away and his frowned.
"Son of a bitch." He didn't know if he was talking to himself or his adversary. He just knew that he had spent the better part of the night within reach of a zombie, but his mind had been so focused on his father that he hadn't noticed the danger.
The zombie leapt forward. Dean winced when he noticed that a pungent and very viscous fluid was coming from the creature's mouth. Son of a BITCH. He had no weapons handy. They were all locked up tight in the trunk of his car. Lot of good they were going to do him there now, but it was a bit hard to explain to an officer of the law exactly why he had a sawed off shotgun in his backseat.
Dean moved quickly; his need to live over ruling his thoughts on weapon organization. Thankfully, his sudden movement diverted the zombie's intent of biting him on the shoulder. While the zombie tried to refocus, Dean looked around. In the sudden melee, he had forgotten that Naomi was standing out in the open. Could she defend herself? Or was the legend surrounding her simply a make believe story told to the locals so they might feel safe in their beds? More importantly, could she defend herself in her current state? A cursory glance of the parking lot revealed that she was not present. Where in the hell had she gone?
It took Naomi longer than usual to pop the Impala's trunk. If she were in a normal state of mind, she would have had the vehicle infiltrated in less than thirty seconds. Thankfully, Dean was doing a wonderful job of keeping the zombie at bay. When the creature had first attacked, she had looked around for something useful. A quick, but unsteady glance into the back of car had revealed nothing but an old issue of Busty Asian Beauties and an empty pie box. Certainly not tools of destruction. However, when she had forced her mind to focus, she had figured that for an experienced hunter, the trunk would be the best place to hide his weapons.
The cache of weaponry hidden in the back solidified and verified that notion. She giggled when she saw all of the toys inside. Wait…she shook her head…she didn't giggle. She also didn't usually get the sensation that she was going to pass out, but she was getting it now. She needed to get home. Soon. But first, she had to get the zombie away from Dean, and that would require all her concentration. She looked for the calm within herself and tried not to think about the zombie venom. She remembered that Ms. Ruthie had told her that the conscious mind could hold the disease at bay if it were strong enough.
She needed for Ms. Ruthie to be right. So, Naomi closed her eyes and tried to control the foreign entity in her body.
She ignored Dean's grunts as he fought with his opponent.
She ignored the savage snarls of the zombie.
She ignored the distant wail of sirens.
And concentrated on the beating of her heart.
Thump…Thump…Thump…Thump
Her breath eased out as she internalized all the bad and focused on getting home to her family. On seeing Ollie and Ms. Ruthie. On explaining to Dean Winchester why she wanted him to help her.
When Naomi opened her eyes again, the world came into sharp focus. She looked back into the trunk and grabbed the first thing she saw: a sawed off shotgun. As she checked to ensure that there was ammunition inside, she made a mental note to create a similar hiding spot in her own truck, if she ever got the damn thing fixed.
Dean was holding his own against the zombie. They were currently grappling on the hood of the Impala and Dean was making snarky comments about damage to the paint. Of course, his witticisms were falling on the deaf ears of the brain dead. However, everyone had their own ways of coping with a battle to the death. Naomi fought to hold her concentration and to ensure that she had a good shot, but with Dean so close she could not fire her weapon for fear that he might get caught in the crossfire. She would have to do something to draw the zombie away from Dean or get Dean away from the zombie.
Dean remembered that he had left his keys in the ignition when he felt the car move beneath him and the zombie. Also, he was able to easily locate Naomi once she leapt from the vehicle after putting it into drive. Dean knocked the zombie off of the car as he moved with controlled dexterity to the driver's side. Even the zombie seemed out of sorts at the sudden change of events. The undead creature ambled to the corner, apparently forgetting about Dean. Dean, however, all but jumped feet first through the open window to slam on the brakes. He had no idea what that crazy ass woman was up to, but he knew that she better be grateful that there wasn't a scratch on his car.
Gently, he ran his hand across the dashboard; "It's okay baby. That mean lady won't have a chance to hurt you again."
He imagined that if the car could talk, and let's face it, how cool would that be? That it would say how grateful she was to have an owner like Dean—a man who had a soft touch and knew how to appreciate a fine automobile such as herself. Not for the first time, Dean's imagination brought about what he thought his car would look like if it were suddenly transformed into a woman. Usually, it was a blonde with big blue eyes and a rack you could sit a beer on. Strangely, that was not what his subconscious conjured this time. For some reason, he saw amber eyes and a head of thick, wild curly hair.
"Son of a bitch." Dean hit the dash, counteracting his earlier caress. That damn crazy ass woman, who he had known all of five minutes, had managed to get him involved with zombies. ZOMBIES! Tried to crash his car and now she had dared to try and infiltrate the sanctity of his sexy time fantasies about his car.
Oh, he had to shoot something.
He got out of the car almost as quickly as he had gotten in. His shoulders felt tense, and righteous anger rolled off him in waves. Not only had he spent a good portion of his evening with a dead guy, but the woman that he had been waiting for had shown up late. That same woman had put his car in danger and was most likely certifiable. Hell yes, he could justify every hot ball of anger that had settled in his stomach. With a look of determination Dean set his jaw and began to make his way toward Naomi and the zombie.
He had only taken one purposeful step when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Dean turned around ready for battle. Not for the first time that night, he was met with a surprise of the female persuasion. She was dressed for business. Her bleached blond hair was slick with sweat and her form fitting dress hugged curves that bulged at the sides and back from years of unhealthy living. She smelled like squalor and desperation and he hoped that she didn't think he was going to take her up on the invitation that he saw in her eyes.
She shook her head and kept her hand on his shoulder. When she spoke, Dean was assaulted with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol; "Naw Sugah. You need to leave her alone."
"Excuse me?" The woman's overly articulated southern drawl coupled with the nasty smell of her breath made it hard for Dean to understand her.
Again, this lurid lady of the evening shook her head, this time in pity; "That one." She tilted her greasy head toward Naomi and reached into her bra to pull out a pack of smashed cigarettes. Dean averted his gaze at her action, because he really didn't want to know what else she had hidden in there. "That one," she repeated as she lit the cigarette, "can take care of herself."
It took him a moment to glean the meaning behind her words, but once he did absorb the gist of what she was saying he was dumbfounded. His eyes surveyed his surroundings to discover that others were watching Naomi as well. He had seen some of the same people meandering up and down the sidewalk for most of the evening. Now, every degenerate and ne'r do well had stopped in his or her tracks to become spectators to the event that was currently unfolding. When Dean's gaze finally settled back on Naomi and the zombie, he could see the reason for their need to watch.
Despite her wounds and delirium, she moved with dignity and purpose. Her body was taut with readiness and her eyes glinted with ferocity. She looked exactly how the prostitute had described her—as someone who could take care of herself. He also noticed that she had his shot gun. For some reason, the thought that she had popped open the Impala's trunk to extricate a weapon of her choosing before sending him and his car careening toward the backside of a building made him chuckle. Damned if it didn't make him like her a little as well.
At that moment, she and the zombie were facing each other. The dead wino was snapping and clawing. His attack was repetitive and animalistic. His hands were batting at her with murderous intent. Naomi wasn't even flinching. She was assessing the predator with skill and concentration. Dean admired the fact that she was able to concentrate on the fact that she was in the heat of battle rather than giving in to the pain that was no doubt tormenting her with every move. Unfortunately, the zombie seemed to have the same wherewithal. For every lunge or countermove that Naomi presented, he was able to supply the same defensive strategy. There was an art and grace to the battle that held Dean just as entranced as the other onlookers.
Even covered in blood and battling fiercely with her stolen weapon, Dean could not remember a time that he had seen anything more beautiful than this odd woman who had pushed him out of the way so that she could take the brunt of the battle. He was still pissed at her, and he was definitely going to lay down some ground rules if they were going to work together. However, and he would never admit this to another living soul, he couldn't help but feel a little honored that she had valued his life above her own. Not many people would have given him the same respect.
Dean wanted to help her. He wanted to stroll out of the darkness and stand by her side. It was not in his nature to cower, but he wanted to watch these two combatants. He wanted to see if Naomi was the stuff of legends. Most importantly, he felt as if he were compelled to stay put. As if some unseen force was willing him to stay back, because she had deemed it her duty to save his life. To test that fact, Dean willed his foot to move; he willed his hand to move; hell, he even tried to make his ass clinch. Nothing happened. His body felt as if it were not his own. He couldn't move, speak, or blink. So, against his nature and better judgment, he remained on the sidelines with the rest of the silent automatons while Naomi fought for her life.
There was something primal and defiant about each of her movements. Her every move was lethal and fluid. When the zombie lunged, she changed her grip on the gun and held it like a batter at the plate. The move had been so quick that Dean wondered if it was something that she had practiced to impress the throng of onlookers that appeared. He also saw the grimace of pain that decorated her face as she swung and smashed the barrel end of the rife against the zombie's cheek with maximum force. Again, he tried to move. He felt as if he needed to protect her. To everyone else, she might have looked like a protector, but to him she looked like a scared little girl who was in pain. With every step he tried to make, his body defied his mental orders and refused to allow him to move.
The zombie stumbled backward; Naomi switched her handle on the gun and fired one time into the night. The dark lot was momentarily illuminated with the fire red explosion that emanated from the gun's end. Dean watched the scene curiously hoping that this violent tableau would soon disperse so he could get some answers. Fortunately, the bullet aimed true and landed in the center on her intended mark—the zombie's forehead. The creature hit the ground. There was no sound. He simply fell back, landing a few feet away from Naomi; his arms and legs akimbo.
This time when he told his legs to work; they listened. He jogged toward Naomi and noticed that the bite on her shoulder was bleeding and that she was having trouble standing. When he was in front of her, he took the weapon and grabbed her arm. Her amber eyes were glinting feverishly at him.
"Killed him." She gave him a lopsided grin as she made her statement.
Dean couldn't stop his own grin; "You sure did Annie Oakley."
Naomi swayed a bit and Dean finally said to hell with it and picked her up. He would call Bobby on the way to find out where she lived. She had said earlier that she needed someone named Ms. Ruthie, well, after the way she had fought, he supposed that if that's what she needed then that's what she would get.
She didn't protest when he picked her up. He figured that she would have some feminist line of protest at a man helping her. Instead of arguing, she put her head on his shoulder. She felt hot and was covered with sweat. Dean could feel her breath hit his cheek as she took short staccato burst of air in and out. Whatever was happening to her, he had to get her help as soon as possible.
"Can't fall asleep." Her voice was soft and weak as she shared this knowledge.
Dean believed her. He didn't know a damn thing about zombies, but he felt that the woman in his arms had enough knowledge to know what she was talking about.
"Alright, just keep talking. I need to make a phone call, but you just yak away." Dean gave the order as he put her gently in the passenger seat and pulled out his cell to call Bobby.
Naomi could smell leather. She could feel the summer breeze as it touched her face. She was so hot. She felt as if her blood had been boiled and then poured into her veins. All she wanted to do was sleep. She wanted to close her eyes and pray that the pain melted away. He wouldn't let her. Every time she closed her eyes for more than thirty seconds, he would do something to jar her back to reality. She wished he would go away and shut the hell up.
"Can't do that." His deep voice came from the seat next to hers and she turned her feverish gaze to look at him.
Apparently, the asshole could read minds too.
"I'm not reading your mind." His voice was tinged with male amusement. "You are saying those words out loud. In the past five minutes, you have called me an ill bred redneck, Satan's ass monkey, and an asshole. If you keep talking like that, I will begin to think that you don't like me."
She frowned and when she spoke, Naomi chose not to notice that her voice was weak or that she sounded like a petulant child who had been denied her daily treat; "I don't like you. I want you to go far, far away. I want everyone to just leave me alone and let me get some sleep."
Again, he chuckled. She wanted to turn her head away from him and pout, but she couldn't muster up the energy to do so. She didn't know how, but she was working on a way to make her current state his fault. Yes, she was sure that if she thought long and hard enough she could blame the entire night on Dean Winchester. Damn stupid man. It's a shame that men who looked like he did were ornery and mean. She had fallen for a pretty face before. That had certainly ended badly.
Stephen had been classically handsome and had a suave European air about him that had pulled her in. He had thick blonde hair and blue eyes that made her think that she could spend the rest of her life looking at him and him alone. She had been blinded by his good looks and lead down a path of debauchery and sin because of it. He had used her in ways that no women should ever be used and she refused to bumble down the same path again.
However, she was a woman and couldn't help but notice that Dean Winchester certainly didn't fit the profile of her notorious Impala Man. He didn't have a mullet and there was no potbelly insight. In fact, now that she didn't have to fight off zombies left and right, she could appreciate the man. He had a look about him that screamed "take me to bed." His face was strong and noble with eyes that assessed his surroundings and glinted with humor, but his best asset by far were his lips. Naomi had never seen a man with lips that full. They should have made him look feminine, but instead they gave his face a soft point of interest. Those lips were designed for kissing.
Naomi shifted in her seat and she imagined having those lips on her.
Lord, it had been such a long time since she had been kissed. She was willing to bet that Dean Winchester knew how to kiss. She bet he was the type of man who led with his lips while his hands caressed with finite gentleness. Her eyes moved down to his hands. They were large with calluses and scars. They were the hands of a real man—the kind of hands that could pummel evil but touch those that he loved with tenderness. Naomi continued to have her lurid fantasy about the man sitting next to her until she was jarred from her musings by the car going off the road.
"Sorry." Dean cleared his throat. "Could you not be so damn descriptive? A man can only take so much."
Shit. Damn. Hell. She had been talking. He had heard everything she had said. Good grief. Could this night possible get any worse? She hoped that she was actually asleep and that she would wake up tomorrow and not have to worry about the fact that for the first time in a while she had noticed a man in a sexual way and he had heard her prurient fantasies while she had been describing them.
"Sorry." She chose to let the word out on a sigh and hope that he wouldn't make the situation any worse.
"No apologies are needed. I'm impressed. It is not every day that I find a woman that can fight like you do and with such an interesting imagination. If the circumstances were different, I would be taking you to a hotel instead of home."
She had no idea how in the hell she was supposed to remark on that statement. Dean, who reached out to turn the radio up, obviously didn't need an answer from her anyway. Naomi didn't say a word for the rest of the trip. She was afraid to even think less she spew her deepest and darkest secrets to a man she didn't even know. She let her head lull to the side and she fought to keep her eyes open.
The city passed by them in a streak of shapes and colors.
Ruthie Mae Dubois did not like what she was seeing. She held back the silk lace curtain in the living room and watched as a young man brought Naomi up the walk. She looked pale, and even with nothing but the street lamp to light the way, Ruthie could see the blood. That damn foolish girl was bound and determined to get herself killed. With a sigh, she opened the front door.
The young man looked up and Ruthie was taken back by the sorrow she felt emanating from those eyes. The boy who held her charge had seen things that no one so young should be privy to. She could see it in the set of his jaw and the way he held himself. Her heart went out to him.
"Are you Ms. Ruthie?" He asked the question as he brought Naomi into the house and laid her gently on the couch.
"I am." She skirted the boy and went to lay her hand on Naomi's forehead. The girl was burning up. She looked up at her visitor; "Are you the hunter? Dean Winchester?"
"Yes ma'am."
She smiled; "Manners. I like manners in a young man. Now tell me Dean, what in the hell as this foolish girl gotten herself into this time?"
"She was bitten twice by a zombie."
"But I kicked their asses good Ms. Ruthie." Naomi didn't open her eyes, but Ruthie was glad to know that the girl had remembered not to give into the urge to fall asleep.
"Now, you watch your mouth Naomi Renee. I don't care if you are on death's door. I won't have that kind of talk. You hear?"
Naomi smiled. Her lips were cracked and parched; "Yes ma'am."
Ruthie grinned. Lord but she loved this child. She got up, her round backside knocking against the coffee table as she moved. She leaned over Naomi and kissed her gently on the forehead before meeting Dean's gaze.
"Do you think you can hold her down while I administer some medicine?"
He nodded. Ruthie liked the fact that he didn't ask questions. Asking too many questions about medicine and her family' recipes had gotten many a young man killed. She liked the looks of this young man—with his sad eyes and pouting lips—she was glad that he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
She smiled; "Helpful and manners? You best be glad I'm an old woman."
Dean blushed and it thrilled her to the tips of her orthopedic shoes to know that she still had the capability to do that to a man.
"What kind of medicine are you going to give her?"
Ruthie inched closer to the boy and whispered; "It's an old family recipe." She looked back at Naomi and shook her head; "It is going to hurt like hell, so be ready to hold her down when I say so. That one can be a real hell cat when she wants to."
Dean looked back at Naomi's figure as well, and Ruthie was pleased to see that the young man smiled at her resting form with warmth; "Yes ma'am. I have already figured that out for myself."
To Be Continued in Shackles: Part Two