Author's Note: Hello, Readers! :) First, I want to thank you for reading my story. You're the best! Now then, if you don't know anything about roller derby, there may be a few things in this story that you might not understand. Fear not! Roller derby is the fastest-growing sport in the world right now. Chances are, there is a team somewhere near you, particularly if you are in North America or Europe (there are also teams in Japan and Australia). I highly encourage you to reach out to your nearest league, find out this season's schedule (or next, if it's off-season), and attend a bout. Anyone in attendance will be more than happy to explain the sport in real time.
Amarillo, Texas
Saturday
The last few musical bars and vocal squeals of a karaoke version of the B-52's 'Love Shack' reverberated through a crowded bar. A trio of half-drunk young women threw their arms in the air and around each others' shoulders as other party-goers cheered. Two of the women wore matching green and white sports jerseys while the third wore purple and black. All of them were laughing as they bounced down the two stairs off of the small stage to allow another woman in the same green and white to take their place at the microphone. Her short, platinum spikes took on the same hue of the stage lights as the colors flashed in rotation.
"How're ya'll doing!?" Her question was met with loud whoops and applause. "Thank ya'll so much for coming out! I'm Mom-U-Mental, captain of the Amarillo Annihilators, and our league wants to extend an extra-special thank you to the skaters and officials of Plainview Roller Derby who came up to bout with us tonight!" She paused to allow another round of applause and for the various women in the two different colored jerseys to hug and high five each other and to cheer each other with their drinks in hand. "We got another song queued up, but nobody's taking the stage 'cause everybody knows this one. We're just gonna pass the mic around!" With that, the opening notes of Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'' played through the speakers to a reaction of more cheers and a smaller sound of good-natured groans.
"Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world," Mom-U-Mental began as she descended the stairs to hand the microphone to a woman in a purple and black Plainview jersey.
"She took a midnight train goin' anyyywhereee!" The microphone was passed again.
"Just a city boy." Another face leaned in, and the two sang together. "Born an' raised in South Detroit. He took a midnight train goin' anyyywhereee!"
The microphone was passed and passed among women as varied as there were individuals. Short, average, tall. Slender, athletic, more to love. Some had shaved heads, some had long braids. Some kept their hair natural blonde, brunette, black, or red; others had theirs dyed in rainbows of color. Intermixed through the sportswomen were the officials who worked the game and fans who had watched and then come to the bar to enjoy the afterparty. The microphone got passed among them as well. Almost everyone was singing, whether the microphone was in front of them or not, and the sound swelled inside the bar.
One woman wearing the green and white of Amarillo was holding the microphone for herself and two others, "Street lights! Peeoopuhh..." She faded off with a soft, "Oh." Her eyes lost focus. The microphone slipped from between slack fingers and hit the floor, sending feedback through the speakers. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed.
"Oh shit! Polly!" A redheaded woman tried to catch her as she went down. More voices faltered as other women throughout the room dropped. The singing was replaced with panicked voices, crying out to one another.
The music came to an abrupt halt as one woman suddenly shouted out, "Oh my god, she's dead!" A chorus of shocked sounds turned to fear as one downed woman after another was pronounced dead. Demands for someone to call an ambulance, call the police, call for help, any help, filled the room.
Out in the warm night, the red neon light proclaiming the name of the bar -Francisco's- flashed off and on merrily while sounds of terror floated from the doorway. In the distance, the soft wail of sirens could be heard coming ever nearer.
.oOo.
Supernatural
.oOo.
Maryland
Sunday
The middle-aged waitress carefully unloaded her arms of plates onto the table. Fried eggs, hashbrowns, a stack of pancakes, and extra bacon in front of Dean, and a veggie omelette in front of Sam. She smiled at the brothers. "Can I get you guys more coffee?" she offered sweetly. Her cap of short, light brown ringlets framed a soft, slightly plump face with kind, brown eyes wearing blue eyeshadow that had seen its heyday in late, 1980s music videos. Dean already had a mouthful of eggs and hashbrowns, so it fell on Sam to answer.
"No, thank you." He offered a polite smile in return to hers.
"Alright, Honey. You let me know if I can get you guys anything else." She walked away, pulling her note pad and pen out of her apron and turned her attention to a table with new patrons who had just settled into their chairs.
Dean lifted the maple syrup and poured a heavy drizzle over his stack of pancakes. "Whatcha got for us, Sammy?"
"Something weird in Amarillo, Texas," Sam replied. He looked down at his laptop, eyes scanning the news page he had pulled up on the screen.
"Weird, how?" Dean's voice was muffled by the mouthful of pancakes.
"Bunch of people dropping dead at a bar, weird," Sam replied, ignoring the sound of food smacking around in Dean's mouth as he spoke. He really ought to be used to it by now, but he still thought it was gross when his big brother talked with his mouth full.
"Lay it on me." Dean sipped his coffee and continued tucking into his breakfast.
"According to the news article, 'As is customary after their bout -the roller derby term for 'game'- the Amarillo Annihilators hosted an after party for the visiting team, Plainville Roller Derby, and all of their fans at the local bar, Francisco's. Celebration turned to terror as several skaters from both teams suddenly collapsed and died. Police did not release the cause of death.'" Finishing the quote, Sam forked a bite of omelette into his mouth. He looked across the table and waited for Dean's response.
Dean stuffed his bite of half-chewed food into one cheek so he could speak; well, it was better than nothing. "Can't be something simple, like a gas leak, can it?"
"Nm-mm," Sam shook his head and finished his bite before answering. "The only people affected were the skaters. None of the fans, and none of the regulars at the bar. And, get this, it was exactly six skaters from each team."
"Alright. That's weird enough for me." Dean bit into a slice of bacon and used the rest of the strip of meat still gripped between his fingers to motion to the food in front of him. "Let's finish breakfast, though. Too much of this needs a fork to get it to go."
Sam nodded his agreement and took another bite of his omelette.
"So, roller derby, huh?" Another sip of coffee cleared Dean's mouth. He took on a confused expression. "That's the game where they punch each other, right?"
.oOo.
Amarillo, Texas
Monday
It had been a long drive to Texas. Dean had gotten some little sleep after he and Sam had switched places behind the wheel of the Impala, but his eyes had felt grainy when they checked into the hotel after lunch. Sam hadn't argued when Dean proclaimed the need for a few more hours of rest before getting to the job. At the least, it was enough to not make him feel like death. The same couldn't be said for the corpse laying in front of them on the mortuary stretcher sticking from the cabinet in the wall.
"So what's the official cause of death?" he asked the coroner.
Brown eyes slowly lifted to Dean's light green. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, making the stern look on her face even more severe. "You didn't read the report." It wasn't a question.
"I like to hear it out loud," Dean countered. Of course, faking as FBI agents meant they hadn't received a report to read. God knew he would have liked to have that sort of access; it would make situations like this much easier.
The coroner sighed heavily. "Right. Amber Sheldon," she looked down at the corpse and back up. "Is one of four who've been autopsied thus far. All bodies have revealed the same thing."
"Which is...?" Dean prompted.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"They were all healthy, particularly Amber here. She didn't even smoke or drink. Strong, active; her organs were in great condition until..." she spread her hands to offer up the fact the woman laying on the slab was currently less than healthy and very dead.
"So you're telling us..."
"I'm telling you we can't determine a cause of death yet. Her entire body shut down, like it was simply done working. With the extensive liver damage in one of her friends, I was almost tempted to blame acute liver failure -if only to have something-, but we know the same thing happened to all of them. I'm not going to label the cause of death to be different for one than for another. So I have to keep digging, no pun intended."
Dean looked over at Sam, who had been silent after introducing himself. He could practically see the gears turning in his brother's mind as he stared down at the pale corpse. "You got anything to add?" Sam glanced up at the question.
"Yeah," he graced his finger across multiple dots of bruises on the body's upper arm. "These bruises... they look like fingerprints. Is there any history of domestic violence?"
"More like a history of roller derby," the coroner answered. "You're right; they are from fingertips, but it's nothing to worry over. They came from playing a full-contact sport. All of these bodies have at least a few bruises, some more than a few." Sam nodded. "Now, Agents, If you don't mind, I have eight more bodies to examine this evening. If there's nothing else...?"
"No, I think that'll do it," Dean replied. "Thank you for your time."
.oOo.
Tuesday
Bing-bong
The brothers stood in front of a white storm door on the front porch of a one story brick house. White pillars made of metal scrollwork held up the awning, shading them from the late morning sunlight. Dean's hand dropped from the door bell, and he glanced at Sam as they waited for someone to answer. They did not wait long. The inside door swung open to reveal a young woman with chin-length black and purple hair. Her dark hazel eyes were puffy, showing that she had been recently crying.
"Erin Weatherfield?" Sam inquired.
The woman shook her head and opened the door further to reveal a living room beyond the foyer where she was standing. A young brunette woman was on the denim couch, bundled tightly in a red and black plaid blanket, rocking to and fro, and staring at nothing.
"I'm her girlfriend, Crystal Morris. Do you need something?" Crystal's voice was thick with tears and slightly hostile.
"I'm Special Agent Balin," Dean replied, slipping a hand into his jacket to the inner breast pocket in order to withdraw his fake badge. Sam was quick to follow suit, reaching for his as well. "This is my partner, Special Agent Kantner." They held open the badges long enough for Crystal to examine both, then they tucked them away. Dean continued, "We'd like to speak to Erin about-"
"Sshh!" Crystal hissed, opening the storm door. She lowered her voice. "I know what about. And I'll let ya'll talk to her." She eyed both of them with a fierce expression. "But ya'll better be real careful." Her gaze and voice both softened as she spared a glance over her shoulder. "She's broken."
Crystal motioned the brothers inside and shuffled away from the door, making her way into the living room with a hobble. Dean noticed her left ankle was weighted down by a large medical boot that reached almost to her knee. She carefully maneuvered herself to the couch next to Erin and sat down. "Erin? Baby? There's Feds here wantin' to talk to you. Erin?" She had to place her hand on Erin's shoulder to stop the rocking. Only then did Erin look at her.
"To me?" Erin's voice sounded hollow.
"Yes, Baby, to you. You think you're up for it?"
Erin turned her gaze to Sam and Dean as they settled onto a matching denim love seat which sat opposite the couch with a funky, guitar pick-shaped coffee table between them. She stayed quiet, only blinking at them. Dean took her silence as consent to begin. "We understand you were at Francisco's Saturday night."
Her eyes flooded with tears, and she managed only a scant nod as she drew the blanket around herself even tighter.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Sam asked softly. Dean spared him a quick glance and looked again at the two women on the couch across from them.
The tears fell freely, and for a few moments, it seemed she would not speak at all. When she did, her words were choppy, as though she had to think in the middle of her sentences. "They just... died... We were partying... having fun... And they all... just... died."
"Did you notice anything strange?" Dean started with the normal questions.
Crystal spoke up, her top lip curling into an angry snarl, "You mean aside from half our team dropping dead at our feet?"
"Cold spots?" Sam prompted, pulling her pissed off expression away from Dean. "Flashing lights?"
"It was hot and sweaty," Crystal replied with annoyance. "Have you ever even been to a bar? There were too many people for it to be cold. And the only flashing lights were the stage lights; they're supposed to flash."
"Wait, you were there?" Dean leaned forward, propping his forearms against his knees.
"Of course I was there. Just 'cause I did this to myself," she motioned to her booted foot, "don't mean I can't go out and support my team."
"You were there," Erin whispered, her eyes losing focus and glazing over. "It could have been anyone, and you were there. It could have been you." Her voice broke. "Oh God, it could have been you. It could have been you. You were there." Erin's panic climaxed into sobs that wracked her body as she flung open the blanket to free her arms and threw herself at Crystal, gripping her shirt and repeating her fears between breaths in a voice muffled from being pressed against Crystal's chest.
Crystal's arms enveloped her girlfriend as she softly petted tangled, unbrushed brown hair and gently rocked back and forth. She cooed under her breath, whispering reassurances. As Erin calmed enough to quiet -if not stop- her crying, Crystal continued to rock her and lifted her chin to send a hard glare at the brothers. "I'm giving her a Xanax and putting her to bed. She's done talking."
Sam nodded, and Dean held his hands slightly in front of himself, palms out, to show he had no argument. They watched as Crystal stood from the couch and, balancing her weight on her good leg, slipped her hands under Erin's armpits to heft the smaller girl to her feet. Bundled in her blanket as she had been, Dean hadn't realized just how little she was, but when she stood, he saw she was at least a foot shorter than her girlfriend.
"C'mon, Baby. I can't carry you right now; you're gonna have to walk with me, okay?"
Dean waited as Crystal coaxed Erin out of the room and around the corner before standing up and making his way across the room to a wall bedecked with framed pictures and small shelves lined with colorful, home made trinkets. There was a blue plastic pony glued to a neon green wheel with "MVJ" written in blue puff paint; a ribbon and garland fairy wand with small, wooden letters painted in gold and spelling JAM as the topper; a Barbie propped in a doll stand, her body painted with the green Amarillo jersey, and a pink wheel glued between her hands with "MVP Jammer" written across it in black marker; a kid-sized roller skate covered with green glitter and a little plaque propped against it reading "Most Inspirational." Dean let his eyes wander to the photos as Sam stepped up behind his shoulder to look at the decor on the wall as well.
One photo was of a group shot of serious-looking roller skaters in green jerseys, probably an official team photo, Dean surmised. Others were of various smaller groups of the same women, all of them looking pleased to be in each others' company. In one, five of them were toasting their drinks to the camera, their mouths all open in shouts. Another was taken from behind two helmeted women, capturing the white names and numbers on the backs of their green jerseys. The Dark Crystal, 82, was on the left, her arm draped over the shoulders of the much shorter Dumbldorable, 596, whose brown pigtails peeked down from both sides of her black helmet.
Dean pointed to the picture. "The happy couple," he said.
"That's the most recent picture I've put on that wall," came Crystal's voice behind them, turning their heads to face her. She hobbled forward, the boot slowing her down. "That was the day I jacked up my ankle."
"What happened?" Sam asked.
"Ugh." Crystal looked down at the boot in disgust and sank onto the couch next to the vacated blanket. "The bout was almost over. We were ahead by enough that we knew we were gonna win. I got cocky, decided to showboat a little. So I jumped the apex. It was sloppy; I didn't land it right, and I crashed inta' one of my own team mates. We both fell, my ankle twisted, and she landed on it. Doctor said it woulda been better had it just broken, that it would heal better." She shook her head as she finished her explaination.
Dean cocked his head, knowing confusion was painted across his face. "You jumped the what?" He exchanged a glance with Sam, and when he looked back at Crystal, her expression had changed from moody to amused.
"Do ya'll..." her eyes bounced back and forth between the brothers. "Do ya'll know anything about roller derby?"
The brothers looked at each other again and once more at Crystal. A twin of shrugs was their only response to her. She quirked an eyebrow.
.oOo.
"Well that was informative," Dean stated as he dropped into the driver's seat of the Impala. "I learned more about this sport than I did about what the hell could have killed twelve people without touching them." He huffed irritably as he closed his door; Sam also entered on his side of the car. "So who's next on the list?"
Sam lifted his pad of paper and eyed the list, "Shaneice Williams, or according to Crystal, Lt. uHURTa."
"Referencing..." Dean drew out the end of the word as he thought.
"Star Trek."
"Star Trek," he spoke over Sam's reply. He knew the answer; it just hadn't come right away. Nyota Uhura was the hot one who wore that tiny dress. Dean could remember watching Star Trek: The Original Series on many a crappy hotel television while growing up, and remembering how much he enjoyed Lt. Uhura's legs put a small smile on his face.
"And after that," Sam cut into his reminiscing. "There's Teresa Bevins, aka Carmelita Beat'cha."
"Carmelita Beat'cha? Like, the Carmelita? Of Casa Erotica fame? Muy caliente," Dean perked up even more. "Let's skip the nerd for now. I wanna meet the chick who named herself after the porn star I screw-"
"OKAY," Sam cut in.
Dean smirked, put the car into drive, and started out of the neighborhood. "Point the way."