None so blind – When the Levees Break chapter 2
The Impala growled to a stop outside the motel. It was clean, tidy, and not quite as gaudy on the outside as some of the décor disasters they had pulled up to over the years. This place looked homely, welcoming. Mamma Deveau was as good as her word, and the Winchester brothers were soon settling into a warm, comfortable room. Complementary Budweiser had made the motel owner very popular with the boys. The fact that he knew who and what they were also made life a little easier than it had been of late.
Sam kicked his boots off and flopped heavily onto one of the twin beds. He took a long pull on the Bud bottle and grinned at his older brother. "So. I have beer. We have a little time. Wanna tell me about this Cath Miller chick?"
Dean laughed at his brother. "Dude, don't ever call her a chick. Not unless you don't want children later on." He swigged his beer and sat staring at the bottle, idly peeling the label off. "She's… different."
"What? She one of the few girlies that said no to you, bro?"
"Sammy, I never did anything with Cath, OK? Seriously. She scares the crap outta me." He took another swig, conscious of the look of utter surprise on his brother's face.
"You have got to be kidding me!" Sam laughed, long and loud. "You? You're not scared of anything!"
"Well I'm scared of her, Sammy, got it?" Dean looked annoyed.
"Why?"
"Because she's a psycho bitch from Hell. One of the best damn hunters there is. She only deals in major league stuff, you know, demons, old vampires, that kinda thing. She doesn't waste her time with angry spirits. And if she's in town, then whatever the hell is going on here doesn't stop at a lot of pissed off drowned people."
"She sounds kinda fun to be around."
"You have a very strange idea of fun, Sam." Dean cracked open another beer. "She's English."
"Oh yeah, real scary, the Brits."
"You gonna let me finish here? Rumour has it she's ex-military. Nobody knows for certain, but apparently she can't go back to England. I met her about five years ago, in New York. Dad put three bullets into the bitch."
"What? Goddamn it, Dean, is there anyone in the hunting community that Dad didn't either piss off or shoot?"
Dean laughed. "Probably not. But he had good reason with her. She'd turned. Gone completely fruit-loops. Not surprising really, after what she'd been through."
"Jesus Dean, this is like pulling teeth! Gone through what, exactly?"
"Sammy, you think we're the only ones that have come up against that yellow-eyed son of a bitch? He tore her entire family to pieces, including her little sister. In front of her. Damn near killed her. Soon as she got outta the hospital, she dropped off the grid. Next thing we know, there's this trail of death and mayhem in her wake. Anyone or anything who got in her way. She had to be stopped. So we teamed up with a couple of other hunters and tracked her to New York. She was in the process of torturing the hell outta some vampire's familiar to get some intel on old Yella when we caught up with her." Dean went quiet. Sam could see that the memories were not ones that he really wanted to relive. "She really didn't give us any option." Dean looked at his brother, and he could see that his normally mischief-filled green eyes were serious. "Dad put her down. We called the emergency services, planted the gun on the familiar and got the hell out of there. Last thing we heard was that the military had moved her to an army hospital. God knows why."
"So she's still military?"
"Possibly. Possibly something else. I don't really know."
"OK, so how do we handle her?"
"We don't, Sammy. I do." Dean reached inside his pocket and pulled out his cell-phone. He stared at the keypad for a moment.
"Dean? What are you doing?"
Dean looked up. "The right thing, Sammy. Letting her know we're in town. If this is her gig, then there is no way I'm gonna get in her way. If she says leave, we leave."
"You are joking?"
"No. You don't question this woman. You obey her." Dean punched in a number…
Cath Miller was bored. Bored out of her mind. She sat in the driver's seat of the big Land Rover, a cigarette curling blue smoke into the air in one hand, the other hand resting gently on the doorframe. The bar she was watching was almost deserted – the bastard hadn't turned up. The tip off was a bust. Cath was not a happy bunny. A pissed off Cath Miller was not a good thing. "Bugger!" She stubbed the cigarette out into the ashtray and turned the key. The rumble of a V8 engine spluttered and then roared into life. She pulled away from the side of the road and back to her motel room, her mind turning over. The levels of supernatural activity in New Orleans had been off the scale recently. Something big was building up, something that was feeding on the pain and anger of a whole city that believed it had been abandoned to its fate by the very people it had expected to help them. New Orleans was seething with anger, resentment and a desire for justice. Perfect for a demon to step in and up the ante, perfect for that son of a bitch to come in and feed off those emotions, like some kind of sick vampire. And she was here. Ready. Waiting for the bastard to show his nasty little yellow eyes. And then? Oh yes, and then…
Cath showered and changed, swigging a beer in between jobs. The weapons were cleaned to military perfection, every breach so clean you could eat your dinner off it. The knives were sharpened until they could cut through bone as easily as through paper. And her swords – ah, her beloved swords. Those she treated with the love and attention that most women dedicate to their children. These babies were special. Very special. As she wiped the blades one last time and slid them effortlessly into their scabbards, her cell-phone buzzed. Voicemail. She flipped the phone open and looked at the number, one arched eyebrow raising quizzically when she saw the caller id. "Good grief! Winchester! Well, waddya know?" She smiled and listened to the message…
"Hi, err, Ma'am. It's… it's Dean Winchester here. Look, I know you're in town and you're on a hunt, but me and my brother just got into town too and, um, well, I kinda didn't want to step on your toes as it were, so if you want us to get outta here, then just text me back and we'll be gone by morning. What? Shut up will you, Sam? Um, sorry 'bout that, geek brother in the background, but you don't need to know that. Um, so, um, let me know what you want us to do. Um, yeah, thanks. Bye."
Cath burst out laughing. "Oh Dean! You poor boy!" The man's voice had sounded nervous, almost like a kiddie caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Did he still think she carried a grudge against him for what happened in New York? Jesus, if John hadn't put those three rounds into her, she'd have killed him, Dean and anyone else who had got in her way. Plus she'd be well and truly pushing up the daisies herself by now. No. John had saved her life when he'd shot her. Ah, the English and their love of irony…
Cath tapped the phone idly on her chin, deep in thought. The Winchester boys. Well, they had as many reasons to be pissed at the yellow-eyed bastard as she did, and if they were anything like their Dad, they'd be good to have around. Cath hadn't worked with a team for some time. But this job – this was a big one. A couple of extra guns would come in very handy. Cath reached a decision…
The motel room was silent, except for the gentle snoring of Sam. Dean lay awake in the darkness, one hand resting behind his pillow, the cold form of the automatic pistol reassuring to him. Cath Miller. Jesus, this just kept getting better. He had argued with Sam for several hours over this. His brother couldn't understand why Dean would be so willing to walk away from a job just because another hunter, and a woman at that, was in town. It just wasn't Dean's style. But then, Sam had never met Cath… Dean felt his eyelids getting heavier and he started to drift off to sleep, the warmth of the bed finally lulling him into a state of relaxation.
"Ah, now don't you look sweet, all sleepy like that?" The London accent was unmistakable.
"FU..!" A strong hand clamped over Dean's mouth and another gripped the elbow of the arm he had resting on the automatic. He was pinned to the bed. Pressure against his ribcage told him that the intruder's knee was resting on him, ready to push him back onto the bed hard if he tried to struggle.
"A-a-a, language, young man!" The voice chuckled softly. "Now before you start getting any ideas, old son, I'm not here to hurt you or your brother. We need to talk. So, here's the thing. I'm going to let go, and if I see that automatic you've got hidden under yer pillow come anywhere near me, I'll clobber you a good'un, understand? Just nod." Dean nodded. "Atta boy. Right then." Dean felt the hand lift away and the pressure on his chest vanish. A shadowy figure moved to the side of the bed and sat down. In the dim light, he could make her out. Hip length red hair was pulled back into a plait that ran down her back like a second spine. Two vivid green eyes glinted in the half-light, full of quiet humour at his predicament. She was tall and powerfully built, the clearly defined muscles under the tee-shirt and jeans leaving Dean in no doubt who had paid him a midnight visit. Cath Miller. She nodded towards the still-snoring form of Sam. "Sleeps like a baby, doesn't he?"
"He's had a tough time recently. What the hell are you doing here?"
"You called me, poppet. Remember?"
"I know but I didn't expect a personal visit."
Cath grinned. "Well, waddya know? You got one." She glanced over at Sam again, who had moaned quietly in his sleep. "I think we better take this conversation outside, don't you? Not sure how Sam would react to finding a strange woman sitting on his brother's bed." She paused for a second and her face split into a wide grin. "Though, mind you, with your reputation, I doubt if he'd be that surprised!" She laughed quietly.
"Hey! Laying right here, you know!" But he couldn't help himself. Dean grinned back at her and they silently left the room.
Outside, dawn was just breaking and the sky burned orange. The horizon was still black as the night was pushed aside once more. The smell the sea filled the air with a salty tang that you could taste on your lips. It was going to be a beautiful day. Cath walked over towards a big truck, its blacked-out windows making the thing look almost sinister. The legendary Land Rover. Dean ran an admiring glance over the beast. The car was almost as famous as the woman. Cath opened the door of the Landy and pulled out a thermos and two mugs. She poured steaming black liquid into the mugs and held one out to Dean. "Can't bear the stuff personally, but trying to get a decent cup of tea in this bloody country is like trying to get an audience with the Pope." She grinned at him. "Don't worry, sweetie. I haven't poisoned it. See?" She took a mouthful of the coffee and swallowed. Dean followed suit. It was actually very good coffee.
"Thanks." Dean stared into the cup. "So…"
"Ah, yes. Suppose we'd better get the history out of the way first, hadn't we?" She leaned against the Landy and looked at Dean, her face serious. She was striking. Not in a "Malibu Barbie" kind of way, but in a "Poised panther" kind of way. And those eyes… Dean lost himself in them for a moment, but as soon as she spoke, he snapped out of it. "Look, what happened in New York, water under the bridge, OK? I don't bear you or your Dad any ill will. In fact, quite the opposite. I owe your Dad." Her look softened. "And seeing as he's no longer around, Dean, that debt of gratitude transfers to you. I'm sorry about what happened, love. It shouldn't have been like that. He was a good man. A card carrying pain in the arse, but a good man, nevertheless."
Dean felt a knot of pain twist in his guts. He missed his Dad. So damn much. And here was a woman his father had gunned down in some filthy alleyway saying that she owed him. His voice nearly broke with emotion. "Thanks." He lifted his head and smiled sadly at the woman. "He was a pain in the arse, wasn't he?"
Cath laughed and put the coffee down on the bonnet of the Land Rover. She walked over to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Yes, Dean, but he was the best of us. By a long shot. And if you're anything like him, I'd be honoured to have your help. See, I have a bit of a problem here. A problem with a certain yellow-eyed son of a bitch. I think you know him."
"Personally."
"Exactly. So you can imagine my surprise to get your call last night. And by the way, what was all that Kansas farm boy "Ma'am" shit, Dean?" Cath could barely contain her laughter, but tried desperately to look stern. Dean grinned again.
"Well I couldn't very well go 'Hey Cathy baby!' now could I?"
Cath couldn't help herself. She laughed out loud. "You call me Ma'am again, and things will go very badly for you, got it? It's Cath." The eyes suddenly stopped twinkling. "Never Cathy. Ever. Understand?" Dean nodded. That was obviously a private matter, one that Cath didn't feel privy to disclosing to Dean at this point. "Anyway, Dean. Here's the thing. This kid Michael's case is just one of many. People have been dying at a rate of knots lately around here, all drowned, all on dry land or inside buildings, and all of them survivors of the hurricane."
"So what are you thinking here Cath? Angry spirits? Mad at the survivors for making it when they didn't?"
"Ordinarily I'd say yes. But that would take much longer than a couple of years to develop into something this big."
"Cath, think about it. There's so much anger amongst the living here, let alone the dead. They'd be bound to be affected by that. What makes you think that it's something bigger?"
"Did you read the coroner's report on Mary?"
"Yes. And?"
"Did you read the whole report, Dean?"
"No, just what was published. We only got here yesterday evening. I went straight to see Mamma Deveau first."
"The body was covered in slime, mud and very high concentrations of sulphur."
Dean swallowed the last of the coffee and handed the mug back to the Englishwoman. "That confirms it then."
"Confirms what?"
"What Mamma Deveau told us. Michael?" Dean locked eyes with those vivid green orbs of Cath's. "He's one of the special children, Cath. One of the demon's kids. His mom died in a nursery fire when he was six months old, everything. Only this time the demon isn't waiting for him to grow up. Mamma Deveau said that the kid sees ghosts around him all the time, like that kid in Sixth Sense. Only for real. And he's scared outta his mind. I'm guessing that's our starting point."
Cath nodded. "Yep." She put the thermos back in the Land Rover and slammed the door shut.
"So, Cath?"
"Hmm?"
"You want me and Sam to stick around?"
"Of course!"
"And us? We're good here, right?"
Cath smiled warmly at Dean. "Yes, Dean, we're good. Now then. I suppose it's time you introduced the psycho bitch from Hell to your sweet little brother, isn't it?"
"How the hell did you know I called you…" Dean stopped himself just in time. Well, a little too late, actually. Cath grinned and winked at him.
"S'what everyone else calls me, babes!" She walked back towards the motel room. "Coming?"
Dean shook his head and stared after the woman. Damn, she had good legs!
Bobby Crane had nowhere to run. The Honda Civic was barely controllable and the scream of the Police cars chasing him told him that this particular joy-ride was very nearly over. The stop sticks had taken out his front left tyre and he was sending sparks into the night air like an angle-grinder. The chopper above him shone the night-light on him, turning the darkness into blue white brilliance. Fifteen years old, with a string of convictions behind him for taking and driving away, no licence, failure to stop and a plethora of other offences meant that this time, he was going to jail for a long time. The passenger in the front seat laughed loudly.
"Damn boy, ain't this just so much fun?"
Bobby stared at the form of the man. When he had taken the car, there had been no passengers of any description…"Who the HELL are you?"
The man turned and faced him, two yellow eyes burning into him. He smiled lazily. "Your worst nightmare, kiddo. Your worst nightmare…"
In the helicopter, the co-pilot kept the night-light focused on the car as he watched it finally loose control and slew wildly to the left. The car smashed into the levee wall and a ball of fire mushroomed into the sky as the gas tank blew. "Jesus!" The co-pilot glanced at his partner. "Guess that's one kid who ain't gonna be going for any more rides, then."
His partner manoeuvred the chopper over the scene as the police cars surrounded the blazing wreck, beaten back by the flames as they tried again and again to get the kid out of the car. He glanced down at the scene. "Turn the thermal imager on, see if the kid bailed before he hit the wall."
"OK." The co-pilot turned the thermal imager on and looked at the screen. His eyes widened. "Chris? How many people do you see down there?"
"About six black and white units, probably about twelve cops in all. Why?"
"Then why is it that I'm picking up a crowd of about two hundred people on the thermal?"
"What?"
"Take a look!"
"What the hell?"
On the screen, the two men could see a crowd slowly encircling the crash scene, the forms moving in almost as one. Above the noise of the rotor-blades, the two men could hear a hiss of voices – why won't you help us? Please, help us! WHY WON'T YOU HELP US?
To be continued…
