Loose Ends Part 4 Going Solo
by Swellison
Dean paused, taking a moment to check out his surroundings. He'd been steadily climbing up the Lake View trail, headed towards the top of Cannon Mountain. His hours of research in the library had yielded few useful facts, but he did have a clear picture of what areas had been searched for the missing hiker. The search had focused on the middle Cannon Mountain, and all the likely possibilities had been checked out. Apparently, the searchers' reasoning was that an experienced hiker wouldn't get lost enough to stray over to another mountain. Time for some out-of-the-box thinking, and since Dean's thought processes involved what-would-a-zombie-do type of thinking, he figured he lived in out of the box-land.
A last-minute supply run had altered his original plans, so he was still hiking the trail, less than a quarter mile from the top of Cannon Mountain, close to midnight. He was used to working late hours, since supernaturals mostly prowled at night. It didn't matter if they were haunting forests, mountains or abandoned factories; the spooks invariably came out at night.
Following the next switchback, he saw a dead log lying on the ground just off the trail. That would be a great place to rest while he rummaged around for his second sweater and gobbled down an energy bar. The stiff, shifting wind caused him to veto any thought he might've had about a fire. Dean stepped over to the fallen log and sat on it. He'd been carrying his duffle like a backpack, using the handles as shoulder straps, and he eased it off as he sat down on the handy log. Digging out some granola bars, he unwrapped and bit into one and tried to relax, just for the moment.
He was quietly crunching on his second granola bar when he felt the hairs on his neck stand upright. Dean swallowed the piece of snack bar, and nonchalantly scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Still, it wasn't nothing, he felt something. His hunter's instincts fully engaged, Dean casually slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cell. He gently flipped it open and touched speed dial number two, Dad. His eyes strayed on the almost-never used name by speed dial number one, Sammy. Hey, I can always call Sammy, wish him a happy birthday for the remaining fifteen minutes of it. Right. And that's not needy and chick-flicky at all.
Dean had taken a break from his research at the library to locate and send an appropriate e-card to Sam. One click and a photo of a sleek, black muscle car transformed into an animated cartoon. The black car skidded through a figure 8, then stopped screen-center with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMY" emblazoned on the driver's door. Then the car peeled away, with the exhaust spelling out "Eat My Dust!"
He was snapped out of his reverie when his cell phone suddenly emitted a no signal warning. Terrific.
Okay, it seemed he was on his own. Isn't that what I wanted, to be a true solo hunter? Well, maybe not, but as Sammy would say, "It's a rhetorical question, dude." He closed his cell and slipped it back into his pocket, pondering his next move. Eliminate the possibilities, Dad's authoritative voice rang through his head. Dean scrounged in the duffel bag, withdrawing his jury-rigged walkman and turned on the EMF reader.
He held the device in front of him, still seated on the log, and began sweeping the area in an arc with a minimal amount of arm movement. He reached almost the limits of his sweeping range when the lights suddenly flashed on, showing three red lights.
Suspicions confirmed.
Dean eased into hunting mode, confident and relaxed now that he knew he was dealing with a supernatural. The trail was surrounded by thin, young trees, no real clearing in sight. He scanned the area, but found no place to hide. The trees were all very similar, and none of them were thick enough to lurk behind, or strong enough to support his weight, if he needed to climb one of them suddenly.
His best guess was what he was tracking, or at least trying to track, was an angry spirit, possibly of a long-lost hiker. As he moved, the trees rustled near their tops. Dean looked up, squinting into the bright moonlight. He looked away quickly, not wanting to lose his night vision. It wasn't long before he was out of the trees, and moving on a path that lead to the summit of the mountain. Something was stalking him, at times behind him, sometimes out in front. He slipped his shotgun out of his duffel and cradled it familiarly in the crook of his arm. The summit was only steps away.
The few scraggly trees dotting the path crackled in the wind. Suddenly the creature was standing in the middle of the moonlit path not twenty feet in front of him. It was tall—at least two feet taller than Sammy!—and solidly built, wearing full-legged breechcloth pants and a thick animal-skinned overshirt of some sort. "Sonovabitch," Dean hissed. "Bigfoot's real!"
The thing's eyes were dark, its face seemingly carved into a foreboding line. Dean instinctively brought up the shotgun and fired, the rock salt bullets striking the fugly in the shoulder. Dean hoped his ammo would make the thing dissolve into smoke. Instead, it barely flinched, but it did growl and started charging towards him. Dean turned to run, but saw that he had nowhere to go on the flat mountain top, except possibly back into the woods below. Shit, the damned thing was in front of him again. Dean grabbed his knife out of the belt sheath he wore and bellowed, racing toward the creature. Maybe he could dodge around it, and then lose it as he wound his way in and out of the thin trees. Not a great plan, but it would do in a pinch. Dean pivoted, trying to dodge around the creature, but the fugly had super-fast reflexes, and he found himself face to face with the creature's upper chest, and felt the rush of air as the thing's arms tried to reach out and grab him.
"Oh hell no!" Dean growled and lunged hard with the knife in his right hand. Ideally, he wanted to hit the thing's heart, but its immense size had him striking it on the lower right side instead. Still, he stabbed forcefully, and the giant roared in pain, its breath hitting Dean full strength, causing him to gag at the strong smell of rotting meat contained in it. "Dude," he gasped. "Haven't you heard of Listerine?"
The giant roared again and pushed Dean away. The strength of the shove sent him rolling backwards, tumbling out of control. He only knew that he went over the edge of the mountain when his legs met empty space instead of rock-hard ground. Frantic, he scrabbled at the cliffside, searching for a handgrip on the granite rock face.
He had just wedged his hand into a crevice when a lightning bolt tore through the sky, turning it daylight white for a few seconds, then the rain dropped down in sheets. Dean struggled to hang on to the mountainside, and forced himself to crawl slowly back towards the top. Gasping, he inched upward and with one last push was back on the mountain's top, instead of clinging perilously to its side.
Dean forced himself to raise his head, certain that he'd only meet the fugly's glaring face again. He blinked trying to see through the curls of low clouds that swirled around him. He thought he saw two giant forms squared off against each other maybe twenty feet away from the cliff. Two? He knew he'd only been tracking a single creature. Where'd the second one come from? Did it matter? Fugly #2 seemed to be doing his work for him, determinedly rushing towards the first creature. The mountain itself seemed to roar as the two behemoths collided. A chilling, inhuman scream erupted —Dean was certain it came from the first fugly—then ended abruptly as the second creature snapped Fugly #1's neck. The victorious creature let the other body fall to the ground as the mountain shook with the force of an extremely loud clap of thunder. The rainclouds unexpectedly dissipated and the moon shone brightly once again. Dean was surrounded by a surprising stillness.
Breathing heavily, he staggered to his feet. Ignoring his own pains, Dean drew his knife and warily strode over to the now-empty spot where the giants had been fighting. He stooped down and cast an eye over the mostly rocky surface. He made out a faint trail, one or two flattened spots where the grass dared to try to grow between rock slabs. After only twenty feet, this barely there trail vanished. Dean cast around the top of the mountain, circling back to stare intently at the area where the trail dipped into the woods again, but he saw nothing conclusive. The creatures were inexplicably gone.
Dean finally faced the facts. It was past midnight, and the storm, which had died down, was showing signs of renewed vigor. Whatever had been on the mountain top wasn't there anymore. Likewise, he found no evidence of the missing hiker. He wasn't going to earn the good opinion of any college kid tonight. Reluctantly, he abandoned the mountain top, slowly making his way back down the trail.
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Sam didn't take his eyes off Dean the entire time he relayed his account of his solo hunt in New Hampshire. A couple of times he caught an odd look on Dean's face, but he couldn't for the life of him interpret it. He was sure that he was missing something in Dean's recitation, but he knew better than to ask what.
"So," he cleared his throat. "You never really completed the hunt? You didn't go back the next night, or—? I mean, it's not like you to walk away from anything, leave it unfinished."
"When I got back to the Impala, I was soaked. I'd also missed a message from Dad, while slippin' and sliding down the trail. He wanted me to meet him in Pennsylvania STAT, so I booked. I stopped at a diner for breakfast and caught an announcement on the TV news. New Hampshire's ancient and well-known landmark, The Old Man of the Mountain, had collapsed during the storm. It was found in a heap of rubble at the bottom of Cannon Mountain.
"It kinda clicked, after I heard that. I think the spirit of the Old Man was somehow freed that night, and that's what took care of the fugly. Hell, maybe one of the fuglies was the spirit of the old man and he'd vanquished his foe. Who knows." Dean shrugged.
"Anyway, I wasn't going anywhere near Cannon Mountain after that, I headed for Pennsylvania."
Sam thoughtfully considered Dean's words. "And now you think something like your fugly's somehow free, two years later and is snatching hikers again?"
"Yes, no. Maybe. Who knows? Whatever's going on, we need to investigate it, though."
"Hmmmm, maybe. Hey, you think it's a wendigo?"
"In New Hampshire?" Dean snorted.
"Yeah, wendigos are only found in Minnesota and Michigan. That doesn't mean I didn't find you hanging like a side of beef in that lair in Black Ridge, Colorado." Inwardly, Sam flinched. That was not a fond memory for him, although he had at least found Dean.
Sam watched as Dean's right hand reflexively reached for his wounded left bicep, then he dropped it back on the table, fiddling with the newspaper. "Too coincidental." Dean said with a shake of his head.
Sam snorted. "Coincidental how? Your hunt was two and a half years ago, dude."
"That other hiker's only been missing a few days. Doesn't matter, though, it wasn't a wendigo."
Sam glared at Dean, daring him to expand on his words.
"I fought with that fugly." Dean raised his hand, ticking off the points on his fingers. "Too tall. Too slow. Not a wendigo—definitely a meat-eater, though. I smelled its breath."
"All right, but it's not going to be like last time."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, look outside. It's winter and there's probably several feet of snow on the ground, especially in those mountains."
"So?"
"So, we need to be prepared. What sort of snow gear have you got in the trunk?"
"Snow gear? Y'mean like chains for my baby's tires?"
"That's probably not a bad idea, but I meant down coats, real winter boots, ear muffs, lined gloves, the works."
"That's for wimps!" Dean protested.
"No, it's for people who don't want to freeze to death."
"You are such a wuss."
"Okay. Ignoring our winter gear situation, we still don't know what we're up against," Sam said. "Look, why don't you go find a laundromat? I'll stay here and do some surfing, figure out what sort of fuglies could be running amuck in New Hampshire."
"Why do I always end up doing the laundry?" Dean griped as he rose from the table.
Sam smiled but didn't answer. It was a rhetorical question. He watched as Dean grabbed the duffel full of dirty clothes, walked over to the door, put on his leather jacket and left the room.
*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*
tbc