Chapter 4:
Salt and Psalms
Sam mapped out the location of the motorcycle repair garage on the GPS of his phone, relaying the route to Dean.
"Just keep heading east for the next eight miles."
"So, what's the plan if they're not there?" Dean asked.
"You're asking me? This was your idea."
"I know that, but if I'm wrong, we need a plan to get us back on track."
"I could try to track Allen's cell phone," Sam proposed, "but without knowing his number, it's gonna take a lot longer, especially if it's unlisted, and by then…"
"…Amber could be dead." Dean finished.
"So, for now, let's just hope you're not wrong."
"How far is it to this garage?"
"According to the GPS, about 20 miles."
Dean pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard.
Amber opened her eyes and a wave of nausea churned her stomach. She blinked a few times as her surroundings came into focus. Someone sat directly in front of her, so close his knees were almost touching hers. Dried blood matted to the side of his head and neck. He was unconscious or dead, it was unclear which. She reached out to touch him, but her arms wouldn't move. Ropes coiled around her wrists and ankles, restraining them to the limbs of a heavy wooden chair.
A lamp hung from the ceiling over a work bench to her left, illuminating the array of tools laying out in a neat and orderly fashion. Its wide aluminum shade restricting the light from escaping its perimeter. In the dimness beyond, several motorcycles lined the open area. Along the wall behind and to her right stood tall metal warehouse shelves displaying parts and tools and boxes.
She studied her fellow captive. He was young, 18 she guessed, with short light brown hair, a long face and a slim jaw line. The more she observed him, the more familiar he became; Raymond Chalke, Allen's son. They only met on a few occasions. He had asked her out on their last meeting, but she turned him down, mostly because he was five years younger.
"Raymond," she said in a loud whisper. "Raymond," she dared a little louder, but he wasn't hearing her.
Her feet still clad in socks, she tapped his foot with hers. "Raymond."
His head jerked to the side. She lifted her foot and pressed hard onto the top of his Nike running shoe, calling his name once more. Finally, his eyes fluttered open.
"Amber, what are you doing here?"
"I don't even know where here is."
"We're at my dad's place," he said, looking around the room through his bangs that hung over his dark brown eyes. "No, we're in his shop. How'd we get here?"
"I don't know."
"Am I bleeding?" He tried to move. "Why am I tied to a chair? Why are you tied to a chair? What the hell is going on!" his voice steadily increasing in volume.
"Shhhh, you need to be quiet," she warned. "I think your dad brought us here. Your dad…he's not your dad anymore. He's some kind of monster."
"I know. I saw it."
"You saw what?"
"The demon."
"The demon?" Amber never would have considered this explanation to be credible before, but she was considering it now.
"Those black eyes, I knew what he'd become." He turned his head, breaking eye contact. "He told us, my mom and me, a long time ago that this demon was coming for him…and when it did, not to trust him; to leave, get as far away from him as possible." He turned back to Amber, his chin quivering, on the verge of tears. "Mom listened…I didn't."
"Raymond, listen to me. You can't think about that right now. You gotta pull it together," she pleaded. "We gotta get outta here, before he comes back."
"How do you suggest we do that?" he scoffed.
"Maybe you can rock the chair…you know, from side to side, fall over onto your side."
"What the hell good is that gonna do?"
"I don't know, I'm not an expert at being kidnapped!" she spat out in a harsh whisper.
She went on, "I've been wiggling my wrists around and the ropes seem to be getting looser…maybe I can get them loose enough to slip my hands out." With her narrow wrists and small hands, it wasn't out of the question.
Raymond balled up his fists, flexing and unflexing his forearms, yanking on the corded rope. The arms of his wooden chair began to wobble with the force of his efforts. Suddenly there was sharp snap. They both froze as their eyes met. Part of the right arm had broken free from its frame.
"Keep going, you're almost free." Amber whispered.
Raymond clenched his teeth and pulled his arm hard towards his body. The wood cracked and the arm of the chair broke completely free, though still bound to his arm.
"I don't think so," Allen stepped out of the shadows and swung a punch to the side of Raymond's face. He gripped the back of the chair and slid the dazed boy backwards, making room to step between them.
The bald burly man turned his attention on Amber. His usual friendly face was now twisted into something odious and vile. He raised his arm to deliver a powerful backhand, stopping just before making contact. Stout fingers cupped her chin, gently at first, then they dug into her cheeks, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes turned into pits of tar.
"I just can't bring myself to mess up that pretty face. But the rest of you," he pulled a hunting knife from its sheath at his hip, "is gonna bleed real nice."
Raymond swung his free arm into Allen's side, the splintered wood from the chair puncturing him deep. The knife clattered to the floor as Allen doubled over, gripping his side; blood trickling out through his fingers.
Amber slipped a hand free from her bonds, the rope leaving her skin raw and scratched along the back of her hand. She bent at the waist, snagging up the knife by her foot and desperately began sawing through the ropes that looped around her other wrist.
Allen seized Raymond's arm, stopping his attempt at another blow, snapping his humerus in two. An agonizing wail escaped Raymond's throat as Allen kicked over his chair, sending him sliding on his side several feet away.
The knife severed a tendril of rope and Amber pulled her hand out of its confines. Reaching toward her feet, Allen grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her back up. She slashed at him, cutting him across the chest. He grasped her wrist, twisting until a sharp pain shot through her arm, forcing her to drop the knife.
He looked down at the wound she inflicted and grinned. "Barely a scratch compared to what I'm going to do to you."
A deafening boom blasted from behind and Allen's heavy form fell backwards to the floor. Her ears ringing from the blast, Amber turned to see Sam with a sawed-off shot gun in his hands and Dean running up behind, carrying an old rusted tin can.
"Amber, talk to us. You alright?" Dean yelled, setting the can down with a heavy clang, treading cautiously toward Allen.
"Yes, yes, I'm okay."
Sam darted toward her and set to work on cutting the restraints around her ankles.
"Did you kill him?" she asked.
"No, I hit him with salt rounds. Demons don't like it, weakens them," Sam explained as he gathered the ropes he'd freed her from and tossed them towards Dean. He dragged Raymond's unconscious body, still bound to the chair, to settle beside Amber. Unscrewing the lid to the antique tin can, he began pouring a white sandy substance around her and Raymond.
"What is that?"
"Salt," he explained. "If the demon flees its host it won't be able to cross this circle, protecting you from possession."
An animalistic scream was ripped from Allen's throat as Dean upended a small bottle of holy water over Allen's chest. The liquid burned through his clothes and his skin sizzled and smoked. With another monstrous roar, he jumped to his feet, stalking toward Dean.
Bawling his hand into a tight fist, Dean took a swing. His knuckles connected with Allen's jaw, knocking his face to the side, but he kept coming.
"Sam, a little help here!" Dean clamored, throwing another punch. Allen stubbled into the workbench, sending tools crashing to the floor.
Sam rushed up from behind, grabbing Allen by the head and slamming it against the hard surface of the bench. Allen straightened his frame and extended both arms out to his sides, hurling both brothers through the air by an invisible force. Dean plunged into a display of tires; rubber wheels rolling and bouncing in all directions. Sam collided against the garage door, denting and rattling its structure.
Amber snatched up the knife from the floor and cut through the last of the rope that held Raymond hostage, keeping her eyes trained on Allen's every move. He clutched a wrench in his hand and stomped toward Sam.
"Sam!" She screamed. "He's heading toward you!" Amber winced as Allen raised his arm, aiming to strike.
Sam kicked at Allen's shin, sweeping his leg. He toppled forward; landing face first next to Sam on the concert floor. In a swift and nimble move, Sam straddled the portly man's back, struggling to twist his arm around his back, prying the wrench from his fingers.
"Dean!" He bellowed, just as his brother appeared at his side with the ropes that held Amber only minutes ago.
Moving in practiced unison, they bound Allen's wrists. Allen bucked under Sam, attempting to throw him off. Dean leaned in, adding his weight to force him back down as Sam began to chant, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"
Another monstrous sound erupted from Allen's throat as the brothers were shoved off by telekinetic force. Allen rolled onto his back, opening his mouth wide.
"You ain't goin' nowhere except straight back to hell, you sonovabitch," Dean sneered as he emptied the rest of the holy water into Allen's mouth.
He spit the liquid at Dean's face, gurgling and convulsing as Sam continued his incantation.
"…omnis incursion infernalis adversarii…"
Amber understood every word Sam chanted; complements of her two years of high school Latin. Who the hell are these guys? This is some serious Exorcist shit, she thought to herself as she watched in horrified fascination. Allen's body jerked and twitched in reaction to the Latin words. A guttural growl rumbled from his chest, sputtering words in an unfamiliar language, attempting to drown out Sam's voice.
"…tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!" Sam finished the prayer. The same black mist Amber had seen in the laundry room poured from Allen's mouth, disappearing into the floor with an orange smoldering glow, followed by a deafening silence.
Dean checked Allen's pulse. "He's alive."
Sam stood and limped over to Amber. "It's over," he offered his hand.
She took his hand and he pulled her up effortlessly. She stared down at Allen's unconscious body. Her mouth agape, eyes welling with tears.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam coaxed.
Amber turned her crystal blue eyes up to Sam's. She took a breath to speak, to say that she was fine, but it was a lie. All the fear and rage her adrenaline-fueled body had held at bay came bubbling to the surface in a burst of emotion. She threw her arms around his waist, sobbing heavily into his chest. His muscles went rigid as he patted her gingerly on the back.
"I'm sorry," she pulled away, wiping tears off her checks. "I shouldn't have fallen apart on you like that."
"It's okay, it's a lot to process."
"Amber?" Raymond muttered as he began to stir.
"Raymond," she kneeled down next to him.
"You know this guy?" Dean asked.
"Yes, he's Allen's son."
"He has a son? And you didn't think to tell us this before?" Dean scolded.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think it was important." She admitted.
"You didn't think telling us he had son, living in the area, was important?"
"You never asked. You're the one who's supposed to be FBI!"
"Alright, everybody calm down," Sam intervened. "She's right, we never asked about next of kin. It doesn't matter anymore. Right now, we need to focus on getting everybody medical attention."
Amber sat in the back of the Impala, waiting for Sam and Dean to finish talking with Allen and Raymond. They were both in bad shape. Amber got lucky, she walked away from the ordeal with minor bruises and a serious case of rope burn on the back of her right hand.
She leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes. Dozing in and out of sleep, she was partly aware of the brothers loading their supplies into the trunk. The front doors screeched opened, the car swaying gently as Sam and Dean took their seats, pulling the doors shut. Dean turned the ignition and the engine growled to life.
"We're taking you home now," Dean said.
"You guys aren't FBI," she stated. "Who are you?"
Sam tuned around to face her. "Our names are Sam and Dean Winchester. We're hunters."
"Hunters," she mocked. "So, you just go around hunting demons?"
Sam shrugged. "Among other things."
"What do you mean, 'other things'?"
"Demons, ghosts, monsters," Dean explained, his eyes peering at her through the rearview mirror. "All the scary things you thought weren't real, they are."
"I let you both into my apartment…I trusted you and you lied to me."
"Would you have believed us if we told you the truth?" Sam asked.
She sighed and relaxed against the seat. "I don't know…maybe…after what I saw…"
"In our experience, the truth usually doesn't go over to well."
"What about Allen and Raymond?"
"An ambulance is on the way. Raymond's arm is broken and he might have a concussion. Allen sustained a puncture wound to his side, but I don't think anything vital was hit. Otherwise, he's covered in superficial cuts and burns."
Dean glanced over at his brother, "That's quite the diagnoses there, Doc."
"We helped them put together a false report to relay to any officials who might question them." Sam concluded.
The first rays of dawn were peeking through the clouds as they pulled up in front of her building.
"You need me to walk you up?" Sam asked.
"No, I'm okay," she climbed out the back seat. Turning back to them she said, "What I said, about you lying…I didn't mean…I just…"
"It's okay, we get it." Dean reassured.
She gave a weak smile and patted the car door. "Bye."
Sam nodded and smiled. "Take care."
She lumbered her way towards the building, the rumble of the Impala fading as they drove away.
This may seem like the end of the story, but it is far from over. I have several chapters planned and in the process of writing chapter 5 now.