CHAPTER 17: When Screams Go Silent
——
The Impala rumbled down the highway, its engine growling like a restless beast, the hum of its tires carving through the night. Sam and Dean sat in silence, the weight of the mission pressing on them as heavily as the humid Florida air that lay ahead. Twenty long hours of road stretched before them—a grueling test of patience and focus—but that was nothing new.
Not everyone had made the trip south. Back at the bunker, Alistair remained behind—not out of fear, but necessity. Castiel's recovery was slow, fragile, and someone had to monitor the angel's condition. Alistair was precise in his care, every action carried out with battlefield efficiency. It wasn't the kind of work that earned a name in legends, but it was the kind that saved lives.
Charlie had stayed back, too. Her arm, still mending from the last skirmish, wasn't ready for the front lines. The itch to fight gnawed at her, but she knew better. Charging into battle half-healed wasn't bravery—it was suicide. Dean had respected her decision, even if it stung. Charlie was a fighter. When she was ready, she'd be back. That kind of determination could mean the difference between survival and extinction.
Leading the convoy south was Jacob's team in their armored truck, a stark contrast to the Impala's sleek, understated power. Dean stayed close, the Impala's steady rhythm a heartbeat beneath him. Bringing up the rear was Umbra, his black 1969 Honda CB750 gliding like a shadow along the road.
Dean flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, watching the bike weave effortlessly behind them.
"Think he'd let me take that thing for a spin?"
Sam shot him a tired glance. "Why don't you ask him?"
Dean snorted. "I like my head where it's at, thanks. Just saying—it's a classic. Bet it's got some serious kick."
Sam didn't answer. He just leaned back and sighed. "Focus, Dean. You know what's waiting for us down there. This isn't the time to play Top Gear."
The faint smirk on Dean's face slipped as he tightened his grip on the wheel. "Yeah, well… doesn't hurt to think about something normal for once, does it?"
The walkie crackled to life, cutting through the quiet. Jacob's voice followed, sharp and no-nonsense.
"Pit stop ahead. Refuel, regroup. We'll go over mission details. Over."
"Got it," Sam said, clipping the walkie back to his belt.
They pulled into a lonely gas station, its faded sign barely cutting through the night. The Impala growled to a stop, its engine letting out a final, reluctant purr before Dean killed the ignition. He stepped out, grabbed the fuel pump, and worked in silence, the scent of gasoline thick in the air. A fleeting moment of calm.
Sam headed inside, drawn by the promise of caffeine. The warm glow of the convenience store lights felt almost welcoming, a thin barrier against the weight of their mission. He grabbed coffee and snacks—small things, but they made the road a little easier.
Dean's gaze drifted to Umbra, who had pulled up to a nearby pump. The rider dismounted, the strange symbols etched into his helmet catching the dim light. There was something about him—something unshakable, like the air around him carried its own gravity.
Dean walked over, curiosity getting the better of him. "What's with the helmet, anyway?"
Umbra turned, his movements deliberate. His voice was low, calm. "What about it?"
Dean shrugged. "Not every hunter keeps their face hidden."
A faint chuckle came from beneath the helmet—dry, almost amused. "Maybe I like the mystery."
Dean smirked. "Mystery's overrated."
Umbra tilted his head slightly, unreadable. "Not always."
Before Dean could press further, the rest of the group began to gather. Sam handed him a steaming cup of coffee and a sandwich, the simple exchange grounding them for a moment. It felt almost like old times—two brothers, sharing a meal on the road. Almost.
Jacob's voice cut through the quiet, snapping them back to reality. "Alistair just checked in. Islamorada's got more than a portal problem. There've been disappearances—too many, too fast."
Sam frowned. "How many?"
Jacob shook his head. "That's the problem. Alistair's got nothing. No contact with anyone on the island. Radio silence for the last two hours. He thinks it's the portal's influence."
Dean's jaw tightened. "Great. That means we're on the clock." He tossed his empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can. "Let's move. Now."
The plan set, the group moved with practiced efficiency. Engines roared to life, breaking the quiet, and soon they were back on the road. This time, the Impala took the lead, her engine a steady, low growl.
The night stretched ahead—dark, uncertain—but they pressed on.
As they neared Islamorada, faint lights shimmered through the haze like ghosts. The weight of the mission settled over them, heavy and relentless. Dean's hands flexed on the wheel, his gaze locked on the road ahead.
——
As they pressed deeper into the island, the silence thickened, becoming almost suffocating. The Impala's engine, usually a steady comfort, felt subdued—swallowed by the unnatural stillness. Even the night itself seemed muted, as if the island had been cut off from the world. The usual sounds of life—chirping crickets, rustling leaves—were gone, leaving behind only a hollow, empty void. Whatever had happened here hadn't just left destruction; it had hollowed out the very soul of the place.
The road ahead was a graveyard of abandoned cars, their frames twisted and shattered. Doors hung open, belongings spilled onto the asphalt, frozen mid-flight as if their owners had simply vanished. Glass crunched under the Impala's tires as Dean maneuvered carefully through the wreckage. Each car felt like a monument to the chaos that had unfolded here—a grim reminder of lives interrupted. The neighborhoods they passed were no better. Houses that should have been homes now stood like mausoleums, their windows dark, their rooms emptied of warmth. The remnants of human life lay scattered like ashes.
Sam's eyes never stopped moving, scanning the shadows that stretched and shifted around them. Every flicker of motion, every imagined shape in the darkness, sent a bolt of tension through him. His grip tightened on the doorframe. His instincts screamed that they were being watched—even if he couldn't see by what. The island wasn't just abandoned. It was haunted. The air itself carried a weight, thick with something unseen, something malevolent. It felt as if the very ground they drove over was steeped in fear.
The streetlights were no comfort. Those that weren't shattered leaned at grotesque angles, their broken glass glittering like jagged teeth in the moonlight. Power lines drooped dangerously low, swaying in the faint breeze, casting warped shadows across the cracked pavement. Even the trees bore the mark of something unnatural. Their branches twisted toward the sky like skeletal fingers, their leaves blackened and brittle, as if the island itself had been drained of life. This wasn't just desolation. They were driving into the aftermath of something monstrous.
Dean's hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable, but Sam could feel the tension rolling off him like heat. Dean was always the one who pushed forward, who refused to show doubt or fear. But this place—this silence—was testing even him.
"Dean," Sam said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness like a dropped stone in a deep well. "You feel that?"
Dean didn't take his eyes off the road. "Yeah," he muttered, voice rough. "Feels like we're walking into a trap."
Sam nodded, the unease in his gut twisting tighter. Whatever had ripped through this place hadn't just destroyed. It had erased. The silence wasn't just an absence of sound—it was hostile. The kind that made your skin crawl and your instincts scream that something was watching. Waiting.
The Sheriff's Office loomed ahead, its shattered windows and sagging doors a silent testament to the chaos that had consumed it. Dean pulled the Impala to a stop and killed the engine. The sudden stillness hit like a physical weight.
"This place is wrong," Sam muttered, stepping out. His eyes swept over the ruined exterior, every nerve on edge. "Whatever happened here wasn't quick."
The group moved in, boots crunching over broken glass and scattered debris. Inside, the destruction told its own brutal story. Desks overturned. Barricades hastily thrown together, then violently torn apart. Bullet holes pockmarking the walls. Blood smeared across the floor and furniture. But no bodies.
Jacob ran a hand over the ruined barricades, his voice grim. "Looks like they tried to hold the line." He exhaled sharply. "Didn't last long."
Dean scanned the carnage, his jaw tightening. "If there's no bodies… where the hell did they go?"
Sam knelt by a thick smear of blood leading toward the back of the office. He traced the trail with his flashlight, the beam jittering slightly as his grip tensed. "Whatever hit them didn't just kill." His voice was low, steady. "It took."
The silence pressed in again, heavy and unrelenting. Sam's flashlight flickered, its beam casting jagged shadows along the walls.
Dean moved toward a smashed desk, rifling through scattered papers, his frustration mounting. "There's gotta be something here—anything that tells us what went down."
Then Sam's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and urgent.
"Dean. Over here."
The group gathered around a flickering bank of monitors in the back of the office. Grainy security footage played, chaotic but unmistakable. Sam hovered over the keyboard, fingers tense. "This shows the last few hours before everything went dark."
On-screen, the Sheriff's Office was calm at first. Officers worked at their desks, the usual small-town bustle. Then the doors burst open. A flood of townsfolk poured inside, panic etched on every face.
"This is where it all goes sideways," Sam said grimly, fast-forwarding.
The footage jumped ahead. Chaos erupted as people shoved their way into the office, fear consuming them. But then came the real nightmare. A second wave surged into view—moving too fast, too erratically. Their limbs jerked with unnatural speed, their faces twisted into grotesque snarls.
"What the hell…" Dean muttered, leaning in.
On the screen, a deputy fired his weapon. The shot hit its mark. The figure staggered—but didn't stop. Instead, its body convulsed violently, bones snapping into unnatural angles. Then, in a blur of movement, dark tendrils erupted from its torso, spearing the deputy before he could react. The room on the monitor dissolved into sheer panic.
The footage showed the creatures moving methodically, dragging bodies from the wreckage with horrifying efficiency. Dean's jaw locked as he watched.
"Where the hell were they taking them?"
Jacob exhaled sharply. "We have to find out. If this spreads off the island, we're done."
The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy fog.
Then a new voice cut through the silence. "We've got something."
Ackerman and O'Neill stepped into the room, their faces alight with a rare flicker of hope amidst the dread. Ackerman held up a folder, her hands trembling slightly. "The Sheriff kept a list of the missing. Most of the disappearances point to one location—dead center of the island."
Jacob flipped through the pages, his expression hardening. "Did he track their last known locations?"
"Yeah," O'Neill said, pulling out a map. He jabbed a finger at a red-marked area. "And there's more. GPS data shows heavy movement leading here—Sunset Storage. The Sheriff had been getting reports of strange activity there."
Jacob spread the map across the hood of the Impala, tracing the route with his finger. "Not far from here," he murmured, voice edged with determination. "That's our next stop." He turned to Umbra, who stood silently by the door. "You've got a different job. Find survivors. Get them out. And make damn sure no one else sets foot on this island."
Umbra gave a sharp nod, his visor catching the dim light. "Understood." He paused, his voice cutting through the room with quiet precision. "If this portal draws anything else in, you'll need me keeping the exits secure. You won't want surprises."
Jacob met his gaze, grim and resolute. "We're counting on it."
Without another word, Umbra disappeared into the shadows, his task clear.
With the plan in place, the group moved out. Sam, Dean, Jacob, Ackerman, and O'Neill headed for Sunset Storage, their expressions set, their steps heavy with the weight of what was coming.
Outside, the air was cool, but tension burned hotter than hell. Whatever waited for them in the heart of the island wasn't going to let them leave without a fight.
——
The air was bitter, thick with tension as they stood before the storage facility. The place was a graveyard of crumbling stone, but it wasn't just the devastation that set their nerves on edge. It was the feeling—heavy, oppressive, like unseen eyes watched from the shadows. The broken windows and sagging walls loomed like the gaping jaws of some ancient predator, daring them to step inside.
Their boots scraped over shards of debris, the sound sharp and jarring in the suffocating silence. Flashlight beams jittered over the walls, their flickering glow making the shadows dance like ghosts. The air stank of stale blood and fear, thick enough to choke on. Sam's jaw clenched as he scanned the room, every nerve on high alert. Dean was a step ahead, shotgun raised, eyes cutting through the darkness for whatever nightmare might be lurking.
"Yeah," Dean muttered under his breath, voice tight, "this is definitely gonna suck."
Sam didn't reply, but the grim set of his mouth said enough. They'd seen places like this before—places steeped in death and fear. Each storage unit was ripped apart, doors twisted and warped, mangled as though by giant hands.
Deeper inside, the air grew heavier, pressing down on them like an unseen weight. Their radios crackled with static, a sharp, grating noise that set their teeth on edge. Dean smacked his against his palm, cursing, but the interference only worsened. It wasn't just the darkness closing in—it was something else. Something alive. Something waiting.
Jacob pushed ahead, his face grim, Sam and Dean flanking him while Ackerman and O'Neill covered the rear. At the end of the corridor, the air seemed to ripple, vibrating with a low hum that wormed into their bones. The sound built into a crescendo until the walls trembled.
"That's… not good," Sam murmured, voice tight.
Before them, a swirling vortex of silver light pulsed and shimmered, beckoning like a siren's call. Dean stared at it, his mouth twisting into a wry smile.
"Great. Just great."
Jacob didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, jaw set, and the others followed. There was no turning back now.
The portal swallowed them whole.
Reality twisted. A violent whirl of light and sound slammed into them, and when they hit the ground—hard and damp—vertigo clawed at their stomachs.
Dean groaned, pushing himself up and brushing damp grit from his hands. "Fantastic. A freaking maze of tunnels." His flashlight cut through the oppressive darkness. The walls glistened faintly, bending the light in strange, unnatural ways.
Sam adjusted his pack, his flashlight jerking across the uneven ground. His voice was quiet. "It's not just a maze." A shiver crawled up his spine. "It's… wrong."
The tunnel widened, opening into a cavernous space. The air thickened, tinged with a metallic tang that clung to the back of their throats.
"Do you smell that?" Sam asked, tense.
Dean wrinkled his nose. "Yeah. Rust and rot."
Then Dean's flashlight caught something ahead. His steps faltered, the beam shaking slightly as it landed on the mass sprawled across the far wall. He sucked in a sharp breath.
"Uh… Sam?"
The light steadied, illuminating the grotesque sight in full, sickening detail.
Bodies—dozens of them—fused together, limbs tangled and stretched like wax figures melted into one another. Faces jutted from the mass, mouths open in silent screams, hollow eyes frozen in anguish. Black tendrils snaked from the abomination, pulsing like veins in some unholy organism.
Sam swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. "Are they… alive?"
Dean's jaw tightened, his voice low and grim. "They better not be."
The stillness was almost worse than movement. The bodies seemed to hum faintly, as if caught in some suspended animation. Every few seconds, a muscle twitched, or a tendril curled and released, but the mass itself remained eerily dormant.
Sam took a cautious step closer, his flashlight sweeping over the grotesque fusion of flesh. The pale, waxy skin glistened, slick with something thick that oozed from within.
"This isn't natural," he murmured. "Whatever this is… it's waiting for something."
Dean shifted his grip on the shotgun, knuckles white. "Let's hope we're long gone before it wakes up."
The cavern seemed to breathe around them, the slow drip of water echoing through the dark. Sam felt unseen eyes burrowing into him, something just beyond the edge of his senses.
Jacob's voice, low and steady, cut through the horror. "Stay sharp. We don't know what it can do."
They moved cautiously, weaving through the foul tunnels. Shadows flickered and twisted, whispering of horrors yet unseen. Sam's flashlight sputtered, revealing more grotesque shapes—bodies dangling from the ceiling, limbs contorted, faces locked in eternal torment.
Dean clenched his teeth. "This place," he growled, "is the freaking worst."
Then came the sound.
A low, guttural growl, vibrating through the air, rattling through their chests. The shadows around them writhed. The weight of something unseen pressed against Sam's mind, predatory and patient.
"Whatever's here," he whispered, barely audible, "it knows we're here too."
They pressed on, deeper into the labyrinth, and the horrors only grew worse. O'Neill's breathing was shallow, bordering on panic. "This feels like a trap."
Dean snorted grimly. "You think?"
Jacob raised a hand. A silent order. Retreat.
"Get back to the portal. Now."
But before they could move, a roar shattered the air.
It wasn't just loud—it was wrong. The walls seemed to scream with it, the sound digging into their bones, vibrating in their skulls.
The abomination stirred.
Limbs ripped themselves free from the walls with sickening cracks and snaps. Mouths gaped wider. Empty eyes rolled toward them, locking on. The black tendrils twitched—then lashed out.
Dean raised his shotgun. "Damn it."
One of the creatures lunged. It moved with horrifying speed. Dean fired, the blast echoing through the tunnels, but more figures peeled from the walls, shrieking as they came to life.
The team didn't wait.
"RUN!" Dean bellowed.
They bolted, boots slamming against the slick ground. The creatures tore after them, their guttural wails reverberating through the tunnels. The walls seemed to close in, narrowing with every step. The air grew hotter. Heavier. Suffocating.
Sam risked a glance back—his stomach dropped.
They were gaining.
"MOVE!" Dean shouted, desperation clawing at his voice.
But the creatures were too fast. And as their screams filled the labyrinth, Sam knew—
This nightmare was only just beginning.
— TO BE CONTINUED —