Supernatural 10 - Rite of Passage (5 page)

Facing the intersection at a forty-five degree angle, he stood with both hands clasped over the iron handle of his cane and focused his attention on the flow of traffic, in one direction after another. With each passing second, his awareness spread farther from the intersection along each traffic artery. He filtered out the cars, SUVs and trucks as they exited the intersection, removing them from the organic equation of coincidence forming in his head. And yet that was insufficient for what he planned. He needed to see more.

The bowler hat rose slightly on his brow as he stretched his deeply creased forehead, revealing a rounded lump in the center, and the closed lid of a third eye. Finally, the dark eyelid fluttered open, exposing a milky white orb with several odd pupils—or at least what passed for pupils. The black oblong shapes drifted randomly across the nacreous surface of the eye, sometimes submerging and reappearing in a different location before sliding along the surface again. Humans who observed Tora’s third eye for more than a few seconds often became violently ill. Few lived long enough to tell the tale.

With his third eye exposed and active, he could complete his assessment. Now he saw farther than was possible with his other eyes. He saw the interconnectedness of every action and reaction, like a vast clockwork mechanism. One by one, the necessary gears resolved before the examination of the eye—

A man distracted by an angry cell phone conversation.

The woman driving beside him texting her husband.

A middle-aged man shaving in the car behind her.

A harried mother yelling at two children fighting in the back seat.

While nearby, a man adds artificial sweetener to an uncapped cup of hot coffee propped on his dashboard.

A driver of a battered pickup with a missing gate, the truck bed loaded with loosely tied propane tanks.

The teenage boy in a nearby car repeatedly changing radio stations, seeking the perfect song.

And racing along Route 38, approaching the intersection, a long-haul tractor-trailer driver who has spent too many consecutive hours behind the wheel.

As if cuing an orchestra to begin playing, Tora tapped the tip of his cane against the traffic light pole. Instantly, the red light facing Route 38 flickered from red to green.

With his traffic light green, the exhausted truck driver never touched his brake pedal, failing to notice traffic along Kressen Boulevard continued to flow, and well above the posted speed limit.

Closing his nacreous third eye with its drifting and submerging pupils, Tora relaxed the creases in his forehead, adjusted the bowler, and smiled.

First, the semi smashed into the angry cell phone talker’s car with a sound like an explosion, spinning the car almost three hundred and sixty degrees and blocking two lanes of traffic. Then, one after another, the distracted drivers reacted too late and slammed into the car in front of them a millisecond before getting rammed from behind.

Realizing he lacked sufficient braking distance to avoid the growing pile-up dead ahead, the teenager fiddling with
his radio presets swerved violently to the right. A front tire blew out and his car rolled over three times before reaching the far shoulder. In the process, his fuel line tore amid a shower of sparks. Flames raced across the highway in all directions, followed by the thunderous explosion of the battered sports car.

At the same time, the foam coffee cup on the dashboard of the sweet-toothed caffeine addict tipped over, spilling the piping hot beverage on the man’s lap. Yelping in pain, he involuntarily jerked the steering wheel and cut off the pickup truck loaded with propane tanks. The truck driver swerved and slammed broadside into a blue Mini Cooper. Several propane tanks became airborne, bouncing around the highway like metal beach balls. One was sandwiched between two colliding cars, resulting in another explosion near the intersection.

Some drivers climbed out of crushed and damaged cars, while others screamed in pain, trapped in what became metal coffins. Most of those who did escape their cars suffered death by shrapnel from the explosions or were squashed between tons of flying and skidding metal. Few escaped the carnage, none without significant injuries.

A truly satisfying symphony of death and destruction.

None of the out-of-control cars, roaring flames, concussive explosions or flying shrapnel touched Tora where he stood next to the traffic light pole. With a broad smile, he enjoyed the sounds of agony and grief, the smell of fresh blood and burning flesh. Unmoving, he stood by the pole as if in a trance, joyfully soaking in every moment. Until
the arrival of emergency vehicles. They brought order and succor, diminishing pain, delaying or preventing death and, therefore, sapping his pleasure in what he had wrought. But even as the rush of euphoria waned, he sensed the power building within him. He would need all that power and more to reach across the town to finish what he had started.

The morning’s exercise was only the beginning.

Soon, they would hear his call and come to him.

Three

Dean thought he might have to twist Sam’s arm to get him into the Greasy Griddle diner on I-87, but it was the first eatery they passed after their night in Harpy Valley, and coffee had risen from a priority to a necessity. Fortunately, in addition to high-octane java, the busy truck stop offered a selection of bran muffins and a fruit cup, so Sam was set. Bobby had a poached egg and grapefruit. Dean ordered the Double Triple, which featured three eggs any style and three breakfast meats. Not wishing to complicate his order, Dean ordered everything fried.

From the stiff way Sam and Bobby had walked across the parking lot of the diner and then eased themselves into the booth, Dean assumed they were as sore as he was from the harpy battle. Bobby seemed crankier than normal, Sam quieter. Dean’s sleep, what little he managed during the short
night, had been fitful. Chugging aspirin and whiskey hadn’t helped as much as he’d hoped. Coffee throughout breakfast, however, smoothed out the kinks.

Lately, relaxation came in small doses, especially in public. Ever since the Leviathan created dark-side doppelgangers of the Winchesters for a cross-country killing spree, Sam and Dean had to continually look over their shoulders in case somebody made them as the infamous serial killers. Because the doppelgangers purposely drove a black ’67 Chevy Impala during their crime spree, the Winchesters had to abandon Dean’s baby for a series of stolen beaters, none of which would be missed before they switched to the next. As the Leviathan now hunted the hunters, the Winchesters also had to abandon their old fake IDs and credit cards, switch to burner cell phones and avoid leaving behind an electronic trail. In addition, the brothers had to develop a strong aversion to security cameras. Hell of a way to live. But sound advice, nevertheless, from Bobby’s bipolar and extremely paranoid acquaintance—friend was too strong a word—Frank Devereaux.

The Greasy Griddle was just what the paranoiac ordered: a high-traffic truck stop frequented by a series of anonymous faces and not a security camera in sight. They would pay for their meal in cash and have no need to give a name or flash a fake ID.

After their waitress, a middle-aged bottle blonde with a plastic smile who looked like she’d seen it all more than once and stopped registering the details long ago, cleared their plates, Bobby left the booth to settle their check at
the register. With his stomach full and his cup topped off, Dean felt about as content as he ever did between hunting jobs these days. Sam, on the other hand, had already turned his attention to his shiny new laptop—courtesy of Frank Devereaux’s Paranoia Emporium—and flipped through some paper printouts he’d assembled earlier, a clear threat to Dean’s admittedly brief “between jobs” contentment.

“Dude, did you sleepwalk to a Kinko’s?”

“Might be onto something …”

At that moment, Bobby returned from the cashier’s counter with a late edition of the county paper and dropped it on the table in front of them. “Above the fold,” he said. “‘Cannibal Woodsman?’”

Dean reached for the paper and spun it around, skimming the text for details. “‘Anonymous call leads police to grisly killing grounds … half-eaten … stripped bones… shallow graves… no suspects.’” He pushed the paper back to Bobby and spoke softly. “Got the ‘grisly’ right. But they’ll waste months looking for Jeremiah Johnson with a dog-eared copy of
To Serve Man
.”

“You want ’em to find super-sized bird nests?” Bobby asked after checking for any potential eavesdroppers. “Hell, the victims’ families will get closure. Least as much as they’ll ever get.”

“You’re right. Nobody needs to know Uncle Ed or Cousin Jimmy was a Harpy Happy Meal.”

“Guys,” Sam said. “I think I have something here.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Bobby commented.

“Laurel Hill, New Jersey,” Sam said, looking at the
printouts. “Three roofers fell off the second story of a house yesterday, one after the other. Two broken necks. The third split his skull open. Also broke his neck. The homeowner says they all fell within minutes of one another.”

“Weird,” Bobby said, frowning, “but not outside the neighborhood of weird coincidence. Laurel Hill?”

“Why?” Dean asked. “You got something?”

“It’ll keep,” Bobby said. Then to Sam, “Go on, son.”

“Few blocks away, couple minutes later, guy on a ladder trimming a tree with a chainsaw falls, slices open his femoral artery and dies on his lawn.”

“Weird enough for you?” Dean asked Bobby.

“It gets weirder,” Sam continued, turning his attention from the printouts to the screen. “This morning a mass transit bus driver has a heart attack and drives his bus right through the front window of a fitness center. Guy on a treadmill and a woman on the elliptical machine next to him were killed instantly—”

Dean leveled an index finger at his brother. “Sammy, don’t ever mock my health choices again.”

On a roll, Sam let that pass. “Few minutes later, less than a mile away, seventeen car pile-up. Multiple explosions and fatalities.”

Bobby shook his head. “Sounds like the bad luck fairy ripped Laurel Hill a new one.”

“I’m game,” Dean said. “Bobby, you in? Or you wanna head back?”

Bobby scratched his beard at the jaw line, his gaze thoughtful under his trucker’s cap.

“Something about Laurel Hill?” Sam prompted.

“Know somebody there might help,” Bobby said. “Emphasis on the ‘might.’”

“A hunter?” Dean asked.

“Yes and no.”

“I’m not even sure I know what that means,” Dean said.

“Problem in a nutshell,” Bobby said. “I’ll call. He agrees not to slam the door in our faces, we’ll have a basecamp.”

“If not?”

Bobby shrugged. “Fleabag or abandoned rat-trap. Pick your poison.”

Sam drove the Plymouth south on I-87. Bobby followed in his Chevelle, on the phone again with his Laurel Hill contact. The first call, in the diner’s parking lot, had been short, ending with an emphatic hang-up on the other end. But Bobby wasn’t giving up … yet.

After about fifty miles of silence, Sam glanced at Dean sprawled in the passenger seat, ostensibly relaxed but definitely scowling. He had taken one pull from his flask before settling in for the long ride.

Finally, Sam asked, “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“About last night. The harpies.”

“Still no.”

“If something’s bothering you …”

“It’s a job, alright,” Dean said. “Do the job. Get out. Don’t need to sit around toasting marshmallows and singing ‘Kumbaya.’”

“No. I get it, Dean.”

Dean was right. It wasn’t like they celebrated a monster kill. Mostly it was a relief. Do the job, because it’s what they did as hunters. No glory, no after-parties. But Sam couldn’t shake the sense that something deeper was troubling his brother. He decided to let it rest.

Then Dean surprised him.

“I’m not like you,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Sam considered that statement before responding. “How so?”

“Even with a bat in your belfry, you’re okay with everything,” Dean said. “Wrap up one job, turn the page, move on to the next.”

“Look, Dean,” Sam said, “I know there’s a cost. I give a damn, okay? It’s just … This is what I have. Here. Now. This keeps me … focused.”

“Right.”

Sam glanced at his brother again. “Dean, we’re hiding from the Leviathan. We have no idea what their game plan is, no clue how to kill them, but we know they want us off the board. They killed all those people while wearing our faces to neutralize us.”

“You think maybe I forgot?”

“So, what? You want to quit?”

Dean heaved a sigh. “No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what?”

“That guy on the tree branch,” Dean said. “Broken back, guts ripped out, bleeding.” He shook his head bitterly. “The
poor son of a bitch never had a chance, Sam.”

“No.”

“If we’d got there an hour sooner,” Dean said, slapping his palm down on his knee angrily, “half hour, maybe…”

They’d had this discussion before. The cruel facts of hunter life: you couldn’t save everyone, you didn’t always arrive in the nick of time, but you took solace in the lives you had saved.