Song Remains the Same

Chapter 150: Runnin' With The Devil

"They say one time around is all you get,

but I'm still dancin'... so you lost your bet."
— Aerosmith

About Two Months Later
October 26, 2014

Up in the north-facing watchtower, two heavily armed people stood vigilant.

The woman heard the telltale sound of an oncoming threat a microsecond before her brother alerted in an urgent murmur: "Mook, ten 'clock."

Already sweeping the sights of her sniper-style assault rifle across the veil of lightly falling snow, she spotted the rampaging Croatoan almost instantly. Brainlessly charging from the tree line opposite of the compound they guarded, blood streaked from his incoherently screaming mouth. Already achieving deadly aim by tracking with his approach, the woman in the watchtower waited for the exact right moment—then acted. Three loud reports cracked loudly across thin air. About seventy yards off, the rabid Croat jerked thrice before collapsing back-first into the ground. Eerie silence returned as blood seeped into pure white snow. Alex's eyes lingered on the body for too long of a beat as she made the mistake of wondering who he'd been before the all this happened.

Tensely making herself scan the area for any other threats, she found nothing and dragged her eye away from the AR sights. Her breath made a vapor in the harsh morning air as she exhaled and glanced at Dean grimly. He'd already been looking at her with a tight expression. Her brother was obviously wondering what she was: when and if this fucking shit would ever end.

Visibly devoid of anything but exhaustion, he pulled his ham radio out of a jacket pocket to call the incident in. "Safehouse, this is north lookout. Grub down. All clear. Over."

A beat of silence passed before Linda Tran's digitized voice answered. "Copy, north lookout. Over."

The Winchesters exchanged another charged glance. With a metallic click, Alex repositioned her weapon to the familiar diagonal hold across her body and tense hazel eyes resumed their dutiful study of the snowy Kansas landscape.

What a nightmare.

Beside her, Dean returned his radio to a pocket then shifted his SR-15 across his body as he frowned off into the landscape. His red nose and ruddy cheeks matched his sister's almost exactly, and like her, he wore a knit hat, fingerless gloves, and extra layers to combat the unseasonably freezing cold. His usually clean-shaven face sported a light beard and his once-neat hair was becoming overgrown. Appearances mattered very little these days. What mattered was what threats you could stand against. And like Alex, Dean was ready for all manner of threats: in addition to the huge machine gun, he carried a Kimber .45 pistol, a long-barrel Ruger .357 revolver, and a huge glinting knife. Various ammo and other smaller weapons littered the tactical vest underneath his dark green jacket, and military-grade night vision goggles circled his neck. He didn't look like a casually-dressed road-tripping hunter anymore. He looked like a desperate, emotionally-haggard survivor who'd found himself at the end of the world. And that's what he was. What they all were.

With an uneasy stomach, Alex found herself staring at her most recent kill again, thinking the forbidden thought: who were you before all this happened?

It didn't get to matter anymore. And wondering wouldn't help anything. That's what Dad told her the time he caught her contemplating a slain Croatoan's identification card, anyway...

Suppressing a stressed exhale, Alex's eyes searched upward to the bleak gray sky for a ray of metaphorical light. This was absolutely unthinkable. The situation still didn't feel real. But this abysmal, endlessly bleak day would end the same way all days ended now: with the gathering and burning of the Croatoan dead. It had to be done in hazmat suits and the smell of burnt flesh lingered over the entire compound, a constant reminder of how twisted the world had become.