EIGHT
Bobby was starting to get used to the hiking route through the Tahoe National Forest. They made their way through the pine trees, weaving between huge boulder fields of grey granite. The afternoon sun came out for a while, filling the air with the fragrant scent of sun-warmed pine. They passed the bright orange and yellow of a tremendous lichen-covered boulder and scrambled down a steep slope of scree. They were completely off trail now, Bobby leading them on with a compass and the map. He had a GPS unit in his pocket, too, but he never counted on something that ran on batteries in a life and death situation like this.
In the west, storm clouds clustered around the peaks, with a fresh dusting of snow visible whenever they parted. The sun dipped below the mountains and instantly cold settled into Bobby's bones.
They climbed up a steep slope to a ridge. He could feel his legs burning with the effort, and every breath he took was painful. He was just grateful the thing hadn't cracked his ribs like it had Jason's. Bruised ribs he could live with, and more importantly, bruised ribs he could fight with.
Jason struggled along in the back, his brow beaded with sweat. Bobby could tell he was in pain, but he hid it as best he could and never complained.
At the end of the ridge, they descended into a meadow. On the far side, a tremendous cliff towered above them. A black hole yawned in the rock, ancient wooden beams fortifying the opening. The mine. No sooner had he spotted it than the reek of decaying flesh assaulted his senses.
"Christ!" he cussed, bringing his arm up to his nose. "That's a god-awful stench."
The others groaned, trying in vain to block the smell.
"First one in's a rotten egg," Bobby said, wrinkling his nose.
Jason stopped, slinging his pack off his back. "This is it," he said. He pulled out a bottle of gasoline and jammed a rag down its neck.
Bobby followed suit and Sam and Dean checked their flamethrowers.
"You'll want to turn those off all the way," Bobby told them.
Sam raised his eyebrows.
"Methane. If this mine has any pent-up gas, you'll send us all to high heaven."
Dean nodded and the two of them extinguished the pilot lights.
"You see any sign of the family?" Sam asked.
Bobby searched the ground, looking for footprints or drag marks. He didn't see any. The thing probably took them screaming from tree to tree.
In the distance a chickaree cursed at them, trilling near an old stump. They were the most cantankerous damn squirrels Bobby had ever met. Once, in Whitefish, they'd tried to make off with his cereal while he unloaded groceries, and when he took it away, they cursed at him.
He drew closer to the mine entrance, gripping the Molotov, ready to light it. Still no prints. Then, right at the mouth, he found a disturbed patch in the dirt where something heavy had been placed down and then dragged. Two clear imprints of tremendous bare feet with long claws marked the spot where the thing had landed, leaping down from the trees.
"This is it," Bobby told them. They entered the mine, darkness swallowing them.
Inside the air felt warm. Cut off from the wind, Bobby started to thaw out. His ribs ached as he pulled out his flashlight.
The light penetrated the blackness, illuminating old wooden support beams and hooks where lanterns had once hung. The stench of decay was almost unbearable, and Bobby swallowed back his lunch.
