TWENTY-EIGHT
Cautiously, Dean approached the door to the cabin. With his left hand he pulled out the bottle with the spice concoction, keeping his .45 in his right. Above the scent of wood smoke, Dean smelled something else, a sickly sweet aroma of bodily fluids. A mixture of bile and sweat, it hung in the air around the cabin.
He crept toward the door, checking the roof and the perimeter. The blood was spread thickly, and near the handle was a bloody handprint. It might have been from Jason staggering into the place. He could be inside by the fire.
Aiming his gun in front of him, Dean pushed the door all the way open with his foot. It swung open on squeaking hinges and Dean winced. The cabin had only one story, and as he peered inside, he could see two rooms. The main room held a table, two wooden benches, a few chairs, and a fireplace, with a basic kitchen area in one corner. Through an open curtain hanging in a doorway, Dean spied an antique wooden bed layered with woolen blankets.
Drops of blood splattered the floor and trailed across the room to the fireplace.
Dean entered carefully, checking corners and behind the door. He crept to the bedroom and kicked the curtain all the way open, aiming the gun inside. No one lay on the bed. Dean looked under it, and then in the closet. He moved quietly to a small bathroom at the far end of the bedroom. Kicking open the door, he found an empty toilet and tub.
Cautiously, he returned to the cabin's main room. The fire had been laid some time ago. Most of the logs had fallen to ash, and embers gleamed in the grate. Blood dripped down from the firewood basket.
He walked to the small kitchen. Blood spattered the sink, and a first aid kit lay open on the counter, its contents strewn across the worktop. Someone had come in here to get warm and fixed up, then left again.
Dean crossed the room to the front door and locked himself in. The person might be back. If it was Jason, Dean would let him in.
Feeling the warmth creep back into his face, Dean sat by the fireplace and unlaced his boots. Inside, his feet had long since gone numb. He shucked off his socks, revealing bright red toes. At least they weren't white or black-no frostbite. He warmed them by the fire, which was almost too hot after being so long in the cold.
When he could feel his toes again, he looked around for a power outlet or a phone. No luck. This was a true backcountry cabin. He didn't even see a generator. There were no photographs on display, no personal papers stuffed in the desk, no books or diaries in the bedroom. The cabin was completely anonymous.
He opened the kitchen cabinets, finding only dishes and an old box of baking soda. Finally, Dean looked in the cabinet under the sink. Strange shapes were piled up there. He stared. Something glistened beneath the pipes. He pulled out his flashlight. Grey, membranous orbs glistened in the beam of light. Lines like veins ran thickly across their surfaces. It took Dean a second to realize what he was looking at.
Eggs.
Dozens of them.
Dean grabbed a throw rug, placing it in front of the sink. He started pulling out the eggs, wincing at the slick, leathery feel of them. They weren't hard, but mushy, and inside he could feel little bodies forming, could feel their bones and joints and little heads. The veins running through the shells pulsed.
He piled them on the rug, then pulled them toward the fireplace. Dropping one into the flames, he waited to see what would happen.
Nothing. The shell didn't even blister. The heat had no effect. Inside the egg, he could make out the outline of the baby aswang, curled up as if it were enjoying a soak in a hot tub.
He pulled it out with a pair of fireplace tongs.
Dean sprinkled the spice concoction on one of the eggs. Again, nothing. No sizzling, no puckering. He tried rock salt. Same result. He pulled out his .45 and fired a round point-blank at the shell. The bullet ricocheted off the egg, then the fireplace, then lodged in the wooden wall of the cabin.
He stared at the eggs, realizing that what killed the parent would probably be the only thing to destroy the eggs. He needed the stingray barb.
In the meantime, he could at least get the eggs away from the aswang. He would hide them.
Using the carpet like a giant sack, Dean gathered up the loose ends and tied it shut with a piece of cord he found in a kitchen drawer. Donning his boots again, he hefted the sack over his shoulder and left the cabin. He had to move far away and hide the eggs.
Outside, the wind was still gusting, throwing up so much dry snow that Dean was instantly gripped in a complete whiteout. He stood his ground as the gale pushed at his back. He couldn't tell where the ground ended and the sky began. As soon as the wind eased a bit, he set off.
He only hoped he could find his way back to the cabin. He would need to hole up until the storm blew through. The aswang wouldn't be happy when it found its eggs gone, but maybe it wouldn't be back that night. Besides, he might not be able to kill it, but he could sure as hell douse it with the spice concoction and drive it away.
Dean continued into the cold whiteness.
