continued, “Judging from these bloodstains, and the fact that this leather smells like gastric bile—”
“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that—”
“—I’m guessing it came from somewhere inside one of those bodies out on the battlefield,” Sam finished.
“So what, the rope-curse sends you psycho, then pays you for it?”
“Yup.”
“Crazy.”
“Dean! Look!” Sam pointed up ahead, perhaps a mile into the distance, where a huge cloud of black smoke was rising up into the sky. “Still think it’s a re-enactment?”
“We gotta get out there.”
“If the sheriff sees us...”
“I think she’s got her hands full right now,” Dean said, and he floored it.
BOOM !
Another explosion rocked the earth underneath them as they jumped out of the Impala and chased their shadows across the parking lot. Sirens were rising up all around them in the distance. The smoke was already thick enough to sting their eyes and make their noses water.
In front of them, the entire Mission’s Ridge battleground seemed to be on fire. Men in Confederate and Union uniforms—hundreds of them—were scurrying in all directions, heading away from burning tents and enormous smoking craters that had opened up in the well-manicured grass like giant angry mouths.
The police cruisers in the parking lot were dispensing local cops and state troopers, the officers yelling into radios and trying to be heard above the chaos.
“The shooting,” Dean shouted, “where’s it coming from?”
Sam pointed across the creek and up the hillside, perhaps a thousand yards in the distance. At the top of the hill, a row of SUVs and pickup trucks were parked overlooking the gorge below. Standing alongside them was a phalanx of siege howitzers like the ones that they had seen earlier. Two figures in uniform—at least they seemed to be in uniform—were packing ordnance into the rifled cannons.
“Look out!” He winced as one of the howitzers blasted, its projectile shrieking downward over the hillside and across the creek, where it slammed into the earth with a deafening BOOM ! Great chunks of rock, dirt, and splintered tree roots sprayed up into the air and came showering down everywhere.
“I thought they were replicas !” Dean shouted.
“They are!”
“Then how—”
THOOM ! Another shell slammed close enough that Sam actually felt the ground lurch up and go sideways under his feet. Before he knew it he was on his knees, his mouth and nose clogged with soil and flecks of stone.
When his vision cleared, Dean was hauling him to his feet, brushing him off, yanking him back.
“You okay, Sammy?”
“I’m all right,” he managed, wiping a stream of blood from his eyes. He was weak, dazed—the pores of his skin felt like they’d been packed with flying debris—his first instinct was to find safety, but running away wasn’t an option right now, and he knew it.
“We’re gonna get killed out here!” Dean shouted. “They’re shooting at us!”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you talking about?”
Sam spun around, regaining his bearings, trying to take in the full scope of what was happening around him—to make it make sense somehow. Groups of re-enactors were streaming in every direction, trying to find their way back to the parking lot through the clouds of flying dirt and dust.
Up ahead, the corral of cavalry division horses were going wild with panic, bucking and trying to get free from their pen.
There were some binoculars lying in the grass next to a tent, and he scooped them up. Bringing them to his eyes, he squinted until the details came into view.
And he saw them.
The men loading the howitzers were indeed dressed in uniform, some Confederate, others Union. As Sam stared at them, they seemed to sense that they were being watched, and one of them turned and looked right back at him.
The man grinned.
His eyes flicked to total black.
The cannons roared again, three at a time now, filling the air with
“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that—”
“—I’m guessing it came from somewhere inside one of those bodies out on the battlefield,” Sam finished.
“So what, the rope-curse sends you psycho, then pays you for it?”
“Yup.”
“Crazy.”
“Dean! Look!” Sam pointed up ahead, perhaps a mile into the distance, where a huge cloud of black smoke was rising up into the sky. “Still think it’s a re-enactment?”
“We gotta get out there.”
“If the sheriff sees us...”
“I think she’s got her hands full right now,” Dean said, and he floored it.
BOOM !
Another explosion rocked the earth underneath them as they jumped out of the Impala and chased their shadows across the parking lot. Sirens were rising up all around them in the distance. The smoke was already thick enough to sting their eyes and make their noses water.
In front of them, the entire Mission’s Ridge battleground seemed to be on fire. Men in Confederate and Union uniforms—hundreds of them—were scurrying in all directions, heading away from burning tents and enormous smoking craters that had opened up in the well-manicured grass like giant angry mouths.
The police cruisers in the parking lot were dispensing local cops and state troopers, the officers yelling into radios and trying to be heard above the chaos.
“The shooting,” Dean shouted, “where’s it coming from?”
Sam pointed across the creek and up the hillside, perhaps a thousand yards in the distance. At the top of the hill, a row of SUVs and pickup trucks were parked overlooking the gorge below. Standing alongside them was a phalanx of siege howitzers like the ones that they had seen earlier. Two figures in uniform—at least they seemed to be in uniform—were packing ordnance into the rifled cannons.
“Look out!” He winced as one of the howitzers blasted, its projectile shrieking downward over the hillside and across the creek, where it slammed into the earth with a deafening BOOM ! Great chunks of rock, dirt, and splintered tree roots sprayed up into the air and came showering down everywhere.
“I thought they were replicas !” Dean shouted.
“They are!”
“Then how—”
THOOM ! Another shell slammed close enough that Sam actually felt the ground lurch up and go sideways under his feet. Before he knew it he was on his knees, his mouth and nose clogged with soil and flecks of stone.
When his vision cleared, Dean was hauling him to his feet, brushing him off, yanking him back.
“You okay, Sammy?”
“I’m all right,” he managed, wiping a stream of blood from his eyes. He was weak, dazed—the pores of his skin felt like they’d been packed with flying debris—his first instinct was to find safety, but running away wasn’t an option right now, and he knew it.
“We’re gonna get killed out here!” Dean shouted. “They’re shooting at us!”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you talking about?”
Sam spun around, regaining his bearings, trying to take in the full scope of what was happening around him—to make it make sense somehow. Groups of re-enactors were streaming in every direction, trying to find their way back to the parking lot through the clouds of flying dirt and dust.
Up ahead, the corral of cavalry division horses were going wild with panic, bucking and trying to get free from their pen.
There were some binoculars lying in the grass next to a tent, and he scooped them up. Bringing them to his eyes, he squinted until the details came into view.
And he saw them.
The men loading the howitzers were indeed dressed in uniform, some Confederate, others Union. As Sam stared at them, they seemed to sense that they were being watched, and one of them turned and looked right back at him.
The man grinned.
His eyes flicked to total black.
The cannons roared again, three at a time now, filling the air with
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