Supernatural--Cold Fire
Read Supernatural--Cold Fire Online
Authors: John Passarella
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OOKS:
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by Keith R A DeCandido
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by Rebecca Dessertine & David Reed
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by Rebecca Dessertine
Supernatural: Coyote’s Kiss
by Christa Faust
Supernatural: Night Terror
by John Passarella
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Supernatural: Fresh Meat
by Alice Henderson
Supernatural: Carved in Flesh
by Tim Waggoner
Supernatural: Cold Fire
Print edition ISBN: 9781781166758
E-book edition ISBN: 9781781166765
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: March 2016
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Copyright © 2016 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
SUPERNATURAL and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
Cover imagery: Cover photograph © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. and © Shutterstock.
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With the exception of the characters from The CW’s
Supernatural
series, this publication, including any of its contents or references, has not been prepared, approved, endorsed or licensed by any third party, corporation or product referenced herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
For Andrea, who takes care of the real world while I explore
imaginary ones.
This novel takes place during season ten, between “About a Boy” and “Halt & Catch Fire.”
With no complaints about the division of labor, Dave Holcomb lugged whole panels of six-foot stockade fencing from the dinged bed of his Ford F-150, which he’d backed into the driveway, through the propped-open gate into the backyard of his new home. He placed each section of pressure-treated spruce in a growing and orderly pile on the small cement patio that overlooked the wedge-shaped yard, opposite the utility shed that had been a selling point for him. A guy could never have enough storage.
As he ferried a dozen loose fence posts, pickets and rails from the truck to the patio and lined them up beside his red metal toolbox, he had no regrets about staying home, working up a healthy sweat outdoors while his wife Sally spent the afternoon shopping. She was eager to check out the Braden Heights mall, followed by a selection of specialist stores touting local artisanal wares their new neighbors insisted they simply
must
try. But shopping—specifically window shopping—made Dave fidgety. Before hitting the local home improvement store, he had inspected the deteriorating fence one last time and prepared a checklist of items he’d need to whip it into shape. Later, at the store, he’d grabbed one of the industrial-strength wheeled carts, the kind that never seemed to go where you steered them, and collected each item on his list, drawing a line through each one after he placed them on the cart. Each step placed him incrementally closer to completing the task at hand, and Dave was all about getting things done.
They’d been in Braden Heights, Indiana little more than a week and Dave had allotted himself a month, six weeks max, to spruce up their new home. He’d never classify it as a true fixer-upper, but he’d added enough tasks to his repair list—and yes he had a master list, one list to rule them all—to keep himself busy every weekend and more than a few weeknights within that timeframe. No real burden since Dave enjoyed working with his hands, and the list gave him a solid excuse to stay far from the jostling crowd of shoppers and the anxiety of aimless wandering past endless window displays. Besides, the repairs had given them negotiating leverage on the purchase price of the home, far from the familiar surroundings of San Bernardino, California they’d left behind.
Compared to the stingy plot of land that backed their old townhouse, the new yard seemed enormous, a luxury that would require a lot more upkeep unless they hired a crew of professionals for regular maintenance. Even with the generous salary of his new job, he’d probably opt for the DIY route. Time permitting, of course. Along with the fancy title and big salary, the new job would no doubt require a chunk of hours above and beyond the standard forty-hour work week.
Hefting a fence panel in two gloved hands, Dave side-stepped his way across the overgrown lawn. Landscaping filled half a page in his master list, along with the overgrown bushes surrounding the utility shed, but the patchwork fencing came first. He’d often heard good fences made good neighbors. Based on the leaning panels, rotted rails, and crumbling pickets, the Holcombs’ reputation teetered equally in the balance. Dave figured the benefit-of-the-doubt grace period from their settlement date was fading fast.
Manufactured drama aside, Dave admitted to himself he cared what others thought about them, and first impressions were often visual ones. Before his job claimed the majority of his waking hours, he was determined to correct the exterior faults. If he fell behind his self-imposed timetable for addressing interior repairs and upgrades, only he and Sally would know. Well, at least until Sally’s inevitable housewarming party.
Dave leaned the new fence panel against an old one, on the near side of the one he intended to replace. Based upon his inspection, the posts on either side would remain, but the panel had rotted so much it had pulled free of many nails that had once secured it. The wood at the top of the pointed pickets crumbled in his gloved hands, falling through his fingers like pieces of mulch.
“And so it begins…” Dave muttered as he walked back to the patio for his claw hammer. He debated returning to the garage for his old radio. As much as he enjoyed the solitude of working alone outside, listening to music always made the work go faster…
Dave stopped. Listened.
Coming from behind him, a faint sound… A baby crying?
Though faint, the crying seemed close. Too close. In-his-backyard close.
“What the hell…?”
He turned around, looking first toward the fence panel he’d set down less than ten feet away, canted his head. Turned slightly. The utility shed?
For a brief moment, he entertained the possibility that someone had abandoned a baby in the Holcomb utility shed. Then he imagined a more farfetched scenario. What if a homeless family had moved in there? The storage unit even looked like a tiny house, with a peaked and shingled roof, curtained windows on either side of the door—and no lock on the door handle.
Taking a step toward the shed, Dave tentatively called out, “Hello?”
He felt ridiculous for even considering the possibility but stranger things had happened, and if squatters had taken up residence in the shed, they might be armed. Even discounting the possibility of a gun or knife, the shed housed enough potentially deadly tools to warrant caution.
“Anybody in there?”
The faint cry of an infant continued, and Dave had now half convinced himself the baby, if not a whole family, occupied his shed. But when could they have… moved in? He’d been inside it that very morning, before he’d left to purchase the new fencing. There was no place to hide in there, a single room, approximately twelve-by-ten. From the center, you could see all four corners. Besides, the gate into the backyard had been padlocked while he was out.
He debated grabbing the claw hammer from his toolbox, so he’d have his own makeshift weapon to defend himself, but the idea made him feel ridiculous. Shaking off his paranoia, he strode to the front of the shed, turned the handle and pulled the door open. Even in early afternoon, the interior remained dim, lit only by sunlight filtered through dingy curtains on the two small windows.
His gaze swept across the assortment of tools and yard supplies, checking any potential blind spots, those large enough to conceal an infant. But judging from the assortment of cobwebs, the only living residents of the utility shed belonged to the arachnid family. Stepping inside, he moved a folded tarp, pushed aside a red wheelbarrow, and lifted a bunch of hanging lanterns. Nothing.
And yet the baby continued to cry.
Low but clear, a forlorn sobbing, as if the infant lacked the energy to produce the type of indignant wailing that would draw the attention and assistance of anyone within a three block radius who had an ounce of paternal or maternal instinct. To Dave, it seemed oddly personal, as if he were the baby’s only hope.
Now that he was inside the shed, he could tell the sound came from outside. That’s when he thought about the clutter of overgrown bushes obscuring the windows. He’d never really had a good look at the fencing in back, only a small section he’d glimpsed through a tangle of branches when they’d first inspected the house.