Supernatural: The Unholy Cause (3 page)

They were driving through downtown proper now. Dean slowed down even more, finally easing the Impala to a stop. In front of them, a pair of tanned young women in denim cutoffs and halter-tops sauntered slowly by, one of them stopping and lowering her sunglasses to look in at Dean.

“On the other hand,” he shook his head, smiling, “I do love the South.”

Sam heard a wolf-whistle, and one of the women glanced up. From the other side of the street, two young Civil War soldiers in dusty Confederate uniforms and slouch caps walked in front of the Impala to meet the girls. The four of them stood in the intersection chatting, one of the girls reaching out to admire the soldiers’ muskets.

“Hey!” Dean shouted out of the side window. “Mason and Dixon! War’s over!”

The two soldiers ignored him. Dean blew the horn and one of the men raised an upturned finger in what Sam didn’t think was a historically-accurate gesture. Slowly the quartet moved away.

“Come on.” Sam couldn’t help a smile. “Battlefield’s on the other side of town.”

“Right.” Still the car remained where it sat.

“Dean.”

“
What
?”

“Focus.”

“I am, I am.” He was still watching the girls and the soldiers in the side-view mirror. “Man, a job with travel is supposed to come with a
few
perks.” Then he shrugged and turned to Sam. “Here, fix your tie, it’s crooked.” He reached over to help, and Sam flinched.

Dean frowned.

“What’s going on?”

Sam hesitated.

“It’s that dream I had earlier. I don’t really remember much of it, except there was something around my throat, squeezing. And I couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s it?”

“I think so.”

Dean didn’t look convinced, and Sam couldn’t blame him. Nevertheless, he didn’t remember the details, and any attempt to describe the vague feeling of dread would just make Dean even more on edge. If he
did
recall more—about the voice that had spoken to him, and what it had said—he’d share it.

Until then, he’d keep his silence.

Time to change the subject.

“On the bright side,” he said, “at least we’ve got a wi-fi signal.”

Turning back to the laptop, Sam scrolled through the various links his “Mission’s Ridge” search had dredged up. There were ample references to the historic battle, and the town’s annual re-enactment. But most of it was overshadowed by the previous day’s reports of a Civil War re-enactor who had inexplicably managed to kill himself and two others with a replica musket and a bayonet no sharper than a butter knife.

The details matched what Rufus had told them back in the graveyard, with one notable exception: No mention was made of blood on the weapons.

“Looks like most of the fighting took place on a stretch of hillside along this creek, about two miles southeast of town,” Sam said, pointing to a map on the screen. “That’s where the re-enactors are camped now.”

“And that’s where the shooting took place?”

“Looks that way.”

Dean tapped the accelerator, turned the radio back up, and eased them down the main drag.

A short time later he found the Allman Brothers playing ‘Midnight Rider’—good solid Southern rock and roll—and turned it up, keeping the windows down to allow a breeze to flow through the car.

Soon they were out in the open countryside again, but the landscape was different now. The fields had been cleared, either by fire or real estate developers, and the grass was green, almost manicured. Sam could see monuments and cannons at the top of the next hill, along with rows of parked cars in a lot that seemed almost as big as the town they’d left behind. A large brown sign with bold white lettering stood on the right shoulder.

National Historic Site - No Relic Hunting.

“I’d say this is it,” Dean said, and he pulled into the lot, crawling between the rows until he found an empty spot alongside a row of Harleys. All of the bikes had Confederate flags hanging from poles off the back. “You ready for action?”

Sam nodded and got out.

“According to the news reports, the shooter’s name was Dave Wolverton. He was a waiter at a fast-food restaurant in Atlanta Airport. This was just a weekend thing for him.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, gesturing out beyond the parking lot, “he wasn’t the only one.”

As they reached high ground, Sam peered off to the west, and Dean saw a flicker of incredulity moving over his brother’s face. Beyond the rows of spectators stretched a hillside that seemed to travel back, not just spatially, but into the recesses of time itself. Whole armies of men in blue and gray uniforms were bivouacked along both sides of the creek that ran along the bottom of the hill. There were tents and wagons, horses, fires and cannons, flags and farm implements sprawled out for what looked like hundreds of acres, as far as the eye could see.

“What do you think?” Sam asked.

Dean shook his head.

“I don’t need
this
Civil War.”

They cut a path through the rows of onlookers, past a row of Porta-Johns where long lines of people—a mixture of those in shorts and Kid Rock t-shirts, and others in historic clothing—waited to use the facilities.

Beyond that, the camps themselves took over. Soldiers milled around tents, admiring each other’s weapons and uniforms. Women and children in similar attire moved through the crowds, and it seemed as if every conversation was filled with formalities the likes of which Dean hadn’t heard since he’d dragged Sam to dinner at a Medieval Times theme restaurant.

The sounds of bugles and cannon-fire boomed from above.

“You hear that?”

“It’s coming from up there,” Sam said, pointing at the loudspeakers mounted along the periphery of the hillside. “The information online said they can even pipe in authentic battle sounds.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “but where’s the funnel cake?”

“This isn’t a carnival, Dean.”

“Come
on
. It’s only history if you can eat it.”

Sam just shook his head and kept walking.

“The news reports say Wolverton’s unit was the 32
^nd
.”

They made their way along the hillside through crowds of re-enactors, looking for some sign that would identify Wolverton’s group. Whether you could eat it or not, Dean thought, the gathering certainly bore one of the trappings of raw history; it didn’t make a lot of sense down here on ground level. Maybe viewed from above, certain patterns would begin to emerge, but—

Suddenly he was knocked to one side.

“Hey,” somebody snapped. “Watch where you’re going, ass-hat.”

The source of the comment was a burly, flush-faced Union soldier who looked as if he’d been enjoying far
too much
funnel cake, or whatever it was they served around the campfire.

Dean bristled.

“Excuse me?” he replied, planting his feet.

“Easy,” Sam said, and he glanced at the soldier. “We’re looking for the 32
^nd
. Any chance you could steer us right?”

“Over that way,” the man replied, still glaring at Dean. “Five or six tents over.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied, and he nudged Dean in the right direction.

“Ass-hat,” Dean mused. “You think that’s an authentic Civil War expression?”

Sam smiled. “Somehow I doubt it.”

They walked deeper into the crowds of soldiers, past more tents and wagons. At one point Sam heard the clang of metal and looked over to see a muscular blacksmith bent over a forge, complete with an anvil and hot coals, banging out horseshoes, while a crowd of curious onlookers stood watching the sparks fly.

There was a railway shed next to the tree line, and off to their left, a makeshift corral of horses pushed their noses through the temporary wooden fence that had been set up to contain them. Delighted children held up apples and carrots for the animals to eat.

Finally, after wandering for another ten minutes, they came to a group of ten or twelve men in Confederate uniforms standing under a tattered canopy. One side of the tent was emblazoned with the identity of the group.

Fighting 32
^nd
– Commanches

As they approached, the breeze changed direction and Dean caught a whiff of sour body-odor and unwashed hair, mixed with an acrid ammonia odor that he normally associated with drunk-tanks and nursing homes.

These guys are taking the whole authenticity thing a little
too
seriously
, he thought to himself. A glance at his brother confirmed that Sam was thinking the same thing.

They stepped up next to one of the poles that supported the canvas.

“Fellas,” he said.

The Confederates of the Fighting 32
^nd
gazed back at him flatly, with such an utter lack of affect that they could have all been mannequins. Two of them were cleaning their muskets, while a third crouched in the midday heat, pouring water from a canteen over his neck and face.

Two others shied away from Sam and Dean completely, ducking behind the parchment map they held in their hands.

“I’m Federal Agent Townes,” Dean pressed on. “This old boy is Agent Van Zandt. You guys soldiered with Dave Wolverton, didn’t you?”

“That’s right,” the closest man said, shouldering his gun. He was a tall, gangly fellow with a thick Brillo-burst of unkempt red hair and a wispy attempt at a beard that ran down his neck and only exaggerated the size of his bulging Adam’s apple.

“Were you there yesterday?” Dean asked.

The man nodded, and the look on his face said that he didn’t really want to remember.

“Yeah, I was right behind him... maybe ten paces back during the charge.” He stared off into the distance.

“So you saw what happened?”

“Yeah, I saw it.” He turned back to Dean, then gestured to the others around the tent. “We all did.”

“And we already talked to the sheriff.” The other soldier with a musket stepped forward. “Got nothing more to say.”

Dean sized up the second guy, a brooding bear of a man with shoulders like barn-beams and eyebrows that seemed to have been applied with a Magic Marker. He appeared to take his role much more seriously, tilting his chin upward, as if daring them to challenge him.

Dean just shook his head, unwilling to take the bait.

“Stand down, Lieutenant,” he said calmly. “Didn’t mean anything by it. They’re just questions.”

“I’m a private,” the bear growled. “Norwalk Benjamin Pettigrew, CSA, reporting for duty.”

“Is that your real name,” Sam asked, “or your...?”

“My what?”

“Your dress-up name,” Dean finished.

“This isn’t dress-up,” Brillo-Head objected. “We’re living historians. I’m Oren Henry Ashgrove. We’re all re-interpreters. We—”

“My real name’s Phil Oiler.”

It was the bear-like man. Admitting the truth appeared to take some of the menace out of him, shrinking him a little in his uniform, and Dean actually found himself feeling a little sorry for the guy. “I sell life insurance in Atlanta.”

“How well did you know Dave?”

“Oh, real well,” Ashgrove said. “He’s been with the 32
^nd
for years. That’s why what happened was so crazy. I mean, he was hardcore....”

“Hardcore how?” Sam asked.

“Every way imaginable,” Oiler cut in. “He lost a ton of weight, for one thing. During the war, your average Confederate soldier weighed 135 pounds. When he first joined up, Dave went on the Atkins diet for two solid years just to fit the profile. Stuck rocks in his boots. Shaved his face with a rusty piece of tin. You hear about his uniform?”

“Thrill me,” Dean said.

“He was
totally
hardcore. The buttons... he soaked them in his own urine to properly oxidize the metal. He’s the one that started all that.”

“Hold up,” Dean said, realizing now what the other smell he’d caught must have been. “You’re saying you piss on your uniforms?”

“Not while we’re wearing ‘em. But yeah.” The look of admiration on the large man’s face was close to religious awe. “It’s the only way to get the authentic look. I mean...” The respectful tone shifted to one of near-disgust. “you walk through here and see some of these farbs standing around checking their stock portfolios on their BlackBerrys. They dishonor the uniform, you know? Not Dave. He was just so...”

“Hardcore?” Sam finished.

“Totally.”

“Hardcore enough that he might decide to bring a real gun to a historic re-enactment? Or a sharpened knife?”

The men shook their heads, but it seemed more like a gesture of disbelief than an actual answer—as if what Sam was suggesting was so sacrilegious that they lacked the words to respond.

“But you definitely saw him shooting?” Dean asked. “And you saw the other soldiers get hit?”

Ashgrove said nothing, but Oiler managed a stiff nod.

“So the weapons
had
to be hot,” Dean said. “Wolverton must have somehow modified the musket.”

He waited.

“Right?”

Now neither man spoke.

“Where are the weapons now?”

Ashgrove shrugged.

“The sheriff’s office, probably. Evidence.”

“Was there any blood on the weapons?” Sam asked.

“There was blood everywhere.”

“I mean, before Wolverton used them.”

Ashgrove gaped at them, bewildered.

“Why
would
there be?”

Before Sam could come up with a response, another soldier—a tall, bald man who had obviously been listening in on the conversation—glanced up from behind the map.

“I think all the blood came after,” he said.

Dean stepped toward him.

“And you are?”

The man stuck out his hand.

“Private Travis Wapshot, pleased to meet you.”

“You’re a part of Bad Company too?”

“The Commanches? Yeah, we’re a pretty tightly knit group.” Travis shrugged. “I guess it sounds crazy. And hell, I guess it probably is. But is it any nuttier than guys who drop ten grand in Vegas or run off for a wild weekend with their secretary?” He glanced at the grimy palms of his hands. “At least our dirt washes off.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “That part with the secretary sounds pretty good to me.”