Supernatural: Bobby Singer's Guide to Hunting by David Reed Page B

I took a few steps back. My foot ran into the hub cap of a junked old jalopy that’d been sitting in the yard collecting rust for a decade—and the jalopy barked at me.
    A set of high beams hit me, nearly blinding me. Then another, and another, and another. A dozen engines rumbled to life all over the junkyard. Whatever had happened to my car, it had happened to all of the cars, and none of ’em seemed pleased to see me. In the moment, all I could think was that I shoulda taken better care of them. One of ’em I’d taken all the seats out of, one of ’em didn’t have any side panels or doors, one of ’em had been stripped of all its wiring . . . they were going to kill me, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how ironic a death that would be, run down by the cars I’d spent my life tearing apart . . . so, of course, it had to be the trickster. Anansi must have followed me home, and was trying to take vengeance on me for what I’d done to him.
    If I could have talked with the guy, maybe we could have worked something out. After all, I hadn’t successfully killed him, so no harm, no foul, right? What’s a little stabbing between friends? I doubted he’d see things that way, but at the time it seemed like it was worth a try. Instead, I tried to plot a course through the pack of rabid junkers between me and my house, but they were moving now; they rolled around on steel rims and bald, flat tires. The sound was terrible—a mix of diesel engine rumblings and the scraping of metal on metal, along with low groans and whispers. The cars were whispering . Talking to each other, plotting out ways to corner me and kill me and get me back for all the things I’d done to them. I was like a toddler having to answer to his mistreated toys.
    Behind me, another wolf-like howl cut above the din of the cars. It was different than the noises that the cars were making—somehow more savage and beastly. Odder than the howl was the cars’ reaction to it—several of them flinched back, their reverse lights coming on as they retreated away from the howl. Whatever it was behind me, they were afraid of it, and it seemed reasonable that I should be, too.
    At moments like that, you’ve gotta ask yourself some tough questions, such as:
    • Do I have any shot at surviving this? ’Cause if not, you might as well go down swinging.
• What are the chances that this is a dream? I’ve been trapped in my own dreams before, and things got pretty weird in there, too. In this particular case, it seemed far likelier that this was the twisted workings of Anansi, not my own subconscious (though this did seem like something I’d dream).
• Who can I call to get some help? At the time, all the hunters I knew were several states away—this problem was going to be resolved before they’d be able to get to Sioux Falls, one way or the other. Either I’d be a blood stain in a tire track, or I’d—somehow—have found my way out of this.
• What do I do next?
     
    That last one is a bit of a pill, isn’t it? Never an easy answer. An army was in front of me, bloodthirsty steel monsters that I didn’t understand and couldn’t predict. Behind me . . . mystery. Something bigger, fiercer. Angrier?
    I chose the mystery. I turned tail and ran as fast as I could, into the darkness at the far end of the salvage yard. At the extreme edge there’s a chain-link fence topped with razor wire—don’t want anybody sneaking in—that would impede my escape. Luckily, my extracurricular activities meant that I didn’t have the time to constantly maintain the fence, and I knew there were at least a couple spots where I could squeeze through a break in the chain. As I got further from the headlights of the cars, I realized that they weren’t chasing me. They’d huffed and puffed when I first started to run, but none of them was brave enough to follow. Talking about cowardly cars . . . this still sounds ridiculous, twenty-some years later. But they