Fic: Know Your History, for SPN Summergen 2015

[kribban]

At long last I can post my Summergen fic. I'm so insanely proud of it. The first half of the summer was completely consumed by this story (and it's not even that long!)

It's the first time I've used a structured approach to writing, which goes a bit like this:

- Research (this took the longest, and most of it didn't even end up in the story)
- Write basic plot in notebook
- Write detailed plot in word document
- Research the last details
- Write story

I had a blast, and I learned a lot. This is the beta'd version, which will be going up on AO3. Big thank you to my awesome beta reader buffenator!


Warnings: violence, horror themes, alcohol use

Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.


Summary: As a bar owner in a small town, Donnie is used to long hours and slow nights. But when there's a string of violent attacks, he realizes that there is more to Lebanon, and one of his regulars, than meets the eye.

There was a huge pile of stones on the bridge. Trevor half-heartedly tried lifting one before giving up. There was no moving the pile and no going around it.

He heard stories of highway pirates all the time, but this wasn't a highway, this was a country road that didn't see a lot of traffic. Except for the pile of stones, nothing seemed unusual. If there had been anything criminal going on it was over and done with.

He wiped a few stray drops of water off his phone and snapped a photo that he uploaded to the traffic app along with his co-ordinates and the error code 'obstruction'. Then he went back to his truck.

There it was on the bright screen, a map of the impossible route ahead, the route that would have taken him straight to Newton. He asked the GPS for an alternate route, already picturing the Y junction he had passed forty minutes ago. For once he was glad he had turned the voice function off.

An eighty minute delay was annoying, but he'd had worse, and thanks to his warning, other drivers would be spared the detour.

He started the motor again and checked his rear view mirror.

There was a person standing at the back of the truck. Trevor couldn't make out a face at this distance, and he put his foot on the gas pedal before rolling the window down. ”Hey, buddy! Mind moving out of the way?”

It wasn't unusual for strangers to approach the truck, to have their picture taken in front of it or to make small talk with him. Usually, Trevor didn't mind, but usually he wasn't running late on a dark road after midnight.

He leaned out of the window and put on his most friendly smile. ”Sorry buddy, no free samples today.”

The figure didn't respond but a part of its body seemed to come loose and Trevor realized that it was an unnaturally long arm. The figure took a tiny step and disappeared behind the truck. Suddenly, there was a loud metallic noise. The sound repeated and there was no doubt in Trevor's mind what was going on.

He turned the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. He was so full of adrenaline it took him a few seconds to realize that the truck wasn't going anywhere. The tires screeched helplessly against the concrete and he could feel the power of the person, of the thing, holding the truck in place.

He went straight for the glove compartment. His hands were shaking so hard he was actually clumsy, but he got the gun out, got the safety off and his finger on the trigger before the door was torn off its hinges.

He had never screamed that loudly before.

The creature's face had some human features but the proportions were wrong, like a drawing that had been enlarged unevenly. The mouth took up the lower third of the face and the eyes shone black from the bottom of two deep cavities.

Trevor fired the gun until the last shell casing fell on his chest. There was no entry hole in the creature's face, no blood.

”Take it all! Please! I have a family!”

Huge, yellow teeth emerged from the creature's mouth and the smell of dankness filled the driver's cabin. An arm the size of a tree trunk reached for him, and he scrambled backwards until his back hit the door.

He found the handle on the first try and the last thing he saw before he fell out of the truck was the creature bringing down a hatchet on the dashboard.





Sandra Mitchell was waiting outside the bar when he opened. “Hello, Donnie,” she smiled politely. “I'm dying for a drink right now.”

He slid behind the counter while she seated herself on one of the bar stools. The few times she'd been in here she had ordered a single glass of wine, but she had never been the first one through the door before. He had a feeling she was going for the hard liquor.

“Today's special is the margarita. It's made with Cointreau and 100 % blue agave tequila.”

She pointed to the handmade sign. “Ten dollars? Please tell me that at least covers the cost of the ingredients.”

He shrugged. “I have to serve something that doesn't come out of a tap every once in a while, or else my bartending skills will get rusty.”

She clasped her well-manicured hands together and laughed. “I know that feeling. I'll take one, please.”

He took a glass out of the freezer and got to work. Two minutes later he poured the contents of his shaker into the perfectly salted glass.

“You should feel honored. This is the first margarita I've made in this bar.”

“Well, the residents of Lebanon have never been big cocktail drinkers.” Her smile faded and she took a sip of her drink. “But you get a lot of the weekly commuters, don't you? I hear Thursday is a big drinking night for them.”

He had done this job long enough to know that he shouldn't pry. If she wanted to tell him what was wrong, she would. ”I do, but they drink beer like everyone else.”

She nodded and seemed to study the salt rim of her glass. ”I lost the account, Donnie.

”I'm sorry to hear that.”

”You haven't been around long enough to know what it's like here. There's always been this...expectation that the company should use local services. And they used to fulfill it. They ordered catering from the diner, plants from the florist; they even rented buses to take their guests up to see the geographical marker. That, and the revenue from the commuters, is what's kept this town going for so long. But with the new management... all they care about is the bottom line. My contract is the last one to go. They're reimbursing me for the three months' notice, so it's not too bad.”

She still didn't make eye contact so he busied himself with cleaning up the lime peels. ”What are you going to do?”

Her shoulders slumped. ”The good people of Smith County don't need a full-time travel agent. My husband moved to Salina six months ago. I was going to join him sooner or later... I guess it's going to be sooner.” She lifted her glass in a mock-salute. ”This was very good. You won't sell many, but you definitely know how to make them.”

”I'm glad to hear it.” She reached for her purse but he shook his head. ”First drink's on the house.”

She gave a half-smile. ”In that case I'll continue with a cognac. Something that will make me feel like a successful business owner.”

It took him only a minute to find a bottle of Hennessy in the storage room, but along the way he noticed that he had several bottles of whiskey less than he had thought, and he spent a few minutes looking for them.

She had finished the margarita by the time he came back and was twirling the glass absentmindedly.

“Sorry for the delay. I realized I'm way overdue on doing inventory.”

”Don't worry about it. At least you know your business is safe. No matter how bad things get, people will always drink.”



Four hours later Sandra was still drinking but she had moved down to one of the tables where he kept an eye on her. After her cognac she had moved on to bourbon and cola that he served with large glasses of water. Some of the regulars had showed up, rounding up the number of paying patrons to five. It was as good as it got on a weekday that wasn't Thursday.

Bruce was the only one seated at the bar. He was an older guy, at least sixty five, hunched over and quiet. Donnie guessed he was either retired or let go from the factory because he always stayed until closing time and only ordered the cheapest whiskey. In the beginning, Donnie had tried to make small talk but Bruce's answers had been short and vague. He was guy who had either seen too much or too little and didn't want to make a fuss either way.

Marshall J. Hall, twenty-two, was playing pool with some guy Donnie recognized but didn't know the name of. He had carded Marshall a couple of months ago and they had struck up a conversation where Donnie had learned that Marshall had worked the assembly line since he was sixteen, made good money off the night shift and had no intention of ever leaving Lebanon.

The only problem was the girlfriend situation. Most of the women working the factory were weekly commuters and a lot of them were management who wouldn't give a local boy like him the time of day. Donnie had promised to consider hosting a ladies night. He was still considering it.

The guy in his thirties who always drank bottled beer was in the corner. Donnie had nicknamed him 'the manager' because he had the posture of a man who wore a suit all day and he always tipped well.

There didn't seem to be any orders coming so Donnie prepared a big glass of ice water and took it to Sandra. She barely looked up, but she didn't jump at the chance to ask for another drink, so maybe her binge was coming to an end. He was going to call a cab for her in a little while.

Marshall's bottle was still half-full and his buddy was too engrossed in lining up his shot to notice Donnie.

“Hey guys, do you need anything?”

Marshall shook his head apologetically. “We're good, thanks. Early shift tomorrow.”

Donnie nodded and moved on to the last stop on his round. “Can I get you something?”

The manager looked up from his phone with the weary expression of the very bored. “Uh, yeah.” He tapped his bottle. “I'll have another one of these. Thanks.”

He threw a wistful glance at the game and Donnie realized that if he wanted to make small talk tonight, this was his opening.

“Do you play?”

The manager shrugged. “Sometimes. Most of the time the competition sucks.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“If you're playing for cash it is, but it gets boring after a while.” He held out his hand. “I'm Dean.”

“I'm Donnie,” Donnie said stupidly and shook it. “And since my name's on the sign outside, you already knew that.”

The manager―Dean―chuckled. “That's gotta be a dream. Your own bar? I know some guys who would kill for that.”

Donnie forced a smile on his face. “Yeah, it's great. I'm thinking of getting a big screen TV so I can show some games. I'm gonna hire a short-order cook, too.”

Dean's mouth curved into a smile. “Well good luck, and uh, speaking of,” he took a glance at the menu card. “I'm gonna try the nachos.”

It was the first food order of the night and Donnie did his best not to sound surprised. “Coming right up.” He hesitated for a moment. “I guess you don't have the early shift tomorrow.”

Dean's expression closed up and he turned his attention back to his phone. “No, I'm good.”




The voice coming through the car speaker sounded far away.

“911, where is your emergency?”

Roy had crawled over to the other side of the cabin and tried to be heard over the roaring.

“Big Creek Bridge and I'm being attacked!”

“Sir, are you in your car?”

“I'm in my truck! Someone's attacking me and I can't get out! The motor's dead, I can't drive!”

The security glass was holding and the creature had taken an axe to the windows before giving up. It was now shaking the truck back and forth while screaming. “Destroyer of men's souls!”

Suddenly the shaking stopped and for a moment everything was quiet. Then the metal creaked as the truck began to tip over. It was a two hundred feet drop to the river.

“Tell my daughter I love her.”

”Sir, help is on the way. Hold on.”

There was a loud crash as the railing buckled under the weight of the truck. Roy's stomach dropped and everything was turned upside down.



Donnie hurried to open the main entrance door. He was surprised to find Dean standing outside, dressed in a black suit and tie.

”Hey, man. We're not open yet. Do you need anything?”

Dean had a grave expression on his face. ”I need to talk to you.”

Donnie ran a hand through his hair. ”I'm sorry, this isn't a good time. I'm waiting for a delivery.”

”From the Green Basket Brewery?”

”Yeah.”

Dean held up his deputy card. ”I really need to talk to you.”

There was no trace of the guy who had hung out at his bar last night. Special Agent Dean Smith of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation declined a seat and stood, back straight, in the middle of the room.

”Do you know a Roy Becker?”

Donnie folded his arms across his chest. ”Yeah, he's the driver I'm waiting for.”

”Well, I'm sorry to tell you Mr. Becker was murdered last night.”

Donnie let out a harsh breath. ”You're kidding. What happened?”

”He was attacked while passing over the Big Creek bridge. According to the brewery, he was on his way here to make a delivery.”

Donnie shook his head. ”I'm sorry, that can't be true. I talked to the brewery fifteen minutes ago, and they said they would call me back when they knew anything.”

”Yeah, they usually say something like that before they've notified the family.”

Donnie's mouth went dry. ”I think I need to sit down.”

”Of course.” Dean looked around the room before his eyes landed on Donnie again. “Did you know Mr. Becker personally?”

”No, I...we talked briefly a couple of times. That was it.”

”Did you have any complaints against Mr. Becker?”

”No. He was always on time and he always unloaded the truck himself. He was a nice guy.”

Dean nodded and wrote something on a note pad. ”At what time did you close the bar last night?”

Donnie straightened his back almost subconsciously. ”Two in the morning, as always. Am I a suspect?”

Dean shook his head and put the notepad away. ”Just a routine question. If you think of anything that might be relevant to the case, anything at all, please give me a call.” He handed Donnie a business card and walked over to the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I really liked your nachos.”



Thursday really was the biggest night of the week. Donnie counted twenty five paying customers. No one ordered a margarita, but he sold a whiskey sour to one of the weekly commuters who didn't want to feel left out when her friends were drinking bourbon. A group of women who looked young enough that he had asked to see their IDs ordered wine by the glass. He served a pitcher of beer to a couple of guys playing pool and made sure every table had complimentary peanuts.

Once things had slowed down he set his laptop up behind the counter and updated his inventory records. The sales representative for the brewery had called earlier in the evening and informed him of Roy's death. He hadn't told her that he already knew, just that he was sorry and that he would help in any way he could.

She had promised his delivery would be there the following day, free of charge of course, and he had silently wondered what the protocol was for someone that you do business with getting murdered.

He had more than enough draft beer to last him until tomorrow. The last bottle of Green Basket had gone to a middle-aged man that came in about once a month. Donnie had wondered if he should tell him that the man who had delivered that bottle was now dead. But it wouldn't make a difference. None of these people knew who Roy was, and probably wouldn't care. And to tell the truth, Donnie hadn't known him either. Did he even know if Roy had a family? If he had children? The last time they met they hadn't exchanged more than maybe two words that weren't about the delivery.

A quick internet search brought up an article about the murder. It didn't mention Roy by name, but it said that the truck had been forced off the bridge by an unknown assailant and that the driver had been killed on impact.

This was the second recent attack on a beer delivery truck in Kansas. Last month a driver had reported being attacked by an assailant wielding a hatchet. He had escaped on foot but the truck had been badly vandalized. The police had reason to believe that this attack was connected to several cases of vandalism against liquor stores and bars around the state as part of an organized crime effort.

Donnie brought up his inventory software again. Seven bottles of whiskey had gone missing since the last inventory three weeks ago, and he was the only one with a key to the storage room.

He glanced around the bar quickly to make sure no one was gearing up to order and snatched the business card from where he had taped it to the register.

Dean had a short, formal voice mail message.

“Agent Smith, this is Donald Moore. You said to call if I thought of anything? This is probably not related to your case, but I've had some whiskey stolen, and I think the previous owner might have made copies of the keys before he died. So, uhm. I'm gonna change the locks, but I thought I should inform you.”

Donnie remained standing for a few seconds after hanging up. If someone really was sneaking into the storage room they were probably doing it after closing time. Would they try again tonight? There was only one way to find out.



The silent alarm went off by the time Lyndsey had finished counting the register drawer. She quietly put the drawer down on the floor and reached for her shot gun where she stored it behind the counter. A small sliver of light escaped from under the door to the stock room and as Lyndsey got closer, she could hear the sound of feet dragging across the floor.

She had always expected to be robbed for cash, but the thought of someone stealing from her stock almost made her angrier.

The promised response time of the security company was fifteen minutes. She had double-aught buckshot in her gun. She wasn't scared.

Lyndsey nudged the door open with her foot, shotgun resting securely against her shoulder. When she came face to face with her intruder she kept her finger on the trigger guard.

”What are you doing here?”


Donnie was startled awake. It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up but then he remembered: he was on the couch in his office and he had set the alarm on his phone to four am. He forced himself to get up on his feet.

The hallway was quiet and the door to the storage room was still locked. He had poured sugar on top of the door but the floors were clean, which meant it hadn't been opened.

This was stupid.

He was wasting perfectly good sleep pulling this Mission Impossible crap on the off-chance that the thief would return. What he should do was get a good night's sleep like an adult and call the locksmith in the morning.

He went to the bar and poured himself a tall glass of water. There was no point going back to his apartment. The bed wasn't much better than the couch here, and no matter how hard he had tried, he just didn't feel at home there.

He started walking back to the office. The glass of water slipped from his hand.

There was someone standing at the end of the hallway. For a second he couldn't be sure if his mind was playing a trick on him. The figure stood so still it almost blended in with the darkness. When it saw Donnie, it took a menacing stride forward and the light from the office illuminated its face.

It wasn't human, it couldn't be. The facial features reminded Donnie of the orcs from the Lord of the Rings movies. The skin was grey and wrinkled with thick ridges, the mouth unnaturally large. The creature's black eyes widened and it pointed a shiny, metal hatchet towards him.

”You! You are making me do this!”

Without thinking Donnie turned and ran towards the main entrance. The creature ran after him, barking out accusations with an inhuman voice.

Suddenly Donnie felt the cold night air and saw Dean standing by the open front door. He was holding something in his hands. ”Get down!”

Donnie dropped to the floor. Flames shot out from the object and the creature stopped its advance. Dean stepped over Donnie, walking towards the creature until it was in range for his flame thrower. With a final snarl, the creature turned and ran towards the back entrance.

Donnie breathed harshly and tried to push himself up into a sitting position. ”What...?”

Dean lowered his flame thrower and whirled around. He was grinning from ear to ear. ”That was a troll! Isn't it awesome?”



Dean was practically bouncing around the room. ”This is so cool! A real troll! I've never seen one; I've never even met someone who has seen one!”

Donnie was breathing hard and when he managed to stand up it felt like his legs would fold under him. He sucked in a sharp breath that came out again with a whimper.

Dean's expression softened and he gripped Donnie's shoulder firmly. ”Hey. Just take it easy. It's gonna be okay.”

He steered Donnie to one of the tables where he sat him down and disappeared. After a minute he returned with a can of soda for Donnie, that he opened, and a bottle of beer for himself.

”You don't mind if I help myself, do you?”

Donnie glanced at the flame thrower that was carefully laid on the table. ”I thought cops weren't allowed to drink while on the clock. But you're not a cop, are you?”

Dean twisted the cap off his bottle and took a sip. ”Nope.” He leaned back and gave Donnie a scrutinizing look. ”Where you from?”

”Omaha.”

”So you're not a native Kansan.”

Donnie shook his head and drank his soda. He was feeling less like passing out by the minute.

”Have you ever heard the name Carry Nation?”

”No. But it sounds like a country pop singer.”

Dean leaned back in his seat. ”She was a prohibition activist here in Kansas. In 1881 the Kansas legislature banned the sale of alcohol, but the law wasn't enforced. Bar owners could get around the ban by paying a monthly fine. People were still getting wasted, left and right. A couple years later, Carry came along. She'd been a member of a local prohibition group for a few years, but she was frustrated with the lack of progress. So in 1900 she prayed to God to turn her into an instrument in the war against alcohol. Now, someone answered that prayer, and they told her she had to resort to vandalism.”

”You don't think it was God?”

Dean snorted. ”In my experience God rarely answers prayers. And He certainly doesn't care that we drink.” He took a swig from his bottle.

”For the next couple of years Carry traveled around the state attacking bars with rocks and her favorite weapon―a hatchet. She was arrested over thirty times and received a lot of publicity, but it wasn't enough to sway public opinion in her favor. But whoever had answered her prayer kept talking to her. In the summer of 1903 she took a detour here, to Lebanon. One of her loyal followers describes in a letter to her fiancé how she had gone with Carry on a horse carriage in the middle of the night. Carry had asked the driver to stop by a bridge where she had taken out a knife and an apple. This was a couple years before they started building the plant so the river was still deep. She cut the apple in half and smeared the halves with her own blood before putting them together again. She got out and disappeared under the bridge. The young woman describes hearing an inhuman roar about half an hour later. When Carry returned she said God had won her a powerful ally and that the war against liquor would soon be won.”

Donnie rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. ”You think that ally was the troll.”

Dean nodded. ”Roy's death was what tipped me off. There was no way a human could have pushed that truck off that bridge. So I listened to the 911 call and you can clearly hear a voice calling Roy a 'destroyer of men's souls'―one of Carry's favorite expressions. The cop I talked to mentioned another attack so I went and interviewed the driver. He told me that the thing that attacked him hadn't been human and that it had used a hatchet. I ran a search in the police database and it turns out there's been a string of attacks against liquor stores involving the use of a hatchet. It's an unusual weapon, don't you think?”

Donnie nodded. ”I read about that, but... I still don't see how this adds up.”

”Well, that summer was the starting point of a long line of violent attacks against liquor deliveries. Whole carriages were turned over and some of the drivers were killed. Authorities wrote it off as violent activists inspired by Carry's example, but there were whispers of a beast that walked liked a man and couldn't be harmed by bullets. After Carrie's death in 1911 the attacks suddenly stopped.” Dean studied Donnie carefully. ”They didn't start up again until January of this year. When you moved here.”

Donnie's jaw dropped. ”You think I have anything to do with this?”

Dean shook his head. ”I did at first, but then I did some digging.” A smile spread across his lips. ”You don't know your family history, do you? Carry's maiden name was Moore. Your great grandfather was Carry's cousin. Trolls are a part of the natural world, which means most of the stuff I usually use doesn't work on them. But they're scared of fire, and they can be controlled with blood magic. My guess is Carry tricked the troll into consuming her blood and then ordered it to fight for her. When she died the spell became dormant and it wasn't activated until her blood relative, you, came back to town. But you're not exactly a sobriety hero, so the troll is acting more irrationally than before.”

Donnie's chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Roy had died because of him. If he hadn't moved here, no one would have gotten hurt. And for what? A far-fetched boyhood dream. He buried his face in his hands. ”This is all my fault.”

”Why'd you move to Lebanon anyway? It's a piece of shit town.”

Donnie gave a bitter laugh. ”I saw the ad online. I've always dreamed of owning my own bar.
I thought a small town would be better, that people would be nicer to each other....”

”Yeah, people suck everywhere. Don't beat yourself up about it. There was no way you could have known. The good news is, you can do something about it.”

Donnie looked up. ”How?”

”The troll is bound to your blood now, which means your blood is the only thing that can stop it.”

Donnie cringed. ”What do you mean?”

”A blood soaked knife to the heart usually does the trick.” Dean leaned down and dug around in the duffel that Donnie hadn't seen until now. ”Relax, I'm not going to stab you.” He held up a sterile needle.

Donnie turned the empty soda can over in his hands. ”The troll said something to me. That I was making it do this. It sounded like it doesn't want to kill.”

Dean nodded. ”It probably doesn't. Trolls usually keep to themselves.”

”Do you really have to kill it? Can't I just leave town?”

”I'm sorry, that's not how it works. Once the blood spell has been activated it won't stop as long as you're alive.”

”What if I order it to stop?”

Dean let out a heavy sigh. ”Trust me, I've done this long enough to know that death is the only way to stop it. I promise, you'll be doing it a favor.”

Donnie nodded. He didn't want anyone else getting hurt. ”I hope you have rubbing alcohol.”

Dean chuckled and took some packages out of the bag and handed one to Donnie. ”Luckily for you my brother is the one who packs this bag.”

Donnie wiped the disinfectant on the outside of his wrist per Dean's instructions and held his arm out. ”What is your job exactly, if you're not a cop?”

”Security, pretty much. Protecting people like you from things like that.” The needle pierced the skin and Dean filled up a small vial. ”That should be enough for one of my knives.” He gave Donnie a large cotton wad to press against the puncture.

”The troll seems to have figured out that killing you is the only way to break the spell, so it will be back sooner or later. Then I'll kill it and we can both get drunk.”

Donnie nodded. ”So before last night you didn't know there was a troll here. What were you doing in Lebanon?”

Dean gave a lopsided grin. ”I live here.”




Donnie woke to Dean shaking him.

He was on the couch in his office and the sun was shining in through the blinds. He rubbed a hand over his face. “It's morning?”

“For about twenty minutes now.”

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and lay still for a minute to combat the dizziness.

When he got to the bar Dean was re-arranging the contents of his bag on one of the tables. His hair was messy and there were dark circles under his eyes but for some reason he didn't look tired.

“I'm sorry man; I can't believe I let you wait up alone.”

Dean gave a half shrug. “Don't worry about it. You had plenty of food in the fridge. I'm gonna head out. There was an attack on a bar last night. I'm gonna visit the owner in the hospital, see if she remembers anything.”

A fresh wave of guilt washed over Donnie. “The troll has attacked bars before, I read about it.”

“Yeah, well. You should be safe until I get back. There have been no attacks during daytime.” Dean jerked his thumb towards the flame thrower. “I can leave it, if you think you can handle it.”

Donnie looked at it. The metal was buckled and the end of the pipe was blackened by the smoke. “I'm the only one in my family who has never fired a gun.”

”Right.” Dean reached into his bag and took out an emergency flare. ”Pull the cap off and it will burn brightly for sixty seconds. That should give you plenty of time to run away.”

He pointed the flare at Donnie. ”No playing hero.”



When Dean had left Donnie went back to the kitchen to see if there was anything that could serve as breakfast. There was a grease-stained plate and an empty cheese jar in the sink, and a half-empty bag of tortilla chips on the counter.

He searched the fridge. There was plenty of ground beef and chicken wings and fresh vegetables, but no bacon or eggs. He didn't even have toast. Donnie gave up and made himself a cup of strong coffee.

He booted up his laptop and searched the internet for bartending jobs in Omaha.


The day passed in relative boredom. He swept the floor and wiped off all the tables. He refilled the napkin stands and ran the dish washer. He roasted some chicken wings for an early lunch and had a glass of orange juice with them.

The new driver from the brewery called ten minutes before he arrived. He was young guy, only a couple years older than Donnie and he pulled his jacket aside to show his holster. ”Never carried before in my life, but after what happened to Roy, and that other guy...can't be too careful. ”

He introduced himself as Matt, and Donnie helped him unload the truck, which seemed like the nice thing to do under the circumstances.

”I'm sorry about Roy. I knew him a little,” he said after they had finished up and were making small talk.

”Yeah, he was great old guy. You know the cops think it might be mob-related? Scares the shit out of me.”

Donnie jammed his hands in his front pockets. ”Yeah, I read about it. You know I also read that, uh, wild animals can be scared off with fire. So if I were you I'd keep a flare gun or a lighter in the glove compartment.”

Matt stared at him. ”It weren't wild animals that attacked Roy.”

Donnie nodded. ”I know. I just think it's a good idea in general.”



By two pm there had been no word from Dean. One of the local newspapers mentioned an attack on a bar outside Junction City, but there were no details. The flare rested safely on the counter and Donnie felt calmed just by looking at it.

When he went to the office to get his phone charger he looked carefully down the well-lit hallway, but the only thing out of the ordinary was the sugar on the floor in front of the stock room. When he had opened the door for Matt earlier, the sugar had sprinkled down over them like white rain. Luckily, Matt's head had been turned and he hadn't noticed.

Donnie cursed himself. He got out the dustpan and brush and knelt on the floor to dust up the sugar. His eye caught onto something in the keyhole. His heart stopped, and he made himself look again. There was someone in there.

It was a human figure. Although the person was sitting on the floor Donnie could tell they were of average height and size. The light was on inside the room and he could clearly see clothes and human hair.

He felt brave. He drew himself to his full height, and snatched the door open.

”Who are you?” he said sternly.

Bruce turned his face towards him. He was hunched over, holding an open bottle of Jack Daniels in his frail old hands. By the smell of it he had pissed himself.

”I'm sorry, Donnie.”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank.

Donnie's heart sank. ”So you're the one who has been stealing my booze. How are you doing it? Did Walker give you a key?”

Bruce seemed to sink in on himself. His eyes were focused on the floor.

”I helped clean up sometimes. It was honest work.” He shrugged. ”He wasn't real serious about getting payed for every drink, as long as I helped. And he gave me stuff to eat. Used to have a real cook here.”

Donnie took a steadying breath. ”Look, I'm sorry, but you can't steal from me. If you're hungry I can get you something to eat, but you can't break in here anymore. If you don't leave now, I'm gonna have to call the police,” he added, trying to sound intimidating.

Bruce didn't move. ”It was easier before. I abstained for so many years, and then the drink came back. And then... ” he looked up again and Donnie was struck by the feeling that he was looking into a dead man's eyes.

”Wish I could leave, but I'm stuck here. With you.”

Donnie felt a shiver. ”Look, I get it. A small town feels like it's killing you sometimes. But you're not stuck. A lot of people have moved, or changed their lives. There's nothing that says you can't get out of here too.”

Bruce lifted the bottle to his mouth again and swallowed so many times that Donnie thought he would empty it.

”I liked it. Not having to use violence. It felt good. And then you came back. And you had me start killing again. And you're not even clean!” The last words came out in a snarl.

It was so quiet that Donnie could hear his own heartbeat. He thought of the flare lying uselessly on the counter, thirty five feet away. He raised his hands, palms out. ”I am releasing you. Bruce, I'm ordering you to stop.”

Bruce set the bottle down and climbed to his feet. He was holding the hatchet in one hand. “As long as blood flows, blood rules. I have to stop you.”

Donnie's feet were fixed to the floor. He couldn't move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him.

There were a couple of loud cracking sounds and Donnie realized faintly it were the sounds of bones breaking. Bruce's jaw was split open and large animal teeth were pushed through his gums. His head shot up two feet and his neck and shoulders broadened like his body was being inflated. The clothes melted into his skin and his eyes turned black and bottomless. The voice that came out was inhuman. “Destroyer!”

Something clicked in Donnie's brain and his body was finally working again. He turned and ran towards the main entrance, towards sunlight and open space. The troll was faster than him. He wouldn't make it.

He made a beeline for the bar, reaching for the flare. His hands were sweaty but he got a good grip, and had presence of mind not to ignite it until the very last second.

He turned, prepared to make his final stand and saw the troll standing a few feet away, not making a move towards him. Dean was outside the door, the troll and him in a Mexican stand-off.

The troll started running the same second as Dean started kicking the door in, and that head start was enough. Before Dean had had a chance to fire, the troll had swung its axe and hit the flame thrower out of his hands.

It swung the hatchet again and Dean ducked. He apparently had good reflexes.

Donnie twisted the cap off the flare and the end erupted in a small fireworks show. He threw it as hard as he could. “Hey, Bruce!”

The troll turned towards him. The flare rolled on the ground until it stopped a few feet away. The troll looked confused. Dean took that opportunity to take something out of his pocket. It was a knife and it was covered in dark brown stains.

The troll turned in the same moment that Dean made a stabbing motion. Instinctively it reeled back and swung with the hatchet. The knife was knocked out of Dean's hand and a well-aimed kick sent him flat on his back. The troll screamed and kicked the knife several feet away. Dean held up his hands in a defensive gesture. The troll was going to kill him.

“I surrender!” Donnie shouted, holding his hands up. The troll stopped with its arm raised. It took a step back and turned its head slowly.

“It needs to stop. I understand that now.” Donnie took a shaky breath. “But first you have to let him go.”

The troll looked at him in confusion. “Go?”

“Yes, he doesn't sell liquor. He's not a destroyer like me.”

The troll looked down at Dean who was still lying flat on his back. “Is this true?”

Recognition dawned on Dean's face. He nodded enthusiastically. “It's true! I have never sold liquor in my life. I'm a simple drunkard, I swear!”

The troll seemed to ponder this for a few seconds. Then it pointed the hatchet towards Dean. “Go, unfortunate, drunken soul.”

Dean scrambled to his feet. He ducked his head. “Thank you, oh merciful one. Thank you.”

The troll looked at Donnie. “Now come.”

Donnie started walking out from behind the bar, keeping his hands raised. Dean was on his right side, circling him and the troll slowly.

“This is all my fault. I've corrupted souls. I've gotten people hurt. I need to repent. I need to ask God for forgiveness. Will you pray with me, Bruce?”

The troll's response came instantly. “Yes. Yes! We will pray.”

Donnie took a few steps forward until he was in front of the troll. Still holding his hands up, he got down on his knees. His whole body was trembling. The troll shuffled its feet against the floor and sank down to its knees with a loud thud. It gently placed the hatchet on the floor and put its large palms together in a prayerful gesture. Donnie clasped his own hands in understanding.

The troll's eyes were pitch black, but somehow more alive than before. I'm so sorry, Donnie thought.

“Dear God, who is in heaven. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Give us our daily bread, and lead us not into temptation.” He put emphasis on the last word, and the troll closed its eyes and nodded. “But deliver us from evil. Amen.”

“Amen,” the troll repeated emphatically. It slowly lowered its hands and a serene smile spread on its face.

Donnie smiled back and placed one of his hands on the troll's chest where he figured the heart would be. There was a rustle of movement and the next second Dean ran a knife through Donnie's hand.

The pain was excruciating, but not as horrifying as the troll's scream. A bright flash of white light had Donnie squeezing his eyes shut and the troll's body felt backwards. Dean pulled the knife out and wrapped a piece of cloth around his bleeding hand. “Good job.”

The troll's body started convulsing and before Donnie could react, it had transformed back into Bruce, clothes and all. Bile welled up in his throat. Dean held his palm in a death grip.

“You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm not in the mood for a drink.”





Dean screwed the cork back on the bottle of disinfectant and nodded towards Donnie's hand.

“There. You're gonna have a neat little scar to impress the ladies with.”

Donnie ran a finger over the gauze carefully. The pain had given way to a dull ache, which meant the injury probably wasn't that bad. Or it could just be the Vicodin kicking in.

“So you're a paramedic as well as a troll hunter?”

Dean packed the medical supplies away. “I've had the opportunity to practice a lot of things.”

When he didn't volunteer any further information, Donnie decided to change the subject. “So the last one that was attacked...”

“She recognized Bruce, yeah. I guess he reserved his troll form for his acts of terror. When he was stealing booze he was just his plain old alcoholic self.”

Donnie looked at the body where it lay with Dean's knife neatly sticking out of its heart.

“You know, the police will be satisfied. With the bar owner's testimony, Bruce's finger prints on the hatchet, yours on the knife; it's a clear cut case of self-defense. Open and shut.” Dean gave a half shrug. ”You're a hero, really.”

Donnie's jaw clenched. “What about Roy?”

“He lost control of his truck when he was attacked and ran it into the river.” Dean's voice was calm and measured, like he was reciting a weather report.

“And the first guy? He saw something that wasn't human.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, but when he reads about this in the newspaper he'll tell himself that it was dark, that he was confused and terrified. He's not gonna want to remember that it was a troll who attacked him.”

Donnie gritted his teeth. “How could you not want to know? Something like this...it changes everything.”

Dean smiled sadly. “That's the way the world works. But it makes my job easier, so I'm not gonna complain.”

He closed the zipper on the duffel bag and stood up. He cast a glance at the dead body and then back to Donnie. “Look, there's no reason for you to think about this ever again. I'm not gonna come back here.”

Donnie got up from his chair. “You think I somehow blame you for this? You saved my life! That's the best tip I've ever gotten from a customer. Look, I need every single one of my regulars. Especially now that I've killed one of them. And where are you gonna go, anyway? It's not like there are any other bars in Lebanon.”

Dean looked genuinely surprised. “I guess you're right.” The corners of his mouth quirked up. “I guess I'll see you later.”

Donnie nodded. “Yeah, man. See you later.”


The thirty minutes he had promised to wait before calling the cops went by pretty slowly. Being alone with a dead body turned out to be a bit of a mood killer. He got the tequila out and poured himself a shot with his good hand. It was part of the lie he was going to tell the police—that he'd been in shock, had a drink and bandaged his hand before recovering enough to call them—and he enjoyed it more than he expected to. Good tequila was supposed to be had neat according to some people. Maybe instead of having cocktail specials he should focus on a broader variety of high quality liquor.

He would have plenty of time to experiment.