by Jeff Strand
Were they going to welcome him as one of their own, or have a family feast?
What if Owen had lured him all the way out here to be dinner for his new friends? “You want human flesh? Oh, I can get that for you, no problem!”
Shit.
The monsters all looked over at Toby, and then began to quickly emerge from the pond. He should run. He should definitely run.
Instead, he stood there, forcing himself to stay as calm as possible, and let the monsters approach. They moved rapidly at first, until Owen waved them back, after which they carefully crept toward him, watching him with intense curiosity.
Toby couldn’t be certain, but the monsters looked like a mother, a father, and a child.
They surrounded him. He shuddered as they gently poked at him, smelled him, tugged at his shirt, and ran their fingers through his hair. Any of the three could easily open up his scalp with one of their talons, and they didn’t, so he supposed that he should feel safe. Such a feeling eluded him.
No nibbling. Please, no nibbling.
Owen talked to them in a series of grunts and growls. They talked back. Toby didn’t have the slightest clue what they were saying to each other, and Owen wasn’t paying attention to his attempts to signal, but at least things didn’t appear to be moving in a “let’s snap the wishbone” direction.
This went on for several minutes. One of them, the child, did indeed nibble at Toby’s elbow, but after a loud growl from Owen he stopped.
Finally the crowd dispersed, leaving Toby standing there, drenched with sweat. The others went off into the trees.
“Is this your family?” Toby asked Owen.
No.
“They seem nice.”
Owen led him to the pond. They waded out into the water, waist-deep, and just stood there, enjoying the sunshine. Owen still wasn’t off the hook for being gone so damn long, but Toby was thrilled for his friend. He’d often considered that there might be other creatures like Owen out there, but he’d never expected to actually find them, or be smelled by them.
A moment later, the three creatures dragged a deer carcass near the pond. They waited expectantly as Toby and Owen walked to shore, and then all four creatures stared at Toby.
Aw, crap. He was pretty sure that they were waiting for their guest of honor to take the first bite.
“You know that I like my meat cooked, right?” Toby asked Owen. Of course, his friend conveniently had no idea what Toby was talking about. This seemed like a scenario where offending his hosts could be fatal, so Toby reached into the carcass, tore off a small chunk of meat (which didn’t come free easily), and reluctantly shoved it into his mouth and chewed.
As if he’d fired a starter pistol, the monsters dove into the dead deer, burying their faces in the raw meat and ripping off huge pieces with their teeth. Owen gestured for Toby to join them, and he held up his hand and tried to make an “I’m full” gesture. Owen didn’t insist, probably figuring “More deer for me!” and resumed the dining frenzy.
After the feast, the other three monsters crawled off, presumably to sleep. Toby and Owen sat alongside the pond, feet in the water. Owen yawned.
“You can go take a nap. There’s no way in hell I’m falling asleep anytime soon.”
No.
“So, pretty nice setup they’ve got. Are you their uncle Owen or something?”
Owen didn’t understand the question.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Stay.
“Me?”
Yes.
“Oh, no. It’s nice out here, but I can’t live out in the woods like this.”
Or could he? He could spend the rest of his life hanging out by the pond, catching fish and teaching these creatures the art of not eating raw meat. Never shave or get another haircut—just let his hair grow out like Rip Van Winkle. Speak in grunts.
It was an appealing concept.
But, no, of course he couldn’t do that. He’d be dead in a week. Any life spent out here would be a life spent making frequent treks into town, shoplifting supplies. He’d gotten away with murdering Larry and Nick, but he’d probably go to jail for swiping a toothbrush.
And he’d spent years building up a bond of trust with Owen—a bond that had, incidentally, resulted in a violent death. He couldn’t just assume that these other three fanged, clawed monsters weren’t having carnivorous thoughts about him.
It was kind of cool that he’d found himself in a position where he could live with a quartet of monsters, should he choose to do so. Most people weren’t given that particular opportunity.
He shook his head. “Can’t do it, Owen.”
Please.
“No. I appreciate that you made the trip to come get me—a couple of years late—but there’s no way I can stay out here. I’m human. I’m bad at it, but I’m human.”
Owen looked at him sadly.
“It’ll be okay. You can stay out here with your friends. I’m much happier with this idea than the idea of being abandoned, you know? I don’t know how the hell I’m going to find my way back home, but I’ll be okay.”
No.
“It’ll be fine. Stay with your own kind. I want you to be happy.”
Come with you.
“I can’t let you do that. You shouldn’t be living in a cave all by yourself. What kind of life is that? You spend your days waiting for a loser like me to show up and entertain you for a couple of hours. You should stay here. Be with the kind of people you should actually talk to.”
No.
“What kind of friend would I be if I let you go back to Orange Leaf? It’s the worst place in the world. I’m going to miss you like you wouldn’t believe, but you need to stay here.”
No.
“Don’t argue with me. I’ll come visit. There’s this shitty saying, ‘If you love something, set it free,’ and that’s what I’m doing.”
The thought of losing his best friend again, so soon after rediscovering him, made Toby heartsick, but he was speaking the truth. He couldn’t let Owen come back with him. Not if he’d found a better life here.
Come with you.
“No.”
Yes.
“Okay, we don’t communicate well enough to have this kind of argument. So you win. We’ll both go home.” He repeated the signal: Both go home. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
His plan was simple. As soon as Owen and the others fell asleep, Toby would sneak off and begin the journey home by himself. He couldn’t stop Owen from following him, but he hoped Owen would get the message and stay here by the pond.
Or…he could inadvertently lead three extra monsters to Toby’s hometown. That would be problematic.
Nah. They wouldn’t leave this nice pond in favor of a crummy little cave. Owen had never before abandoned his dwelling since Toby knew him, so whatever kind of creatures they were, they liked to stay in one place. He wouldn’t be able to get the other three to uproot themselves just to hang out with a skinny pink-skinned idiot. Right?
And if Owen did follow him back, great. He’d have his friend back with a clear conscience.
As evening approached, he spent a short amount of time making a rickety shelter out of branches. He was capable of doing much better, he was certain, but this one didn’t need to last long. As he laid the branches together, he watched Owen play-wrestle with the child in the mud near the pond.
Toby had named the child Scruffer. The female (he thought) he named Esmerelda. The male (he knew) he named Brutus. There was no hidden meaning to these names; he just thought they were appropriate.
After dark, the creatures went into their den and went to sleep.
Boy, was it dark. Toby couldn’t remember ever having been in such complete, enveloping darkness. He couldn’t even see the moon through the trees. There could be thousands of snakes slithering only inches from his body. He had a flashlight, which he’d use when he got far enough from their camp, but maybe this was better as an “early in the morning, before
they wake up” plan than a “late at night, right after they go to sleep” one.
And he was exhausted. Not a good idea to walk through the pitch-black forest when you were exhausted.
He’d sleep for a couple of hours and decide the best course of action from there.
He woke to Owen prodding him.
No, wait, was it Owen…?
A clawed hand grabbed his ankle, squeezing tight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Toby screamed as he was dragged out of the shelter. It fell apart around him, branches scraping his face as the monster pulled his leg. He heard a hungry growl—it had to be Brutus.
He grabbed a branch—hoping it was a long one—and jabbed it forward. Felt like a direct hit. But the roar sounded like fury, not pain.
He jabbed a second time. Missed. His other arm brushed against his backpack, so he grabbed that by the strap and swung it as hard as he could. There was a satisfying smack as it struck its target. The claw released his ankle.
Brutus’s roar was still all fury.
He swung the backpack again, bashing Brutus in what he hoped was the face. Some warm, wet drops hit his stomach. And then Brutus’s talons raked down his leg, not scraping deep, but enough to rip through his jeans and almost certainly draw blood.
“Owen!”
He kicked. Something gave way beneath his shoe, and Brutus let out a sharp whine like a hurt dog. Toby scooted backward, wincing as his hands came down on rough branches. He thought he might have knocked out some of Brutus’s teeth, but he couldn’t be sure.
The talons wrapped around his ankle again.
He bashed his free foot against them. This time he knew without seeing that he’d broken off at least a couple of the talons. Brutus howled.
Toby scrambled back until he collided with a tree. He immediately turned around, grabbed a branch to help pull himself to his feet, and began to climb, the backpack dangling from his shoulder. He’d never seen Owen climb anything, so maybe—
Brutus yanked him off the tree.
Then something yanked Brutus off him.
There was hissing and tearing and chaos but Toby tried to focus entirely on climbing the branches. Get up the tree, farther than Brutus could reach. Keep himself from being shredded just long enough for Owen to make everything all right.
A roar of pain. Owen.
Toby grabbed for the branch he’d been pulled from. Found it in the dark. Used it to steady himself as he stepped up onto the lowest branch and started to climb again. In his panic, he tugged so hard on the next branch that it snapped free and he nearly lost his balance, almost plunging into the bedlam below.
He kept moving.
The tree shook as both monsters slammed into it.
Toby climbed up a few more feet, just to be sure he was high enough. His left hand stung like crazy—he’d really gouged it bad on one of the branches.
He held on tight, trying to catch his breath as he watched the two black figures struggle. His eyes had only barely begun to adjust to the darkness, not enough to let him make out any details, but the sounds and the shapes were enough to prove that neither creature had any intention of letting the other live.
A wail from farther away. The child?
Toby let go of the tree with his bloody hand and unzipped the backpack, fishing out the flashlight. He turned it on and shone the beam downward, just in time to catch a glimpse of Brutus’s talons tearing across Owen’s chest.
Owen howled and returned the vicious favor.
They circled each other, snarling. Brutus dove at him, and both monsters rolled on the ground, clawing, growling, biting.
Toby watched the spectacle with horror. Please don’t let Owen die…
But a small part of him, a part that remained an eight-year-old boy, watched in amazement, unable to believe that he was actually getting to watch two bloodthirsty monsters battle it out in a death match.
Then he cringed as Brutus jammed his talons deep into Owen’s side.
Owen threw back his head and let out a sound of such intense distress that it felt like a crossbow bolt piercing Toby’s brain. Toby screamed Owen’s name, wishing he could do something to save his friend.
Owen clearly had no intention of giving up the fight. He lowered himself into a crouch, then locked his jaws onto Brutus’s leg. The other monster bellowed with pain and tried to shake him off, but Owen’s teeth remained deep in his flesh, not coming loose until Owen tore off six inches of bloody fur.
Toby threw the only thing in his backpack that had any real weight—his thermos. It was a perfect throw, cracking against the back of Brutus’s skull, but it didn’t seem to faze the monster.
Though Toby couldn’t see Brutus’s eyes, he could imagine them, bloodshot and red with rage. Brutus slashed Owen across the chest with his claws once, twice, three times.
Toby didn’t know what he could do to help, but he had to try something. He couldn’t just hide in a tree and watch Owen get ripped apart. Better to die on the ground. If he had to, he’d beat Brutus to death with the goddamn flashlight.
He climbed down a couple of branches, then jumped all the way. The light beam shifted as he landed, clearly illuminating Owen’s face. Owen gaped at him as if to say, “What the hell are you doing?”
Brutus looked at him as well. Despite his blood-soaked fur and a protruding bone, the monster still appeared hungry.
Owen grabbed Brutus by the wrist and swung him into a different tree. Brutus’s elbow collided with the trunk, his arm snapping backward, bone bursting through fur.
And then Owen’s hands were in Brutus’s mouth, and he was pulling, Brutus’s teeth were embedded in his palms but Owen kept pulling, and Brutus’s tongue lashed back and forth, and blood dribbled between Owen’s fingers, and Owen’s eyes were squeezed shut and his jaws were closed tight as he struggled and struggled and then there was a wet rip as Brutus’s cheeks tore apart and a crack as the top half of his head was wrenched backward.
Owen released his grip, and the dead beast dropped to the ground.
Another wail.
Toby swung the flashlight beam around. Esmerelda and Scruffer stood there. Scruffer moved first, but within seconds both of them were cradling Brutus’s limp form.
Owen stared at them. He raised his palm over his eyes as Toby flashed the light in his face. Toby thought he’d caught a glimpse of a tear.
Toby took Owen by the wrist and quickly led him through the woods, away from there.
“I’m sorry,” Toby said, after they’d gone far enough that the howls of sorrow could no longer be heard. Owen said nothing.
It was a long journey home. They were both tired and hurt and, though Owen became slightly more communicative after their first afternoon nap, the monster seemed depressed.
Toby wondered if Owen would have followed him back to Orange Leaf had Toby’s plan to sneak off in the middle of the night been successful. He liked to think that Owen would have. And at least then it would’ve been Owen’s choice, instead of the way it was now, where he was banished from a society with a known population of three.
“We’ll really fix the cave up nice,” Toby said. “We’ll dig our own pond. How long can that take with claws like you’ve got? We’ll build ourselves a luxury resort right out there in the woods. What do you want to call it?”
Stop.
“Stop what?”
Stop talk.
“Fine. Whatever.”
“I know you’re busy being all sad and stuff, but I would like to take a moment to point out how unbelievably cool it was when you ripped that thing’s head in half,” Toby said.
That seemed to cheer Owen up a bit.
“Do you know what makes you such a good friend?” Toby asked. “The fact that without you, I’d be dead now. I’m not talking about you saving my life, because I definitely would have done that for you if our roles were reversed. Oh, yeah, I would’ve grabbed that thing by the jaw and tore its chin right off, mark my words. But what I appreciate most
in our friendship right now is your animal instinct, because I never thought that this whole voyage was supposed to be a one-way trip, and so I wasn’t leaving any bread crumbs to mark my way home. I’d be dead right now. Completely dead. Wolves would be snacking on me, and forest monkeys would be tossing my clothes around. So thank you, Owen, for your innate sense of direction.”
Yes.
“Damn, but you’re a good conversationalist. Time to change your bandages.”
“Know what you need? A last name. I think you’ve earned it. Owen Smith? Owen White? Owen Jones? Owen Death-TeethBiter? When we get home, if we ever do, we’ll just march right into city hall and demand the necessary paperwork to give you a last name. How does that sound?”
“Are we there yet?”
No.
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
“Are we there yet?”
No.
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
The thermos was long empty, and they hadn’t found a stream or a pond or any water at all since yesterday. Toby was no longer sure that Owen was taking him back the same way. This could be really bad.
The sound of a car driving past.
Toby rushed up ahead, and emerged from the forest next to a paved road. He recognized the graffiti on the CURVE AHEAD sign, and returned to Owen.
“We’re fifteen miles off,” he announced. “I really wish you could hitchhike. I take back my compliments about your sense of direction.”
They continued walking through the forest together, following the road but staying deep enough in the woods that no passing vehicles would see the man and his monster.
The cave did not actually glow with an otherworldly golden aura, but it seemed to for a moment. Toby changed Owen’s bandages again, gave the monster a hug, and then left him to get some desperately needed rest.
When Toby got home and looked at himself in the mirror, he nearly ran screaming from the house. Wow. That must be what feral people who’d been raised by wolves looked like.
