by Jeff Strand
“But we should. Don’t worry about the dark—I’ve got a great new lantern. He’ll be thrilled. There aren’t any repairs to do, but I’ve meant to paint it for a long time.”
“I wanted to talk about your comic strip first.”
“Oh, you heard about that?”
“I’ve been following it. Marianne found it, actually.”
“I still have all of the originals except for a couple that Owen ruined. I’m going to give them all to you before you leave. You can keep them or sell them or do whatever you want with them, but I’d like you to have them.”
Garrett stood up. “That would be awesome. Thank you, Dad.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go! A wonderful monster in the woods awaits our arrival!”
Toby knew he was babbling like an incoherent old man, but he couldn’t help himself as they made the trek through the woods, their way illuminated by a lantern Owen had gotten him for Christmas, in much the same way that Toby’s favorite shoes ever were “from” Garrett when he was only two. He told Garrett all about how he’d finally gotten Rusty & Pugg published, and all about his miserable job that he couldn’t afford to retire from, and his arthritis. He didn’t talk about the other medical issues.
He also didn’t talk about the man he’d murdered. Technically Owen had delivered the killing blow, but Toby had murdered him. That wasn’t information with which to burden his son. He’d have to take that to his own grave.
Mostly he talked about Owen. That’s where he could sense he was blathering on the most, but Garrett didn’t interrupt, he barely spoke at all, apparently quite happy to let his father talk and talk and talk. That’s what old people did, he supposed.
Owen wasn’t there when they arrived at the shack, so Toby subjected his poor son to another half hour of talk while they added a coat of dark brown paint to the outside of the structure.
Movement to the side.
“That’s him,” said Toby. “Hey, Owen!”
Owen growled a greeting.
“I’ve got somebody who wants to see you!”
Garrett tensed up as Owen came into view. Toby wasn’t sure if it was fear—which was only to be expected at first—or shock at Owen’s appearance. His fur had turned almost completely gray, and small patches of it were missing all over his body. The monster looked…well, old.
Owen walked over to them, slowly, gazing at Garrett as if trying to remember where he’d seen him before.
“Does he recognize me?”
“Owen, do you remember Garrett? My son? Your friend?”
Owen stepped into the clearing around the shack, still obviously trying to place Garrett. He ran his talons along the side of the shack, a gesture that Toby found vaguely threatening—not something Owen had ever done before.
“It’s Garrett. I know you remember Garrett.”
And then Owen’s face beamed with pure joy that went beyond anything Toby had ever seen from the monster. Yeah, his smile was rather grotesque with his missing teeth, but you simply could not deny the emotion behind it.
Toby was so overcome with his own happiness that he didn’t immediately realize that Garrett had taken out a gun.
Owen howled with fright and put his hands over his face.
Toby grabbed for the weapon. He struck Garrett’s arm just as he pulled the trigger. The gun fired.
Owen roared and clutched at his side, blood spurting between his fingers.
Garrett tried to shove Toby out of the way, but Toby didn’t care if he was a sixty-five-year-old arthritic mess, there was no way in hell he was going to let anything happen to Owen. He threw a punch that connected solidly with Garrett’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
Think how much different your life could have been, if you’d done that to Larry forty-five years ago.
Garrett pointed the gun back at Owen and squeezed off another shot. The bullet tore across Owen’s left arm.
Owen was a close target, but a target in motion.
The monster pushed Toby aside and dove at Garrett, attacking him in a flurry of teeth and claws. Toby’s son screamed in agony, and Toby screamed for Owen to stop.
There was blood everywhere.
Including on Toby’s chest. Owen had gouged him deep with his claws when he pushed him away.
“Owen, stop it!” Toby screamed.
Owen tore off a particularly meaty strip of Garrett’s flesh.
“Stop it, goddamn it!” Bleeding and hurting and terrified, Toby moved over to the carnage and kicked Owen as hard as he could. Owen yelped, then stood up and backed away.
“Owen, that’s my son, you fucking beast!”
Owen looked at Toby, absolutely devastated, then ran off through the trees.
It wasn’t his usual direction. He was headed toward Toby’s home.
Toby dropped to his knees next to his son, who was coughing up blood and clutching helplessly at his shredded chest. Toby pulled out his cell phone to call for help.
No reception out in the forest. There almost never was.
“Why did you hurt him?” Toby asked, sobbing. He knew the answer, but felt the need to say something instead of just silently watching Garrett die.
Gotta kill the monster before you bring a kid into the world.
Toby couldn’t run for help. It wasn’t worth pretending, not even to say that he’d done everything he possibly could. He couldn’t even say anything reassuring, tell his son that everything would be fine, that he’d called 911 and a helicopter had been dispatched.
When your body was torn up like that, you weren’t going to survive.
“What should I tell Marianne?” Toby asked.
Garrett opened his mouth and blood ran down the sides of his face. He stared at the sky and died.
Toby stood up, picked up the gun, staggered away from his son’s body, and walked away from the shack, going after Owen.
The gashes on his chest from Owen’s talons hurt like crazy, which Toby took as a good sign. When the pain started to seep from his body it was time to get worried.
This would be his last time walking through these woods. He wished his final journey could’ve been a peaceful stroll, like hundreds of others had been, and not what he was doing now, stumbling through the night, barely able to keep his flashlight steady, shirt covered with blood.
But this was typical of life, wasn’t it? You tended to quit doing things after the bad times, and not the good times.
Dear God, what kind of cynical bullshit was that? Regardless of how this turned out, Toby was going to make one more trek out to Owen’s home, even if he did it in a goddamn wheelchair, just to prove himself wrong.
The pain was starting to fade a bit.
He emerged from the woods, half expecting to see Owen in his backyard, cowering next to the back of the house, scared and wanting his friend to tell him that everything was going to be all right.
The backyard was empty.
What would Owen do? Was he just running around the forest? Was he lying somewhere, bleeding to death? He wouldn’t have left the woods, would he? He would have stayed where he felt the safest.
Toby went inside. He couldn’t hide this. Not the death of his own son.
He turned on the television as he peeled off his shirt to examine his wounds, praying not to see a newscaster telling the local viewing audience about reports of a wild animal on the loose, much like one that had gone on a rampage thirty-five years ago.
“…at least two confirmed dead, in a story that’s almost too bizarre to believe…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Somebody had captured video images of Owen with their digital camera. The footage of the mauling was online before the police even arrived at the scene.
It was a middle-aged couple, just walking down the sidewalk. Probably in their own neighborhood, though it was too early to say, since the bodies hadn’t yet been identified. It was almost comical the way the man spun around, sort of like a dancer doing a pirouette when Owen’s claw got him in the
face.
Toby drove toward where the murders had occurred—not too far from where he lived, maybe four miles. Quite a bit farther than he would’ve expected Owen to be, at least after being shot twice. Rage and fear must have kept him moving quickly.
He had no idea how to go about accomplishing his task, but Toby knew that he had to kill Owen. He couldn’t let him hurt—massacre—anybody else. Decades of friendship or not, he had to destroy the monster.
How was he supposed to find him, though? Keep his car window rolled down and listen for screams?
“Nothing has been confirmed by authorities yet,” said the voice on the radio, “but there may be a third victim tonight, apparently a sixteen-year-old girl…”
Christ…
Blue and red flashing lights up ahead. Toby had considered calling the police and telling them what he knew, but what useful information could he convey? That the creature’s name was Owen? That it had killed his son?
Why hadn’t he shot him all those years ago? Blown him away with the shotgun when he had the chance?
Stop it. This wasn’t the time to wallow in regret.
“…strongly recommend that you remain indoors until this situation has been resolved…”
“Excellent advice,” Toby told the radio.
He turned right, away from the parked police cars, then slowed down as he drove down the suburb street. “Owen!” he shouted out the window. “Come out, Owen! It’s Toby!” If the police stopped him and asked, he’d say he was calling for his grandson.
“Owen!”
He drove slowly around the entire four-block neighborhood, constantly shouting Owen’s name, but there was no sign of his friend. It looked like the police were starting to cordon off the area, and a young police officer waved him through as he drove past.
What now?
Where would Owen go?
What a stupid question. There was no logical place a wild animal would go during a killing spree. He just had to follow the trail of bodies until he got lucky, or until the police took Owen down first.
“Owen!”
He turned into the next subdivision. It was a much wealthier neighborhood than the first, one that Toby occasionally liked to drive through at Christmastime because of their rather spectacular display of lights.
He continued to shout Owen’s name.
“What’s wrong?” asked a man walking along the sidewalk. “You lose a dog?”
“No. And you need to get inside.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Just get inside. It’s not safe.” Toby turned the corner. Was this a complete waste of time? Maybe he would be better off just turning himself in to the police and telling them everything?
“Owen!”
And then Owen was there.
He stood between two homes, his whole body slick with blood. Toby slammed on the brakes, put the car into park, and got out, taking the gun with him as he left the running vehicle in the street.
“God, Owen, what have you done?” asked Toby, stepping onto the lawn. “Why do things always get so screwed up with us?”
Owen signed: Scared.
“Me, too.”
Toby wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness from his friend before he did what needed to be done, but instead he silently raised the gun and pointed it at Owen.
Owen turned and ran.
Toby fired.
Missed. He was pretty sure he’d done it on purpose, and cursed himself as he hurried between the houses after Owen. He felt like he might die of a heart attack if he didn’t bleed to death first, but forced himself to move as quickly as his pain-wracked body could handle.
Another row of homes shared the backyard space with the homes Toby was between now. As he reached the backyard, he saw a woman standing in an open doorway on her back porch, most likely peering outside to see where the gunshot had come from.
Didn’t she know that there was a wild animal on the loose? Didn’t she know that when you heard bullets fired you stayed the hell inside your home?
Toby’s heart took another big step toward a coronary as Owen got her, pouncing like a lion. The two of them disappeared inside the house.
Toby screamed. He could feel his body trying to shut down around him. Couldn’t Owen see that there was no happy ending to this madness?
He walked over to the house and staggered through the doorway. The woman lay flat on her back, covered with blood, insides exposed as her body twitched. Owen hadn’t even tried to eat this one. He was just killing.
Yet another death on Toby’s conscience. How many was that, now? It was hard to even keep count.
A trail of blood led through the living room into the kitchen, but the scream of terror would have alerted Toby to where Owen was even without the visual cue. He stepped over the woman’s body and ran forward.
He got into the kitchen just as Owen bit the throat out of a teenage boy. The boy was in front of Owen, blocking his shot. Toby knew it was absurd—the boy was dying if not already dead—but he couldn’t risk hitting him.
“Owen, please!” Toby shouted.
The boy’s body dropped to the tile floor.
Owen pounced at Toby.
He hadn’t expected this, and he wasn’t able to fire off a shot before Owen knocked him to the floor, jaws open wide. The gun popped out of his hand and slid along the wet tile, out of reach.
Owen gnashed his teeth. A large blob of bloody foam fell onto Toby’s face. The monster raised his claw, then hesitated.
Toby tried to say the kind of thing you were supposed to say in this situation, something like “Owen, it’s me, Toby, your best friend!” but he was paralyzed with fear.
Would he be Owen’s final victim, or just one more corpse in the series of deaths in what the press might dub the Night of the Beast?
Owen looked down at him, lowered his claw, then leaped up and ran from the kitchen, back into the living room.
Toby remained motionless for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. Then he retrieved the gun and started to race out of the kitchen, but his foot shot out from underneath him as he slipped on some blood. He landed on his side, hard, knocking the wind out of him.
He lay there in a daze.
He wondered if Sarah would curse him to his face, or to his tombstone?
Would he have to speak to Marianne?
Hannah?
Maybe he was better off dead.
No. That was cowardly. Pathetic. The thoughts of a loser. He couldn’t leave this unfinished.
He got up, shook off the dizzy spell, and ran out of the house. There was no sign of Owen outside.
He walked around the entire shared yard, calling out for Owen and listening for sounds of distress.
Nothing.
Finally he got back in his car and resumed the search in his vehicle. Owen could be hiding, licking his wounds, or he could still be on the move, seeking more prey. Toby had to assume the latter.
The next news report, two minutes later, was about the deaths Toby had just witnessed. There were also reports of a gun-wielding man in his seventies running around the area, so citizens should be concerned about an armed maniac as well as a wild animal.
Seventies. Jesus.
For fifteen minutes, there were no new deaths—at least no reported ones. Toby passed countless police cars as he drove, but none of them stopped him. Obviously, no witnesses had described the maniac’s car.
Then a report of a possible sighting in a park. Toby had been there a few times with Garrett and Hannah, a nice place with a few shops and restaurants around it. He could just imagine Owen running loose amid dozens of shoppers and diners.
Where was he? Where would he go?
Then, suddenly, Toby thought he knew the answer.
The ice-cream shop wasn’t particularly good, although Garrett had always wanted to stop there after a hard day playing on the slides and swing sets. But it was shaped like a giant ice-cream cone, complete with a swirl on the top.
/> Toby parked next to it, got out of the car, and waited, calling Owen’s name every few moments.
Lots of sirens in the background.
He didn’t even see where Owen came from. He just looked over and Owen was there, staring longingly at the ice-cream cone.
Owen signed: Ice cream.
“Yeah, ice cream. I’d buy you some if they were open.”
Bad.
“Very bad. Both of us. Neither one of us deserves ice cream tonight, buddy.”
Toby pointed the gun at him. Owen didn’t move.
Maybe it didn’t have to be this way. He could coax Owen into his car, and just drive away. Get as far out of this town as they possibly could. Nobody would be watching for an old man with a monster in his car, right?
They could start over. It was a huge forest. And there were other forests.
No.
It was time to end this. He couldn’t undo his mistakes, but he could stop more innocent people from dying.
And the sirens were too close. In fact, Toby could already see the flashing lights.
He’d be seen as a hero, briefly. A few minutes of being the old guy who killed the monster, before the truth came out, and he became the scary old man with the carnivorous pet.
That’s how the story would always be told: Owen was his pet. Nobody would ever believe that Owen was his best friend.
Toby wasn’t sure how many bullets he had left. He walked closer. He couldn’t miss this time, and he felt that he should look his friend in the eye when he pulled the trigger.
Voices behind him. Commotion.
Owen didn’t run as Toby walked right up to him, close enough to give him a hug.
What did you say to a lifetime friend?
He settled for “I’m sorry, Owen,” and then shot him.
Chaos behind him. A voice shouting for him to get away from the creature.
Toby glanced back. Three cops, all pointing their guns in his direction. Owen hadn’t fallen yet.
He wanted to tell them to go away, that it was already done, that the monster was dying, but his body was wracked with sobs and he couldn’t speak.
Owen didn’t have an expression of pain, or betrayal, or sadness. He looked…concerned.
