Dweller - Jeff Strand [101]
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