Dweller - Jeff Strand [11]
He looked back. Nothing seemed to be coming after him.
As Toby walked home, he decided not to tell his parents about what happened. They might believe him, or they might search his room for pot. Either way, they wouldn’t allow him to go back out there, and Toby had every intention of returning. Unless he’d missed a really important day of science class, this was some sort of undiscovered creature, and Toby was going to get credit for the finding. He couldn’t go back after dark, but if his foot wasn’t in too bad of shape he’d go back this weekend, this time with a camera.
And Dad’s shotgun.
CHAPTER FOUR
Toby spent most of his evening in the waiting area of the emergency room. His ankle was indeed sprained, though just mildly, and he kept an ice pack against it, which was more uncomfortable than the pain from the injury.
“How’d you hurt it?” Mom had asked.
Toby had tried to come up with an excuse that was credible yet masculine. “Jumping hurdles.”
“How’d you really hurt it?”
How did she always know he was lying? “Tripped.”
“You should be more careful.”
“I’m considering that. I’ve heard good things about that lifestyle.”
Dad was watching Wagon Train on television when they got home. “What’d you do?” he asked, looking away from the set.
“Tripped.”
“You should be more careful.”
“You guys must stay up all night thinking up this amazing advice.”
“Nobody likes a smart-ass.”
“I’m sure somebody has to.”
“Not in this house.” Dad gave him a glare that made it clear that he wasn’t in a joking mood, which was the case about 80 percent of the time. They had a late dinner of pork roast and mashed potatoes, and then went to bed.
Toby thought that his injured foot might cause the bullies at school to find another target for a while. It was, admittedly, not the most intelligent thought that had ever passed through his brain. He tried to hold his head high, even when his hair got hit with half-sucked sour balls and droplets of snot, but it was probably the most hellish week he’d ever spent at that goddamn school.
He lay in bed, frustrated beyond belief. School took up all of his day and his job at the grocery store took up Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening. He could have snuck out of the house after his parents were asleep, but seeking proof of the monster in the thick, deep woods after dark crossed the line from “glorious bravery” to “suicidal stupidity.” Really, he should wait for his ankle to be completely healed before venturing out there again, but he knew he didn’t have the patience.
He hoped the monster hadn’t moved on. It was probably nomadic (Toby didn’t actually have any evidence of this, but it sounded right) and would eventually move to warmer climates as the Ohio winter began. But if it had that nice little cave to live in, it might stick around for a while longer. It wouldn’t know that Toby was planning to come back with a big gun, would it? It was smarter than, say, Mrs. Faulkner’s poodle, but still a dumb animal, right?
Saturday morning, he woke up at 6:58, two minutes before the alarm. He got up and dressed as quietly as possible to avoid waking his parents, then took his camera out of his desk drawer. It wasn’t a very good camera, and he also wasn’t a very good photographer, but it would be sufficient as long as he could get close enough.
Then he retrieved the shotgun from the hallway closet, where it had moved on his thirteenth birthday, when Dad decided that Toby had demonstrated enough responsibility that he didn’t need to keep the shotgun locked away in his bedroom. The unspoken understanding was that Toby still wouldn’t touch the weapon, which was reserved for hunting trips and protection against intruders. Toby had never been expressly forbidden from sneaking it out of the house and taking it into the woods to hunt monsters, so this morning he was going to obey the letter of the law and not the spirit. When his picture made it onto the cover of a scientific magazine and bought Dad a new gold-plated