Dweller - Jeff Strand [62]
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.
He showered until the hot water was gone.
Then he slept.
Then he tried to figure out how exactly he was going to explain his absence from work.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mr. Zack, folding his arms in front of his chest.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Toby, I don’t believe you.”
“How can you not believe me? I’m all beat up!”
“Because when people are in car accidents, they call. Not necessarily the first day, but by the seventh day they usually think to pick up the phone.”
“I was in Maine!”