Dweller - Jeff Strand [94]
“Check this out. It’s a cell phone. Everybody’s got them these days. I can call anybody I want. Not very good reception out here in the woods, though. Wish I had somebody to talk to.”
2004
“Well, they finally figured out that a robot can do my job. It was always just a matter of time. I’d better learn to flip burgers, or you might have yourself a roommate.”
“A real friend wouldn’t let me keep doing all this self-destructive stuff. I’m just sayin’.”
Toby wondered how much sympathy he’d have for himself if he could watch his life from the outside. Probably not a lot. He’d probably just give himself a disgusted look, shake his head sadly, then call for a janitor to sweep it all away. Get the repulsive bum out of the way so decent people didn’t have the eyesore.
Even Owen didn’t seem to enjoy his company all that much anymore.
He really had to fix this mess. And he would, after a couple more beers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
2005. 60 years old.
The best thing about being a drunken babbling idiot was that nobody believed you when you blurted out secrets about your monster friend. Toby was a laughingstock in the small bar, whatever it was called, and he rarely ventured there more than once a month, and only when he was already half plastered.
He’d never said anything about the murders, at least as far as he knew, but he’d told the bartender all about Owen. The bartender hadn’t cut off his drinks. It wasn’t that kind of place.
Toby sat alone in a booth surrounded by empty bottles, although many of those were left over from the last patron. He wondered if he should try to walk home, take a cab, or let the bartender sort it out after he passed out.
A man slid into the seat across from him.
“You’re the monster guy, right?”
The man was probably a few years older than Toby, smelled truly vile, and had wild hair and an unkempt gray beard. Even by Toby’s drastically reduced standards, the guy looked like a complete bum.
“No.”
“Yeah, you are! You don’t have to pretend anything with me, man.” The bum had a lazy eye and sounded like a hippie. Toby was embarrassed to admit to himself that despite the odor he was happy to have somebody to talk to.
“There’s no monster,” Toby said. “I make stuff up.”
“Man, lower your defenses. I know all of these. Loch Ness Monster, Jersey Devil, aliens in Area 51 and Hangar 18…you go online and know where to look, you can find the truth on anything.”
“Fine. So I’m friends with Bigfoot.”
“Nah, man. What you described to Jimmy isn’t a Bigfoot.”
“The bartender’s name is Jimmy?”
“I dunno. Might be.” The man picked up one of the discarded bottles, shook it, and finished off the drops that remained. “You don’t know the story?”
“I didn’t know there was a story.”
“1946. These American soldiers are back from World War II, and they take their girlfriends out camping, right? Maybe a hundred miles from where we are right now. Nice and peaceful, everybody’s having a good time, probably gettin’ it on because you don’t get laid much when you’re out fighting Nazis, and then these things attack them. They’ve got these scary-ass teeth and claws, and they just rip those people up. It’s like a war, man. One of our heroes gets away. A girl. Yep, three trained soldiers and it’s one of the girls who escapes. So she makes it out of the woods and she’s going nuts and she tells somebody what happened, and the next thing you know this team goes in there with rifles and they just mow those things down!”
“Sounds kind of far-fetched.”
“I know! It’s crazy! So you’ve got this government operation and a bunch of dead creatures, and they think, ‘Well, shit, we can’t have Americans panicking over soldier-killing monsters after we just got over the whole Nazi thing!’ and they cover it all up. The lady who survived goes into an asylum. Rips her own eyes out. Dies a few years later.”
“What did they do with the bodies?”
“Underground bunker. They studied them for a while but couldn’t figure out what the hell they were, so they froze the bodies