Jeff Strand - Dweller

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 shotgun with his newfound wealth, he was sure he’d be forgiven.

He put a bag of trail mix, a thermos of cold water, and a small first-aid kit into his backpack, then strapped it onto his back. He hung the camera around his neck with its cord, then picked up the shotgun and quietly exited through the back door. Yeah, they probably weren’t going to approve of the whole shotgun thing. Still, it wasn’t as if his plan was to march into the kitchen, holding the monster’s severed head. The shotgun was only an emergency precaution. A find like this would be worth far more alive than dead. He’d be more popular with the kids at school if he blew the fucker away, but Toby Floren wasn’t the kind of guy who would put meaningless social status over scientific progress.

He walked through the forest, moving at a careful pace. Though he was in a hurry to get to the cave, he didn’t want to take a misstep and hurt his ankle even worse. Being carried out of the woods on a stretcher would not improve his social life.

After the first mile or so, Toby’s foot really started to ache and he questioned the wisdom of this expedition, even without the whole “deadly monster” part. Wise or not, he wasn’t going to turn back. He couldn’t think of any famous people who would say, “One should always allow sprained ankles to keep you from your accomplishments, because they kind of hurt, and the path to success should be as comfortable as possible!”

He forged onward. If he made it all the way out to the cave and the monster had abandoned it, Toby intended to be in a pretty lousy mood for the rest of the weekend. For now he’d remain optimistic. It would still be there.

As he approached the clearing, he took the shotgun off his shoulder and held it ready to fire-keeping the safety on but his finger on the trigger. He cautiously walked through the clearing toward the path, staying alert. The monster wasn’t going to take him by surprise. No way.

The fear started to return as he walked along the path. He forced it out of his mind. No room for fear. This was a day of bravery, dammit.

He stared at the entrance to the cave for a long time. The pile of brush that he’d moved the last time hadn’t been replaced.

Even at his bravest, he knew he couldn’t just go strolling through the entrance. The cave might not have a secret passage, exactly, but there was definitely someplace for the monster to hide that wasn’t immediately visible with a penlight sweep. If it were in there, he’d either have to wait for it to come out, or draw it out.

He decided to wait. For now.

He waited for about an hour, watching the cave entrance closely (but safely, about fifty feet away with a couple of trees for cover) and listening for any signs of footsteps, animals moving through bushes, or gnashing fangs. Nothing.

It could be asleep in there. It could be out on the prowl. It could be in Indiana.

Next step: draw it out.

Toby picked up a rock, one about the size of his fist. Then he decided that in the unlikely chance that he actually struck the monster, it might be better to have a smaller rock that didn’t send the beast into a bloodthirsty rage, so he dropped that and picked up another rock about the size of a silver dollar. He leaned the shotgun against the tree, swung his arm back, and then hurled the rock at the cave entrance.

The rock missed by a good ten feet, which was kind of embarrassing. Toby selected another rock, took careful aim, and threw again. Another miss.

Jesus. No wonder the bullies picked on him.

He thought about walking closer, then decided that it was better to waste time with a few failed attempts to accurately throw the rock than to risk being too close when the monster emerged. He picked up a third rock, licked his index finger and held it up to test the wind resistance, concluded that there was no wind, and flung the rock as hard as he could.

It went directly into the center of the cave entrance and disappeared from sight.

Toby listened closely but didn’t hear a grunt or an “oomph” or anything to indicate that he’d hit the monster. He waited for about a minute, then picked up another rock and threw it. Not as impressive as his last throw, but this one also went into the cave.

Still nothing.

Okay, the big decision. Did he dare venture into the cave, or should he keep throwing rocks?

Rocks. You couldn’t really go wrong with rocks.

He threw another rock, which also went into the cave. He was getting pretty good at this.

“C’mon, you toothy freak, let’s see your grotesque face,” he said as he threw the next rock. “Get out here, you big dumb ape!”

The monster walked out of the cave.

Toby’s stomach dropped as he watched it step out into the light, moving at an almost sluggish pace, like an annoyed neighbor coming outside to investigate what woke him up at four in the morning. It looked to each side, and then directly at Toby.

They locked eyes.

The monster began to walk toward him.

Shit!

Though it wasn’t running, there was definite menace in its gait, like a predator who knows its prey can’t escape and is in no rush to deliver the killing blow. Toby immediately forgot about the idea of photographing the monster and quickly grabbed the shotgun, uttering a string of rapid obscenities under his breath.

You weren’t supposed to be able to attribute human emotions to animals, but this thing looked pissed.

I’m gonna die! Toby thought as he fumbled with the shotgun, nearly dropping it onto the ground. Oh my God, I’m gonna die!

The monster wasn’t even ten feet away. Toby wanted to scream in an effort to gain its pity again, but he couldn’t find his voice. Nothing in his body ever worked when he needed it to!

But then he had the shotgun pointed at the monster’s chest. He squeezed the trigger.

For a split second Toby frantically wondered why the weapon hadn’t fired. He realized that the safety was still on. However, the monster took a big step back and let out a pitiful whimper. It held its clawed hands up in front of its face.

Toby flipped off the safety but didn’t shoot. He backed up a few paces, putting enough space between himself and the monster that he didn’t feel that his bloody death was seconds away. The monster kept its hands over its face, almost sounding like a puppy as it whimpered in fear.

Toby felt a bit of his courage return. “That’s right, asshole!” he shouted, waving the barrel of the gun at the monster. “I’m a lot scarier than you, aren’t I?”

Picture. He needed the picture. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how to snap the picture while still keeping the shotgun safely pointed at the thing that wanted to devour him. He backed up a couple more steps, and then tried to balance the shotgun with one arm while grabbing the camera with his free hand. The instant the barrel wavered, he changed his mind. Maybe he’d skip the photograph.