"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 Wagon Train on television when they got home. "What'd you do?" he asked, looking away from the set. 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 somebody has to." 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 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. 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! 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.

No. That's why he was out here, risking a great big bite mark in his throat. If he didn't get proof, he'd have wasted the effort. He needed some some kind of reward for all of the forthcoming foot pain and nightmares. kind of reward for all of the forthcoming foot pain and nightmares.

He let out a snort of laughter. The answer was obvious. He rested the barrel of the shotgun on one of the tree branches, keeping it pointed at the monster. After a moment of hesitation to make sure the branch didn't snap under the shotgun's weight, he picked up the camera with his left hand and peered through the viewfinder.

Say cheese...

He snapped a quick photograph. It might not have been a very good one, but he didn't want to get greedy. He let go of the camera and clutched the shotgun in both hands again.

Now what?

He could shoot the monster. Blow open its chest, get photographs of its corpse from every possible angle, then bring the authorities back here. He'd be world famous. The coolest kid in Orange Leaf. Maybe the coolest kid in Ohio.

The monster lowered its hands from its face.

No, he wasn't going to kill it. You didn't kill something like this. It could be the last of its kind.

Or it could be one of thousands, which were circling him at this very moment. That was a new spin on the situation that Toby hadn't considered. He nervously glanced around at the trees around him, but there didn't seem to be any reinforcements.

The monster was no longer whimpering, though it still looked frightened. And sad.

He couldn't kill this thing, even if it weren't a scientific discovery. He'd been the one to invade its territory. And it had let him go when it had the chance to kill him.

Toby lowered the shotgun. One act of mercy for another.

Of course, he kept his arm tense, ready to bring the shotgun right the hell back up if the monster rushed at him. But it didn't. It just looked at him.

"Uh, sorry about that," said Toby.

The monster did not acknowledge his apology. Toby felt kind of silly for having said it. He couldn't exactly gauge the monster's facial expression, especially not with all those teeth, but it almost seemed to look grateful.

Did it live out here all by itself?

How old was it?

It was far from cute, but Toby couldn't help feeling sorry for it...not that he would hesitate to blow its head off if necessary.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Do you...talk?" Toby asked. "Do you speak English?" Toby was 99.9 percent sure that the monster didn't talk and that he was asking a very stupid question, but if the monster did did talk, it would be much stupider for them to stand here staring at each other when they could be communicating through spoken language. talk, it would be much stupider for them to stand here staring at each other when they could be communicating through spoken language.

The monster didn't respond. It just kept looking at him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Toby promised, hoping that his tone of voice would get his message across. "If you stay where you are, I won't do anything with the gun." He patted the barrel to show the monster what he was talking about. Then he decided that patting the barrel of the gun was more of an intimidating gesture than a reassuring one, and quickly shook his head. "I won't shoot this."

There was no evidence that the monster knew what he was talking about. But at least it wasn't charging at him.

Toby patted his chest. "Toby," he said. "I'm Toby." He said it more slowly, enunciating as well as he could. "Toby."

It was hard to tell with its sunken eyes, but the creature seemed to squint a bit. Toby had no idea what that meant.

He was starting to relax. This was probably a bad idea, considering that there was a savage beast standing not too far from him. Toby was pretty sure that he'd pushed his luck as far as it was going to go in this particular situation, and that his best course of action would be to walk away from the monster while it was relatively sedate.

"Good-bye," he told it. "I guess I'll...see you around or something."

Now came the tricky part: turning his back on it.

Toby backed up a few steps, keeping his eye on the monster, but he knew he couldn't watch both the uneven path and the monster at the same time. He turned around and slowly walked away, imagining his ears as finely tuned robotic instruments, capable of hearing the slightest movement behind him. If the monster exhaled, he'd hear it. If the monster blinked louder than necessary, he'd hear it. If the monster did anything at all...

He heard it.

He spun back around, withstanding the urge to aim the shotgun. The monster took another step toward him. It didn't look like it was trying to be aggressive or threatening-it was simply following him. Still, nonaggressive or not, Toby couldn't have a monster following him home.

"Shoo!" he said. "Go away!"

The monster stood in place. It clicked two of its talons together, and Toby felt some fresh perspiration run down his back.

"Don't follow me," Toby told it. "I'm going home. You can't come."

The monster licked its lips.

Shit.

Should he run? Should he blow a hole in its face? Should he wet himself and perish?

None of those sounded good. Well, the running part sounded good, but not on a sprained ankle.

"Stay," Toby warned. "Staaaay." God, he hoped that the monster didn't think he was being condescending.

He waited for a few moments, until he decided that the monster wasn't going to keep moving toward him. He turned his back on it once again and resumed walking. Robot ears...robot ears... Robot ears...robot ears...

He made it a few steps before he heard some rustling, but when he spun around the monster was still standing there. Just normal forest rustling. No imminent peril. He returned his attention to the path ahead.

There were seven more false alarms before the monster was finally out of sight. Toby walked home, feeling relieved to still be uneaten...and absolutely exhilarated by his encounter.

CHAPTER FIVE.