by R. L. Stine
Georgie bumped up to Joe and sniffed his khaki shorts, making loud snuffling sounds.
Joe laughed and jumped back. “Hey, stop! That tickles! You have a crazy dog, Laura!”
I bent down. “Georgie, what’s wrong? Come over to me.”
He pressed his wet snout against my arm and sniffed hard. Then he began to sniff the legs of my jeans.
To my surprise, he let out an angry growl.
His back stiffened. He backed up, glaring angrily at Joe and me. Then he pulled back his lips and bared his teeth.
“Georgie—are you crazy? What’s wrong, boy?” I cried. I turned to Joe. “He’s the most gentle dog in the world. Really.”
Joe took a step back. “Someone forgot to tell him that!”
“Easy, boy,” I said to Georgie, still crouched down. “Easy now. What’s wrong, boy?” I asked softly, soothingly.
The dog gnashed his teeth and began to snarl. Frightening, harsh growls from deep in his throat.
He lowered his head, eyes wild now, glaring up at us.
“Easy, boy … ” I whispered. My legs suddenly felt rubbery and weak. “Georgie … it’s me…. It’s me….”
Baring his teeth, Georgie opened his mouth in a terrifying growl. His fur bristled. His whole body tensed—and he leaped to attack.
I didn’t back away. I didn’t move. I tried not to show how afraid I was.
Georgie stopped inches from me, snapping his jaws.
“Easy … easy,” I whispered. “Good dog. You’re a good dog.”
Looking up, I glimpsed Joe, his face tight with fear. He had backed away to the edge of the clearing.
“Laura … ” he called. “Get up. Get away from him.”
The dog snarled furiously. His sides heaved in and out as he breathed, wheezing noisily. White drool ran down the front of his open snout.
“Good dog … good boy … Georgie, it’s me…. It’s me….”
I couldn’t crouch there any longer. My legs were trembling too hard. I couldn’t hold myself up.
With a cry, I toppled backward. I landed hard. Sitting on the grass. I was practically eye to eye with the snarling creature.
His jagged teeth were inches from my face. Fat globs of drool ran down his open mouth and splattered on the grass.
“Please—” I cried. I raised both hands as if to shield myself from the attack.
Joe came rushing forward. “Get away! GET! GET!” he shouted. He swung both arms wildly and screamed at the top of his lungs.
To my surprise, Georgie stopped snarling. He gazed up at Joe and uttered a pained whimper. He appeared to deflate. All of his muscles went soft.
As I stared in surprise, the dog lowered his head and turned away from us. His tail was tucked tightly between his legs, and his ears went flat against his head.
Whimpering, he slunk away.
“Georgie? Georgie?” I choked out. I sat on the ground, frozen. My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t swallow. My whole body shuddered.
“He’s never acted that way before,” I said, hugging myself tightly, trying to stop myself from shaking.
Joe helped me to my feet. “That was really your dog? What was his problem?” he cried.
“I—I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he—he smelled something,” I choked out.
“Smelled something on us?” Joe asked. “Like what?”
I shook my head. My heart stopped thudding against my chest. I started to feel a little more normal. “Beats me,” I said. “Maybe he smelled something on my jeans.”
Joe squinted at me. “Your jeans?”
“Maybe he smelled something from the animal hospital on them. I was just there. The hospital always makes Georgie nervous—ever since his operation.”
I told Joe about the time Georgie swallowed the thirty-six cents.
Joe continued to study me. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He appeared to be thinking hard. “What were you doing at the animal hospital?”
I pulled a spider off the sleeve of my T-shirt. “You have to promise not to tell my dad,” I said.
Joe laughed. “I don’t know your dad.”
“Well, you have to promise not to tell anyway,” I insisted. “I just went to see someone there. Someone I could talk to. About things.”
Joe nodded. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hope your dog is okay,” he said finally. “I’m—I’m glad I know where you live.” He started walking toward the woods. Then he broke into a run.
The party, I thought. With all the fright over Georgie, I forgot about inviting him. “Hey, Joe—” I raced after him.
“Got to hurry!” he shouted back. “My parents hate when I’m late for dinner. Catch you later!” He vanished into the trees.
I didn’t even get his phone number, I thought. How stupid is that?
I heard the crunch of leaves. Yes! He’s coming back, I thought. I’ll ask him to the party and get his phone number.
I stared and waited, but Joe didn’t appear.
I listened. Silence now—and then a voice. A man’s voice.
I walked deeper into the woods, following the sound.
Something dropped to the ground with a crash—and I gasped. I moved in closer—and saw it.
The front of a Jeep. It was painted green and brown, camouflage colors. It blended in with the trees perfectly.
An army truck, I thought.
I took a few steps closer. Now I could see the entire vehicle. It wasn’t an army truck. It was a large, covered Jeep with a trailer behind it, also painted in camouflage.
The Jeep had huge tires and heavy bumpers. It was parked in the path that curved toward Luker Pond.
The trailer was nearly as big as a moving van, with the top poking up into the trees.
I stepped cautiously closer. The driver’s door on the Jeep was hidden by a tree trunk, so I couldn’t see if anyone was inside.
As I drew closer, I heard a heavy thump thump.
Startled, I flattened my back against a tree.
Thump thummmmp.
Something in the trailer was beating against the trailer’s side. Or kicking it. An animal.
I gasped when I heard the cry. A pained cry.
Thump thump thummmp.
It kicked again, uttering another low cry.
I stopped and stared, listening to the creature struggle.
Why was this vehicle out here in the middle of the woods?
And why was there an animal howling inside it?
I circled around the back of the trailer—and saw two men. Both wore blue denim overalls and pale blue workshirts. They were sitting on a large rock, chatting and chewing away on long submarine sandwiches.
One of them swatted a horsefly on top of his head. His head was shaved, completely bald. The other man was very fat and had a blue baseball cap pulled down over long, straggly coppery hair.
I started to walk up to them. I wanted to ask what they had in the truck.
But then I saw their rifles, propped against a tree trunk behind them.
I pulled back. A chill ran down my spine. It wasn’t hunting season. Why did they have rifles?
THUMMMMP.
The thing in the truck gave a powerful kick.
I don’t like this, I decided. I ducked behind a fat tree trunk before they saw me. I pressed against the rough bark and listened to their conversation.
“Why are we catching these things?” the bald one said.
“Beats me. Maybe the boss is starting a zoo,” his partner replied.
I held my breath, listening.
“Finish eating,” the fat one said. “We’ve got to get this thing out of here before he kicks a hole in the trailer.”
“If anyone sees us, it’ll be a little hard to explain,” his partner agreed.
“Hey, you’d look good in prison gray!” the other one said, laughing.
Prison! They were doing something illegal.
They climbed to their feet.
Please open the t
railer, I thought. Open it so I can see what’s inside. I peeked out from behind the tree to watch them.
They didn’t open the trailer. They picked up their rifles and tossed them into the Jeep. Then they climbed inside and drove away.
I waited until they were out of sight. Then I took off for home.
My mind whirled with everything that I had seen in the woods these past few days. The birds, the bats, the ugly finger, the flickering lights—and now these men.
The lights must have come from the truck. That much I could figure out. And the men could have upset the bats and the birds.
I’ve got to talk to Dad, I thought. I’ve got to tell him about those men and the rifles.
I ran all the way to the backyard. I started shouting halfway across the lawn. “Dad? Are you home? Dad?”
I charged into the house.
“Dad?”
No reply.
No note on the fridge.
I wheeled around and tore back outside to the shed. I pounded on the door with my fist. “Dad? It’s me! Open up!”
Silence.
“Dad?”
I grabbed the door handle and started to pull.
“Oh!” I let out a gasp when I heard a loud click. Right over my head.
I looked up—and stared at a camera. A little black camera over the door. The kind of security camera they have in banks and stores.
It clicked again.
This is sick, I thought. So sick. I can’t believe my dad put a camera up there. He has totally lost it.
I forced back a sob and backed away from the shed door.
I can’t take this anymore, I thought. I have to see what’s inside.
I ran back to the house. I found the key in the little cup in the kitchen and carried it outside.
I stopped at the shed door.
Should I really do this? The key shook in my trembling hand. I backed away from the door.
Click.
A wave of disgust washed over me as the camera took my picture again and again.
I pulled open the padlock. Took a deep breath.
And stepped inside the shed.
“Whew!” The sharp aroma of alcohol and other chemicals stung my nostrils. I clicked on the ceiling light. And glanced around.
Where were the animals? The back wall had metal cages stacked to the ceiling. But the cages were all empty, most of the doors hanging open.
I crossed to the worktable. One side was cluttered with jars and bottles. An endless, clear tube, filled with a bright red liquid, snaked like a Crazy Straw over the table and emptied into a large bottle.
Hypodermic needles lay scattered on the rest of the table. Long ones and short ones. Some empty. Others filled with a pink fluid.
An electrical generator hummed quietly in one corner. Metal dishes were stacked on top of it. An open tool kit bulged with wrenches and pliers. Next to that stood my father’s desk, and behind it, cartons of books and papers, stacked three high, against the wall.
My eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. Nothing unusual here.
I walked over to the desk and saw a blue binder in the center. A desk lamp was aimed down at it. I leaned over the desk and studied the binder.
Did this have Dad’s secret in it? Was this the record of what Dad was working on?
My hand trembled as I opened it. The pages were filled with typed formulas in blue and red ink.
After a long paragraph the word FAILURE had been typed in large letters. After another long paragraph the word DIED had been typed in red.
“The animals don’t respond.” This was underlined on the next page.
And then I read these chilling words: “If we kill them, we will learn more. How many can we kill?”
“Oooh,” I moaned. Those words made me feel dizzy.
Dad was killing animals. This was too much. It was too much for me to handle.
I backed out of the shed. I closed the door and snapped the lock.
“I have to get away from here,” I said out loud.
I had to go somewhere quiet and peaceful. Somewhere I could think.
A hummingbird buzzed above a tall reed that swayed over the pond. I raised my camera to my eye. The hummingbird darted to the water.
Click. I snapped the shutter. Then I lowered the camera around my neck and watched the hummingbird flit across the water.
Clouds drifted over the lowering sun, casting deep evening shadows through the trees. Every few minutes I felt cold raindrops on my head and shoulders.
But I didn’t care. I had to come to the woods. I had to be here, where I felt at home. At peace. In the gentle quiet, surrounded by trees, the water shimmering darkly in front of me, I could catch my breath and think.
I turned and saw the tall, fat fern leaves shake on the other side of the pond. Must be an animal in there, I decided. I raised my camera. Come on, I silently urged. Show yourself. I need to finish my project.
I held my breath as a raccoon poked out from the fern leaves. Yes!
I didn’t wait for him to come all the way to the water. I clicked once. Twice.
Gotcha.
My mood started to lift.
But then I heard voices behind me, from the other side of the path. And a loud thunk thunk.
The raccoon darted away. I spun around. Took a few steps towards the sounds. And saw the camouflaged Jeep and its trailer.
The two men walked along the path up ahead of the trailer. Their rifles rested against their shoulders.
I placed my hands around my camera. Then slowly raised it to my face.
I’ll take a few pictures of them, I decided. And show them to Dr. Carpenter.
I stepped out onto the path. Aimed it at the two men. And clicked off two quick shots.
The snap of the shutter echoed in the quiet woods.
The men spun around quickly. One of them pointed. “Hey—!” he called.
I knew I couldn’t outrun them. I had to talk to them. “Hi,” I said, trying to sound calm. “What’s going on?” I motioned to the Jeep and trailer.
Thunk thunk thunnnnnk.
The men glanced at one another and didn’t answer.
The fat one tugged at his cap and studied me. “You live around here? How come you’re in the woods?” he asked. He had a hoarse, raspy voice, as if he had a sore throat or maybe smoked too much.
“It’s not a good time to be in the woods,” his partner said coldly. He had silvery gray eyes that reminded me of ice.
“I’m … working on a science project,” I said. My hand trembled as I raised the camera to show them.
They both glared at the camera. “What are you taking pictures of?” the bald one asked.
“Plants and animals,” I replied.
Thummmp thunnk.
“What kind of animals?” the bald one asked, frowning.
“Animals that use the pond,” I said. “You know. Chipmunks … rabbits … raccoons …”
They both nodded.
I stared at the rifles on their shoulders. They knew what I was looking at, but they didn’t say anything.
“You explore the woods a lot?” the one in the baseball cap asked finally.
I nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“See anything strange?” he asked.
“No. Not really,” I replied. I was dying to ask them what they were doing. And what they had in the trailer.
But before I could get the question out, they raised their rifles to their waists. And then they came at me, eyes so cold, expressions so hard.
Gripping their rifles, they moved quickly. Walking heavily toward me.
No chance to run.
“What—what are you going to do?” I whispered.
“You’d better give us the camera,” the bald one said, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Excuse me?” I gaped at him.
“We’d better have that film,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind!” I cried.
But his
partner moved fast. He grabbed the camera and tugged it off my neck.
“Hey—give me that!” I shouted. “I need that! That’s mine!” I made a grab for it—and missed.
He snapped open the camera and pulled out the film cartridge. He yanked the film from the cartridge, exposing it to the sunlight. Ruining it.
Then he handed the camera back.
“You have no right to do that.” I scowled angrily.
They turned and walked to the Jeep, carrying their rifles at their waists.
“What’s in the trailer?” I shouted. “What’s kicking so hard in there?”
They exchanged glances. The bald one swung his rifle onto his shoulder.
“It’s a deer,” his partner said.
“Yeah, it’s a deer,” the bald one repeated, his silvery eyes flashing. “We’ve got a sick deer in there.”
“But—the rifles—” I blurted out.
“Tranquilizer guns,” the one in the cap said.
“We’re taking this deer to be treated,” the bald one said. “He’s in pretty bad shape. Something bad going on here.”
“You should stay out of the woods for a while,” his partner warned. “Yeah. And don’t take pictures. It’s dangerous.”
Was he threatening me?
I watched them climb into the Jeep. The bald one started the engine. The Jeep roared and sent a cloud of black exhaust up to the treetops. Then it rumbled away, the trailer bouncing heavily behind it.
I stood in the path, waiting to calm down. I clenched and unclenched my fists at my sides.
“Those two creeps are liars,” I said out loud.
That wasn’t a sick deer in that trailer. How could a sick deer kick that hard if it was tranquilized?
Those men were definitely lying.
I jumped over a jagged, white rock and started along the path to home. I had walked only a few steps when I saw a little creature, half-hidden by a thick tuft of grass.
It looked like a newborn pig. It had tiny, round black eyes and a cute pink snout.
It can’t be a baby pig, I thought. There aren’t any pigs in these woods. I leaned down to get a closer look. Are you a wild pig? You must be some kind of runt!
The little creature let out a squeak—and jumped into my hand.
I cried out in surprise. I nearly dropped it.