THE GROUND WAS HARD TO RUN ON. IT WAS IN THE middle of a swamp and to call it solid was not exactly accurate. It was so mushy that Emmet’s feet sometimes sank up to his ankles. Emmet thought about trying to climb a tree, but there weren’t many he saw that would offer much protection from a creature that could probably leap ten feet in the air and climb whatever it wanted. He also suspected Dr. Catalyst hadn’t left a bazooka lying around.

The only thing he could think to do was to put as much distance between the barn and himself as he could. Emmet ran along the fence until he came to a corner, then followed it until he came to another corner. He tried to keep an estimate of how much time he had, but quickly lost track. He just knew it wasn’t much.

As Emmet ran, he looked for any kind of weapon to use against the Swamp Cat: a club, a rock, anything that would give him a fighting chance. But he didn’t see so much as a stick.

In fact, there were a lot of tree stumps near the fence line — Dr. Catalyst’s obvious handiwork. So much for playing fair. There was no way for Emmet to climb a tree and jump over the fence. He probably would have broken both of his ankles on the way down anyway.

Emmet tried scooping out some of the mushy ground at the bottom of the fence, to see if he could tunnel under it, but it seemed to be sunk into the ground a long way. There wouldn’t be enough time for him to dig out.

Emmet trotted along the fence, getting more and more desperate as he went. Then, a few yards down from the corner, he saw a cypress branch lying on the ground. It was about five feet long and three inches in diameter, with a slight curve at one end. When he picked it up it felt sturdy. Well, that was something.

Then he remembered the nail.

Emmet pulled it out of his back pocket and stared at it. It was only about four inches long, but it was sharp. He had a stick and a nail. And any second now a wild, hungry beast was going to burst through the brush and eat him. He didn’t like his chances. How was he going to make a weapon?

Emmet looked down at his shoes. They were covered in mud and goop, but he realized they had what he needed. As quickly as he could, he removed the shoelace from his right sneaker. He placed the nail alongside the cypress stick, so about three inches of it was sticking out past the end. Emmet then wrapped the shoestring around the stick, so the nail jutted out like the head of a spear. He tied it on as tightly as he could.

If he weren’t so desperate, he probably would have laughed at how ridiculous it was. The Swamp Cat would probably bite the stick in half with one chomp. Then one more chomp and Emmet Doyle would go the way of the stick.

He looked out over the grounds. He had to pick a place to make a stand. Emmet backed up against the chain-link fence, right next to one of the support poles. Keeping the fence at his back would give him a better chance of staying on his feet longer. If he could poke the Swamp Cat a few times with his mighty nail spear, maybe it would get discouraged and go eat Dr. Catalyst instead. That would really make his day.

The sun was rising, and the swamp was starting to warm up. Emmet felt hot, sweaty, and tired. Without a bath, he was sure he was giving off all kinds of scents for the animal chasing him. Might as well put up a sign that said MEAL HERE. He wiped his brow with his forearm. It had to have been ten minutes. Where was this thing?

Emmet didn’t have to wait long for an answer. From somewhere in front of him, still hidden in the underbrush, came the terrible cry he had grown to fear and loathe.

The Swamp Cat was here.