It doesn't understand what he's doing, why he's cradling that dead thing instead of running or screaming or fighting. Neal's actions don't make any sense to it.

It doesn't understand. And it doesn't care.

The creature crouches down on all fours, moving as naturally as it walked on two legs, an odd sort of grace and fluidity in its grotesque body. It was too tall, standing upright on those overly long legs, but now: now they're at eye level with each other.

It's a better vantage point from which to gore him. And even now, the thing takes its time approaching, as if it knows that the human's end is inevitable.