Two and a Half Weeks

by Tim W. Jackson

does it mean . . . 'breeders'?"

  "The mature ones." Gage kept his tone light. "The ones that've reached their full growth. They come out at night. To mate, lay their eggs."

  "And how big are these?" Gabi's voice barely a whisper.

  "Oh, as big as my hand, maybe a bit bigger. You're generally safe up high, though. They like it lower down."

  Gabi leaped onto the futon, face white. "And they are here? In this house? We must leave!" Her eyes darted around the room, alert for any sign of monster roaches.

  "Every place on the island has them." Gage waved a hand, nonchalant. "More a question of getting comfortable with them."

  "I will not!" Gabi yelled. "Not with . . . 'breeders.'"

  She crouched in the center of the futon, knees tight to her chest, eyes shifting from door to window, while Gage cleaned up the dinner mess. She refused to talk, or let him speak, straining for any hint of giant insects scuttling from cover. Eventually Gage fell asleep with every light in the room on - Gabi wouldn't let him turn any of them off - and slept soundly for the first time in a week.

  The next morning Gabi was still huddled mid-bed, evening gown rumpled, eyes wide.

  "Morning!" Gage said. "Sleep well?"

  "I did not sleep at all!"

  "Well, we have another busy day . . . unless you'd like to stay and nap while I'm at work."

  "No!" Gabi leapt to the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later in her bikini.

  Gage kept her busy all day, diving, grilling her about her plans for the island clinic, allowing her no time to rest or nap.

  On the second dive he pointed out a spiny lobster walking across the reef, all spikes and spindle legs and antenna. Gabi shrieked through her regulator, tried to bolt for the surface.

  "It was just a lobster," he said at lunch.

  "It looked like a breeder!"

  "You'd hate our mooring blocks, then," Gage said. "There's dozens of them out there."

  The neon sign in his head exploded as he said it. It was brilliant. The timing would be critical, and she'd have to be good and tired, but if he worked this right, he could be rid of Gabi forever in twenty-four hours, tops.

  Gabi could barely keep her eyes open riding home, scooter weaving as her weigh shifted every time she nodded off. When they reached the cottage, though, her arms clamped tight around Gage.

  "Must we go inside?"

  "Well, we can stay outside, but in half an hour the mosquitoes will suck us dry."

  Gage stepped through the door without looking back. After a moment Gabi followed, arms crossed, eyes darting, tiptoeing across the floor.

  She spent that night like she had the last, crouched mid-bed. Gage enjoyed a bowl of popcorn and a few innings of baseball before falling asleep, secure in the knowledge that her psychotic energy was focused solely on imaginary insects.

  The next morning Gabi looked years older. Gage again offered to let her stay and sleep, and she again bolted out the door ahead of him. That evening Gabi nodded off, jerked awake, then nodded off again. Gage let her sleep, curled fetal dead center in the futon. After an hour he rattled dishes in the kitchen sink. Gabi didn't budge. It was time for Phase Two.

  Gage eased out the door and collected his mask, fins, a mesh bag and a three-foot length of PVC. He didn't dare start the scooter, risk waking Gabi. Instead, he walked his bike down to the main road quiet as he could, then pedaled like mad for the lagoon where the island's boats were moored.

  He had stumbled across the baby lobsters weeks before, while checking the boat's mooring blocks. 'Bugs,' lobster hunters called them. Dozens of them crowded under the jumble of chained-together cement slabs they tied the boat to each evening. Biking in now, Gage laughed so hard he nearly rode into the ditch. It was so perfect. He would coax some hand-sized lobsters into his catch-bag, pedal home and drop them in bed with Gabi. If the shock didn't kill her, the panic would chase her from the island forever. With luck, the psychiatrist would get the therapy she needed, and then some. In Austria.

  It was risky, sure. He had to find the mooring on this moonless night. Hope the Marine Park patrol didn't catch him poaching lobster. Hope his splashing didn't attract any sharks - at night the lagoon was prime hunting ground for bulls and big hammers. But if he pulled this off, Gabi would be on the first flight in the morning.

  The lagoon stretched flat and still as Gage scuttled down the beach. No lights showed on shore or water. He knelt, strapped his dive compass to his wrist, risked his dive light long enough to take a quick heading toward where he knew the dive boat was, then waded into the dark water. When he was waist-deep, he slipped on his mask and fins and kicked, quiet and steady, out into the lagoon.

  This was crazy, part of his brain said. But another, louder part said this was no crazier than Gabi and her knives and her watching him sleep for hours, pillow in hand. Gage shoved his fears aside and swam. Ten minutes later the dark bulk of the dive boat loomed above him. From there he followed the mooring lines down.

  The young lobsters were already swarming out from under the cement blocks. They froze as Gage played his light across them. This would be easy. He would herd the lobsters one by one into the catch bag and be back scaring the bejesus out of Gabi within the hour.

  Gage stood in the chest-deep water, mesh bag wide in his left hand, poked a lobster with his stick. The lobster scuttled sideways. Gage prodded again, harder, herding it toward the waiting bag. The lobster snapped its tail and was gone, faster than Gage could see, disappearing backwards into the black beyond his light's thin beam. Lobsters moved backwards when frightened, then. He could use that.

  Gage chose another lobster. This one stood its ground, spines forward, antennae lashing. Gage slid the mesh bag behind it and jabbed the lobster between the eyes. It shot backwards, angled up over the top of the bag and away into the dark water. A different strategy, then.

  He stepped closer to the blocks, dropped his stick and light on the sand bottom. He would grab lobsters one at a time, stuff them into the bag before they had a chance to dart away. Gage worked his hand behind the nearest lobster and grabbed its spiny body tight as he could. The lobster slapped its tail, thrashed more than Gage thought possible. Pain seared though his hand. He dropped the lobster, blood flowing from a dozen cuts.

  Angry, worried about sharks, Gage scooped up his stick and swung the mesh bag wide with his other hand. He would herd them all towards the bag. He was bound to catch three or four. He would drop them on Gabi, scare her away, then make a lobster dinner with the little bastards!

  He scraped the stick across the nearest mooring block, sending two dozen half-sized lobsters skidding toward the catch bag. As if on cue, the lobsters launched themselves, ricocheted in two dozen different directions. All Gage knew for a moment was the lobsters flying, clouding his sight, bouncing into him, slicing his arms, legs and torso as they shot past.

  Then a spiny body shot up the front of his baggy board shorts.

  Gage clamped his right hand on his leg, pinning the lobster to his upper thigh. Two deep breaths. He pushed down, forcing the lobster back out the way it came. The lobster snapped its tail. Its pin-sharp feet dug into his leg. Gage's howl through his snorkel made a hollow, bugling sound.

  The lobster's spines jabbed through his shorts, tangled in the fabric, stabbed his already bleeding hand. Gage froze.

  Two more deep breaths.

  He had a spiny lobster up his shorts.

  The lobster could only go up.

  Gage tugged at the fitted waistband with his free hand. No good. Opening the shorts at the top and freeing the lobster, as he could have with elasticized swim trunks, wasn't an option.

  Gage stood in the chest-deep water, fighting panic. Small lobsters scuttled across his feet. The lobster in his shorts dug its feet deeper into his thigh, backing higher into its newfound refuge. Only one thing to do.

  With all thought of capturing lobsters or frightening Gabi gone, Gage fumbled for the drawstring at the front of his shorts. He would drop his short
s, free the lobster, then swim like hell for shore before his bleeding hands attracted every shark in the lagoon.

  Gage shifted his right hand. The lobster thrashed sideways. Gage snorkel-bugled again, squeezed the lobster tighter than ever, left hand clamped on his crotch. Pulse pounding in his ears. Gabi and her knives didn't seem so bad. His dive light, still lit and lying on the sand, showed the bottom seething with more of the bugs. Finned shadows wavered at the edge of the light. He was in a jam, all right.

  He could shuffle back to shore, maybe, lobster and all. Gage slid his left foot away from the blocks. All good. He moved his right leg. The lobster went wild, slapping its tail and lashing its body. It was all Gage could do to keep it in place. He froze again.

  A glance toward shore, hoping for a light, voices, someone he could call to for help. The beach was as dark and deserted as when he had crossed it. But it was early yet. Someone could still walk by, respond to his yell. As embarrassing as that would be, Gage saw no other choice.

  Baby lobsters still swarmed across his feet, though not as thick as before. Off hunting for the night. Or something was scaring them away. On the sand at his feet, the glow of his dive light faded, dimmed, went out.

  Gage Hoase stood chest-deep in the dark lagoon, hands clutched to lobster and crotch, praying a Marine Park patrol would find him before a shark did.

  He still stood there at dawn, shivering, as sunrise spread orange behind high cumulus clouds. The island's