They Came With The Snow Box Set {Books 1-2]

by Coleman, Christopher

  Stella scoffs, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “I’m here too! Why would I be able to do that?”

  “I’m sure you have your badge or whatever credentials you need to get inside the building.”

  Stella rolls her eyes and gives a quick quiver of her head, a signal that I have no idea what I’m talking about, which, in fairness, I don’t.

  James starts to laugh. “Inside the building? What are you talking about? That’s the plan? Have you looked around? It’s the middle of summer and there’s snow on the ground. The world is over. I want to get out of this town too, but what makes you think there’s anything for us across that bridge.” He holds an extended arm out to the shores of the opposite bank. “It’s all white as far as any of us can see. Snow and snow and more snow. And can’t you see them moving over there? Because I can. Hopping around like overgrown arctic rabbits, just lying in wait?”

  James starts to laugh harder now.

  “I think it’s a possibility. That’s all.”

  “Or it’s a possibility that the fucking world has come to an end, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives being hunted by ghosts? Except worse than ghosts, because even though they look like ghosts, they don’t pass through you when they touch you, they tear out your goddamn kidneys!”

  “That’s all now, James,” Tom says, his voice low and steady. “We all know the situation.”

  James begins to speak again and Tom snaps his head toward him; the diner owner’s face remains calm and comforting, but there’s a threat in his eyes that keeps James quiet.

  “If you have a plan, James,” I say without sarcasm, “I’m willing to hear it. I’m sure we all are.” I hold James’ stare until he shakes his head quickly and then turns and walks back to the truck in a huff.

  We all watch James until he reaches the vehicle and slides back into the passenger seat, and then Tom looks back to me and says, “So you want to leave Warren County. Sounds like an idea to me. How we gonna do that?”

  I nod toward the row of homes at the bottom of hill, which are a mixed tableau of modern-day mansions and sixties era ramblers; the latter, no doubt, belonging to older citizens who have lived on the coast for years and have had no interest in entertaining the barrage of offers thrown their way from wealthy investors. This is the place they’ve lived for most of their lives, the place where they’ve raised their families, made their livings, and intended to die. And it would seem at first glance, they realized their dreams in full.

  Despite the variance in home sizes, however, the lots all seem to be spaced rather evenly in a horseshoe shape around the curve of the shoreline, with only a few precious yards of space between them. “You see these waterfront homes here?” I ask rhetorically.

  Tom nods.

  “Every one of them has a pier, which means most of them have boats.”

  Tom nods and then squints in confusion. “Don’t see many boats though.”

  Tom’s right: most of the piers are empty, and the few boats that are still docked seem to mirror the conditions of the houses; which is to say, the mansions have yachts, and the dated homes have old fishing boats which, even from a distance, display their weathering and fading paint.

  “Don’t suppose you’ll have much luck with those yachts. No sensible person would leave keys to any beautiful boats like that inside. Probably do better with that Sea Nymph out yonder. ‘Bout, uh, ten houses down, I’d say. See it?”

  Tom points to a small fishing boat with a silver hull and pistachio green interior. Unlike the fancy yacht docked at the pier of the house beside it, the Sea Nymph has an outboard motor that, if it starts at all, will need every ounce of horsepower to move the five of us to the other side of the river. But we’re not entering a regatta; we just need something to get us across.

  “I think that might be the winner, Tom,” I say, and I can almost feel Stella’s incredulity bubbling beside me.

  “That thing?” Stella asks finally, her tone tempered, but I’m sure that’s only for Tom’s sake.

  “Do you have experience with boats, Dom?” Danielle asks.

  “Not really, but we’re not heading to Barbados. We just need to cross a mile, mile and a half of water. Still water at that. That’s one silver lining of these freezing temperatures—they slow down the current.”

  “Dom’s right,” Tom says, “don’t need to be a sea captain to take a motorboat across a river. And I’ve got plenty of hours on the water if need be.”

  “I think we might be needing,” Stella jabs, and then grins over at me.

  “But I would recommend that if this is to be our decision, we should get going with it. Whether it be that Nymph or sumpin’ else, we should get down there and see if we can get one to start. And even if you do get the Nymph going, it wouldn’t hurt to check the ignitions of some of those big boys either. If the keys are there, I think we’d all rather go in style.”

  “I think maybe only two of us should go down at first,” I say, “and then, if we can get one going, we’ll give a signal to whoever stays behind. Who’s with me? Danielle?”

  Danielle purses her lips and cocks her head, a gesture indicating flattery that she’d been recruited so quickly for the mission. She nods.

  “Shall we then?”

  “We shall.”

  I hop the guardrail and begin to make my way down the steep embankment that leads from the road and bottoms out into a small clump of tall trees that rise up above the freeway, naturally blocking the view of the houses from the road. Danielle follows right behind me.

  The footing on the hill isn’t treacherous exactly, but each step requires concentration; a sprained ankle wouldn’t be the end of the world at this point, but it wouldn’t be helpful either.

  And then, despite my focus on the descent, something above and behind me stops me in my tracks midway down the hill. Whether it was because of a faint sound, one that didn’t quite register consciously, or, perhaps, from some primitive, extra-sensory instinct of “being-watched,” I feel compelled to turn back to the bridge. And when I do, I see them instantly.

  There are at least a dozen of them, crabs, standing atop the side barrier of the bridge that faces us, their bodies hunched down like gargoyles, their bare white feet wedged between the bottom railing and the top of the concrete partition. Their knees knife straight out over the water, as if they’re poised to jump, and though they remain virtually motionless from their necks down, their eyes follow our every move, their heads shifting constantly, keeping Danielle and I in the proper frame at all times.

  I want to gag with fear, but I put a hand to my mouth to stifle any noticeable reaction. I turn back to the hill and see Danielle placing one foot carefully in front of the other. She hasn’t seen the crabs or my reaction, and I suddenly feel a responsibility to keep both from her.

  I return my focus to the hill, and the moment we reach the bottom and start towards the neighborhood, I keep her centered on the houses in front of us, feigning a bit of confusion about which home had the boat that we’ve decided is the best candidate for our journey. “I can’t remember if it was the eighth or ninth house.”

  “Follow me,” she says. “I’ve got it.”

  I fall in behind Danielle and follow her towards the house, jogging lightly as we go, and I can’t help but look back to the bridge one more time. I can see Tom and Stella watching us from their place next to the wall, only a few yards from where the crabs are on the opposite side, and I give them a thumbs up, which Tom alone acknowledges by holding up an open hand. I then swallow and look over to the line of crabs, which have now doubled in size atop the railing. They look like a murder of crows, or, perhaps more aptly, seagulls.

  We reach the tenth house from the bridge and I return my concentration to the mission, pushing through the picket gate and immediately venturing out to the back yard and onto the pier. The Sea Nymph bobs gently by the pier, meekly fighting against its mooring, and now that I’m only a foot or two from the small fishing boat, I can see that its ev
en older than I suspected—it’s thirty years old if it’s a day—and uglier than a rusty trash can. But all the parts seem to be in place, and, most importantly, it’s easily big enough to hold the five of us.

  My concern, however, rests on getting it started, which, even if we can, its dependability once we’re on the water is still a question. Getting stranded halfway across the Maripo River a year ago was an inconvenience; today it would be a death sentence.

  “Listen,” I say, studying the interior of the boat, “I think Tom may have had the right idea. I think we should see if one of these other, uh, shall we say more modern boats, has their keys in the ignition.”

  “Why? Is this old girl beneath you?”

  “I’m not confident she will stay beneath me, that’s the problem.”

  Danielle chuckles and then looks the boat over sympathetically. “I think it’s kind of beautiful. Reminds me of my dad.”

  “If that’s the case, I’m guessing you got your looks from your mom.”

  Danielle smiles and I can see the hint of a blush. “I meant we used to go fishing when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah well, just—”

  “Dom look!” The awe in Danielle’s voice can only mean one thing: she’s spotted the crabs.

  I look up, prepared to follow Danielle’s gaze to the bridge, but instead she’s begun walking toward the edge of the pier, pointing out toward the river with her mouth wide, her eyes unblinking.

  “Look at all the boats.”

  I hadn’t noticed them from the bridge—the wall had blocked not only the assembly of crabs, but also the view of the river wide. But I can see them now, dozens of boats, from catamarans to luxury yachts, their shapes fighting through the low fog and white backdrop of the atmosphere, adrift on the water.

  It all makes sense, of course. The day the snows came was a beautiful Sunday in May, which would have meant the boaters of this and every other waterfront community would have been out on the water, starting early in the morning and soaking up the day with fishing expeditions and drinking jaunts, not wasting a single moment so as to justify their hefty investments. Most of the boats weren’t docked at their piers right now because they were all stranded on the water, unmanned.

  “Do you think...I mean the sailors...that they all...” Danielle cuts herself off.

  “I don’t know about all, but I would think it safe to assume at least some. Let’s just try to see if we can get this thing started.”

  I pull out the choke and shift the throttle to the start position, and then I pull the starter rope once, slowly, and then a few more times until I feel the resistance from the starter. “I think it’s going to turn over,” I say, hoping to attract good fortune with my words.

  Danielle’s eyes are wide with suspense as she nods, spurring me to give the rope another tug.

  I pull the rope again, with force this time, and the motor spits for a moment, almost catching, before sputtering dead.

  “This is the one,” she says.

  It’s my turn to nod this time, and I take a giant breath before yanking the rope towards me with the full strength of my thighs and shoulders. The motor comes to life again and then retreats, but this time, just as it begins to die, it catches, barely, and then crescendos into a full growl.

  “Yes!”

  I push in the choke and turn the throttle to the ‘Run’ position, and then Danielle and I both stand in unison and begin waving our arms over our heads in the direction of Tom and Stella, signaling both our success with the boat and the urgency of the moment.

  Stella points to the truck—indicating she’ll need to get James first—and then she gives a thumbs up.

  Danielle and I drop our arms, and I can’t help but smile as I stare at the outboard motor, watching the propeller spin furiously above the water, fighting the rope line tying it to the pier. It’s a small win, and one that’s only momentary, since the boat may end up putting us in a worse spot than we are currently. But for now, I’ll take it.

  Danielle sighs and I can see that she is also looking at the boat, but the expression on her face lacks any levity. She looks up slowly and across to the bank on the opposite side of the river. “What if nothing has changed over there?” she asks, and then looks back to me. “And I don’t mean immediately on that side—I can see the snow from here—but, like, anywhere over there.”

  I look to the spot where Danielle was just staring, understanding the question she’s really asking is: What do we do if the world is over? I don’t have the answer to that question, so I answer the one she asked. “Then we’ll keep going. Eventually we’ll cross into a town that isn’t affected. It’s a big world. We’ll find it.”

  Danielle smiles weakly at this, and I’m relieved that she’s accepted the answer, even if only to be kind.

  I look to the place where Stella and Tom were just standing, but they’re now out of sight, presumably having walked back from the bridge to take a route not as severely sloped as the one Danielle and I took to get down to the water. This extra delay has me slightly worried, particularly about fuel, since I have no idea how much gas is in the motor currently, and now that I’ve gotten it started, I don’t want to risk adding more and conking the engine.

  But my concerns about the delay are assuaged when our three companions arrive moments later, with James beside them, he, it would seem, having licked his wounds from our earlier discussion. He and Stella are smiling wide and laughing.

  “Well done, guys,” Stella says. “It’s not my style exactly, but it’s running.”

  Tom looks at the boat suspiciously, “So we’re going with this one, huh?”

  I raise my eyebrows and shrug. “I think we’re lucky it started. So yeah, that would be my recommendation.”

  “You don’t think we should take a look in any of the others? Just to make sure?” Tom’s question isn’t loaded; just a straight-shooting inquiry.

  “I know how to work this one, but if you feel comfortable with one of those—”

  “Oh Jesus! Oh my jumping Jesus!”

  It’s James, and my misjudgement about the source of Danielle’s exclamation earlier is now, I assume, applicable to him. He’s looking up in terror at the crabs on the bridge, except now they’re no longer a couple dozen in number. They extend from one end of the span to the other, hundreds of demons perched upon the railing in a straight line of white, so uniform and compact that they’re almost unnoticeable, having assembled into what could easily be mistaken as some ghastly architectural design.

  Stella follows James’ eyes and gags, a reaction similar to the one I sustained earlier, though hers is a bit more dramatic as she leans over the water and dry heaves.

  Danielle has her hand across her mouth, staring in disbelief at the scene above us, and then, as if a thought suddenly popped into her head, looks over at me. She seems to notice my lack of an appropriate reaction. “You already saw them didn’t you? You saw them and you didn’t say anything.”

  I nod my confession. “I saw them earlier, when we were coming down the hill. But there were only a dozen or so of them then.”

  “There’s gotta be hundreds now,” Tom says, his voice distant and awed, so different from the typical Tom cadence. “You can’t even count ‘em there’s so many.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. “This doesn’t change anything. They’re just watching us. Like they always do. I think if we stay away from them, keep a wide berth, then...I don’t know.” And I don’t know; it’s the beginning statement of wishful thinking. “Let’s just go.”

  “Why are there so many?” James asks, still frozen in posture. “Where did all of the people come from?”

  “They’re not people,” Stella replies.

  “I mean the people who turned into those things after the snow. Where did they all come from? And why are there so many of them on the bridge?”

  “I don’t know, James,” I say, now ushering the first of my passengers—Tom—into the boat. “There’s lots of people in the world.
But we should get going. If there are any of those things in the immediate area, on this side of the bridge, we’re going to be fish in a barrel.”

  “But there’s so many more of them now. Remember back when it first happened? There weren’t this many then. I was out in the snows for two weeks after the blast, alone, hiding in houses and stores, and even then I only saw them every few days. Now they’re everywhere. They were all along the road the entire drive here. And, Jesus Christ, there’s a thousand on the bridge. Are you telling me all of these people were out on the bridge when the snow fell? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  There’s a telling silence that permeates the group, and no one dares attempt an answer to the question, mainly for fear that we’ll discover one doesn’t exist. But I think it’s to do with the melting snow. I think these crabs have always existed, and now, with the rising temperatures, they’re coming out more often.

  “James,” I say, “we can explore these and other questions later. Now we have to go.”

  Danielle and Stella quickly board the boat, and I step in behind them, eager to get away from this pier and on our way to search for the world that left us.

  James never takes his eyes from the bridge, but he finally begins to back his way toward the edge of the pier and the boat, and Tom has to jump up and grab him at the waist just a step before he collapses into the freezing water. James is stunned back to the moment and quickly finds his senses and his seat in the boat, though his stare immediately returns to the perched crabs.

  With everyone now aboard, I unmoor the craft and shift the motor up slowly, making a smooth departure from the pier. Within seconds, I’m steering the small boat across the river towards the far shore.

  The eyes of my passengers are still riveted on the bridge, which now towers above us on the starboard side, but my attention is straight ahead, locked on the obstacle course of stray boats in our path, the fog shrouding some of them almost entirely.

  Some of the vessels have been anchored and now bob listlessly on the waves, waiting patiently to resume the purpose for which they were made, to skid the waters at the command of their owners. But others are simply drifting freely with the current, desultory crafts of all sizes that have been abandoned by their captains and now search hopelessly for a new master. There’s no telling from how far away the skeleton ships have come—it’s been months now since the blast—and my imagination takes over, envisioning the world at large. What must the oceans and seas across the globe look like if the event has indeed affected the entire planet? The image is unfathomable, too big to think about right now, and I force myself to turn back to the issue immediately in front of me.