“Dominic, they’re coming!”
The words sound like they’ve come from inside of a dream, but I recognize the voices and it brings me back to the moment.
They’re coming.
I force myself to sit up, the icy water dripping from my hair and shoulders, puddling around me in the bottom of the boat. I’m shivering so badly now that I can barely keep my balance, even when sitting. The water that saturates my clothes is smothering, choking the breath from my lungs, but I fight the sensation, and, in spite of myself, knowing what I’m likely to see when I open my eyes, I turn back toward the horde that I assume is still approaching.
Before I look, however, I note from somewhere deep in my mind that there haven’t been any more gunshots, and I take this as a good sign. But it could just mean they’ve dived too deep, yet another indicator that they’re learning on the fly, that they’re acquiring the skills necessary to survive in this new world that they now govern.
Or maybe Danielle is just out of shots.
I open my eyes and scan the water for the oncoming gang of white crabs, but now I can’t see even one. “Where are they?” I whisper, hoping to convey the question to the group on the Answered Prayer, a group that is steadily drifting away from me. I try again, louder this time, but my teeth are chattering to the point that I can’t hold my mouth open long enough to form a word.
“Dom!”
The call of my name sounds distant, and I look up to see that the idling Sea Nymph has now drifted at least thirty yards away from the cruiser. But the crabs are still nowhere to be seen, and I recognize that perhaps a window of opportunity has opened for me. Without another thought, I crawl over to the outboard motor and climb up to the stern seat. I’m so cold that I can’t bring my right hand to the throttle, so I use my left hand to guide it there, finally landing my fingers on the thick handle. I push the throttle forward slightly and the boat starts to move forward, away from the cruiser.
I grab the tiller and swing the boat out a few yards and then start to turn it, steering the boat back towards the cruiser, my shivering so bad that I have to readjust the course by the second.
But I get into a groove and I’m headed toward the yacht now, slowly, fearing that my lack of control with the steering might lead me directly into the yacht’s hull. Only ten yards or so now from the cruiser, I throttle back and let the boat’s momentum drift me towards the yacht.
And then they appear.
I first see the dome of a bald white head rising from beneath the water, followed by the thing’s shoulders and chest. And then a face appears, breaching the surface like some marine humanoid, corpse-like in its appearance, with only its eyes showing signs of life. Wet, blinking orbs of black.
Three more crabs follow, appearing beside the first on both sides, then a dozen more, and soon there is a procession of crabs lined up almost shoulder to shoulder, treading water, dividing the river between the Sea Nymph and the Answered Prayer. There have to be thirty bodies separating us. Maybe more.
I look up desperately to my companions who are all still standing on the swim platform, staring at the water, mesmerized by the scene of division below them.
“Jesus, God,” James says.
The crabs are all facing in my direction, with their backs to the cruiser, but there’s no guarantee they won’t be turning to them soon. “Gggggett....uuuupstairs,” I say, closing my eyes and motioning with my head for the group to flee to the upper deck of the boat.
“How are you going to get on?” Danielle asks. There is despair in her voice.
I shake my head. “I...I’ll bbbeee fine. Just fffffind the kkkeys and...” I take a deep breath and steady my thoughts and my voice. “They’re fffocused on mme now. I don’t know why, bbbut it’s a good thing. I’ll lllead them away from here.”
The boat has continued to drift forward and I’m now only about ten feet from the cruiser, with the crabs maybe five feet from me. Another minute or two and they’ll be able to grab the gunwale and board the boat. I have to go now.
“Wait,” Tom says, and I see him rush from the swim platform and up the stairs toward the cockpit. In what couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds, he returns with a large plastic bag, sealed flat, about the size of a pizza box. “Catch.”
Tom grabs the corner of the bag and flings it like an Olympic hammer thrower across the span of water. The bag clips the front nose of the Sea Nymph and tumbles inside. I look down and see that it’s a vacuum-sealed package of what appears to be towels and blankets.
“You gotta strip down, Dom. Get outta them clothes. Pants too. You’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t get dry. There should be a spare jacket in there, but you’re gonna have to dry out them pants somehow before putting ‘em back on.”
I nod my thanks to Tom, and I feel like I want to cry. That toss has likely saved my life.
I unzip the bag immediately and take out a blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders. I’ll strip naked later. I need this blanket now.
I sit back down on the seat and wrap the blanket tight, and then, knowing my time is up, I grab the tiller and turn the throttle just a hair, just enough to start it floating off in the opposite direction of the Answered Prayer.
I barely move the boat to start—I just want to make sure the crabs behind me follow, and as I turn back toward them, I can see that they’ve started their encroachment. I look up and catch the eyes of Tom, and then Danielle, and I nod solemnly.
I continue to lead the crabs slowly, making sure not to rush, knowing that once I’m far enough away from the cruiser, I’ll speed off into the distance and leave these white bastards in the middle of the river to drown.
Chapter 3
I reach the bank on the opposite side of the Maripo River Bridge, several miles east of where the Answered Prayer sits anchored, and I pull the Sea Nymph up beside a pier that juts out from a riverside seafood restaurant called the Clam Bake. It’s one of the more notable restaurants in the area—known more for its atmosphere than its food—but today it looks like it was abandoned some time during the middle of the last century. A rope sits limply atop the pier and I grab it, using my other hand to steady the boat against one of the pilings. I tie the thin rope to the cleat hitch of the boat, creating a knot that I’m sure sends sailors rolling in their graves. But I have more pressing matters than Boy Scout knots, and the only thing I can think about now is getting dry. I can no longer feel my fingers. Or toes. Or any part of my body, really.
I crawl atop the pier with the effort of a dying soldier, collapsing onto the wooden planks in exhaustion. The blanket wrapped around my shoulders is now completely soaked, clinging to me like some desperate starfish, and certainly doing nothing other than weighing me down at this point.
My entire body is numb, and the thought of taking off my clothes and exposing myself to the elements further seems insane. But Tom was right, it’s what I need to do. Some parts of my body may already be dead, irreparable, but I’ll die for sure if I don’t get dry soon.
And there isn’t much time to waste. I led the crabs away from the group, but I have to get back to the yacht as quickly as possible. Unless they can find a spare set of keys, my friends (it’s the first time I’ve thought of them this way) will have no way of getting off the water. They have enough shelter and supplies to keep warm for the time being, but that won’t last forever, and there’s no guarantee they’re safe from the rest of the monsters still perched atop the bridge.
Thankfully, the crabs—the ones prohibiting me from boarding the yacht—fell for my pied piper routine and followed me for what must have been, by my calculations, at least a mile and a half. They eventually tired and began to lag behind, and then they stopped entirely before disappearing beneath the surface. I have no way of knowing for sure if they drowned—I suppose they could have swum under water and made their way to shore—but in any case, I feel confident my friends are safe from those particular beasts for now.
But there are so many other
s. I think of the bridge barrier and shudder at the image that appears in my mind, hundreds of crabs still watching down on the water below.
I force myself to stand and then stumble down the length of the pier, holding the wet blanket tight against my soldiers. At the base of the pier is a low, waist-high gate that leads onto a patio of tables where the al fresco dining took place at the Clam Bake, no doubt a festive scene only months ago.
Beyond the patio, I spot a single glass door that has been opened wide and propped in place by what appears to be a small potted palm, though the snow on the leaves makes it difficult to know for sure. I instantly interpret the open door as a positive sign, since anyone who may have turned while inside the restaurant almost certainly would have found his or her way out by now.
Despite this logic, I enter the Clam Bake cautiously, stopping just across the threshold, attempting to take in as much detail as I can from there. If there is danger inside, my hope is that I’ll be able to detect it before it’s too late.
Not seeing any immediate threats, I slide the palm all the way outside with my foot and let the door close. I walk to the first of the bar tables and unload the wet blanket from my shoulders, flopping it onto the flat, wooden surface like a sack of flour. I then begin to unpeel the rest of the wet clothes from my body, removing the top garments first—coat, sweater, a pair of shirts—slapping each soaked item onto a different tabletop. As I make my way through the layers of clothing, each item suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me, and I have to fight the feelings of panic as the garments rise past my neck and resist their final removal above my head, sucking at my face before releasing me to the air.
After I remove my undershirt, which is just as soaked as the top-layer shirt, I sit on the edge of a chair and begin to take off the bottom section of clothes, beginning with my shoes and socks. I have not a single feeling in either foot, and I’m afraid to look at them once the socks are removed, fearing some type of black mass of flesh will be staring up at me. But they’re only red, and I have hope that total frostbite hasn’t occurred.
Next, with great effort, I remove my pants, and instantly I begin squeezing my bare thighs and calves, kneading them like dough, trying to get the blood flowing so I can feel my legs again.
Finally, I pull off my underwear and drape it across a chair back, and then I remember the water-tight package of towels still in the motor boat, as well as the remaining change of clothes also inside. I was so eager to get to shelter that I forgot to bring them in with me, and the thought of going back outside is suddenly overwhelming. I sit naked on the chair, panic setting in, staring at the back door of the Clam Bake like it leads through to the gates of Hell.
I have to relax. Get dry. Look for supplies. Once I’ve done those things, my mind will settle and I can get back on the water. I can’t collapse now, I have people depending on me, people for whom I now feel responsible. It was my idea to investigate the yacht in the first place. If we had simply gone across the river as planned, the crabs would never have gotten close enough to put us in the position where we are currently.
I decide to go back to the boat for the towels, and I slip my frozen feet back into my shoes about halfway, with my heels uncovered, squishing the back of my shoes down, wearing them this way just to keep the bottoms of my feet from contacting the frozen ground of the patio. I take a deep breath and then head towards the rear door that I’ve just entered. As I reach my hand toward the push bar, I see a small, distressed piece of driftwood on the wall above me with the words “Gift Shop” printed on it. The sign is painted ocean blue and faded, the lettering crab-red and cracked, and below it, drawn in crayon directly on the wall, is a yellow arrow that points vaguely toward a corridor off to my left and behind me.
Still freezing, despite having found the shelter of the restaurant, I put my hand on the door to leave, but my body won’t follow through with my thoughts of retrieving the bag from the boat. I may be able to achieve the same ends in the gift shop, it says, and I turn back from the door, unconsciously deciding to investigate the front section of the Clam Bake instead.
I walk through the main dining room and enter the corridor, the floor of which rises precipitously toward the front door of the restaurant. I take two steps up the ramp and I can see the glow of daylight at the end of the corridor, coming in through the windows of the restaurant’s lobby like a beacon. I follow the light like a wayward ship in a storm-filled night.
The narrow walls of the corridor are pure kitsch, lined with starfish and netting, clamshells and sand dollars, and I can’t help but smile at a cartoon drawing of an indignant shellfish with the line, “Oyster? I barely know her!” in a bubble cloud above his head.
At the end of the corridor are the bathrooms, and as I pass them, prepared to turn the corner to the front entrance of the restaurant, a loud, metallic noise bangs through the air, shattering the silence like glass.
I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, listening.
The sound again, followed by three more. Clang! Clang! Clang! like someone striking an aluminium bat against a rusty backstop.
I hold my breath. I can’t see the source of the noise yet, but it’s close, right around the corner by the sound of it.
I take another small step forward, my toes now beyond the border of the corridor, and from here I can see a small, convex mirror that’s been positioned in the top right corner of the front wall just below the ceiling. It’s obviously some type of anti-theft mirror, a way for the cashier or hostess to check on any would-be shoplifters who might get a little frisky in the small cove of the gift shop beside her. From my angle, I can barely make out the shop itself, except to see that a folding security gate has been pulled down from the ceiling.
I look away from the mirror for a moment, searching the opposite side of the lobby, and as my eyes set on a large fish tank in the far corner, the clang of metal erupts again. I whip my head back to the right of the lobby and then up to the mirror, and I can see in it that the security gate is moving, vibrating. I stare at the convex glass without blinking now, waiting for it again, and then, in an instant, I see a body of white flash crazily into the reflection, slamming its body into the gate, the bars rattling again, somehow managing not to crumple.
One of them is locked inside.
Still naked, I walk into the lobby of the restaurant and stop first in front of the cashier station, lingering there as if I’m ready to pay my bill, studying the room for any weapon that I can grab in a pinch. I can sense the presence of the thing to my left, and then, out of the corner of my eye, it comes into view. The crab is nearly parallel with me, only a thin partition of gate separates us, and I can see its face pressed against the metal barrier, staring at me with large dark eyes.
I take a few steps to my left now, creating a wide berth away from the entrance of the gift shop as I do, and then I stop directly in front of the miniature store.
The shop looks like some type of mall store prison, and I can only stare in silence at the crab inside, which is now breathing heavily, standing hunched and pitiful like some emaciated bleached gorilla.
I almost laugh at the thought of a crab (one so very different than the kind they serve here!) imprisoned in the gift shop of the Clam Bake, and I know there’s a joke in there somewhere. Perhaps even one worthy of a spot on the corridor wall!
I’m mesmerized by the crab, which has the thrust of my attention, of course, but I can’t help letting my eyes drift over the stacks of clothes that hang from the racks and sit folded atop the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Pastel sweatshirts and sweatpants, thick and inviting, all positioned just so, one of each type pinned against the back wall as a display item, the words “Clam Bake” popping everywhere. The store also sells the more summery items like t-shirts and beach towels, of course, and all of those have been crowded onto a small table at the front of the shop, nearly touching the security gate, resting obliviously only inches from where the white crab is standing.
I�
�m naked and freezing; all of it looks like lobster and caviar to me.
I hug my shoulders as I stare down the white monster in front of me, and then I take a step forward. I’m still about six feet back from the security cage, and the crab has no reaction to my movement, continuing to look as docile as a pound puppy.
Another step—only a half-step really—and the crab remains still, expressionless but for the occasional blink of his giant black eyes.
And then I take one more step, a full step this time, and that’s when things change.
The single stride brings me to about three feet from the crab and the metal barrier that divides us, and suddenly, as if the step itself had toggled an On switch somewhere inside the things body, its mouth snaps open and it hurls itself into the cage. The motion is so quick it’s as if the spring of a trap had been tripped, the mouth revealing a set of teeth that look designed for some human-sized piranha. The gape is primitive and animal, both in terms of width and contents.
I’m rapt by the sight, as I’ve not really witnessed one of the monsters up close in the throes of madness. I witnessed the mauling of Naia, but that was from a considerable distance, and the incident with Sharon was too personal for me to judge in the way that I’m doing now, undetached and objectively. The latter incident, which, unbelievably, occurred only hours earlier in the foyer of my own house, now seems more like a dream, one about which I’ve already forgotten most of the details.
The crab is raging now, but there is no growl or nonsensical, crazed words coming from it, only a low, choking hum, as if the sounds are caught somewhere low in its throat, like the loud buzz of cicadas on a hot summer’s night.
They Came With The Snow Box Set {Books 1-2] Page 10
