And then, as if something were waiting for my separation from the group, I hear a wet scurrying sound behind me, like the friction of skin on linoleum. I stop and turn my head toward the sound, the breath in my lungs turning to stone, frozen on the exhale. I turn my whole body now, my arms extended in front of me as I search the darkness in vain. I want to do nothing more than turn on my flashlight, but I resist, mostly from fear of what I’ll see in front of me.
With my feet planted, I turn my head back towards the group and utter, “Hey!” hoping to garner the attention of at least one of my group. But they’ve moved too far ahead of me to hear, and my whispery grunt goes unnoticed.
I force my feet to pivot, and I turn back slowly in the direction of my group. I take my first step, then a second and third, moving hastily now, and I hear the slapping sound of skin again, this time off to my right. I stop again and pivot in that direction now, holding up the snow shovel with my right hand like it contains the power of Excalibur.
The sound continues, moving across the floor, behind me and then to my right, the sounds like the souls of a small child’s feet on a kitchen floor sticky from spilled juice.
I follow the sounds with my neck, like I’m watching an invisible tennis match, and as the gruesome noise reaches the right side of the aisle again, a beam of light flashes toward it.
“What is that?” I hear Abramowitz ask from behind, and my feet instinctively turn and follow the direction of his voice, quickly bringing me into the sphere of the group.
“I don’t know,” I say, breathing for what feels like the first time in minutes, my voice whispery and scared. “It was behind me at first, and then off to my right. I think something is inside with us.”
“Shit,” Abramowitz says, and then, looking down the rear aisle that runs like a main street, extending the entirety of the back of the store, he asks, “Where the hell did Jones go?”
“I’m right here, boys,” Jones replies, exiting the swinging back panel doors that lead to the bowels of Gray’s Grocery, in his hand two plastic shopping bags, presumably filled with steaks.
“You know I’m a girl, right?” Smalley replies.
“You’ve certainly got the layout of this place down, haven’t you?” Abramowitz says.
“I’ve made it a point to map the store out in my head. You know, for times like this, when ‘we’ make the decision to come here at night.”
“Yeah, you’re quite the industrious one, Jones. Maybe one day we can have a little fun challenge testing you on your Gray’s Grocery knowledge. But not today. It seems the store has been breached.”
Jones looks around. “Breached? By who? Where?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I think we’d all have the same guess.”
“Where is it?”
“We heard sounds in the produce section. Professor here says it was right behind him at one point. Haven’t seen anything though. Just the sounds.”
Jones nods in the direction of Aisle 2. “Well I guess that’s that. We need to get outta here. We had a good run; this was bound to happen eventually. Guess it’s time we found a new spot. Anyway, none of these places are gonna be viable much longer if it gets any warmer.”
The five of us begin a quick walk down Aisle 2, and as we reach the main front aisle we convert the pace into a light jog, slipping through the first register and reaching our starting location at the front door.
Stanton leads the way and pulls apart the sliding doors to their full width, and with the entrance now fully open, he turns back to us, checking to ensure we’re all with him and ready to go.
Abramowitz turns the flashlight toward the door, directly on Stanton, and, as if the beam itself triggered the reaction, Stanton’s eyes flash open in terror and a muffled choking sound erupts from his mouth. His face is that of someone suffering a major heart attack.
And then I see them, just barely at first, and then as clear as day, the white fingers wrapped around Stanton’s throat, clutching against the skin like tiny icicles, pressing against his thick neck, squeezing the breath and life and hope from the innocent young man. The rivulets of red are already flowing down the front of his neck and onto his chest.
Another hand then appears on top of the soldier’s head, this one just as white as the one around his throat. And then, with the power of some assembly line machine, the hand pulls Stanton’s hair up and back, violently yanking the man’s entire body backwards and to the concrete ground outside the entrance of Gray’s Grocery and Tackle.
Stanton hits the pavement with a gruesome thump, and the bottom halves of his legs—from the knees down—remain inside the store, his feet twitching convulsively.
“Grab him!” Smalley cries, the pain in her voice mimicking the look on her friend’s face from only seconds ago. She makes a clumsy, desperate move toward the door.
“No!” It’s Jones, intercepting Smalley before she takes her second step, hugging her towards him. “Look at him, Smalley, he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”
Smalley slaps at Jones, trying desperately to push him off of her, tears now flowing from her eyes. “We can—”
“Look at him!”
Smalley lifts her head up and squints open her eyes, just in time to see the final section of Stanton—first name never known by me—dragged from between the sliding doors of Gray’s Grocery and across the pavement toward the depot of shopping carts.
“Get your beams on,” Abramowitz orders. “All of you.”
Within seconds, the four flashlights are lit and shining out the front door of the grocery store, illuminating the north end of the parking lot.
The three of us don’t see anything at first, other than the fallen body of Stanton and the crab that took him, the blood on the pavement beneath them an expanding lake of destruction. The crab is feeding on Stanton with veracity and pays no attention to the audience watching.
But then something in the distance starts to come into focus, just at the edge of the beams where the lines of the parking spaces begin, and I’m compelled to take a step forward, drawn to the movement like the sailors to the song of the mythical sirens.
“Are you crazy?” Abramowitz says, almost to himself, and then he barks, “Professor, get back here!” His voice is deep and gravelly now, the tone and cadence of a sergeant.”
But I don’t stop, because I know if I do, we’ll all be dead in seconds. I see them clearly now. The growing vision on the perimeter of my flashlight is crabs. There’s one in the front, alone, and then dozens of them behind, staggered in waves and moving toward us.
I reach the front and shine my beam through the open gap in the sliding doors, just to make absolutely sure that the horror I’m seeing moving steadily through the parking lot towards us is genuine and not some figment of my imagination.
But it’s all too real. The white bodies and black eyes of the resurrected ghosts are moving like a small avalanche toward the entrance of the grocery store.
The first one—separated from the others by a good twenty yards or so—reaches the raised sidewalk in front of the store and passes Stanton’s corpse without looking down. It’s focused instead on the opening in front of him and, presumably, me.
Without thinking, I drop the flashlight to the ground, noting absently that it continues to shine despite the trauma it’s just endured, and I grab the snow shovel tightly with both hands, duplicating the grip from earlier. The handle of the shovel is in my right hand; the fingers of my left hand are wrapped around the shaft about half way between the handle and the blade. I then extend my arms as far behind me as they will go, like I’m preparing a battering ram, pointing the steel scoop forward toward the opening of the door.
I don’t have my own light anymore, but the group has kept theirs on the night outside, and I can see the crab approaching quickly. It’s not running, but it is coming forward in a steady march, the look on his face as dead and detached as ever.
I grip the handle and shaft with the same amount of tensio
n in each hand, keeping my focus on the strike, knowing that timing will be everything if I’m going to survive this encounter.
“Get the hell out of there, Dominic!” someone yells. I think it’s Jones, but I can’t tell for sure, so centered am I to the white beast before me. I hold my ground, spreading my feet apart about three feet, trying to get the perfect leverage.
“I’ve got him,” I say, and somehow the confidence feels real.
The crab steps on the dead sensor mat of the automatic door and stops immediately in front of me, about two feet away. I can smell the vinegar coming off of it as it blinks twice and then pushes its head forward, birdlike, as if trying to investigate what is happening inside here without having to commit.
I don’t waste a beat—I can see that the others following behind this one will be on me in seconds—and I bring the front edge of the shovel up and forward, landing the blade directly beneath the nose of the crab, feeling the push of the steel tip as it ravages the top of the crabs mouth and digs into the bone behind.
The crab shrieks and stumbles backwards, releasing itself from the grip of the scoop, allowing the blood from the wound to release and flow easily over its mouth. It takes several more steps back and then drops to its knees. It lingers in that position for several moments, only inches from the crab feeding on Stanton.
I instantly drop the shovel to the floor of the grocery and slam the doors closed.
And with not a second to spare.
In less than two seconds, three other crabs have arrived, disinterested in their fallen brother, curious only about what is taking place inside the building before them. They press their faces against the glass doors, staring.
I back away from the door and pick up my flashlight, and then I stare into the black pits that are examining me, looking for any sign of life or recognition from the monsters. A fourth face appears against the glass now, this one just as emotionless and disinterested as the others. Another follows, and then another, the faces filling in the pockets of glass until the entire door is a tapestry of white faces and black eyes, like a jumble of dice that have been glued to the inside of an aquarium.
I assume the crabs are blinded by the light, just as any human would be, but something in the way they watch suggests otherwise, and the black pearls seem to absorb it without effect.
I’m paralyzed, unable to move away. Even though only an inch of glass and a foot of space separate us, I feel like my stillness is somehow keeping them at bay. But it’s more than that, I know. I’m stricken by them, held in place by their mere presence.
“Dominic!” Abramowitz calls.
Finally, I take a small step backward, never taking the beam of light off the door or the faces beyond it, moving the light from one face to another, waiting for the first crack in the door to appear and then the flood of white to overwhelm us. But it never comes. They just stand there staring, never making a move to pull the doors apart.
I work my way back to the group and stand beside Jones, who is now looking at me with some kind of mixture of fear and awe.
“Damn, soldier,” he says to me, “that was like something out of Lord of the Rings or something.”
I cock my head to the side and nod. “I guess. Just trying to live is all.”
“What are we going to do?” Smalley asks, her grief momentarily subsided, her voice now sounding strong and willing. “I don’t think we have enough shovels to lay ‘em all out.” She pauses. “But if that’s the plan, I’m in.”
“I don’t think so,” Abramowitz says. “And I know these things have problems with doors, but I can’t imagine they won’t figure it out and be in here in the next few minutes. Hell, they’ll break the glass eventually.” He looks over to Jones. “How many ways out of here?”
“There’s a few. Emergency exits on both sides at the front and back. But we’ll be exposed if there’s any of them out there waiting. I think the best way out would be through receiving. Where the trailers pull in. The platforms outside are raised, so even if there are any of them out back when we walk out, they won’t be able to get to us.” He pauses. “It’d be better to wait until morning of course. Maybe they’ll lose interest. We could wait it out and see.”
As if on cue, the sound of slapping feet erupts again, this time somewhere between aisles five and seven. I’d already forgotten about that one.
“Guess you forgot about our new pet,” Abramowitz says. “Don’t think he plans on waiting it out.”
“Maybe we can secure the front door somehow,” Jones offers, not a trace of confidence in his voice. “And then hunt and kill whatever is inside.”
“There’s no way to secure that door,” I say. “Even if we were in a hardware store and had those kinds of supplies. It’s too unstable. I’m with Bram here: we have to go now.”
Abramowitz checks the faces of the remaining group, looking for any other signs of dissent, and then says, “All right, let’s go.”
I begin walking with the group and then stop and head back towards the doors, again coming within a foot or two of the sea of monsters.
“What are you doing, Dominic?” Smalley asks.
I pull out three shovels and load them into the crook of my arm, and then I walk them over to the group, delivering them like swords before battle. “Just in case.”
Chapter 8
The receiving area at the back of Gray’s Grocery is cold and sterile, with skids of wrapped grocery items—mostly paper products like paper towels and toilet paper—lined up along the concrete walls. At the very back of the large room is a giant door that opens ground to ceiling. This is where the truckers back their trailers in so their cargo can be unloaded directly into the store.
“Don’t you need power to open that thing?” Smalley asks. “Looks like a giant garage door.”
“That is what it is,” Jones replies. “And it would certainly be easier that way. But in case you hadn’t heard...anyway, it’s got a manual option.” He nods to some type of metal pulley system that runs vertically along the side of the door.
“Okay then,” Smalley says, “let’s get to it.”
Jones makes his way to the pulleys and wraps his hands around the chain. “We’re only going to open it as far as we need to. I have a feeling this door is going to be loud, and I’d rather those things not make their way around to the back. Obviously.”
Jones looks toward the door that leads from the shopping area to the back room where we stand currently. Abramowitz is standing guard.
“Any signs of a breach?”
Abramowitz frowns and shakes his head. “No. Haven’t heard from our visitor in a while either.”
“What’s the plan once we make it out?” Smalley asks.
“There’s three trucks out back. I doubt any of them have the keys inside, but we can at least hide there until morning if we have to.”
“And what if they’re still there in the morning?”
“I don’t know, Smalley. Then I guess were screwed. But we definitely don’t want to spend another minute in here, so once I pull this door up, who’s gonna be the first one out?”
“I’ll go,” I say, not hesitating. “Are you sure you can raise that thing by yourself?”
“I can raise it. Don’t know how long I can keep it up though.”
“Bet your girlfriend gets tired of hearing that,” Smalley says without a smile, as if the joke was obligatory, even if she didn’t have the heart behind it.
Jones snickers. “Here goes, Professor. Make sure you have your flashlight. And keep that shovel handy. Just in case.”
I pat the space in my pants where the flashlight is stashed and hold up the snow shovel. I’m ready.
Jones unlatches the large, crescent-shaped door lock and then grabs the chain and pulls down, straining as he leans backwards, his back nearly horizontal with the ground. At first there is barely a squeak from the rusty gears, but then, with one last Herculean pull, the bottom of the door cracks open, just enough to allow in a thin ray
of moonlight and a gust of cool air.
“Give me a hand here, Smalley.” Jones’ says, barely able to grunt out the sentence.
“Damn it. Sorry Jones. Hang on.”
Smalley moves in and places her hands on the chain above Jones,’ and then pulls down in unison with him. I’m waiting at the narrow gap that was just created, lying on my belly now, waiting for the space to open just wide enough to squeeze under.
The door creeps open another couple inches, and Jones takes a deep breath and says, “Remember, once we’ve got this bitch up and you’re outside, there should be a whole stack of milk crates lined up out there. I saw them there when we first canvassed this place, so there’s no reason they aren’t there now. Those things are strong as iron. As quick as you can, just slide one of them underneath. We’ll hold up the door as long as we can. And if the coast is clear, we’ll be right behind you.”
I give a somber nod and then Jones and Smalley give the pulley one final yank down, and the door opens wide, like a giant mouth, creating the gap I’ve been waiting for.
“Go!” Smalley says.
I toss the snow shovel out first and then follow right behind it, rolling out to the concrete landing. I give myself an extra two rolls for cushion, making sure to get far enough away to clear the door.
I’m out.
I’m blind for a moment, but my eyes adjust quickly to the night, and I can see the blue latticework of the milk crates just off to my left.
I hurry to my feet and link my fingers through one of the crates, and as I begin to carry it back to the door, ready to place it underneath, I hear the screams and the clicking retreat of the gears to the door lift.
I rush toward the door with the crate out in front of me, but it’s too late: the giant metal gate closes with a boom to the concrete, leaving me standing like a beggar on the wrong side of it.
I stare in disbelief at the metal barrier, scanning the area for a pulley system that would enable me to lift the door from this side. But of course there is nothing, and my mind begins to race with panic, both at the prospect of being stranded outside with the crabs, and my imagination about the chaos happening inside. I don’t have context for the screams, and I want to believe someone banged his shin on a raised pallet, but logic tells me Abramowitz, Jones and Smalley are being ravaged by crabs.
They Came With The Snow Box Set {Books 1-2] Page 15
