by Guy N Smith
It wasn’t easy to secure the bobbing object. It almost seemed that it had a life of its own and was determined not to be caught. He swore beneath his breath but finally, with a swift downward and upward sweep he caught it in the prongs of his rake, lifting it, dripping, clear of the water.
As he hauled it aboard, he saw it clearly in the reflection from the pilot’s light. He stared in horror and disbelief at the object which was now impaled on the prongs of the rusted rake.
‘Jesus Christ!’ He recoiled, giving a cry of revulsion as it hung down. It was a human arm, a mass of bloody shreds dripping where it had been torn from the shoulder of a corpse.
Stubby fingers moved as though they still had life left in them. And on the third finger a gold wedding ring glittered.
‘That’s Frank’s arm!’ Fran let out a hysterical scream, clutching the side of the boat. ‘That’s his wedding ring!’
The dismembered limb fell to the deck with a resounding squelch, forefinger extended like it was pointing back to the sea where it had been retrieved; a warning even in death that further horrors lurked below.
‘There’s wreckage floating over there,’ the man at the controls could only manage a hoarse whisper, ‘and… and something else!’
He refrained from glancing behind him where his companion was supporting their distraught passenger. He did not want to view whatever bobbed amidst what was obviously the wreckage of the fishing boat for which they had been searching. He steeled himself; it was his job.
‘Hand me that rake, Joe.’
With no small amount of difficulty, the pilot began probing amidst bobbing wreckage.
Damn it, where was whatever he had glimpsed. It had sunk. It resurfaced, it was like a small football in shape, a mass of seaweed draped over it as though it was attempting to screen him from yet another horror from the deep.
He caught it and with no small amount of difficulty, raised it clear of the water. From the tangled weed which covered it, two dead eyes stared up at him. The object in question was a human head above a ragged mass of flesh from the bloody neck and throat, the mouth wide open like it was still screaming, even in death.
It thudded to the deck, rolled, came to a halt, seemingly staring up at those who had retrieved it from a watery grave.
‘What is it, Ewan?’
‘It… It’s a human head. I… I recognise it… it’s been ripped from… Martin Rees’s body. God, whatever did this, sank the fishing boat and then ripped the two of them to ribbons!’
‘A giant crab,’ Ewan whispered, afraid to voice his suspicion aloud. ‘Remember, Adrian Thomas thought he saw one down here when he was photographing jellyfish. Can’t be anything else.’
‘We’d better radio for help, get this poor lady ashore. The monster that did this has got to be found and destroyed before there’s another attack. And the sooner we’re away from here, the safer I’ll feel!’
8
‘I told you it was a mistake coming back here,’ Pat Davenport shook her head and stared at her breakfast plate. The last thing she felt like was eating. They had come back here to try and cure her husband’s phobias and now it was as though they had resurrected the past.
‘I had a walk down to the sea front earlier,’ she added. ‘My God, it’s like nothing has changed over the past forty years. There was a platoon of armed soldiers and a gunboat scouring the bay. I heard that a couple of fishermen have been horribly killed by a crab, or crabs. There’s talk that those monsters have returned Cliff… I think the best thing we could do would be to return home and let them sort their own problems out here.’
‘In which case my nightmares and phobias will only continue. Probably get worse.’
‘If that’s possible.’
‘If the crabs are lurking down there then they’ve got to be located and wiped out before there’s another inshore invasion.’
‘But you can’t do anything, Cliff!’
‘Professor Danielson has asked me to assist in an advisory role. Don’t forget, my career has been studying marine life.’
She sighed.
‘I’ve arranged a meeting with Danielson this morning. I’m convinced that there are crabs here, not a huge army of them like there were before, but just a few and they’re using flooded caves beneath the cliffs.’
‘You’re not going to go down in there, are you?’ There was a hint of panic in her voice.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not. I’m too old for those kinds of capers these days. As I said my role will be solely in an advisory capacity. Nobody knows how far those caves go into the cliffs, how big they are, but the main drawback is that they are permanently flooded. I have no doubt in my mind that that is where these crabs will be located, a virtually impenetrable hideout. If that’s the case, then exterminating them is going to be far from easy. Armed soldiers won’t be able to operate in there. Rest assured, Pat, I shall not be going in there.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she picked up her knife and fork. ‘I guess then that I have no option but to go along with whatever you have in mind.’
‘And at this stage I have no idea,’ he smiled reassuringly. ‘First, we have to wait and see what the armed forces find on the sea bed. If anything!’
Cliff stared in shocked amazement at the scene which greeted him on the seafront at Barmouth and stretching out towards Shell Island. Milling crowds of sightseers were jostling one another whilst police were attempting to keep them off the beach.
Out at sea, two naval gunboats moved in a widening circle whilst overhead a helicopter hovered. Some huge and heavy task was being undertaken on the tideline, heavy machinery dragging a submarine out of the water assisted by cranes.
He trembled slightly, it was akin to turning back the clock to those days when the military were raking invading crustacean attackers with heavy mortar fire.
Except that there were no crabs in sight. Thank God! So, what the hell was happening?
He hurried back towards the HQ of the Marine Conservation Society and tapped on the door of Danielson’s office.
On entering he was somewhat surprised to find a group of half-a-dozen military officers around the desk, a large-scale map spread between them.
‘Come and join us, Cliff.’ The Professor’s expression was grave. Clearly there had been some dramatic happenings in the hours after daylight.
Cliff leaned up against the window, all the chairs were taken. More reminders of those distant days flooded his mind, Colonel Goode and Commander Grisedale amongst several other top personnel. They had long retired; were probably dead. This was the modern equivalent of those top military men. In all probability they had only heard rumours of those terrible days. Clearly though, something dramatic had already happened.
‘Much has been happening over the last few hours,’ the senior military officer took over the meeting, he was clearly bemused and troubled by recent events. ‘Due to a horrendous attack on a fishing boat late yesterday, the coast guard called us. According to the mutilation of the fishermen it has all the signs of a giant crustacean attack. Hence helicopters with underwater technology have been scouring the bay and a warship was drafted in as an additional precaution. No crabs but as the tide ebbed, they spotted a damaged submarine on the sea bed!’
Davenport’s jaw dropped. This whole business was getting beyond belief.
‘Heavy tack was summoned,’ Colonel Sanderson stroked his clipped moustache. ‘It was dragged ashore. Russian, of course, but somehow it had eluded our regular patrols with the latest technology which should have revealed any such craft sneaking into UK waters. It had obviously moved up from the English Channel undetected.’
‘Strewth!’ Davenport was stunned. The others glanced at one another clearly as bemused as he was.
‘It had been attacked on the seabed,’ Sanderson continued, ‘and the initial exterior damage had succeeded in allowing water to trickle inside. The three occupants had drowned and clearly their very sophisticated system which would have enabled
them to call for assistance had been put out of action. The exterior damage, as far as we can ascertain at this stage, had been inflicted by a huge crab which had attacked it!’
A shocked silence descended upon the gathering. Davenport clutched the windowsill behind him. He was trembling.
‘The submarine in question,’ Sanderson continued, ‘is of the latest Russian designs and can be used for TEST-71 MKE TV Electric -homing torpedoes and can carry a 205-kilogram explosive charge as well as releasing 24 mines. It is also fitted to accommodate up to eight anti-aircraft missiles. It can dive up to 300 meters below the surface. It is something of a relief to find that it was not carrying any warfare equipment. It would appear at this stage that it was primarily a reconnaissance craft, fitted with the latest technology to render it invisible to our patrolling ships and helicopters. Its presence in UK waters would have gone unnoticed – except for this attack, presumably by monster crabs!’
‘Unbelievable!’ Davenport voiced his innermost thoughts and fears. ‘But, as you say, Colonel, there are no signs of crabs lurking out in the bay. What about the crew?’
‘By now their bodies should be on their way to Porton Down where their cause of death will be identified. I have no doubt in my mind that it was simply by drowning, trapped in a damaged sub and unable to summon help. They are, we believe, high-ranking Russian GRU agents but that remains to be established. Then undoubtedly our government will contact the Kremlin and demand an explanation. Not that that will amount to much other than to add to the growing tension of the new Cold War!’
‘So,’ Davenport’s voice had a slight tremor in it, ‘we know that the crabs have returned to the Welsh Coast but they are lying low.’
‘Professor Danielson informs us that you have already made some investigations, and, in your opinion, they are hiding out in some hidden flooded caves beneath the cliffs. Is that right?’
‘I have little to go on except crustacean marks in the region of the cave entrance, Colonel.’
‘Then we should be grateful for your help. You have had a lifetime’s experience in marine life as well as having been involved in the crab attacks here some forty years ago.’
‘I would be more than willing to help,’ Davenport nodded and added, ‘but only in an advisory capacity. No way would I consider exploring those caves myself.’
‘Of course not, I fully understand. We will arrange that. However, we must ensure the safety of holiday makers without creating alarm and panic. Armed soldiers will be on hand… just in case!’
‘According to the news there’s a hurricane moving towards the UK which will not help the current situation. I suggest that we go and examine the beach below the cliffs and perhaps formulate a plan of action.’
‘I’ve managed to contact Adrian Thomas,’ Danielson announced as the gathering rose to their feet, ‘and he will accompany us. Needless to say, that Russian sub dragged up on the beach is attracting the attention of hundreds of holiday makers so let’s treat it as an accident and announce that it must have struck a hard object on the sea bed. We don’t want the press featuring a crab’s story on their front pages. Our priority is to discover where the crabs are hiding and destroy them as unobtrusively as possible.’
9
Ioan Hughes had lived in a remote cottage on the outskirts of Harlech all his life. Now aged 40 his parents were dead, and he continued a hermit -like existence making a sparse living out of doing odd jobs for neighbours and fishing. He had always had a fear of boats and, unlike Rees Jones and several others, he never fished from one. He relied upon the shoreline and whatever the tide bought in, mostly shrimp and crabs.
His squat features sported a mass of blackheads, and his short but powerful figure shuffled rather than walked. He was a standing joke for the local school children who teased him from a distance. He rarely washed, never bathed, and a strong body odour followed his wake wherever he went. Whenever he visited the local small shop the proprietor sprayed deodorant after his departure.
That said, he was hard working and honest.
He had checked the latest weather report. the big storm was on the way, it would probably arrive in a couple of days which meant that shrimps would be following the incoming tide, seeking safety closer to shore. It was an unprecedented opportunity for a sizeable catch.
It was late afternoon when he set off for the shoreline carrying a couple of plastic buckets and his fishing net. The stretch below the cliffs was always a prime area for scooping up sizeable catches. With luck he would fill both buckets within the hour. Then he would return home, pick up some fish and chips, maybe a pizza, from the small shop en route. That done, he would sit out the forthcoming hurricane and return on the following day to see what it had washed up. Plastic litter was always a nuisance, it added to the difficulty of scooping the tideline and he had to extricate all manner of rubbish from his net before tipping out his catches.
God, it was humid today, a sure forerunner of the impending hurricane. Ioan seated himself on a convenient rock and took his time rolling a cigarette. There was no immediate hurry. He regarded that sizeable pool which he had never known empty. He wondered idly to where that cave led, probably a long way inside the cliff. Doubtless it filled from further up inside and was always topped up by the tide.
Now, time to start work. Plagued by old childhood fears he did not like being out and about on the beach once darkness fell. He recalled the stories his folks had told him about the giant crabs that had invaded the coastline. He had been a baby then, too young to recall any of the happenings. They were probably grossly exaggerated, at least he almost convinced himself that they were. He preferred not to think about them.
Now those giant jellyfish had moved into the bay. He had not seen one himself but there were warning notices all along the coastline. Still, if he kept to the tide’s edge, he was unlikely to come upon one.
It was a long time since he had seen hordes of shrimps such as were in evidence along the tideline. He scooped his net, the cane handle bowing, threatening to snap. Bloody rubbish, he scooped out all the kinds of litter, cast it aside and drained wriggling shrimp into his bucket. He would be finished earlier than anticipated, then stagger home with his catches.
It was then that he detected a kind of clicking sound somewhere to his rear. He ignored it; it was probably smaller pebbles being washed down into that pool.
Scooping, discarding rubbish, tipping squiggling shrimps into the second bucket. He was sweating heavily; his BO was very strong.
More clicking, much louder this time. He glanced behind and gave a strangled scream at the sight which greeted him, the half-filled bucket falling from his grasp.
There, no more than a few yards away, a huge crab crouched on the edge of that rock pool, a pincer raised and a small face with tiny eyes regarding him. The size of a small pony, there was no mistaking its intent. It had emerged in search of available marine life food and was confronted with human flesh for the taking.
Ioan froze, a strangled scream in his throat. He made to flee, stumbling clumsily on the stony beach, caught his foot on a small protruding rock and fell headlong. Struggling to rise it was as though his body had undergone a sudden paralysis. His foot was trapped amidst some pebbles, his shaking arms were incapable of lifting his body upright.
Click-Click-Click. The Giant crustacean advanced, scraping its mighty pincers on the rocks. One was lifted threateningly; a sweeping movement and it closed over Ioan’s outstretched leg, dragged it free, pulled him towards it. Evil eyes bored into his own. He felt that pincer gripping him, cutting into flesh and bone.
‘No!’ He managed a piercing scream.
The crab could easily have ripped his body apart and fed upon the exposed flesh which was already bleeding profusely. Instead though, it began to drag him back towards the pool from which it had emerged. A mighty splash and he was submerged, drowning, his arms flailing limply. Sharp splinters of rock embedded themselves in his skull, then came blessed oblivion.
Sometime later dusk merged into darkness and the only sound on that stretch of beach was the lapping of the incoming tide.
It was the following morning when the party arrived on that stretch of beach below the towering cliff face. Cliff had had a lift in the military vehicle accompanied by Sanderson and a couple of armed soldiers. The Coastguard Land Rover had followed with two coastguards accompanied by Professor Danielson and Adrian Thomas. The tide was receding as they made their way along the stony beach.
Sanderson had already been contacted by a scientist at Porton Down. The trio from the submarine had died from drowning, there was no other cause of death. Undoubtedly, they were Russian GRU senior officers and it was up to Whitehall to establish their identification and the reason for their presence in UK waters. Not that there would be any useful information forthcoming. The Kremlin would doubtless request the return of their corpses.
In all probability that would be agreed but only after their true identities had been established.
As for the damage to the submarine, experts had already agreed that it had been inflicted by huge sharp claws which had belonged to a massive creature, possibly a crustacean.
‘And now we have another missing local,’ Sanderson informed his companions. ‘It was reported by a neighbour who had gone to his cottage to purchase some shrimps, knowing that this man, Ioan Hughes, had been fishing on the shoreline late yesterday. I... just a minute, what's that on the edge of the tide?’
One of the soldiers slopped his way through the shallows to retrieve it.
‘It's a plastic bucket,’ he held it aloft, ‘and there's some dead shrimps in the bottom.’
‘Doubtless having belong to Hughes,’ Sanderson took the bucket, shook his head. ‘Well if he had had some success, he certainly didn't take his catch home with him!’
