But there are so many others. 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.
I take a final step so that I’m now only inches from the crab, which has now begun again to slam its body against the cage uncontrollably, retreating a few steps and then catapulting itself back into the wide bars of the pen. The marks of metal are beginning to appear on its skin like brands, and wide, plum-colored gashes have begun to open in several places on its body.
I study the thing deeply now, cringing at every smash against the gate, its naked white body—aside from the new, self-inflicted injuries—so absent of definition or hair or flaw. It is in complete contrast to mine, with the unruly sprouts of hair popping wildly from my head to ankles, my genitals hanging limply like some useless appendage, a defect of evolution.
Another crash into the gate, and this time the crab sticks against it, its arms splayed like a beetle, its jaws latching onto to the metal latticework of the gate. I move my head a fraction closer, narrowing my gaze, and then I can see why there is only the sound of humming coming from it: it has no tongue.
The crab continues to stare at me, its eyes remaining expressionless, almost disinterested, a characteristic that only adds to the terror. There is no wrinkle of anger in the forehead, no slant of eyebrows (it has none) to convey its fury. There is only the relentless, shark-like motion of its jaws, a cold machine that has been programmed to feed. I can see from this distance that the crab’s teeth aren’t particularly large—they’re human-sized even—but something about the angle in the gums looks altered, and the enamel of them seems to have been transformed, with each one having the definition of a tiny fang. An image of Naia appears in my mind again, and I can only imagine the terror and pain she must have felt.
The crab unlatches its teeth and peels itself away from the gate, and as I watch it hurl itself back again and again, the adrenaline of the moment is beginning to wear off. The cold of my body has returned with veracity, and I’m suddenly shaking almost uncontrollably now. The option still remains to return to the pier and get the rest of the towels and change of clothes from the motor boat, but the thought of going back out into the elements terrifies me, especially when I’ve got a treasure trove of warmth only a few feet away from me in the gift shop.
And an additional fear that the crab locked inside is somehow summoning his friends enters my mind from nowhere, and a sudden flood of claustrophobia overcomes me. It’s impossible of course, this notion of murderous telepathy, but even if there’s a fraction of a percent of possibility, I can’t let it live. My goal now is to kill the crab inside the gift shop and retrieve the bounty within. And the trembling of my body lets me know that I need to do it soon.
I give the lobby another cursory glance, scanning it for a possible weapon, but I know what I’m looking for won’t be in here. What I need—aside from the keys to the shop—is in the kitchen.
The keys. A weapon won’t do me any good without a way in afterwards.
I walk behind the hostess station and cash register and reach into the waist-high opening beneath, rummaging my hands inside, searching. A notepad. A couple of pens. Some fabric that feels like an apron. I bend down to get a visual of the space, but I can’t see anything other than what my hands have already felt.
I focus now on the cash register, an older type model with actual buttons instead of a computer screen, and I press the “No Sale” button on the right, not really expecting anything to happen. To my surprise, however, the drawer slides open with a ding, and I immediately feel around in the cash tray, flipping up the metal bill holders and fumbling under the cash for any sign of keys.
I remove the tray now and fondle inside the empty drawer, and, almost magically, my fingertips brush along the top of a small metal key. But as I remove it from its dark hiding place, I can see the key is far too small to be to the gate of the gift shop. It’s for locking and unlocking the register—an activity, I consider, unlikely to be necessary ever again.
I’m shivering furiously now, and I start to reconsider my whole plan. What’s the point of taking up arms and risking my life trying to kill the crab, if I have no way inside the gift shop? And there’s no question in my mind as to the soundness of the security gate; If the furious monster inside hasn’t broken it down yet, it’s not something I’ll be able to open by force.
I’m standing hopelessly in front of the register now; my breathing is shallow and I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I assume these are signs of hypothermia, that my body temperature is getting dangerously low, and that within minutes I’ll be completely delirious, curled up beneath the register dying. I have no choice—I have to go—and the thought of going outside again to retrieve the towels and clothes from the boat makes me want to cry.
My clothes from earlier are certainly still soaking, so there will be no relief from them in the elements, but I remember the apron beneath the hostess station. I pull it out and wrap the thin nylon smock across my shoulders. It feels like almost nothing, and it will be as useful against the winter as a chain link fence in a flood.
But it’s something.
I pull the strings together beneath my chin and prepare to tie the apron in front of my neck in some pornographic Little Red Riding Hood way, and as I form the bow, something falls from the front pocket and lands on my toe, jangling to the floor.
“Ow!”
I look down and see them, a miracle of teeth and metal.
Keys. Three on a ring and regular-sized.
I stoop down carefully, not taking my eyes away from the floor, afraid that perhaps my mind has tricked me, created this jagged oasis beneath my feet to keep me inspired to go on. But it’s no trick of the imagination; I can feel the cold bite of brass in the grip of my hand as I walk over to the gift shop gate, taking each step slowly to keep from falling over.
The crab has stopped its attacks on the gate for the moment, but it isn’t far from the barricade. There is no way I can get close enough to test if the keys are to the gift shop—at least one of them anyway—but I know there has to be a match between the three of them.
Now on to the first part of the mission.
Inspired and replenished with a new burst of adrenaline, I turn back to the dining room, luxuriating in the feel of commercial carpeting on the soles of my feet. I don’t linger though, and instead push through the double doors of the kitchen, lost in instin
ct now, keeping any premeditated thoughts as far away as I can.
The tile floor hits me like a gust of strong wind, but I keep on task, striding past the long metallic island, peering into the hollow spaces below as I go.
Not finding anything on the island that fits my needs, I move on to the dishwasher station, hoping to find something sharp and deadly there. But the cutlery rack has only forks and steak knives, not exactly the tools of a monster slayer.
I move to my left now to one of the food prep stations, which looks to have been unused, but as I move to the other side of the large, industrial range, I finally begin to see what I’m looking for. Strewn across the counters on this end of the kitchen are a variety of large knives, many of which appear to have been in the process of performing their business before suddenly being discarded by their handlers, presumably as they fled from the new white killers that were rampaging through the dining room.
The blades of the forged knives glisten in the light like stars, and I sift through a few of them before picking up two—a chef’s knife and a cleaver. I press the blade of the chef’s knife ever so gently to the tip of my index finger, and I can feel the strain of my skin to keep from splitting.
Armed now, I head out of the kitchen and back to the lobby, ready for battle.
I look straight ahead this time and walk directly to the gift shop, trying to stay focused, confident and composed despite my growing fear. I’m done with thinking though; it’s time to act or die.
I can see that the crab has retreated from the front of the store now and is back towards the rack of clothes, crouched, ready to spring, staring at me with the same unconcerned look that they always seem to wear. I consider again trying one of the keys while the thing is backed away from the gate, but I decide instead just to go forward with this part of the plan. Once again, no more thinking.
The Melting (They Came With The Snow #2) Page 6
