The Melting (They Came With The Snow #2)

by Christopher Coleman

  “So why are you looking now?” Abramowitz asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “You said you never noticed this place. Why do you notice it now?”

  I nod up towards the top of the building at the blue letters that hover above us. “D&W.”

  “What about it?”

  “The letters were faintly written on the side of the building. I saw them from the interstate.

  “So?”

  “It’s the name of the company where those scientists I was telling you about worked. The ones who were sent out to my college, ostensibly to observe the aftermath of the event.”

  “I thought you said they worked for the colonel,” Jones says. “What do they have to do with this place?”

  “No, I didn’t say ‘they’ worked for anyone. I told you it was only the guy who was working with the colonel. The other one, the woman, she wasn’t involved with him. At least I don’t think so, though I think she might know more than she’s admitting.”

  “Were you sleeping with her too?” Smalley asks.

  I stare Smalley down and then say flatly, “No. And the truth is I could be wrong about all of it. I don’t really know what’s going on beyond the confessions of the scientists and what I overheard on the exit ramp. Except for this place. Stella mentioned the name of her company several times, and though she didn’t know the full extent to which they were involved, they were definitely involved in the blast. I’m going to assume that much is true.”

  There are a couple beats of silence and then Abramowitz says, “Or maybe it’s not.”

  I shake my head, confused. “Why not?”

  “Maybe it was the colonel and his group who were behind the blast—who else would have the capability of firing off a rocket in the middle of an American county? But maybe it was this place that was behind the results.”

  “The results? What does that mean?”

  “It means, that maybe these are the people that created...I don’t know...the stuff that turned people into ghosts.”

  The soldier’s words send a chill down my spine, a chill that feels familiar in my bones, familiar like the truth. Of course. It makes perfect sense. It was some shadowy military force that created the missile or bomb or rocket or whatever it was that detonated over the skies of Warren College that day, but it was D&W that made the chemical that turned the world white. A chemical company. That sounds right.

  I walk up close to the large glass door of the warehouse and stare inside, but there is only a white wall staring back at me. A hallway leads to the right, presumably to the lobby of the mysterious building. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “So what do you want to do, professor?” Abramowitz asks. “Seems like a big task to go exploring a hundred-thousand square feet today. It’s a good find though. Important even, I’m sure. But it’s gonna be dark soon and, as domesticated as it sounds, I would like to get my grocery shopping done before it does. We can leave this for tomorrow. That and finding your friends.”

  I stare a few seconds longer into the building and then turn back to the group. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter 7

  Night has fallen more quickly than Abramowitz estimated, and were now staring at the facade of Gray’s Grocery and Tackle where, beneath the faded signs advertising the weekly discounts on meats and canned goods, blackness awaits us inside.

  In the beginning, for the first couple of months after the blast, the snow had always acted as an illuminating agent, a white coating of reflection that guiding the way like a lighthouse through our new world, a world which, other than that supplied by the occasional backup generator, contains no electricity.

  But the snow has barely fallen in weeks, and the days have begun to grow warmer. Ever since the morning Naia and I made our escape from the student union, when the sun appeared for the first time in weeks and I’d agreed to leave, the temperatures have steadily risen. And now the blankets of snow, like that which covers the parking lot of Gray’s Grocery and Tackle, have begun to melt, leaving a dark void where bright whiteness existed previously. My eyes work to adjust to this new lack of light.

  I stand still in front of the store, noting the lack of snow or ice at my feet, feeling the tacky pavement beneath my boots. I depress the rubber button of my flashlight and unleash a strong beam forward. I’m in the back of the group, and my beam joins that of Abramowitz’s who has cast his toward the front entrance.

  “Turn that off,” Abramowitz snaps. “There’s enough light with mine. We don’t need to advertise.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “What’s the crab count around here?”

  Abramowitz shrugs. “We haven’t’ seen any of them at this particular store, probably because like the restaurant, there was an open door in the back when we found this place, so my guess is anyone inside eventually found their way out. But there’s no need to bring extra attention to ourselves. Just in case.”

  I scan the other four in my group and note the lack of weaponry. “Guns might be a good idea, right?”

  I notice Smalley first, not her face, but the nervous way she looks back and forth between Jones and Abramowitz. Something is wrong.

  Abramowitz sighs. “We’re out of ammo.”

  “What?”

  “For about three days now.”

  “Out of ammo? But every one of you put guns on me back at the restaurant. What was that about?”

  “Habit mostly. But also just a show. That’s the thing about guns, professor. You usually just need to show them and people do what they’re told. Works on humans pretty good. Not so much on those white sons of bitches.”

  “But you could find more weapons and ammo inside this cordon, right? I know it’s not a big gun-owning community, but I’ve seen my share of weapons since this happened.”

  “Weapons yes. That’s part of the reason we were out when we found you at that seafood joint. We were making a weapons run. But guns are getting harder and harder to come by. And we ain’t gonna find ammo for those M-16s. Spent those rounds up quickly in the beginning. When they first came with the snow. Bullets don’t last long. That’s something you never see in movies.”

  “Well that might be a good first task tomorrow,” I say, a tinge of sarcasm in my voice. “Not sure I want to go inside that warehouse with a penknife and a bunch of empty rifles.”

  “I’ll put it on the list.”

  “Maybe we could finish this conversation inside,” Jones says, surveying the parking lot. I can tell the lack of weaponry has him unnerved, and he feels naked in the darkness.

  “After you, soldier,” Abramowitz says, and we walk quickly to the front of the market, staying close to one another, trying to form a tight ball against the exposed night around us. Abramowitz pushes his chest against the glass entrance and wedges his fingers between the two sliding doors. He pulls them apart with little effort, and after we all step inside, he closes it back, pressing the edges together, making sure the rubber seals suck tight.

  The grocery store is quite large, enormous, in fact, despite the folksy-sounding ‘Grocery and Tackle’ in its moniker. Even in the darkness, it’s easy to see that the store was renovated, turned from a local market into something resembling a super-mart, hoping to compete, no doubt, with the encroaching national retailers while still retaining its hometown name.

  The first item that catches my eye is a tall cardboard tower, placed conspicuously inside the front door, where inside its hollow trunk is a bevy of silver and red snow shovels, blades sticking up over the lip of the box like baby birds waiting for their feeding. Well that sure didn’t take long, I think to myself. Snow shovels in May? Who would even have those in stock? They probably had leftovers from the previous winter—a winter that was virtually snowless—and then figured they’d seize on the opportunity to unload them once the snow started to fall. What luck! But hey, how can you blame them? They couldn’t have known what was coming. And if it had turned out to be just some freak, off-season snowfall, people would have needed a w
ay to dig out. And Gray’s would have been providing a much needed service.

  Absently, I pick up one of the shovels in stride and carry it at my side like a staff, liking the weight of the thing in my hands, gripping the thick handle until I feel the burn in my knuckles.

  The five of us enter the aisle furthest to our right—the produce department—and from what Abramowitz’s flashlight displays, there isn’t a single fruit or vegetable to be found.

  He catches my gaze and says, “Most of it was spoiled by the time we found this place. Even with the temperatures what they were.” He turns back and takes a wide scan of the store. “And speaking of things we should have waited until tomorrow to do...damn this place is dark at night.”

  “Told you this was not a good plan,” Jones says, and then begins walking deliberately toward the seafood counter at the back of the store. He’s out of range before Abramowitz can retort.

  “Let’s just get to the freezer and grab a couple of steaks,” Smalley says, easing the light tension. “We’ve still got plenty of propane to get the grill going, so that’s all we’ll need to get us through the night. Tomorrow we can come back and do a more thorough shopping. Right after we check out that creepy hangar.”

  “Don’t forget the guns,” I remind her.

  Abramowitz, Smalley, Stanton and I walk in the direction of Jones, who is now out of sight, navigating past the raised displays where everything from bananas and apples to cucumbers and kumquats were showcased not so long ago.

  I bang my knee into a display case, one that is not symmetrical with the other platforms and seems ill-situated within the aisle. I stop to tend to the injury, gritting my teeth and holding back a four-letter word.

  I look up to see that Smalley, Stanton and Abramowitz have now fanned out in the wide aisle and have reached the back of the store, and I limp forward in an attempt to catch up.

  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 m
ythical 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 tension in each hand, keeping my focus on the strike, knowing that timing will be everything if I’m going to survive this encounter.