The Melting

by Christopher Coleman

  “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.

  I step to the door and put my ear against the metal barrier, hoping to decipher the sounds of mayhem behind it, but there is only silence now, and I have no way of knowing if the quiet is due to the thickness of the door, or if it’s because everyone inside the receiving area is dead.

  I bang on the door with my right fist and begin screaming the names of each of my companions, my panic now spilling over into despair. There’s no answer.

  I step back from the receiving gate and place the palms of my hands across my face, taking in a few deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves so I can think of what to do next. But I can’t get calm; I’m sweating prolifically and my heart is racing like a nervous rabbit’s.

  “Dammit, Dom, relax. Standing here scared isn’t an option. I have to get back to the RV. There’s no ammo, but there has to be something inside I can use as a weapon. That’s the goal now. Get back to the RV and get it started.”

  The trucks.

  Jones mentioned three tractor trailers that would be parked out back, and I take note of the large rigs for the first time.

  I grab the shovel and hop down from the concrete receiving platform and on to the street, and then rush over to the first truck in the row, scurrying up into the cabin of the tractor unit. I flick on the flashlight and search the front part of the cabin, and then start sifting through the sleeper cabin behind.

  The sleeper cabin is basically an area carved out to allow enough room for a cot to be placed inside, but there is also shelving above the cot and storage space at the foot, each of which contains a variety of items. My search is far from thorough, since time is pressing on me like an iron, but I can tell immediately that there’s not much here that is visibly usable. Clorox wipes. Books. A half-pack of cigarettes. A further search turns up a few snack size Doritos bag, and beneath the cot a thick nylon bag with the words “Roadside Kit” written in red lettering on the side.

  I grab the chips and (for some reason I can’t explain, since I don’t smoke) the cigarettes, as well as the emergency kit. I forego inspecting the contents of the kit for the moment, and instead I exit the cabin of the truck and move on to plunder the other two, doing a quick search of each, increasing my stash of junk food and cigarettes, as well as finding a nice-looking bowie knife and several pairs of gloves. None of these items add up to the Holy Grail of supplies, but they’re something, and though I’m sure there’s much more to be found in the more secluded compartments of the cabins, I simply don’t have the time now. But I’ll take it. You never know when something will come in handy.

  I hop down from the third and final truck and make my way hastily toward the corner of the building, at the intersection where the back wall of the store meets the side wall. I stop at the junction and peek slowly around the side, and, seeing that the path is all clear—at least to the end of my limited vision—I jog the length of the wall until I come to the next corner, the junction where the side wall and front facade meet. I peer down the length of the front of the store now and I can see them; the crabs that were at the door when we fled to the back of the store are still standing there, milling around, pressing their white bodies against the glass of the non-working automatic doors.

  I turn from the mass of white flesh and look off into the lot, where a sea of white bodies are still emerging, piercing through the night in a steady wave, continuing to flow in the direction of the store. There must be a hundred of them now huddled at the front.

  The first of the crabs that came, the one that took Stanton and the ones just after, must have been in the area at the time we arrived at the store and seen us exit the RV. Or maybe they were even closer than that and heard us speaking in the parking lot or closing the door of the vehicle. Or maybe they saw the light in the store.

  Or maybe they smelled us. I’ve never really considered that sense when analyzing these creatures.

  But the rest of them, the crabs that continue to descend upon Gray’s Grocery, they can’t know about us. They’re simply reacting to the flow of the others, who are reacting to the ones already at the store. They have to be. They can’t have any clue as to why their un-dead fraternity is huddled up against this dark building.

  I think of the bridge now and the hundreds of white ghosts that were perched upon the ledge. Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, I guess. That idiom rings true to the sight I’m seeing now, and I have a feeling it would apply to the bridge as well. I don’t know what brought them all there to the South River, but something must have led one to start, and then a million more followed. And then they were trapped there by the barriers. Could it be they were lured to the bridge, purposely drawn to it as a trap? How else would they have all been there when the bridges were cut off?

  The thought sounds both crazy and obvious at the same time, but I don’t have the luxury to chase the theory further, so I file it away for a later time. At least I know now the front door of the grocery store hasn’t been breached, and that whatever screams I heard just as the receiving door was coming down was likely caused by the crab that was already inside. I’m guessing three roughnecks could deal with one crab, but there could have been more inside, others in different aisles that we didn’t see. In any case, they could still be alive and trapped at this very minute. It’s an assumption I have to make, and one that compels me to find a way to help them.

  My stomach is tied up in terror as I walk away from the corner of the building and the cover of the brick wall that forms the side of Gray’s grocery. I feel naked after only a few steps, but I keep my eyes focused, straight ahead on a dark lamppost that I estimate to be no more than twenty yards in front of me.

  The pairs and trios of crabs continue crossing the parking lot, moving straight ahead, as if on a rope, drawn to their brethren like paper clips to magnets. T
heir narrow focus is my only hope of making it through the first segment of my journey; as long as I stay quiet, I’m pretty sure I can get to the post unnoticed.

  Once there, however, I’ll need to cross to the RV, and that will prove much more difficult. But for now, I just need to get away from the store and get through stage one.

  I pick up my pace now, increasing it from a walk to a steady lope, and within seconds I’m across the open space of lot with my back against the pole of the lamppost. Only the furthest width of my shoulders is exposed, and I stand like a soldier in a fire fight behind the black pole, turning my head like an owl as I peek back to the action, measuring the crabs, assessing the distance between me and the RV.

  The vehicle is parked smack dab in the middle of the lot, like it’s the hub of Gray’s parking system, exposed like an island in the eye of a hurricane while a steady stream of crabs approach it like an unstoppable tropical wind.

  I know now I’ll never make it there by simply running to it, at least not until the crabs stop coming, and I can’t possibly know when that will be. I need a distraction.

  I slow my breathing down again, and, slowly, my mind follows. I don’t have much to work with in terms of options, but I come up with a plan to draw the crabs’ attention away, if only for a few seconds.

  I step away from the post and grip the handle of the shovel with both hands, making sure to keep the post in line between me and the crabs. But I’m in the open now, and without hesitation, I hold the shovel down by my hip and then spin once, turning a full revolution, and then release the snow shovel back towards the store. I restrain the grunt that forms in my throat, but the toss is well-delivered, hurled like a hammer throw at a track and field meet. I stop and follow the shovel with my eyes as it sails through the night, pleased at my technique and the distance it travels.

  The clanging sound on the pavement is louder than anything I could have hoped for. It sounds like a steel trashcan being dropped from a five-story building. I look back to the crabs in the parking lot that are flowing toward the store, and can see that for the first time their attention is diverted. They’ve all stopped dead in their tracks, their heads turned toward the sound.