Danielle had kept her stare fixed on the two figures, watching them as they gawked toward the water, their bodies wavering slightly, their heads twitching up and down, left and right, as if uncontrollable, like nervous hens in a barnyard.
And then, for reasons Danielle would never quite be able to explain, she opened the door and stepped out to the sloshy snow on the diner stoop, compelled to get an unfettered look at the beasts.
With the first crunchy step, both crabs froze in place; on the second, they spun toward Danielle like a pair of mongooses.
They were fifty yards away, perhaps a bit more, but even from that distance, Danielle could see the aggression in their attentive expressions, the wrinkle of their heads, the cocking down of their necks, measuring. They stood that way for only a beat, however; within seconds, they were sprinting toward her.
Danielle immediately retreated through the diner door, closing it slowly and locking it, the whole time watching the undead albinos rushing at her like torpedos until they collapsed against the door, splashing against the glass panes like a pair of exploding snowballs.
Danielle recalled that they had lingered there for hours, their bodies pressed against the two doors of the entrance like leeches, staring and watching Danielle’s movements inside, occasionally opening their mouths wide in silent, horrifying gapes.
She had seen the same type of violence from the crabs before, of course, at the diner with Tom’s son, Greg, and later in the Thai restaurant with Alvaro.
And then on the water during her group’s attempted escape from Warren County, when the fiends had dropped from the bridge like icicles and built a link of bodies to their cruiser boat.
But the reaction of the beasts that day at the Riverside Diner had felt different to Danielle. It wasn’t curiosity that had drawn them to her, and they hadn’t been provoked by her proximity or felt trapped like the crab inside Thai Palace. The monsters at the Riverside that day seemed not just defensive or hungry. They seemed angry. Rabid.
By nightfall, the pair of crabs at the door had vanished, but Danielle had remained at the diner for another two days, barely sleeping as she kept watch from behind the counter, quivering with each gust of wind or scurrying squirrel on the doorstep. Perhaps the next attack would come from a different angle, she had thought, from the roof or the delivery area out back.
As she stood guard throughout the next two nights, she had considered that perhaps it was only a few of the stronger ones that had survived the melting, and it was just a matter of time until they, too, died off. Maybe the cold had kept them alive in the beginning, their ferocity at bay, preserving both their bodies and tempers like meat in a freezer. And when the world began to warm again, the weaker of the species had spoiled quickly, leaving only the desperate strong to survive, if only for a few more days.
It was only a theory, of course, and though it may have proven partly true, the last bit, the portion about the strong having only days to live, was quickly dispelled. As the days turned to weeks, and later a month, Danielle knew the crabs that had survived weren’t dying at all.
On the contrary; they were getting stronger.
Danielle had left the Riverside Diner on the third day after the attack, searching for a location with more security. The diner, though ideal from the standpoint of food and comfort, was a freestanding, glass-fronted restaurant on the water. It was simply too exposed. It would be only a matter of time before every window was blanketed in white crabs, their bodies clinging to the glass like giant white frogs on the panes of a lake-cabin porch.
And glass wasn’t steel, or even wood; eventually the wave of crabs would crash in on her like an avalanche.
Danielle had set out on her trek toward downtown Maripo like an assassin, traveling the roads that led away from the river, slowly, methodically, hiding out in deserted homes and stores along the route, expecting to see the spidery beasts at the end of every blink.
But her journey to the county hub had been without incident. She saw not a single crab, in fact, and once she had reached the cluster of buildings that formed the downtown area, Raise the Flagon quickly became her new home.
The city-center of Maripo was small by most standards, but the eclectic architecture and numerous doorways and alleys gave it a sense of security that the suburban and rural sections of the county did not. And the group of buildings by Raise the Flagon was perfect. Not only did Danielle get the below-ground feature of the bar, on the opposite side of the alley was the C.M. Jones Realty building, which was five-stories high and offered an above-the-world perspective of the cordoned off area.
By the third day in her new home, Danielle had begun watching for crabs from this new high ground across the alley, and only a day later, she observed a second pair of the new off-white breed of crabs emerge from the parking garage next to the courthouse, three blocks from the building.
The pair had moved slowly, lumbering, nearly staggering as they exited the garage onto the street, so unlike what Danielle had seen at the diner. One stood upright and hunched, nearly dragging its knuckles; the second was on all fours, bounding like a chimp. Their heads bobbed down for moments at a time before twitching sideways, as if they’d heard some distant sound or caught a smell on the breeze.
Danielle began to stagger the times for when she would observe the streets of downtown Maripo, hoping to acquire some piece of datum that might keep her alive, assist in her escape. She always sat well back from the window during these stakeouts, never quite sure when a group would suddenly appear around a corner and stride up the sidewalk on Franklin. To this point, the caution had been largely unnecessary, as none of the crabs had raised their heads to look up, but she assumed that day would come, and there was no point taking a risk.
What became obvious within that first week, however, was that there were far fewer crabs than before—probably by as much as two-thirds or more. But what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in randomness, unpredictability. They moved in pairs and threesomes—that seemed a constant—but beyond that, the details of how they lived and when they came out were a mystery.
By the end of the second week, Danielle had begun to observe them at least once a day, but she still hadn’t established any routine or pattern to their movements. And though Raise the Flagon was stocked with booze, its non-perishable food was limited, and eventually the time came when she had to venture beyond the corner at Huntington and Poplar and further into the city for provisions.
Danielle closed her eyes and came back to the present, not ready to dive into the next part of her recent history, those first treacherous days when she had hunted the city for food and supplies. She had made it out alive; that was all that mattered now.
No more reflection tonight.
She leaned over the bar and grabbed the fifth of whiskey which was now down to about a tenth. Dewar’s. Blended. Not too shabby. Never could have afforded this a year ago, she thought.
Bright sides and all that.
She poured a careful shot and dumped it into a tumbler, and then took a sip, swirling the warm liquid across her tongue and gums. She took a deep breath, enjoying the prickly burn of the scotch, and then she tipped the glass again, this time shooting what remained.
Done for the night.
She allowed herself one shot a day, just to take the edge off. Gotta keep it together.
Tomorrow would be better. She would rise early. There were goals to achieve.
Find a Rifle.
2.
Danielle kicked the bottom of the front door with her foot, an informal knock, just a tap really, as if casually testing the tires on a new car. She turned back toward the street and paused, scanning the vacant cul-de-sac for any sign of being watched. Nothing. With her eyes still on the road, she then placed her hand on the knob and turned.
Locked.
She stepped off the porch and quickly headed toward the back of the ranch-style home, a sprawling house that was as big as the first three Danielle grew up in com
bined.
She had made the decision to continue her search for a rifle west of downtown, beginning with the upper-middle-class neighborhood in which she was now. Her hopes were low that she would find the coveted prize there, but she hadn’t explored this part of town yet, and before she simply set off toward the country where rifles were almost certainly more plentiful, she wanted to cover the nearer bases first. If she could accomplish her goals without having to roam miles into the countryside, that was obviously preferable, and if nothing turned up in this posh part of town, she would continue west toward the perimeter.
Therein lay the dilemma, however. Although she was far more likely to score a Remington and a box of shells in one of the homes near the blockade, she was also putting herself at risk being so close to the fortified edges. And she’d already developed enough gray hairs mapping the cordon, so she kept her fingers crossed that she could avoid a return there until it was time to escape.
The sun had just begun to climb above the rooftops of the neighborhood homes, and the house she was attempting to raid was only her third of the day, the first two bearing nothing deadlier than a butcher’s knife and a Louisville Slugger.
But this place looked more promising.
There was a flagpole in the yard and a Chevy Silverado in the drive, and Danielle estimated (based strictly on knee-jerk stereotyping) she was more likely to find a gun here than in the houses beside it. The one on the left had a Honda Odyssey in the drive, the other a Suburban and Land Rover paired neatly in the open garage. It was pop psychology at its best, of course, but Danielle figured screw it: in her own little mini-apocalypse, she was allowed to be politically incorrect.
She stepped quietly around the side of the house until she reached the beginning of a six-foot-high privacy fence that stretched maybe twenty yards out. She followed the wood planks to the corner and turned left, tracing it down the long side of the rectangle, walking until she came to a gate at the back.
The top of the fence was dog-eared and a good six inches over Danielle’s head, but the lock had been installed near the top of the gate, and she was tall enough that she could reach over and release it.
She stood on her tiptoes and felt over the top for the iron hardware, and as she pulled up on the hinge and drew the gate open toward her, she immediately heard the sound of trickling water coming from somewhere inside the yard.
Danielle held her breath, listening. A burst pipe? Perhaps some final runoff from the snow that had covered this sliver of earth only weeks ago?
Danielle pulled the gate fully open and stepped inside, and there, standing with his back toward her, in the far corner of the fence where it buttressed the house, was a boy, urinating against the base of the enclosure.
Danielle threw a hand to her mouth and gasped, instinctively easing the gate steady so as not to evoke any further squeals from the hinges or pops from the wood. The boy hadn’t heard her, not yet, not over the sound of his splashing pee, and in an instant, Danielle weighed her options.
From behind, the boy appeared to be African-American, maybe mixed race, perhaps twelve or thirteen, old enough that if Danielle could get his attention without severely startling him, she could introduce herself calmly, reason with him, find out who he was and how he had survived for this long inside.
Or else she could retreat. There was still that window of opportunity. Now that she knew for sure there were more survivors inside the barrier—at least one anyway—she could go back to her base and develop a plan on how to deal with him, and then return later under more stable circumstances.
And armed, of course. Just in case. She had left the shotgun at the Flagon, not wanting the extra baggage in case she found a rifle. Who could have known?
“Who are you?” a voice boomed from somewhere in the house, and Danielle immediately threw her hands out in front of her, her fingers splayed, showing she was unarmed, suddenly grateful for her decision regarding the shotgun. She didn’t so much as wiggle her toes as she waited for some type of command from the voice, which was male, deep, but also calm and measured. Danielle assumed the father.
The boy spun toward Danielle, whizzing the last of his bladder’s load in a wild spray, and Danielle reflexively averted her eyes to avoid espying the boy’s private parts.
“It’s okay,” she said, staring at the sky as she spoke to both the boy and the voice behind her. “I’m alone. I thought your house was empty. I thought they were all empty. I’ll just leave. I’ll leave you alone.”
This time Danielle heard the shifting of a round into a chamber, and she knew now there was a rifle pointed at her.
Looks like I came to the right place, she thought.
“Don’t take a step. In any direction.”
“Okay.”
The boy looked toward a spot just to the left and behind Danielle, and she turned slightly to get a glimpse, keeping her feet flat to the ground. She could see a window there, cracked open but shrouded in curtains, and sticking through it, resting on the sill, was the barrel of the rifle.
“I asked you a question. Who are you?”
“My name is Danielle,” she called, staring up to the sky again. “I’m trapped in here just like you. I’ve been inside since the beginning. Since the snow started falling.”
“Us too!” the boy cried.
“Quiet, Michael!”
Danielle looked at the teenager and nodded, smiling. She judged the boy to be a little older than her original estimate, fourteen probably, though short for his age.
“Hi, Michael,” she said, almost seeing the cringe of the boy’s father behind the drapes at having unwittingly revealed his son’s name. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Michael said nothing, and within seconds, the glass door of the walkout basement slid open and the metal barrel that was in the window moments ago now emerged through the doorway.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Danielle yelped, raising her arms higher.
The man holding the gun stepped out to the stoop, staring at Danielle through the sight as he came. Almost instantly, however, he lowered the gun to his hip and lifted his chin high, chest out, keeping his narrow glare on the trespasser standing before him.
The man was black, well-built, mid-forties, maybe older; his posture and tenor—not to mention the assault rifle in his hands—suggested military.
“Get inside, Michael,” he said, not taking his eyes off Danielle.
There was a pause in Michael’s obedience, but it was short-lived, and without another word, the boy followed his father’s command and sheepishly ducked back into the house.
“Where are you staying?” the man asked.
It was the question of a soldier, Danielle thought, reinforcing her military assessment. “Not far from here. Two miles maybe. Franklin and Poplar.”
“Downtown? You’re living downtown?”
“I am now.” Danielle had questions of her own and she quickly turned the interview. “How about you guys? Are you alone here? Is this your house or...or are you squatting here?”
“Why do you ask that?”
Danielle shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not living in my house.”
“You think a black man can’t be a patriot and drive a pick-up truck, is that it?”
“What? No! I—”
The man grinned and cocked his head up, letting Danielle in on the joke.
Danielle smiled, squinting in mock amusement.
The man’s expression grew serious again. “It is my house. And we don’t leave it often. Michael almost never.”
Danielle took this as a threat, that if she had plans on staking them out and doubling back later, she’d be wise to think better of it. It was a good sign, she thought. It meant he had no intent on harming her as long as she kept cool.
“Still though, nature doesn’t care that the plumbing’s out, so...well...I’m sure you know the deal as well as we do.”
Danielle grinned and nodded.
“You need food, I assume? That’s wha
t you’re here for? I’ve got a little. No water though. Can’t part with that.”
“That’s kind of you. Really, thank you for the offer. But I’m here for another reason, actually.”
The man cocked his head, curious.
“I’m looking for a rifle. Kind of like the one in your hand there. But I guess you’re using yours.”
The man gave a full grin this time, nodding. “I am using this one, Danielle, but why don’t you step inside. I might have one to spare.”
3.
Danielle had never actually been inside a gun shop, but the storage room in Scott Jenkins’ basement looked exactly like ones she had seen portrayed on television shows and in movies. The rifles were lined along the wall in their slotted stands, neatly at attention like the soldiers for whom they’d been crafted. Danielle’s father had been a hunter, and she’d gone with him a handful of times, so rifles weren’t quite a mystery to her; but the arsenal before her was stunning.
“Just a collector, really,” Scott stated flatly, pulling the key from the huge bolt lock above the door. “Guess my hobby comes in handier than baseball cards, huh?”
“That it does.” Danielle pulled her stare away from the weapons and looked at her new cordon neighbor. “Have you had to use one yet?”
“Kuwait. November 1990.”
That wasn’t what Danielle meant, and she knew Scott knew it too, so she kept quiet, allowing him a moment to arrive at the answer she was after.
“Killed probably twenty of them. Maybe twenty-five.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Still can’t believe it.” Scott lingered for a moment and then snapped his eyes wide; they were full of confusion now, terror. “How long has it been?”
“I think about four months.”
The man kept his eyes locked on Danielle as if waiting for more from her, and when she said nothing, he simply nodded.
And then he began his story.
“They were outside when I heard the blast. My twins. Right in the side yard between the sandbox and the playground.” He smiled at Danielle. “Never used the sandbox though. Even when they were little.”
They Came With The Snow (Book 3): The List Page 2
