They Came With The Snow Box Set {Books 1-2]

by Coleman, Christopher

  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 instinct 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 tryin
g 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.

  I move as close to the gate as possible, my chest now brushing against the cold barrier, hoping to draw the thing towards me. It doesn’t move though, and I realize that I’m too far away to trigger the instinctual reaction it showed earlier.

  I kick the bottom of the gate and the crab flinches, cocking its head slightly down and to its left in the direction of the sound, like a dog listening to a question.

  But still no move forward.

  I begin to experience a new feeling of light-headedness now, dreamy and warm, and I assume it means that my body is starting to fail. I feel like I’m on the verge of delirium, preparing to die.

  Desperate, I set the knives down on the floor beside me, nearly teetering over as I do, and then I rise back up and step a few paces backwards towards the front door of the restaurant. I close my eyes for a second, and then, with my mind as clear as Norwegian rain, I sprint full bore into the gift shop gate.

  I scream as I slam into the metal, and though I’ve kept my arms folded in front of me to minimize the damage to my more delicate parts, the pain is immense, heightened by the cold of both the air and the gate itself.

  The crab takes a step forward now, reaching the display table of sweatshirts before stopping. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the impact, or the mimicking of its actions that have stirred the imprisoned crab, or perhaps something else entirely. But I don’t care; I just need it to come to me.

  My heart is pounding with fear, but I will myself to stay pressed against the gate, hoping that the crab will get the scent of me—or the sound of my breathing or whatever it is that triggers it to madness—and will attack the gate as it did earlier.

  I can see the thing is considering its next move, calculating, just like the ones on the bridge seemed to before jumping to the water and constructing their bridge. And now, based on this single crab’s actions and the actions of his brood, I’ve come to the conclusion that these beasts do have control of their actions, but only to a point, literally, and once that point is crossed, the animal in them takes over.

  The crab moves slightly to its right, its stare locked on me, and I follow it with my eyes, my body still pressed tightly against the cage, my penis and testicles feeling particularly vulnerable. But I hold my position.

  Another step forward by the crab.

  It’s almost at the gate now and about three feet to my left, barely in the range of my periphery. It seems to understand that my judgement is thrown from this angle and my ability to avoid an attack impaired. If I wait much longer, it will be too close for me to pull away in time.

  I take a final deep breath and then kick the bottom of the gate again, screaming this time, both from the pain on my foot and to enhance the disturbance. Almost instantly, not a full second later, from the corner of my eye, I can just make out the red flesh of the crab’s inner cheek, opening its mouth to tear in to my face. Time to go.

  I propel myself backwards just as the monster slams against the gate and presses its white skin at precisely the spot where I was standing a second earlier, only an inch of metal separating the two places.

  The crab begins gnashing its teeth against the metal again, and I quickly stoop to the floor, in one motion sliding the two kitchen knives back toward me and picking them up, one in each hand.

  I stand still for a moment, waiting for the thing to resume its routine from earlier, taking three steps backwards and then slamming into the gate. It takes a minute or two, but then it begins.

  I let the first two attacks happen without action, getting the timing down.

  Three steps back and charge. Three steps back and charge.

  Once more, just to be sure.

  And then I act.

  On the crab’s fourth retreat—three steps back—I lean my body forward, and then, going off timing alone, I rush the metal gate, mirroring the charge from the other side, the forged butcher’s knife extended out in front of me like a bayonet.

  I can feel the crisp resistance of bone and muscle envelop the blade, and the side of my grip presses against the cold crab’s skin, sending a chill of a different kind through my body. From somewhere inside the monster there’s the sensation of soft meat—a lung perhaps—getting skewered, and the coughing eruption from behind the gate seems to confirm it.

  I pull away from the gate, and the feel of the blade sliding from the crab’s body makes me gag.

  But there’s little time for weak stomachs, and I step away quickly, my eyes hula hoops, the blood of the crab coating the blade of the knife like caramel over a soft-dipped cone. The crab remains pinned to the gate, and there is no change of expression on its face. But the wound to its torso is significant, and the blood is gushing from it like a river.

  It takes three steps back, more slowly this time, and rushes again, and I do the same.

  This time I hold the knife higher, aiming it now, and as I slam against the gate, I watch the blade puncture into the chest of the crab, high on the left side, six inches or so beneath the shoulder blade.

  The blood from this strike leaves no doubt that I’ve struck the heart, and with this stabbing, the crab collapses, grabbing the cage as it falls and managing to land on its knees.

  The mutant human is gasping to breathe now, blood choking it on every inhalation. It’s now on all fours, trying to keep its head up to keep me in its vision, but the energy is gone. It bows its head, blood dripping from its chest and mouth, the violent coughs beginning to sputter.

  I set the chef’s knife down and replace it with the cleaver. I grab the gate with my free hand and rattle it above the bowed head of the crab, and it follows the sound, looking up at me, its black eyes still showing no signs of anything but reptilian apathy.

  But the strength of the thing is fading quickly, and it returns its gaze back to the floor beneath it, slowly coughing out the blood that continues to flood its mouth.

  I swallow and close my eyes for a beat, and then I bring the cleaver down across the back of the bald white head below me. It’s a clean strike, the large square blade catching the skull lengthwise, and without a sound, the crab falls forward into the gift shop gate and slides slowly to the floor. It twitches once, just barely, and then dies, its black eyes continuing to stare without an ounce of either fear or regret.

  I toss the cleaver behind me and return to the hostess station for the keys, which I’d set on top of the register, hoping that would help me remember. I can barely recall my name now, or what I’m doing here, but I know the mission was to get inside the shop.

  Within a minute of killing the crab, I’ve opened the gate and have begun to put on the first layer of Clam Bake novelty clothing. Another layer goes on. And then another. And then I begin to fill up shopping bags with all the towels and thick clothes that I can carry. But I need to move, to formulate my next steps, to figure out how I’m going to go about rescuing the people that saved me and that I led on the fateful journey across the Maripo River.

  If they haven’t found keys to the yacht by now, or found enough weaponry to keep the crabs at bay, then they’re already dead. I have to try though. I have to return to the spot to make sure. And if they’re gone, I’ll figure out my next steps from there.

  But for now, I can’t move. For now, I can only sit on the floor of the Clam Bake gift shop, shivering, trying to hug the warmth into my bones.

  Chapter 4

  I snap open the second of two large, black trash bags that I found beneath the bar and begin to fill it. The bags of clothes from the gift shop sit patiently by the back entrance of the Clam Bake, waiting for the impending adventure on the river. But I’ve also decided that, in addition to the clothes, stocking up on some of whatever is stored in the restaurant’s walk-in refrigerator would be an even better idea, and the large, black trash bags and even better form of toting.

  And the fridge renders quite t
he haul.

  Containers of clams and oysters, tuna steaks and salmon filets, and enough ground beef to last a year, all taunt me from the tall racks of steel shelving. But it’s all for naught. I’ve already made the decision to leave most of the good stuff behind in favor of less perishable items. Nearly-frozen loaves of bread and tortillas. Three boxes of croutons and a few cans of tomatoes. An industrial-sized container of Quaker Oats. I toss in a stack of cellophane-sealed rib eyes for good measure. Just in case.

  With the second bag now filled to a comfortable carrying weight, I walk both bags out to the back door and place them next to the bags of clothes, and then return to the kitchen for one final assessment of supplies. On the way, I grab my open bottle of Heineken off the bar and take the final swig.

  I step through the double kitchen doors and stop, scanning the kitchen a final time for anything light and useful. I set the empty beer bottle down on the steel counter, and as I do, I hear the sound of a man’s voice.

  “Check back there,” one calls. “I’ll check the kitchen. Somebody put all that stuff by the door.”

  Like a cockroach to an illuminated room, the man’s voice propels me to scramble forward, grabbing the empty bottle of beer before I bolt, dodging past the kitchen island and barely opening the thick, sheet metal door of the walk-in refrigerator, just wide enough that I can squeeze in sideways.

  There is no window on the refrigerator door, and it’s almost certainly sound proof, so I put the empty bottle of Heineken on the floor at my feet and wedge it between the door and the jamb. I figure the bottle isn’t likely to be noticed by anyone walking through the kitchen—at least not at first—and the gap will allow me to be able to hear if and when someone decides to enter. What I’ll do at that point I haven’t quite figured out—the chef’s knife and cleaver are nowhere near, resting with the clothes and food on a table by the back entrance.

  I can’t see the man as he enters, but I hear the swinging flap of the kitchen door, followed by the low-pitched clicking of hard heels hitting tiled floor. The steps stop almost immediately, and I can picture the person perusing the room suspiciously, his eyes narrow, wary.