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

by Coleman, Christopher

  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. Their 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.

  I contin
ue to stand several feet back from the lamppost, still exposed to the night, and for a moment I think the crabs will look right at me, in search of the source of the noise, the way any thinking person would. But after a few beats of stillness, the crabs begin walking toward the side of the building, heading to the location of the noise itself, never once turning their heads in my direction. I look back to the crabs at the front door and see that the ones at the back of the pack have begun to move toward the corner of the store as well, drawing with them those closer to the interior of the mob. Within seconds all the crabs are moving to the shovel in a steady migration.

  I look behind the crabs still in the parking lot but I can see only night—there are no white bodies flowing in behind them. I don’t have the luxury to believe that I’ve seen the last of the waves, but for now there’s a gap. Another pair of them will be coming soon, I have no doubt about that, so if there is ever a time to go for it, now is it.

  I take a deep breath and then break into a sprint.

  I keep my head down and at first bolt in the direction away from the store, and then, once I’ve gone about twenty yards, I make a sharp right turn and beeline in the direction of the RV. The twenty yards up is probably overkill, but I need to ensure I’ve created a wide enough berth to avoid the crabs in the lot that are now heading toward the corner of the store. The moon has ducked behind the clouds for the moment, so from this position I can no longer see any of them. But I can still hear the sickening wet patter sound on the blacktop, like giant rodents running toward a meal in a sewer main.

  I’m about halfway between the lamppost and the RV, starting to gain a morsel of hope, when I hear the sound of footsteps coming from a different direction. The sound no longer is coming from in front of me in the parking lot, but instead beyond the perimeter of the store property, from the freeway. As I expected, the next wave is coming, and I’m directly in the path.

  I stop in place, frozen for the moment, and still a good twenty-five yards from the RV. But I have to know my options, so I hold my breath and listen, trying to gauge if this new wave of crabs is headed toward me or whether they’ve caught the scent of the mob and are following the mass of bodies toward the shovel. It’s a delicate distinction, trying to place the direction of footsteps, and despite my wishful thinking, my honest assessment tells me they’re headed at me.

  I’m trapped now, and I want to scream, but I keep my focus, figuring if I’m going to die, it’s not going to be because I panicked. I reach for my waistband, and for the first time since arriving here, I pull out the flashlight and shine it directly into the night toward the sound of the approaching footsteps.

  There’s nothing at first, and I drift my aim back and forth slowly, searching the blackness, expecting monsters with every illumination. Reluctantly, I turn the beam in the direction of the corner of the building where I threw the shovel, and I can see that the entire crowd of crabs has convened to that side of the building. Regardless of how this ultimately turns out, that part of the plan worked perfectly.

  I consider that perhaps I’ve misjudged the oncoming footsteps, that without the normal ambient sounds around me, I don’t have the same sense of direction and location. Buoyed, I turn the flashlight back toward the edge of the parking lot for one more look. And now I see them.

  The new wave, how many exactly I can’t tell, but they’re no more than ten or fifteen yards away, growing larger with each step as they flow through the beam directly towards me.

  My instincts kick in and I immediately start running toward the RV.

  A race of death has begun.

  Since I tossed the shovel, I don’t have a weapon at my immediate disposal; the knives I scavenged from the trucks are stuffed in a bag and not readily accessible to use at the moment. It wasn’t great planning on my part, stuffing them away like that, but here we are.

  The crabs are close enough to smell now, but I keep the beam fixed on the RV, the passenger door growing ever closer in my sights, almost enough to give me hope. A few more strides and I’ll be there. I may not have time to open the door and get inside, but at least I’ll have some cover from the vehicle. I may have to maneuver around it a bit, using it as a defense until I can trick my way inside, but at least I’ll have a chance.

  But that whole plan suddenly falls to pieces.

  Two of the crabs, whether by their own dumb luck or, more frighteningly, through some primitive intelligence, dart into the path of the light and stop, staring down the length of the beam, separating me from my destination. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the light at the side of the RV as if waiting for a ride.

  I let out a half yelp and stop in my tracks, almost falling forward towards them. I look into the cold faces and can see that their eyes are as dead as always, their faces blank. But the one crab on the left has its mouth slightly open, almost smiling, and I can see the viciousness waiting behind the lips.

  The footsteps that were slapping at me from behind stop at the same time I do, and, now remembering that danger, I pivot, swinging the beam of light behind me. I can see the third crab is standing and staring, keeping a bit more than an arm’s length distance, its blank eyes staring at me like I’m a child. This one’s mouth is closed and flat, showing no interest in destroying me, despite what I know its instinct to be.

  Every few seconds, I swing the light from my back to my front, illuminating the two crabs standing by the RV, and then back to the one behind me, using the light like some type of weapon from a sci-fi movie, minus the deadly effects, of course.

  I’m trapped, dead likely, and with that thought, the crab from behind takes a step forward.

  I move closer to the RV and the two crabs waiting there, still a little over two yards from their clutches. I could run back toward the store, but I know the distance is too great. I’ve seen them move, and I’ll be run down before I make it half-way there.

  The crab behind takes another small step toward me, and I know it’s only a matter of seconds until this is all over. I can smell the ammonia as it moves in, and for just a moment I resign myself to death, figuring that making it this far has been nothing short of a miracle. It has to end sometime.

  I turn my body so that the crabs are on either side of my now, and I take a step to my right toward the RV, slowly running out of real estate.

  I think of the bridge again, and the student union at Warren Community College, recalling the behavior of these white devils, knowing that they can calculate their kills like generals, despite their more savage instincts once the prey is right in front of them.

  The moment of truth has arrived. I can quit now and be dead in seconds, or I can keep fighting until the end.

  I conjure some deep fury within me and scream toward the single crab at my left, almost barking at it like a cornered hound. The crab flinches back, which I accept as a positive sign, that they have the capacity for some level of fear, and with it momentarily stunned by my resistance, I crouch to the ground and drop the nylon emergency kit on the street in front of me.

  I place the flashlight on the ground with the beam facing the lone crab, but I force myself not to look at it, focusing instead on the contents of the roadside kit, knowing my only hope is a miracle.

  And there it is, nestled against the side of the rectangular case between a set of jumper cables and a can of tire sealant.

  A flare.

  I pull the dull red wand from its pocket and twist off the top, and then with a quick snap of my wrist, strike the flare against the course surface of the cap.

  A sparkle of light appears like magic, like something from an animated fantasy movie, crackling and shining in the dark night like some kind of miraculous invention. Still stooped, I raise the flare above my head, energized now with a new sense of power, feeling like the first caveman who found fire and presented it to his Neanderthal mates, soon to become the first god of humans.

  I pick up the flashlight again and stand up straight. I find the face of the lone crab and see its once-d
ormant expression has now twisted into a crumple of pain and fear. I hear grunting sounds behind me and swing the light toward the crabs at the RV. Their faces are equally as tortured as the crab opposite them, and, for the first time, I take an intentional step toward them, holding the flare in front of me.

  The two crabs guarding the RV squint their eyes and bow their heads to the side, as if trying to watch the flare and resist it at the same time. I lunge at them, thrusting the flare toward their torsos, and they nearly stumble over each other in an attempt to keep away from the menacing crackle.

  The two crabs have cleared the hood of the RV now and are heading toward the store. I keep the flashlight on them until they’re twenty feet or so away, and then I turn back to the crab that was behind me. That one is also retreating, keeping its eyes fixed on the flare like it’s a vial which contains the potion capable of its ultimate destruction.

  Perhaps that’s exactly what it is, I consider, and then bring my focus back to the moment.

  I run at the crab now, no longer measured in my attack, and as I do, the human look of anguish increases on the crab’s face; the frown of its mouth and wrinkle of the brow as indicative of fear and pain as any I’ve ever seen.

  “You want some of this, asshole?” I ask. My voice is calm now, as if my question were legitimate.

  I take another step at it and it turns away fully now. I keep my beam on it as it begins running toward the front of the store. It looks back once as it retreats, and I can see the beam of the flashlight catches the glint of its teeth, sending a shiver up my back.

  I don’t really know how long these flares last, and I only saw the one inside the kit; but I make a note that if and when I get out of this jam—which is looking like a much better prospect than it did less than a minute ago—I’ll head back to the rigs to look for more. And surely the grocery store has some. And other things that light up.