I continue 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-dormant 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.
They hate fire. The thought suddenly comes to me like a message from the ether.
Of course they do. They’re snow monsters. If I was a snow monster, the one thing I would definitely hate is fire.
I open the door to the RV and step inside, clutching the keys from the dashboard and turning on the vehicle, still holding the flare in my left hand, now feeling almost invincible with the torch in grasp.
But before I start the engine, I de-press the button to roll down the passenger side window, at first just a crack, and then fully. And I listen.
There’s only silence now—no sounds of footsteps or flowing hordes, no clamoring for position at the head of the door to Gray’s Grocery. I turn on the headlights of the RV and they light up the large pane of glass that forms the front window of the store, as well as the front door. There isn’t a single crab still standing on the sidewalk between the shopping carts and the door; only the dismembered corpse of Stanton remains.
I start the engine now and put the RV into drive, moving it slowly forward as I turn the wheel to the right, angling it so that the headlights are shining in the direction of where the group of crabs descended on the shovel.
Not surprisingly, they’re still there—maybe seventy of them now—each one stooping like monkeys, staring at the oncoming RV. I can’t know by simply studying the expressions on their faces, or even through their body language, but there is a sense of fear emanating from the pack now—even dread—as I approach.
I pull the RV a few yards closer, and then closer still, and finally, before the crabs in the front begin to feel the push of the giant steel grill, the pack begins to move backwards, quickly now, nervously, never taking their eyes away from the vehicle.
The RV is enormous, and I could obviously run several of the down with almost no effort, and do quite a bit of thinning of the horde’s numbers before they ever had a chance to retaliate. But still, I don’t think it’s the brawn of the RV that has made them start to retreat. After all, we’ve been driving past crabs since we left the Clam Bake—and my group from the diner and I drove past dozens of them in our box truck—and most of them paid us little mind.
But I already know what it is they see. I know exactly what the source is of their growing terror.
I put the RV in park and leave it running, headlights shining brightly on the pack of white bodies in front of me, the crabs all huddled together tightly like a mischief of rats.
I grab the satchel containing the Bowie knives and place my flashlight inside of it, and then I open the door and step down from the RV. I reach the pavement and hold the flare out like an offering to the crabs, daring them to take the gift.
Almost the second I lift the flare in front of me the first of the crabs—those furthest away from me, in the back of the horde—begin to flee, scattering like beetles into the trees on the north border of the store and the interstate to the west, the direction from which these crabs all came originally.
And then the chain reaction occurs.
The next layer of bodies from the back begins to dissipate, and then the next, and suddenly the sea of white becomes a sprinkle in the black night, a light dusting of confectioner’s sugar atop a cake of dark chocolate.
Until finally there are none.
I follow the last one, casually walking in its wake as it runs from the store toward the interstate, watching it as it drifts out of the range of the headlights. I turn back to the store to see little evidence that any of them had ever been there at all. Other than the body of Mr. Stanton.
I do a quick check around the side of the building, just to make sure there are no lingering crabs who may have wandered off to the back of the store during the chaos. But it’s a formality, really; I already know the answer. I’m beginning to understand how it works now. Just as the crabs are drawn by other crabs towards the action, so too do they flee danger with the pack. And with the flare still shining brightly, and likely capable of being seen for miles, I have little to worry about for the moment.
With the parking lot and the surrounding area now empty, I head back to the front door of the store, passing the body of Stanton as I go. I don’t look down at him. It feels like a cold move on the surface, as inhuman as the crabs that killed him, perhaps, but there’s nothing to do about it now and only time to waste.
I pull open the automatic doors and push my way inside, and immediately run toward the back of the store and the receiving area where I last saw the remaining survivors of my new group.
I glance at the flare as I lightly open the swinging door and notice it’s starting to diminish, but I hold it out boldly, expecting to see carnage and chaos, preparing to fend off an attack. With the flare dwindling and three people in distress, four including me, I can’t be overly cautious; whatever I decide to do once I get through these doors will need to be done with haste.
I see the blood first, a sparkling pool of it shimmering in the halo of the fading flare, puddled at the threshold of the back room. Behind the puddle is a long slick that trails back into the rear of the receiving room.
I look to the left of the pool now and see a lone boot lying on its side. Sticking out of the top of it is the lower half of a man’s leg; judging by the length of the bone and crooked fragments, it looks to have occurred somewhere mid-shin.
I put my hand to my mouth, stifling what was sure to be some hybrid of a scream and a gag, and I force myself to march further in, my head on a swivel. I fumble in the satchel and pull out the flashlight now, and then click it on nervously with a press of my thumb.
The beam explodes forward and the first thing that appears is a pair of eyes. Not the black eyes of death, but light brown, human. They’re wide, disbelieving, and framed above and below, left and right, by long, thick bars of metal shelving.
“Oh my God, it’s Dominic!” a voice calls from behind the bars. It’s Smalley, and I can see the fear in her eyes has been diluted slightly with hope.
“Dom?” It’s Jones now, his voice sounding almost delirious, disbelieving. I can’t see any part of him from where I’m stan
ding, but his voice is coming from the same general area of Smalley’s. “Watch out, Dom. It’s...I think it’s behind that stack of pallets by the loading door. It’s trying to find a way in here.”
I move into the room a few more steps, trying to get my bearings as to what type of contraption Jones and Smalley are in exactly, wondering where the creature is trying to enter. I note the stack of pallets Jones has just referred to, and then I start to place the pieces together. Jones and Smalley have created a metal protective cage using three or four industrial trailer carts, the kind that come from the warehouse to the store, loaded to the top, full of supplies waiting to be unloaded. These carts are empty, but the structure is effective. Their arrangement is like some kind of small prison, Smalley and Jones the inmates, intent on keeping out the ghostly warden milling around the outside.
“Where is Abramowitz?” I ask, looking to the stains on the floor.
There’s silence at first, and then from Jones, “He’s in here. He’s alive, but he’s bad.”
I assumed the boot was Abramowitz’s; he was the one standing guard by the door when I left.
“Holy Jesus, Dominic,” Smalley says, “I can’t believe you made it out. And that you’re still alive.”
“I can’t believe you came back,” Jones adds soberly. And then, “There’s a shovel just to your left, right beside these carts. If that thing—”
Before Jones can finish his plan, I hear the crab scurry from behind the pallet and I catch it immediately in the beam of the light, lucky to have detected it before it got too close. I take a step forward, gripping the flare like a samurai sword, horizontally in front of me, the flashlight pointed low and straight.
“Dom what are you doing? It’s too late to get the shovel now. Just get out of here and find another weapon. This coop is pretty good. We can hold that thing off for a few minutes longer.”
The Melting (They Came With The Snow #2) Page 12