Crustaceans

by Meikle, William

  CRUSTACEANS

  by William Meikle

  This eBook edition published 2010

  by Generation Next Publications

  www.GenerationNextPublications.com

  © William Meikle 2010

  eBook Creation by Stephen James Price

  LICENSING

  The publisher and the author have agreed to release this eBook without Digital Rights Management (DRM) protection, but all rights are still in effect. This volume may not be resold or given away. Please show your support for this author by purchasing all additional copies through a reputable vendor.

  1

  The whale farted.

  The noise was like a cotton sheet being slowly ripped in two. The body shuddered along its whole length in a long slow ripple. The three men standing beside it giggled nervously, then had to stand back as the odour tickled their nostrils.

  “Are you sure it’s dead?” Toms asked, pinching fingers to his nose and breathing as lightly as he could through his mouth.

  “Just intestinal gases finding their way out,” McGuire said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “That smell isn’t just anything,” Toms replied. “It’s so thick I can chew it.”

  He sniffed at his clothes. “And it’s sinking into my jacket. I do believe it’s toxic.”

  McGuire nodded.

  “Sure is ripe. And that’s just the first of many.”

  As if to accentuate his point the whale farted again. McGuire had to turn his head away, and it was several seconds before he could speak.

  “Let’s get the blood and tissue samples. Then we’ll call it a night. This big boy isn’t going anywhere. Maybe in the morning the gases will have worked their way out.”

  “Or maybe the wind will get up and keep it from hanging around too long,” Toms said. “But whatever you say boss. One tissue sample, coming up.”

  The dead sperm whale was laid out along the beach just above the water line. It had been found that same morning by a dog walker. McGuire took the call just after lunch, and they were on site less than an hour later. The whale was already dead, and from the looks of it, it had been for a few days at least. Earlier there had been a large crowd of gawpers, and even a crew from a local television station, but a dead whale doesn’t do much except lie there and rot. The crowd grew bored and dissipated as dusk started to fall. Not so the small group of researchers. For them this was a big deal.

  The stretch of sea around Nantucket is full of whales, but normally they are the people-pleasers… lively playful humpbacks and bottlenose dolphins that can be guaranteed to put on a show for the tourists. Sperm whales are much more sedate. They do little more than lie on the surface like huge inflated inner tubes, occasionally sending out a huge blow, and are usually only seen in deep water. Every year they trawl up and down the Eastern Seaboard, but many miles offshore. To get this close, even if it was dead, was a big thrill for the members of the team.

  “What do you think is the cause of death?” Kaminski said. He was the youngest of the three, and by far the most excited. He couldn’t keep his hands off the whale, and kept running his palm across the broad belly, as if it was a sleeping pet.

  McGuire shrugged.

  “We won’t know that until we get the lab results back. And we won’t get them unless we take the samples. Come on guys, focus here. Let’s get the job done and head off for a few beers.”

  “Sounds good to me boss,” Toms replied. He took a long bore from the field kit and placed it against the whale’s belly.

  “I’d stand well back,” he said. “The last one of these I did was messy.”

  He started to turn the bore, twisting the overlarge corkscrew into the whale. The skin started to split in a wound that rapidly widened showing a pink layer of blubber beneath. Toms made one more turn. The belly burst open, covering the men in a flood of blood and gore.

  “Shit,” Toms said, and spat out a solid chunk. “It tastes even worse than it smells.”

  Kaminski laughed out loud.

  “I guess we’ll be doing the laundry before going for a beer guys.”

  Clickety-click.

  McGuire heard the sound, but had been blinded by the spray of blood in his eyes. He reached up with his right hand to wipe it away.

  Snick.

  A lancing pain, white hot, shot up his arm. He reached for his eyes again. His arm never made it. His hand was no longer where it was supposed to be. Confused, he waved his arm in front of his face. Hot blood washed over him and into his mouth. He gagged and spat.

  Snickety-snick.

  He felt a new pain at the same time as his left leg gave way under him. He fell to the sand.

  What the hell is going on?

  Somewhere Toms and Kaminski screamed… high wails of terror. McGuire put his left hand on the ground, trying to push himself upright. Something grabbed him tight around the waist. It didn’t feel like a friendly hug.

  Snick.

  The whole lower half of McGuire’s body suddenly came loose, like the mother and father of all bowel movements.

  He felt no pain as darkness seeped in around his thoughts.

  All fell silent.

  Toms and Kaminski were no longer screaming. The only sound McGuire heard was the one he struggled to identify at the end.

  Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

  2

  The morning found Joe Porter out on Bellport Bay in his boat, trying to clear his head after a slew of booze the night before. Early sunlight danced on the water and lanced into his brain like tiny needles, each one bringing a stinging reminder of his excesses.

  The hangover was nothing new. Joe and the bottle were old friends. His father introduced them, back on Joe’s fourteenth birthday. It was the closest relationship of Joe’s life, if not the most rewarding. They had been getting closer than ever over the past two years which, not entirely coincidentally, were Joe’s forty-eighth and forty-ninth on the planet.

  Fifty fucking years on this here Bay. And what have I got to show for it? A cabin that’ll fall down in the next high wind and a stripper who’ll fuck off as soon as somebody better comes along. What a fucking life.

  He reached for his hip pocket and took out the flask that nestled there. The metal was worn and buckled into a perfect fit that cuddled at his butt-cheeks. The rye tasted warm but Joe paid that no never-mind and poured a cupful down his throat. His stomach roiled but he kept everything down. Within seconds the booze started running around in his bloodstream and Joe began to feel the buzz that was going to make the rest of the day at least bearable. The hangover still pounded just behind his eyes but he was thankful for it. It was one of the few things that reminded him he was alive. If he ever stopped having a thumping headache in the mornings he’d know he was in trouble.

  He took another hit of rye then put the flask away.

  Can’t get too loaded too early. I’m not that much of a fuck-up.

  The words were there in his head unbidden.

  Not yet.

  He pushed it away. He knew from long experience that dwelling too much on how shitty his day-to-day life had become was a sure-fire recipe for falling back into the booze. It might be good to have at least one sober hour today.

  Besides, it was hunting season out on the Bay, and he needed to make the most of it if he was to make enough money to keep him in booze and smokes over winter. He let the boat drift twenty yards down the shore to where trees overhung the banks. There was a long mud bank here where the beasts congregated to escape the heat of the day, and it always proved a good spot to start crabbing. He cut up an eel and put out six lines, letting the fine gut hang loosely in his hand. The boat bobbed in the slight swell but didn’t move enough for him to need an anchor. He sat back against the gunwale and let
the sea relax him. Another slug from the hip flask and a cigarette helped him on the way a bit further.

  He saw several other boats drift into position along the bank. Sometimes they would get together and share a quart or two, but Porter didn’t feel like company today.

  The morning drifted on. He managed to keep the hip flask in his pocket, but was running out of smokes, and none of the lines had so much as twitched. You got days like this out on the water... days that would drive a man to drink… if he wasn’t already there.

  He was just thinking that he might give up and get the serious drinking started when he felt a tug on one of his lines. Slowly, carefully, he brought up the first Blue Crab of the day. It wriggled in his hand but didn’t have the strength in its claws to do him any serious damage. He placed it in the net in the bottom of the boat and watched it scuttle for a while.

  It was the first of many. It proved to be the most successful morning’s fishing he’d ever had. It was as if the crabs were being herded towards him. All he had to do was throw lines overboard and the crabs were onto them immediately. Within an hour his net was full and bulging. Fifty yards away Stu Watts gave him a thumbs-up as he too pulled in line after line.

  Porter waved back, then swore as he felt a claw close on his thumb. A crab swung from the digit, holding tight.

  “Fucker!” he shouted and tossed the offending crab into the bottom of the boat. It scuttled back towards him. He kicked it away while sucking at the welt it had raised. It hadn’t quite broken the skin but it would be bruised later. The crab came back again. He raised a foot, intending to put an end to it once and for all.

  It was only then that he noticed the size of the crab.

  That sure as hell ain’t no Blue Crab.

  It was half again as big as anything else he’d ever caught in the Bay. It was grey-blue along the shell, pink below, and shining white at the claws. Its mandibles looked huge in proportion as it waved them in the air, as if tasting Porter’s scent.

  Clickity-clack.

  It snapped a claw at him, as if warning him not to try anything.

  Sparky little bugger, ain’t you?

  It came forward again, snapping. Porter lifted his feet out of the way, but even then it tried to snip at his heels. He grabbed the crab and stuffed it in the net. It immediately started attacking the Blue Crabs, claws snicking away legs and cutting through shell. The Blues tried to fight back but the newcomer was stronger, bigger and altogether way more vicious. Porter sat there watching his earnings getting butchered.

  It’s almost as if the fucker is enjoying it.

  He made for shore, the joy gone from the morning.

  On the way back he finished off the contents of the hip-flask. He had a good buzz on by the time he moored the boat, and wasn’t quite co-ordinated as he made his way back along the dock.

  He made a hash of emptying the net. Bits of Blue Crab fell with a clatter, some of the pieces dropping with a splash through the boards. The large crab landed on its back but righted itself quickly and made a bid for freedom, scuttling across the small deck at the front of the cabin.

  Porter caught it just before it reached the water. He was careful this time; approaching it from behind and making sure the pincers were kept well away from his fingers. The crab snapped furiously. Porter lifted the crab in front of him and looked straight at it. It stared back from small white, unblinking eyes. Porter smiled, and spat on it.

  You’re mine now fucker. Better start getting used to it.

  He took it indoors, sealing it in a large empty fish-tank he’d bought for setting up an aquarium but never got round to using. As soon as he closed the lid the crab banged angrily on the glass with its claws. It scuttled around the four sides of the tank, smacking on the glass all the way.

  It’s looking for a weak point.

  “Noisy little fucker, aren’t you?” Porter said.

  It stopped banging and stared at him again. For the first time Porter had a really close look at it. It had eight red legs. It stood on tip-toe on all of them, pincers raised above its head, like a martial arts expert waiting to strike, its body partially angled towards him so that he could see its belly and what looked remarkably like a face. It looked at Porter, then banged hard on the glass right in front of his nose, causing him to flinch and step back. Even when he went outside and started to pack what was left of the Blue Crab catch in ice for transportation, he heard the knock-knock of the claws on the glass.

  Once he was finished packing the catch he went back inside, broke open the rum and sat in his chair studying the large crab. As he’d originally thought, it was the biggest he’d ever caught in the Bay, by some way. And there was something about this one that chilled his blood.

  I should kill it and be done with it. It might even make good eating.

  But it was a curio, something new in the routine of his day to day existence, and as such it needed to be cherished, if only for a short time.

  “Enjoy your new home fucker,” he whispered to it. “I’ll be keeping you for a while longer. Let’s see what you grow into.”

  The crab knocked angrily against the glass while Porter made a dive into the rum.

  3

  Shona Menzies sat alone in the spacious rear passenger seat of a sleek black Hummer and wondered where they were taking her.

  They were far away from any roads she recognised and from where she sat she couldn’t see any of the direction signs on the highway. Even when she did finally catch a glimpse of one the vehicle was moving too fast for her to read it. For maybe the tenth time she thought about asking the men up front where they were heading, but she knew she’d get the same answer.

  That’s classified Miss. I’m sure they’ll fill you in when we get there.

  She was worried.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  She’d been roused out of bed at two in the morning and opened the door to find two bulky armed men.

  “Homeland Security,” they had said. “Please come with us Ms Menzies.”

  “If it’s my visa, I have another two months left,” she said.

  “It’s not your visa Miss. Please come with us. We don’t have much time if we’re to get you there by morning.”

  “Get me where?”

  “Sorry Miss, that’s classified.”

  She’d only been given time to get dressed and throw as much as she could into a travelling bag then they bundled her into the Hummer. They’d been driving south for hours now, and she was no nearer an explanation.

  They overtook a truck whose driver gave them a long angry hoot as they cut in front of him.

  “What’s the hurry?” she asked.

  “We were told to get you ASAP,” the one in the passenger seat said. “And when the Colonel says ASAP, he means yesterday.”

  “I’m not that important,” she replied.

  “If the Colonel says…” he started.

  She interrupted him.

  “Yes, I get that picture. Look, are you sure you’ve got the right person?” she asked, but she just got the same blank stare as before. Both men were big-built and hefty, with close-cut blonde hair. Both wore dark casual jackets over black shirts and either one was as quiet as the other was.

  “Do you two even have names? Or did they clone you?” she asked.

  That did get a smile from the man in the passenger seat up front.

  “I’m Lieutenant John Wilkes,” he said and turned to look at her. He had piercing blue eyes and a white scar running down the left side of his face, but the smile looked genuine enough, and did something, just a little, to dispel some of Shona’s unease.

  Wilkes continued.

  “And your driver tonight is Sergeant Matthews.”

  Matthews grunted in reply.

  “Don’t mind him Miss,” Wilkes said. “I got him out of bed just before we came for you.”

  She looked from one to the other. There was no sign of insignia, no evidence they were in fact who they said they were.

 
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  “So which one of you do I have to sleep with to get a coffee?”

  Wilkes smiled broadly.

  “That would be me. The Sergeant here is a married man,” he said. He reached down to a panel between the seats and brought out a thermos. “But we don’t have time right now. Can I take a rain check?”

  She smiled back. She was actually starting to relax.

  And I’ve got them talking. Well, one of them at least.

  “Which force are you with? Where are you taking me?”

  “Coffee for sex, that was the deal, right?” Wilkes said with a smile. “You never said anything about classified information. That would cost you a lot more.”

  Once again they went back to the blank stares as they drove through the darkness.

  The coffee was good though, strong and black, giving her body the jolt it needed to keep her going for a while longer. They slowed down at a junction and, for the first time, she saw a sign.

  Boston? What are we doing in fucking Boston?

  She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud.

  Wilkes turned and smiled again.

  “Don’t worry Miss. We’re just passing through.”

  Through to where?

  By the time they pulled up on a sandy shoreline she was close to screaming in frustration.

  “Please stay put,” Wilkes said. “Just for a minute longer.”

  The two men got out. Just as Shona reached for the door the locks closed with a loud click.

  This time she did scream, but it didn’t get her anywhere. Nobody paid her any attention. She saw black clad men outside the Hummer, all of whom seemed busy with something.