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 the 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 rac
ks 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.
After a few more seconds, the footsteps finally resume, this time with purpose in the stride, confidence, and I suddenly think of the mysterious colonel from back on the exit ramp.
“What do you got, Jones?” I hear another man call. The voice sounds like it’s coming from the dining area. “Anything?”
“Not yet,” the heavy-footed kitchen-searcher answers, whose name I now know is Jones. “But I just walked in so give me a sec.”
“You’re not feasting on crab legs or something, are you Jones?”
“I’m feasting on your mother,” Jones mutters to himself, and then calls, “Yep, you caught me, Abramowitz. Still looking for something to melt this butter though.”
I turn back to the contents of the refrigerator, looking for anything that might be functional as a weapon, and I spot on the shelf, just to my left, a small, twelve-ounce can of chicken broth. I grab it, wrapping my fingers into a tight squeeze around the paper label, relishing the heft of the can. I return my gaze to the kitchen.
The gap created by the beer bottle that sits between the door and the jamb has given me a sliver of visibility, a narrow line of sight to the vicinity of the dishwasher’s station. Jones finally enters my view and, instinctively, I take a step back, maintaining my vision of him. He takes another step and then stops, and I can now just see the backside of him on his right side, including his arm which hangs beside him, his hand gripping the butt end of what I can only assume is a rifle. From my vantage point, I can only see the top of the gun’s butt, but if it isn’t a rifle, it’s a gun of some sort, and certainly one that’s far more deadly than my twelve-ounce can of broth.
Jones takes another step toward the dishwashing station and is now out of my view, but judging by the sound of his boots, he’s about to make his way around the kitchen island to start his journey back toward the doors that swing out to the dining room. It’s a path that will take him past the refrigerator, and even if he doesn’t notice that the door has been propped open, I can’t imagine he won’t want to check inside. I know I would.
“Holy shit!” someone calls in the distance, and I have no doubt the exclamation has come from the lobby.
The gift shop.
“Jones, get out here!” Abramowitz calls.
I hear the bang of the island as Jones makes his turn and rushes toward the kitchen doors, passing by the refrigerator and my watching eyeball by only inches as he flees.
Abramowitz’s call has given me a chance, and, boldly, I push open the steel door of the refrigerator before I even hear the swing of the kitchen doors. I know Jones’ focus is away from the kitchen now and on his partner, but I’ll have little time to waste if I’m going to make it to my boat without being noticed.
I leave the trash bag of food on the floor of the walk-in, deciding that I will need all of my fluidity and stealth to flee the restaurant and reach the boat without being noticed. Besides, it’s a two-trip effort to get the clothes and the food to the boat anyway, so even if I got the food to the door without a sound, I would need to leave it there anyway. Between the food and the clothes, I’m choosing the clothes for now. It may not be the wisest decision, I know, but I can’t imagine feeling the earlier torture of the elements again. And I know the food is still in the refrigerator, so if the armed men don’t take it with them when they leave, I can always come back for it later.
I step outside the kitchen doors and into the dining room, stopping at the bussing station on the opposite side of the bar, listening, trying to gauge where the men are currently.
There’s only silence for the first few seconds, and then, “You think anyone’s still here?” Abramowitz asks, a note of discovery in his voice.
“I’m not sure I even understand what happened here,” Jones replies. “It certainly looks like this thing was killed though.”
I can hear that the voices are coming from up the corridor, and though the men are speaking at a relatively normal volume, it sounds like they’re standing right next to me. As the crow flies, they’re probably fifteen feet away, and the partition between us offers almost no soundproofing. I have to stay quiet, but I can’t wait much longer to get out of here. These men are intrigued by the crime scene for the moment, but they’ll no doubt be moving on any moment.
“What’s not to understand, Jones? You’ve seen what these things can do. I’m guessing this particular joker just mucked with the wrong guy on the wrong day. Some guy who probably didn’t feel like being eaten today.”
I was just cold, I think to myself, but if I was in the position of these men, I’m sure I would have drawn the same conclusion.
I move back to the rail of the bar and step lightly into the dining room, making sure not to veer into the view of the corridor. I then do a quick-walk beeline for the back door, my heels never touching the floor.
The large shopping bags of clothes sit like Christmas packages on the booth by the door, and as I pass the area, I pick the two bags up like a bandit and then back my way out to the patio in one motion.
The wind hits me like a bomb blast, but the air is nowhere near as cold as I had expected, even taking into account that I’m now wearing several heavy layers of cotton. It’s warmer now, warmer even than it was a few hours ago.
I get my boat into focus and then walk, keeping my eyes straight ahead, fearing that if I look back to the door I’ll somehow draw the men toward me with my mind.
I step past the last of the outdoor dining tables and off the cement patio, and then I push open the gate at the edge of the water that leads to the pier. I now have a direct path to my boat. But after just a few steps onto the weathered wooden planks, a wave of claustrophobia envelops me, and I nearly stumble off the side of the pier to the left. I know for sure I’m trapped at this point, with only freezing water and armed men around me until I reach the boat at the pier’s edge.
But I reach the boat without incident and step inside it quickly, maneuvering to the back and the outboard motor. I find a relatively
dry spot to set the plastic shopping bags, and then I stare at the lifeless motor, my heart in my throat as I prepare for the moment of truth.
I pull out the choke and pull the cord, and the motor roars to life like a race car, strong and ready.
And then, as if suddenly smothered by a blanket of clay, it dies.
“No,” I whimper, my throat seizing.
I pull the cord again, but this time there is barely a sputter, the engine sounding now like someone in the final stages of tuberculosis.
“Hey!” a voice calls from somewhere to the left of the restaurant.
I’m not the least bit startled, understanding the eventuality of this moment, and I look up to see from the corner of my eye two men running around the side of the restaurant, coming from the front of the building.
“Stop!”
I pull the cord one last time, hopelessly, knowing that even if it starts I won’t make it out of range of the rifles in time. And even if the soldiers decide not to go so far as to shoot me (and why wouldn’t they?), they no doubt have a boat that can overtake me in seconds.
But the motor just wheezes anyway, keeping consistent with the metaphor of sickness.
There’s a metallic click from the foot of the pier and then, “Put your hands on top of your head! Now! Now or you’re dead in three seconds!”
I look up to see the faces of the two men, but they’re concealed almost entirely by goggles and face wraps. Their dress looks military, tactical, but they don’t match each other and one of the soldiers is at least six inches shorter than the other. I pause for a few seconds longer than the ultimatum time of three seconds, and then I lock my fingers across the back of my head, holding my chin high, never taking my gaze away from the men.
Within seconds, two more men, Jones and Abramowitz, I presume, exit the restaurant and are now running towards the pier. They stop next to the two other soldiers, and all four are now pointing rifles at me, staring down the sights.
“You can put the guns away, fellas,” I say casually, “I don’t even have a Swiss army knife.”
The Melting Page 7