Clickers. Part 2

Once the equipment was in Rusty's car he cast one last look at his own smashed vehicle lying at the base of the tree when a flash of red caught his eye. He stopped and retreated back to the front end of his car. Rusty followed him.

"Anything wrong?" Rusty called out.

Rick knelt down beside the deflated front right tire, peering intently at the rubber. Something was sticking out of the shredded black tire. Something with the color of dark rust.

Deputy Rusty joined Rick at the side of the car and peered down. "What is it? See anything?"

Rick ignored him and pulled out his Swiss army knife from his back pocket and flicked it open. He inserted the blade into the tear the dark object protruded from and began digging around it. After a moment the object came free. Rick grabbed it and turned it over in his palms, studying it intently. Rusty peered over his shoulder and drew a sharp intake of breath. "Jesus Christ I'll be d.a.m.ned!" Rusty breathed.

It was a claw. A very large crab claw.

The deep red pincer had been torn off at the joint. Pale strips of flesh hung from the end. It dripped a milky yellow substance onto the wet ground.

Rick had never seen a claw this big before. It was twice the size of the largest lobster he had even seen. G.o.d only knew what the rest of it looked like, much less how big the f.u.c.ker was. The pincer was tinted various shades of red and magenta. A delicate crisscross pattern of color accenting various shades of red melting beautifully together that ended with the pointed tips blending into a thick shade of black. As an instrument of death, it was quite beautiful.

Rick grabbed the pincer by its claws and gently pried it open. Strong muscle sinew still constricted under the sh.e.l.l, frozen in death. He pried the jaws apart gently. When fully open, the pincer was about eighteen inches from tip to tip. The serrated teeth lining the jaws were razor sharp and inlaid in multiple rows, like a shark's jaws. The hard, crusty sh.e.l.l of the pincers themselves were tough enamel. And heavy. This thing could probably snap off a man's head.

He prodded at the soft tissue at the joint as the claw suddenly snapped shut with a loud clack.

He gasped and dropped the claw into the mud.

Jesus!

His heart did a quick pitter-patter in his chest and slowed down. He grinned and leaned forward and retrieved the wet claw from the muddy puddle at his feet. He brushed it off and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Rusty was already shining his flashlight under the car for more signs of the beast. Rick joined him but the only thing he saw was a large puddle of thick oil pooling under the engine block.

He brushed aside a smattering of mud and gra.s.s and lowered his head so he could search for the rest of the crab. Rusty retreated to the car and came loping back unfolding a long, black umbrella.

"Carl said he'd have a tow truck here in about fifteen minutes," Rusty said. He must have put in a call on the CB in his excursion to retrieve the umbrella. "Had the dispatcher relay to Doc Jorgensen that I was bringing you in. He's waiting for us at his office."

Rick nodded and got to his feet. He moved toward the protective sheath of the umbrella and together they headed for the patrol car.

He slid into the pa.s.senger side of the vehicle as Deputy Rusty slid behind the wheel. They pulled out with flashing red lights into the rainy downpour.

The driver's side rear tire thunked over the remainder of the crushed crab. Neither man noticed as the car pulled away.

The smashed body was a pulpy ma.s.s of broken sh.e.l.l and pale, yellow meat. One of the legs still twitched in a delayed death spasm. The rain pelted down on the pavement, washing the milky blood off the road where it mixed with the mud and gra.s.s of the embankment.

A moment later two dark red shapes crawled out onto the road and up to the smashed body. They were significantly larger than the dead creature that had been crushed by the departing patrol car. The claws of the two new crustaceans clicked furiously as they dug into the wet flesh mound and stuffed huge, moist chunks into their mandibles.

Five minutes later there was hardly a trace of the deceased crustacean left. A few scattered pieces of sh.e.l.l remained that would later be washed into gullies by the rain.

The two crustaceans scurried into the bush and headed back down to the beach as a large, battered tow truck pulled up to the scene.

Chapter Three.

Captain Jeremiah Stebble was hating life like a sumb.i.t.c.h.

The old-timer fisherman was doing everything within his power to keep his vessel from capsizing in the choppy gray waters. Never mind that he was the only one on board, or that he was a self-appointed captain. Never mind that his vessel was nothing more than a fifteen foot, leaky row boat with no means of propulsion other than the two weathered oars that he now clutched with throbbing hands. The outboard motor had gone out twenty minutes before. He had been cruising steadily inland after checking his lobster pots, and when the ma.s.sive black clouds of the storm began brewing he gathered the final booty of his catch and started making his way toward sh.o.r.e. The motor gave out three minutes into the journey. He was still another thirty minutes to salvation by motor. With the oars? Probably hours with this storm.

He eyed the distant, dark sh.o.r.eline and gnashed his tobacco stained teeth together. G.o.dd.a.m.n.

Today's excursion had been mired in weirdness from the get-go. Ten minutes after he had cast off, a commotion from the sh.o.r.e caused him to look back toward the sandy beach. What he saw was something that all his years as a fisherman had never seen.

The fish were beaching themselves.

They seemed to be swimming up to sh.o.r.e and propelling themselves onto the sand where they continued to flop in a forward motion, as if their little fish brains were still telling them to keep swimming.

As if to escape from something that was chasing them.

The phenomenon was attracting a smattering of tourists and shop owners who gawked and pointed at the beached fish. Jeremiah shook his head and continued on his eastern trek out to where he'd laid his lobster traps. He would catch up with what was going on later. There was business to attend to first.

The other weird thing was the erratic behavior of the seagulls. They circled overhead, cawing ceaselessly, their tone jittery and nervous. Jeremiah thought this to be rather strange but when coupled with the fish beaching themselves, he dismissed it. The gulls were probably just reacting to the event in typical gull fashion. No problem.

It wasn't until Jeremiah was out to the farthest trap he had lain that he realized that the currents were out of whack too. He could feel his boat drifting southeast in a counter-clockwise direction in an area that normally held no currents. Jeremiah knew this section of the Atlantic like the back of his hand, and was accustomed to the normal rhythms of the ocean caused by offsh.o.r.e storms and the seasons. But this was just too unnatural. Despite the odd shifts Mother Nature sometimes instills in things, this just didn't sit right with Jeremiah's instincts.

Now he was making his way back to sh.o.r.e after completing his rounds. He did them hurriedly, wanting to get back before the current decided to do something else unexpected, and before the storm broke.

Suddenly, a sharp sliver of pain wedged into his lower jaw. He vocalized his thought now. "G.o.dd.a.m.n!"

His rear molar was throbbing bad with this weather. Impacted. Should have had the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing pulled when his dentist said. It had to be taken care of soon. If he sold this week's catch to that annoying little a.s.shole who owned that fancy-pants restaurant down in Vermont, he would be okay. The thought of dealing with the owner, a self-righteous f.u.c.k named Garcon Dupuis, made him want to chuck the whole thing altogether. And that made his jaw hurt even more.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king French f.a.ggot!" He hissed, trying to steer the small boat through the pounding ocean. The more he thought about the b.u.t.twad, the angrier he got and the more uncoordinated he became while trying to pilot the vessel through the choppy seas. Or was it the storm hindering his progress? The waves it belched forth were definitely bigger, spewing salt spray over him, infuriating him even more. He'd get back to sh.o.r.e, G.o.ddammit, and he would deal with that a.s.shole Dupuis his way. Even if he had to rip off the man's c.o.c.k and stuff it up his a.s.shole to do it. G.o.ddammit!

The boat suddenly dipped and a huge wave slammed into the ocean five feet from his boat. The force nearly ripped the left oar from his gloved hands. His shoulder muscles screamed in torment. Dark, salty water splashed up from the sea, completely drenching Jeremiah Stebble from head to toe. "G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king s.h.i.t!"

He quickly used the back of his sleeve to wipe the stinging brine from his leathery, brown face. He was getting too G.o.dd.a.m.ned old for this s.h.i.t.

The thought of having to fish after this season depressed him greatly. He'd spent nearly all of his seventy-five years on or around the sea. His whole life and everything he had accomplished was linked directly to the ocean, and the life that lay within its depths.

But during the last few years things had changed drastically. Overfishing had killed nearly ninety-five percent of the industry. Large, commercial fishing vessels and their G.o.dd.a.m.ned drift nets had gouged entire species out of the sea. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a whale, a dolphin, or even a f.u.c.king G.o.d-d.a.m.ned great white shark.

Up until five years ago Jeremiah had been able to make a modest living on a large lobster boat, fishing off of Morrow Bay. The only problem hindering business lately was that the lobsters were being caught faster than they could breed. The catches got smaller and smaller every year while the demand got heavier and heavier because of a.s.sholes like Dupuis turning stupid, inbred morons on to the delicacy of lobster.

What it all boiled down to was that there were too many G.o.dd.a.m.ned people on the planet eating too much food, using up too much land, and breeding too many illegitimate, stupid squawking babies that n.o.body could afford to take care of. Much less want.

Jeremiah had used up his savings to buy the dinghy he was now currently navigating. He bought a couple of rusted lobster traps and only recently began to take a stab at it again. To carve out a small living off the sea.

One bad season, that's all it would take to kill off Jeremiah's new venture. The year hadn't been so kind to him so far. He'd been lucky once while chartering a large fishing boat and hooked a swordfish the size of a Buick by accident. That barely made up for the lack of decent-sized lobsters.

Jeremiah squinted toward the sh.o.r.e, making sure to keep it within eyesight constantly. If he lost his bearings in this weather, he'd never make it back to sh.o.r.e alive. The choppy sea was making it impossible to see the buoy where he'd attached the last trap along his normal route. The buoy was the closest to sh.o.r.e, thus, his last stop. Might as well stop by and see if the pickings were any good.

He surveyed the area quickly. Just over a large swell he could barely make out the black outline of the buoy thrashing about like a cork in a Jacuzzi. He groaned and forced his aching muscles to maneuver the boat toward the marker.

The icy rain came down harder.

Three minutes later he reached the buoy. Despite the cold rain and the icy wind, he was sweating from exertion.

Jeremiah dropped the oars in the boat and reached out, grabbing hold of the icy, cold metal framework of the buoy. He caught his breath and ran a gloved hand over the slick metal near the bottom. His hand came across a rusted catch-hook. He managed a small smile.

It was illegal to attach lobster traps to buoys, but he didn't give a rat-f.u.c.k. He had to make a living, G.o.ddammit. He was glad that the Coast Guard hadn't found the hook and cut the traps loose like they had two years before. Motherf.u.c.kers.

He wrapped his hand around the thick wire that was welded to the hook and began to pull the traps up from the depths. The ocean wasn't very deep at this point, and thank G.o.d for that. Not much of a haul this far in. Despite that fact, the trap seemed slightly heavier this time around. He smiled. Big old lobsters this time. Maybe life wasn't so bad after all.

Jeremiah Stebble quickly pulled the thick wire from the icy water, wrapping the line around his left hand. He could feel the cold radiating from the wire through the heavy cloth of his coat.

There was a sharp tug on the line that nearly pulled him into the water. "G.o.ddammit!" He pulled harder.

The line tugged again harder from somewhere below.

Some G.o.dd.a.m.ned octopus is trying to steal my catch! Worse than a foreigner moving in next door to your house.

Natural predators were common in this industry. Octopi loved to feed on the trapped crustaceans as they floundered in the steel cages. The rubbery bodies of the octopi allowed them to crawl into the tiniest openings. One time he'd thrown an octopus into an ice chest. He'd caught it in one of his traps feasting on a catch. The octopus squeezed its bulk through a hole in the lid the size of a quarter. Lack of bones made it possible for them to ooze through anything. He could probably squeeze a twenty foot octopus into Garcon Dupuis' a.s.shole if the French f.a.ggot gypped him on another transaction.

He leaned over the boat, trying to peer into the murky, roiling depths. The line tugged again. Jeremiah was ready for another octopus this time, and wrapped the wire around one of the oar spurs attached to the lip of the boat, relieving the tightness around his arm a bit.

A flash of color erupted a few feet below the surface. He pulled harder and the blood red object came into view.

He pulled up a few more feet of line, keeping his eyes on the object below. He could now make out a frantic, scuttling movement. The tugging grew more violent. Jeremiah pulled and spun the line over the oar spur. His heart raced. Must be some pretty big G.o.dd.a.m.ned lobsters.

He brought up more of the line.

The top of the cage was now only a few feet below the choppy, gray surface. He plunged his arm under the cold water and searched amid the bars. His hand touched something hard and cold.

Something felt wrong. It was too G.o.dd.a.m.ned big.

The creature sitting atop the shattered cage felt the man's hand touch the hard sh.e.l.l of its back. The gloved fingers probed, sending the crustacean into attack mode. Instinct took over immediately and its long, segmented tail curled upward over its back in scorpion-like fashion. Its three-inch stinger jabbed Jeremiah Stebble's forearm just below the elbow, piercing the skin and muscle and shattering the radius. Jeremiah shrieked.

He lacked the vocabulary now to utter another expletive directed toward his maker. White-hot pain eclipsed all thought.

He wrenched his arm out of the water with a backward flinching motion, screaming in agony. The creature was hanging onto his arm by its tail, the stinger still embedded in his flesh. Jeremiah felt his heart lurch in his throat and barely noticed the change in temperature as he p.i.s.sed his pants. He reached for the animal to try to pull it free. The creature arched its back and used its claws to anchor itself to the side of the boat.

Jeremiah's eyes widened as the blood-colored crustacean clicked and writhed on the lip of the tiny vessel. He tugged on the thing's tail again and was successful in pulling the stinger out of his arm. Liquid fire erupted in his arm as dark blood poured down the inside of his jacket, staining the cloth a deep crimson.

Jeremiah Stebble shrieked again, his terror-filled eyes locked on the large creature.

From below the boat in the cage, two other creatures surfaced from the torn prison. They'd just finished devouring the five regular-sized lobsters that had been caught.

The creatures clacked their pincers and scurried onto the lip of the boat to join the other one, which was still locked onto the side of the vessel.

"Jesus Christ!" Jeremiah screamed. "Oh, G.o.dd.a.m.n Jesus f.u.c.king Christ!" He tried to cradle his wounded arm but his left was still wrapped with the wire from the trap. He yanked hard, trying to pull free from the line. It caught snugly. The line could take five hundred pounds of pressure and would take a pair of strong wire cutters to break.

He tried to fumble with the line, but his right arm was swelling rapidly from the sting-it stung so much that it was nearly numb. The thought that the creature-thing was poisonous flitted across his mind in a flash and was gone. He had to concentrate on getting out of here before he could worry about whether he had been poisoned.

The three creatures seemed to examine the wounded, screaming man with eyes that looked like small, black ball bearings glued to colored spring metal. The stalks waved like wheat in the wind on a warm Kansas afternoon. They clicked their powerful claws rapidly, as if communicating to each other in Morse code. Jeremiah stood in numbed shock for a moment, watching them. The clicking sound sent another volley of shrieks to issue from his throat. He started fumbling with his left arm again in another attempt at freeing himself from the wire line.

The creatures moved spider-like into the boat and raised their stingered-tails menacingly over their backs. They advanced on him.

Jeremiah looked around for a weapon, anything to fight off those things. His wounded arm had started to pulsate from the toxic fluid that had been injected into his system. Nausea hit him like a sledgehammer. He doubled over and tried to fight back the sickness rising in his stomach. Jesus Christ, what's happening to me? His fingers swelled like fat sausages inside his gloves. His whole arm was numb, just like the time he'd caught his finger between a boat hull and a steel support. The doctor at the emergency ward had injected his hand with Novocain and he was numb for days.

There had been so much blood. Just like now.

He shook himself back to reality as the first creature crawled onto his leg. The grip of the thing's claws was incredible, like being caught in a bear trap.

His wire-wrapped hand closed around the wooden club he kept on board to whap sharks on the nose when they got too close. He gripped the club and brought it down on the back of the creature clinging to his leg. The impact caused the animal to retract its eyestalks back into its sh.e.l.l. But then it dug its claws deeper into Jeremiah's leg, drawing fresh gouts of blood.

Jeremiah went berserk. He yelled hoa.r.s.ely, whacking the creature with the club. The other two creatures made their move and scattered to either side of the man. They hissed loudly, spreading their mandibles wide.

Jeremiah's arm felt like it was on fire. He had never felt such pain in his life. It went past shock and careened into lighting his consciousness on fire, keeping him awake, alert. The heat grew hotter as he watched in horror as the cloth of his jacket sleeve and glove grew taut with growing pressure. The seams on the fingers of the glove began to split and rip under the increasing diameter of the digits. His arm was inflating like a balloon.

The creature to his right advanced on him. He swatted at it with his swollen arm.

The balloon-like limb made contact. What happened next was unbelievable, even to Jeremiah's rapidly-spinning mind.

The swelled arm hit the animal's hard, shiny sh.e.l.l. A loud pop ensued and his arm exploded in a splatter of blood and meat. The spray drenched the creature inside the boat with goo.

Jeremiah was beyond screaming now; he was howling. He raised his ruined arm in front of his face. It looked like the flesh had dissolved off the bone. The bones of his hand and forearm were held together by cartilage and stringy sinew. The muscle-and-skin casing was sloughing off like sludge; it bubbled as the poison of the creature's sting ate the tissue like acid.

Strong enzymes dissolved the cartilage and ligaments.

The flesh and bones of his hand dropped onto the floor of the boat, sizzling in a puddle of black gunk and slime. Jeremiah slumped against the side of the boat, semi-conscious. The three creatures advanced on him, poisonous tails leering forward over their backs.

Their death jabs sent Jeremiah Stebble into a painful St. Vitus' Dance of bubbling venom and flesh.

Chapter Four.

The ride in the patrol car provided Rick Sychek with his first view of his winter home.

It was a five-minute trip through the twisting, turning two miles of b.u.mpy roads to get to town. Towering pine trees stretched to the sky and obscured the menacing, black clouds. As they drew closer to town the trees thinned out, overshadowed by the wide beach and the roiling, blue ocean.

Rick wiped away the condensation on the pa.s.senger's side window. He gazed out at the flat horizon through the rain-blurred gla.s.s and marveled at how dark it was. Sea and the sky met in pitch black. Far off in the Atlantic Ocean, a bolt of lightning streaked down and hit some unknown spot. The clouds were a lighter shade of gray overhead, with a slight tinge of sepia. It was like looking at a weathered black and white photograph taken a century before. Rick broke his silent reverie. "Pretty big storm, huh?"

Rusty grinned. "Folks at the weather bureau say it's gonna be the biggest storm of this century. The way it looks, it might turn into a hurricane!" Rusty appeared genuinely awed by this spectacular turn of Mother Nature.