Part 2 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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, was.h.i.+ng 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 s.h.i.+fts 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. Overfis.h.i.+ng had killed nearly ninety-five percent of the industry. Large, commercial fis.h.i.+ng 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, fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 thras.h.i.+ng about like a cork in a Jacuzzi. He groaned and forced his aching muscles to maneuver the boat toward the marker.