Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 2012-08-20 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: In 1978 the Crabs attacked Australia’s Great Barrier Reef with horrendous loss of human life. Amongst the fatalities was Harvey Logan, big-game hunter. The world believed that these terrible crustaceans had been annihilated but Harvey’s son, Brock, was sure that one day they would emerge from the oceans once more on a rampage of bloody carnage. Brock was also a hunter and he waited patiently for three decades. He wanted revenge as well as a Crab trophy for his collection. Then the crabs returned, this time on the Solway Firth and Brock’s hunt began.
Publisher: Black Hill Books

Killer Crabs: The Return

Copyright © 2012 by Guy N. Smith.

First Edition Published by Black Hill Books, August 2012

ISBN : 978-1-907846-73-1

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise distributed without the publisher's prior consent in any form whatsoever. Mechanisms are employed to make each Ebook unique and traceable back to the original purchaser.

For more information visit Guy's website at :www.guynsmith.com

Contents

Title

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

The CRABS Series

The End

In memory of Chris Hall, a victim of the Crabs.

One

Seven fishermen lined the breadth of the Nith, the seventh largest tidal river in Scotland, as the early morning sunlight sparkled on the incoming flow.

Seven men following the ancient tradition of haaf netting, which dates back to the Vikings, stood with the water up to the tops of their chest-length waders. Strong men to whom the 20ft rectangular framed nest were no obstacles, manipulated with the ease of their forefathers, the skills handed down over past generations. A way of life, a unique method by which salmon, sea trout, mullet and sometimes a large flounder were caught.

The legs of the frames were floated on the surface and then the structure was hauled upright by its central pillar. All ready. Free hands gripped the mells, wooden clubs dangling from their waists, ready to stun their catches.

A waiting game. The excitement never palled. Nobody knew what the incoming tide held for them.

“Got one and it’s a big ‘un!” Doug Allison’s shriek had heads turning towards midstream where the black bearded scot was struggling to hang on to the frame of his haaf net, the water churning all around him. “It’s a monster …!”

His words rose to a scream. He stumbled, almost lost his footing. “Jesus … help me!”

Nobody before had been known to call for help in landing a catch. Each one was a personal challenge. Doug screamed again and when his arm came up out of the tide the others saw that it had no hand – just a torn and bloody stump!

“Help me!” a shocked plea, holding the bleeding limb aloft, staggering to keep his balance in the fast flowing tide.

“Fucking hell!” Young Danny on the Glencaple side of the river stared in disbelief.

The water was foaming around Doug, his haaf net partly submerged, its catch frenziedly fighting to extricate itself from the mush below the surface.

Wally Brown, tall and lean, was first to react, gripping his mell as he struggled to make it across to Doug. The latter was swaying, any second he would pass out. If he fell into the swirling waters he would be swept away and drowned.

Whatever was in the net was big and dangerous, hidden from view by the cascading muddy water.

“Hold on, Doug, I’m coming.”

Then Wally saw the crazed catch, or at least part of it, a huge pincer that was tearing at the strong mesh, shredding it. A shell, several feet across at a glimpse, bobbed up and disappeared again.

“ It’s a crab!”Wally shouted his disbelief aloud, hung back for a brief second. It was impossible to estimate its size in that melee of threshing water but it was big. Bigger than it had any right to be here in Scottish waters.

He gripped his mell, realizing its ineffectiveness if it came to a close encounter. He might as well have wielded a dead stick.

Suddenly the crab was free, or at least Wally thought so. The foaming cauldron subsided, a length of torn netting being trailed away by the creature to which part of it was still attached as it scuttled upstream on the bed of the rising tidal river.

Wally was just in time to catch Doug before he fell, securing a hold beneath the others arms, the severed right one gushing blood.

“Call emergency,” Wally yelled at a couple of locals in the nearside bank. “Ambulance. Fast. He’s bleeding to death.”

He glanced around. There was no sign of the crustacean, if that was what it was. A monster which had been accidently caught and had escaped, wreaking its vengeance on its temporary captor before it reclaimed its underwater freedom.

Two

A blood transfusion and a surgeon’s skill had saved Doug Allison’s life. A week later he was back home in his stone cottage on the edges of Glencaple village.

“You’re going to have to rest up for a while,” his wife, Mary, informed him. “And no more haaf netting.” She wagged her finger.

“I wouldn’a go back in the water for a lottery jackpot win,” Doug forced a smile, shuddered at the memory of that morning. “I saw more o’ that … that thing then any o’ the others. I can hardly believe it.”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Mary glanced out of the latticed window. “Oh, you’ve got a visitor, Doug. It’s Billy from the Rescue Boat Service. Are you up to seeing him?”

“Aye,” Doug nodded. “Always pleased to see young Billy. He’s a good laddie.”

Billy was in his early twenties, the youngest member of the Nith Inshore Rescue Boat Service, fresh faced and smiling.

“How’re you doin’ Doug?”

“I’m okay. Lucky, I guess. Inspector McCririck from the police came to see me in hospital. Took some notes, said he’d pass the information on to one of the fishery departments. Guess that’s the last I’ll hear of it. Frankly, I can’t figure it out, a crab that size.

“Myself, I reckon it could’ve been a box crab. One was caught off the Scilly Isles coast about two years ago, measured over three feet in length. Just a few have been caught over the past century.”

“That’s a long way from here,” Doug wasn’t convinced. “Warmer, too.”

“Climate change, global warming, call it what you like. The oceans are getting warmer.”

“This one was bigger’n three feet,” Doug Allison stiffened. “I’d say nearer five. Remember Loch Merse?[i] And before that the Crabs that caused carnage on the Welsh coast. Before your time, laddie, but maybe you’ve heard.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Billy nodded. “Doubtless exaggerated in the telling.”

“I was a boy at the time. It was all over the papers. Photos, too. My God! They reckoned they’d wiped them out, like they did that coypu on the east coast. Now it’s set me wondering …”

“This episode has made the papers,” Billy broached the subject hesitantly. “Local press and the television guys have picked it up. They want to interview you, rang the station this morning. Thought I’d better come and see how you felt about it?”

“No,” Doug was adamant. “No way. The sooner it’s forgotten, the better. Me, I’ll never forget it. Look what it’s left me with!”

He lifted a heavily bandaged severed upper arm in a short sleeved shirt.

Glenkirk was a tiny hamlet of just eight former fisherman’s cottages hidden away further up the Solway coastline. Just a single track road, winding its way across remote countryside, was its only contact with the world beyond. That was how the villagers liked it, the way it had been since their fathers and grandfathers inhabited these dwellings.

Now it was on the newfangled Google map. The car with its 360° view camera had somehow found its way down there a year or two back. Young Jimmie, daft as he was, had alerted them to it. They had rushed out, screeched their protests and thrown stones after it as it departed. It had made no difference. Now anybody could find Glenkirk.

Of course it was Karen Anderson who had snitched on their privacy, tipped Google off. Because she wanted publicity for her B&B business. The result was a steady flow of holidaymakers lodging in her cottage during the holiday season. Outsiders. Bloody foreigners to the folk of Glenkirk. Aliens!

As for that Anderson wench. She was a townie, all the way from Dumfries. It was said that she had worked as a whore there. At least that was what the residents of Glenkirk said.

Somebody had thrown a stone through her bedroom window one night. Everybody knew that Jimmie was the culprit. The police had come but they couldn’t prove anything.

Now the crabs were in the news, thankfully up in the River Nith by Glencaple. That was fine, keep ‘em there, even if it was only one so far.

So long as folks didn’t come to Glenkirk looking for them. Because they’d see ‘em all right, on moonlit nights down on the beach. Aye, they’d have seen, all right.

They didn’t do any harm, just clicked and scuttled their way up and down the shoreline. Once they had come up as far as the village like they were looking for something. Food, probably. If they caught you outside it might be a different story but so long as you stopped indoors and kept your doors and windows locked then you were perfectly safe.

It was like the giant crabs were special to Glenkirk, old Ken Graham told the others. “Our pets. Mind you, I wouldn’t shed no tears if they took that Anderson girl. There’d be no proof what happened to her. Just gone, missing like.”

The others nodded their heads in agreement. It was certainly food for thought.

Three

The hot summer was having its last fling as September arrived. An unprecedented heatwave, the forecasters had said. Which was not surprising when, earlier in August, record temperatures had been reached.

Jane Markland had been working at the truck stop cafe since April. Not her kind of job but she had to earn since Jack, her husband, had walked out on her with a 20-year-old floosie. Damn him, she didn’t really miss him but he was convenient, on a good salary as a sales rep. Of course he shagged around, she knew that only too well, but he didn’t have to go off with one of his bits of stuff.

At 29, Jane was attractive with her long blonde hair and slim 5ft figure. Now she was playing Jack’s game and very successfully, too. She hadn’t realized how much she needed sex until after her husband was gone. At least he had given her everything she needed in that respect along with all his other women.

Her latest acquisition was a pair of tattoo patterned tights worn in conjunction with a good old fashioned mini shirt. You had to have nice legs, though, and Jane certainly fitted the requirements.

Men looked at those tights, the tattoos were highly realistic, caught the male eye. Guys wondered how far up the thighs those brightly coloured shapes and designs went. Lucky bloke who performed the artistry!

Jane was dated twice in her first week serving at the tables. One-offs. She would keep it that way, she was not going to get involved so early in her newly found freedom.

Then Sam came along. Popped in for a burger and coffee. Good looking with dark hair, he serviced security alarms. He’d fixed a date with her before he had finished his burger.

Tomorrow was her day off, his too. “How about a trip to Priestside, there’s some nice sands there when the tides out?”

“Suits me she smiled.”

“I’ll pick you up around midday then.”

“I’ll bring a picnic.”

“Great.”

The tide was out. They changed into bathing attire, enjoyed a short swim and then sought the shade of the undergrowth which bordered the fields at the rear of the merse.

Her bikini top soon came off. Sam was clearly an expert and her nipples hardened. He knew just how to fondle them and before long his tongue was flicking at them. He sucked them like they were strawberry-flavoured lollipops.

She was soft and moist long before he slid her lower garments off, opened her thighs in readiness. His head went down to her and that tongue smoothed and probed. God, she thought she was going to orgasm there and then.

“You’ve got a lovely quim,” his voice was muffled, she sensed him tugging his trunks off, wished she could see what he had to offer.

“It’s for use, not for looking at,” the words just came out. She couldn’t recall ever having been this desperate before. It was like he had completely taken her over, body and soul. Shag me and shag me hard, Sam!

He did just that, his steady rhythm building up. A thought crossed her mind, he wasn’t wearing a condom. Oh, God, I don’t care!

Then they were writhing together, grunting their ecstasy aloud.

Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard a sort of clicking. Maybe a ticking, he hadn’t taken off his wristwatch. But modern watches don’t tick, they’re battery operated. Oh, hell, what did it matter?

Click-click-click. Speeding up Click-click-clickity-click.

Then Sam was screaming, extricating himself from her as though he was being bodily dragged free. Just as she was starting a second orgasm.

She saw but did not believe. A huge crab, larger than a sheep, had her lover’s leg in a mighty pincer. A sickening crack, the limb parted below the knee, hung there by bloody sinews.

A crustacean face, the epitome of evil, looked down on her, its expression seeming to say ‘you’re next’.

Something she noticed at the peak of her terror, Sam still had an erection and was dripping sperm, even as he writhed in agony.

Her reactions were instinctive. For a second or two she froze and then she pulled herself away, staggered into a stumbling flight.

Maybe if that crustacean had not been engrossed in its feast of human flesh it would have scuttled after her, pulled her down.

She made it to the field fence, impervious of the strand of barbed wire that raked her shoulder blades as she squeezed through. She fell, somehow regained her feet.

Running, stumbling. The field had recently been combined, the barley stubble cutting into the soles of her bare feet as she ran. Breathless, gulping for air, the cottages on the distant roadside seemed a million miles away.

She kept glancing behind her but there was no pursuit. In her mind she heard the crunching of bone and the slurping of slippery bloody flesh as that nightmarish creature feasted.

She made it to the roadside, negotiated another barbed wire fence. More scratches, more blood, streaking her body, her blood and Sam’s that had splattered all over her.

She did not know which way to run. Any way would do so long as it was away from … that.

Naked, bloodied, she made it to the row of white washed cottages and hammered frantically on the door of the nearest one.

As it opened she fainted, falling headlong inside.

Four

Brian Logan landed at Heathrow Airport on a late September afternoon. He had returned from a fortnight’s big game hunting in Zimbabwe. As he passed through customs there was no mistaking his expression of smug satisfaction, one that was truly deserved for it had, indeed, been the best safari of his hunting career, one which he would remember for the rest of his life.

On his last day he had bagged the big bull elephant which had eluded hunters for years, a cunning and dangerous beast with 95lb tusks. Brian’s trophy was being prepared by the best in the business and would be arriving in Britain in a few months.

God, it had been a long trek, camping out and following fresh spoor at daybreak for five days. Finally Brian, known in hunting circles as ‘Brock’, and his trackers had caught up with that elephant.

The shot was a difficult one as it stood in dense bush, just the tip of its waving trunk visible. An ‘ear hole shot’ was what he wanted. He had guessed its location against the advice of his guide. Almost, but not quite, an inch out as was later proved.

His hands were steady as he sighted his .450/400 Jeffery double rifle. The 400 grain bullet struck hard but fractionally short of an instant kill.

The beast dropped to its knees but within seconds hauled itself upright. A human had inflicted excruciating pain on it and for that the man must die. It turned, trumpeted once and then with huge ears flapping, charged Brock at unbelievable speed for its size.

Brock’s mouth was dry but his nerves were steady as his forefinger switched to the rear trigger. Just one chance left to him, life or death depending upon precise bullet placement for his remaining shot.

The Jeffery spoke loud and clear and the big beast stopped as if it had run into an unmovable object. It staggered, rolled over on its side, legs kicking feebly. And died.

Being back in London was an anticlimax. Logan would bask in his triumph for maybe a week and then it was on to a new challenge.

He alighted from his taxi at the bottom of Horsham Avenue in North Finchley and bought an evening paper. There was news to catch up on after being out in the bush for two weeks. His home was just a three bedroomed terraced in spite of his wealth. He only stayed in the capital for a few weeks of the year, spending the rest of his time away hunting. His home was the world at large, London was an occasional roost.

Over a mug of tea he flicked through his newspaper. Britain was back in recession again, another child had been mauled by an urban fox in Muswell Hill. There was the possibility of a London Underground strike.

‘FISHERMAN MAULED BY GIANT CRAB’.

Brock stiffened, read the short piece about a haaf netter losing an arm to a monster crustacean in the Nith estuary.

The area was only too familiar to Brock Logan. He had spent many weeks wildfowling on the Solway Firth. Yet he had other childhood recollections of big crabs. His father had been killed by the bastards when Brock was only a child.

Brock’s father, Harvey Logan, had been a professional hunter in Africa. Brock was born to a Zulu chieftain’s widow following his father’s affair with her. He had stayed with her when Harvey made his ill-fated trip to Australia’s Great Barrier Reef.

An army of giant crabs, reputed to be the size of cows were creating carnage along that part of the coast. Harvey saw an opportunity to bag a unique trophy but everything turned sour when the creatures launched an attack on the hotel where he was staying. The Royal Hayman Hotel, the resort of millionaires from around the world, a veritable fortress but the crabs had breached its defences[ii].

Brock had heard the story of that last stand from Pierre Dorfling, an old hunter friend of his father’s. Harvey had gone down shooting, whether or not his trusty Midland Gun Company .500 had actually killed a crab was not known. God how he wished he had his father’s gun. It had been lost in the battle, never found.

Harvey, though, had left his mistress a sizable sum of money with an even larger amount in trust for his son. Brian had been sent to a private school in England and then on to university. After he graduated his mother had died and more wealth came his way. He could please himself what he did with his life. Mostly, he hunted, shot and fished.

“A giant crab on the Solway,” he sipped his drink, furrowed his brow. “Just a biggie, a freak, or … one of them?” That was when he decided upon his next destination. The Solway, the finest wintering ground for geese in Britain, a mecca for wildfowlers. Crabs or no crabs, it was tempting.

Later that evening he made a phone call to Mike McConnor, and old friend and fowling guide who lived at Brow Well just a few miles outside Dumfries.

“Brock!” The others surprise was evident. “Haven’a heard from you for nigh on two years now.”

“Been a bit busy,” Brock preferred not to mention the ulterior motive for his planned visit just yet. “Are the geese in yet?”

“Aye, there’s a few started arriving. Small skeins but they keep comin’. We gotta problem up here though.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, only happened yesterday, hasn’t made the news yet.”

“I’ve just read about the haaf netter.”

“Since then. A couple were screwin’ down at Priestside. A big crab got the guy, his girlfriend escaped to tell the tale. The Maryport Inshore Rescue, Coastguard and Police helicopters are still searching for him. Don’t reckon they’ll find much, accordin’ to the girl’s account of what happened. Right now the Solway coast is closed off from Glencaple right down to Cummertrees and I heard they’re going to shut the Carlisle side, too. I’m afraid there’s no coastal fowling available at present.”

“That’s a bummer.”

“Tell you what, though. There’s a hamlet called Glenkirk a few miles up coast in the opposite direction. Sort’ve hidden away, not many folks know about it and those that live there don’t like outsiders, especially a girl called Karen Anderson who runs a B&B, caters for wildfowlers. The residents don’t like her much either,” McConnor gave a laugh, “but I guess things like that don’t worry you, Brock.”

“Not one bit.”

“I’ll give you her phone number. Book in there, you might get some good shooting. I’ll come out and join you.”

“Great stuff. Oh, by the way, any chance of some wild boar shooting in your part of the country?”

“I can fix it.”

“Okay, we’ll discuss that when we meet. Just wanted to know which rifle to bring with me.”

Giant crabs on the rampage, even Brock Logan trembled with anticipation at the thought. A chance to avenge his father’s death and maybe bag that trophy which Harvey had failed to shoot.

As for the wild boar he had enquired about, he probably would not bother at this stage but their presence was useful in terms of being legally able to take the .450/400 rifle up to Scotland. Boar were listed on his firearm as a quarry species for the Jeffery. The cops couldn’t nick him for having his big-game double with him. Because he was, technically, going after boar.

Everything was working out fine for Brock Logan. He poured another double malt whisky, toasted himself and his success in the full length mirror.

He saw a dark-skinned, powerfully built guy whose muscles rippled with every movement beneath his hunting shirt and camouflage trousers.

He finished his drink, nodded to his reflection. Look out crabs, here I come. I got that big bull elephant, now all I want is a real big crab.

Five

Chris Hall’s role in life was not a vocation. Just under 6ft tall, he had short cropped mousey brown hair with a beard to match. His right arm was profusely tattooed which was a stark contradiction to his job as a tax advisor to a leading professional accountancy firm. He kept it well hidden beneath the sleeve of a smart suit even on scorching summer days.

Having studied fine art at Cardiff University his career became a stark contrast to his youthful dreams of becoming an illustrator or tattoo artist. It was strange how everything had turned out.

Now at 32 he was married with two non-identical twins. Coming up to his third birthday, Jacob had developed an obsession with dinosaurs and crabs. The latter stemmed from his father’s interest in crustaceans. Chris had read about the Welsh Coast[iii] and other battles which had taken place before he was born and harboured a secret desire that one day these creatures might return.

Now, according to the tabloid press, they were back, having attacked a fisherman and then taken a second victim on the Solway estuary.

Without consulting his wife, Jennifer, he had taken some outstanding leave from his work and booked in at the Nith Hotel in Glencaple.

“This is somewhat odd,” Jennifer was unable to disguise her surprise. “You’ve never been on holiday without me or the kids before. What’s behind all this?” she refrained from asking if he had found another woman.

“I want to try and get a glimpse of one of these giant crabs,” he replied. “Maybe a photo. You never know I might be able to sell it to The Sun.”

“But why can’t Jacob, Chloe and me come with you?” There was a sharper edge to her tone now. “I find it rather hurtful being left at home. And you know how excited Jacob gets about crabs. He’s played with the shells of those fresh ones we bought the last time we went to Borth.”

“It’s too dangerous. There have already been two crab attacks on the Solway.”

“Well, I think it’s all bunkum!” Jennifer was becoming angry. “It’s already been suggested that the creature was a box crab that found its way up north. The press have hyped it up to sell their papers.”

“Well, I’m not prepared to risk either you or the twins. I shall only be gone a few days anyway.”

“All right, go and enjoy yourself and don’t mind us!” She stormed through to the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

…

The Nith Hotel was a far cry from its early days when it had catered for the needs of wildfowlers, permitting them to go up to their rooms wearing muddy waders straight from the marshes. Dogs, equally mud-caked, had been allowed in the dining room with their owners at meal times. Not anymore. The hotel had been refurbished and attracted tourists from both home and abroad, and leading ornithologists who came in search of rare waterfowl to photograph. During the winter months there was still a regular influx of shooters but on a much more civilized basis.

When Chris went to the dining room shortly after his arrival it was empty except for a solitary middle-aged man eating at a table by the window. Clearly the authorities’ restriction on public access to the marshes had curtailed the influx of visiting sportsmen.

“Care to join me?” The sole occupant looked up, gestured towards a vacant chair at his table. “It seems we are the only two guests staying here.”

“Thanks.” Chris would have preferred not to have company but he was too polite to refuse. The other was slight of build, balding and with what could be termed an excuse for a goatee beard.

“Bernard Strickland,” a hand was extended across the table. “I’m a marine biologist, London based. An unscheduled, unofficial visit to the Solway but I couldn’t resist it. The crabs, of course.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chris nodded. “Same here. Just curiosity. Maybe there’s nothing in it.”

“Oh, there most certainly is!” The retort was sharp. “I had a meeting with Professor Davenport in London only yesterday. He’s an expert on crustaceans, was involved in their invasion of the Welsh coast back in the seventies. He operates on a consultancy basis these days. He’s approaching eighty, you know. Anyway, I agreed to come up to Scotland and see what’s going on. If I find that those giant crustaceans are indeed around then Davenport himself will come up.

“I see.” Chris concentrated on his 8oz rump steak. This guy could be a useful ally but he probably didn’t want a raw amateur latching on to him.

“What are your plans, then?” Strickland clearly had a direct approach to everything in life.

“I … er … well, I’m just going to take a look around, see if I can spot any of these crabs.”

“The marshes and mudflats are out of bounds. They’ve just closed off the English side of the Solway, too. Wardens and police all over the place. They haven’t found any trace of that chap taken by the crabs. They won’t.”

“Then how are you going to operate, Mr Strickland, if you can’t go out there?”

“Ah-hah!” An exclamation of childish glee, a bony finger tapping the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’ve got my government identification card. A pass, in effect, that virtually enables me to go on any coastal area in Britain.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’ve just had a thought, Mr … er …”

“Hall. Chris Hall. Call me Chris.”

“Chris,” the biologist leaned forward, gimlet like eyes boring into his companion. “Two pairs of eyes could be more useful than one. How would you like to accompany me on a reconnaissance of the area?”

“I … I,” Chris was taken aback, the last thing he had envisaged was being asked to tag along with a crab expert. “That’s most kind of you. Yes I would be happy to except.”

“Excellent!” Strickland clapped his hands together. “I am sure you will be most useful. Now, tomorrow night there is a full moon and that is when crustaceans are most active. There is a high tide at 3 am which means we need to be out on the mudflats around 10 o’clock and back safe on dry land by midnight before the creeks start filling up.”

“Sounds okay to me.”

“You will need some thigh length waders.”

“I borrowed a pair from a pal who goes fly fishing on the River Severn.”

“Superb. I can see us working together as an efficient team. We must formulate a definite plan. We need to separate and take up vantage points within a few hundred yards of each other. Our watches must be synchronized and we can make contact by mobile phone in necessary. Anyway, I will brief you with all the details tomorrow when I’ve had an opportunity to study a large scale map of the area.

Chris Hall could scarcely believe his luck. What had started out as a break from work with a somewhat hopeful mission in mind had now become a professionally organized expedition to locate the giant crabs.

He found it somewhat difficult to sleep that night.

Six

Dusk was merging into darkness when Brock Logan arrived in Glenkirk. The headlights of his discovery revealed a few scattered cottages, most of them in urgent need of restoration with slate missing from the roofs and peeling paintwork on the window frames and doors.

He detected curtains moving slightly. His arrival had not gone unnoticed. He sensed an atmosphere of hostility towards him.

There was no mistaking Karen Anderson’s B&B establishment, a much smarter, recently exterior decorated two-story building. It had clearly undergone some restoration and a conservatory had been added.

“Hi, you must be Mr Logan.”

The front door opened as he descended from his vehicle revealing a petite, dark haired female in her early thirties. A welcoming smile from full red lips accentuated her perfectly defined features.

“That’s me,” he resisted the temptation to give her a peck on the cheek, squeezed her hand instead.

“Your meal will be ready in about half-an-hour,” she led the way indoors. “I’ll show you to your room.”

The bedroom overlooked the bay, he could just make out the pebbled beach beyond the green merse which led to the start of the extensive mudflats.

“I take it you’re aware the Solway has been closed off to the public, Mr Logan?”

“Call me ‘Brock’. Yes, Mike McConnor told me but he reckoned I’d be okay here.”

“That’s right. So far we haven’t seen any police or marsh wardens.” She gave a delightful laugh. “The locals are the problem here. All ten of them! They don’t like outsiders and they certainly don’t like me. Interbreeding’s the problem, you know. Their ancestry is like one large family that have never travelled further than a mile or two from this village – if you can call it that! One of them in particular is a nuisance. Jimmie. I don’t even know his surname, who his father is, or was, is anybody’s guess. Lived with his mother until she died a year or two back. Now he lives on his own in the same cottage where he was born. Lazy bastard, he won’t even do an odd job if it’s offered to him. Gets benefits. The guy who lives in the end cottage picks it up for him, along with shopping for his food and fags.”

“The classic village idiot, eh?”

“That’s right. As they say, a banana short of a bunch. I’ve had a stone through my window and other problems. I’m sure the other residents egg him on. I’m just warning you, keep your eyes about you, there’s no knowing what he might do. Thank goodness he hasn’t got a gun.”

“I might try a moonflight for geese tomorrow night. It’s full.”

“That’s fine. Just watch the tide. Full in the early hours.”

“I’ve got a tide table.”

“Good, I’ll go and see to your meal.”

He stood listening to her footsteps going downstairs. That was when he realized that he had an erection.

…

Hamish Hamilton was one of the last generations of Solway punt-gunners. Now in his eighties he had been gunning on the estuary since his youth, a skilled fowler of the open waters. In days gone by he had earned his living from the birds he took to market, mostly ducks and geese. In those days wading birds had been legitimate quarry, redshanks, whimbrel, oystercatchers, virtually everything that flew and frequented the foreshore. Anything that was edible.

Now much had changed for the worse. Apart from golden plover and common snipe, waders were a protected species. Worse, lead shot was banned from wetlands and the non-toxic substitutes were worse than useless as well as being three or four times the price of lead.

Along the foreshore marsh wardens rigorously checked on fowlers to make sure that only non-lead shot was being used. The latter had neither the range nor the penetration of lead pellets hence wounding was common, birds dying a lingering and painful death if they were not retrieved.

Hamish stuck to the proven lead, not for him steel or any of the other rubbish. Up here, away from the villages frequented by visiting sportsmen, one never saw a warden and, anyway, once you were afloat there was nobody going to check on you.

He lived in an old tumbledown cottage just off the coastline. He had been born in that dwelling and he was determined to die there. Just above the narrow beach he kept his punt, it was 15ft long, carried a breech-loading gun with a 7ft barrel, and fired 20 ounces of buckshot.

Floating low on the water and painted battle ship grey it was virtually invisible to flock of fowl. Lying prone and sculling slowly Hamish often approached to within eighty yards of his intended quarry. A jerk on the lanyard, a deafening report and then it was just a matter of retrieving the shot birds.

There were inevitably ‘flappers’, wounded duck or geese, capable of eluding the slow moving craft. Hence Hamish kept an old 12-bore shoulder gun on board for shooting these. His record bag had been 52 birds with one shot from the big gun during the severe winter of 1962-63.

Now he was ready to go afloat again. The moon would not be full until the next night but with the skies cloudless there would be enough light to see to shoot by.

Just after 10 o’clock he pushed off from his mooring place, headed out about five hundred yards into the estuary and then drifted along with the tide.

There would be geese roosting out on the sandbanks for sure. He had listened to several skeins passing over before dusk, honking noisily and then planning down on to their roosting grounds.

Now there were geese and ducks on the wing again. That was odd because their usual procedure was simply to drift off as the incoming tide covered the mudflats.

Something out there had disturbed them. A wildfowler out on the mud? No way. Nobody but a fool would venture out there with an incoming tide. What then?

Hamish noted the black outlines of sandbanks on his right, partly covered by the tide. Soon they would be submerged. Surely a few geese would be hanging on there, waiting until the very last moment before floating off.

Nothing. Not a single duck or goose was silhouetted in the wan, silvery moonlight. A bunch of mallard passed over unseen against the cloudless sky without fluffy white cloud to provide a background for visual aid.

The birds were quacking loudly. Not the guttered sounds of wild ducks on their way to a nocturnal feeding place, instead rapid quacks of alarm. Disturbed, scared of something, they were putting as much distance between themselves and the rapidly disappearing sandbanks as possible.

What the hell was going on out there?

A movement attracted Hamish Copeland’s attention. He tensed, strained his eyes. Something was up there on the nearest sandbank less than two hundred yards away.

It had to be a goose. Or a seal, there were a few in these parts. The shadows made it difficult to discern its shape precisely and identify it.

He sculled a few yards closer. A single goose was scarcely worth a shot with the big gun. He groped for the 12-bore lying beside him. He would need to get much closer, though, to affect a killing shot.

The creature, whatever it was, moved, climbing up towards the summit of the bank. Any second it would be clearly visible. What the hell was it?

It was a huge crab.

Hamish stared in disbelief and horror. So the crabs that were in the news were real after all, Glencaple was only half-an-hour’s sculling down river. If they were there then it was really no surprise to encounter them up here above Glenkirk.

Time seemed to have frozen. He was fixedly watching that monster and … no, it couldn’t see him surely, not afloat in a camouflaged punt. All the same

Suddenly he realized that his craft had drifted in closer. No more than a hundred yards separated them now. The big gun was loaded and ready, twenty ounces of BB shot waiting to go. Lethal at that range.

He steadied himself, trained the heavy barrel on that shape atop the rapidly disappearing sandbank. It was now or never. Should he shoot or shouldn’t he? Such an opportunity might not present itself again.

His hand shook as he gripped the lanyard. One more moment of hesitation and then he yanked it.

A mighty explosion rocked the punt, threw it back a yard or two. A blinding flash that momentarily obliterated his vision, sparks falling like stars from the heavens. A dense cloud of choking black smoke that took its time thinning in the windless atmosphere.

Out there on that sandbank the water was frothing, churning. The top of the sand was gone, avalanched down into the swirling tide.

But of the crab there was no sign. No shell, no antennae, no pincers. Nothing. The entire episode might have been a nightmare from which Hamish Copeland had been rudely awakened by the discharge if his punt gun.

He could, of course, have sculled in closer for a look, maybe found a dead crustacean just below the surface. Or a wounded and angry one.

No way was he going to investigate. He manoeuvred the craft until it was pointing homewards then used the paddle for speed.

A thought crossed his mind that he had a duty to notify the authorities. Not bloody likely, that would bring police, wardens et al. Then his punt-gunning would be curtailed, maybe for weeks, months.

Keep your mouth shut, Hamish, he told himself as his small mooring hove into view. Only you saw it. Let the others find out for themselves. Those folks at Glenkirk had got it right a long time ago. Mind your own bloody business and let the rest of the world go buy.

Seven

Trudging behind Bernard Strickland was damned hard work. The Solway mud was sticky, clung to your feet in huge clods so that you felt like Mickey Mouse.

Up ahead of Chris, Strickland seemed to be making good progress. Obviously he was used to this type of terrain. There had to be a knack in traversing it. Chris made a mental note to ask him the secret when an opportunity arose. Right now, though, the other seemed hell-bent on reaching the distant tideline as soon as possible.

For Christ’s sake, Bernard, slow it!

They splashed through a wide, muddy creek where the water reached the top of Chris’s waders. Some slopped over the tops. Now he had soaking wet socks.

On and on until eventually they saw the tideline glinting in the moonlight. Only then did the marine biologist come to a halt. As Chris caught up with him he saw that the other was not even breathing heavily.

“I guess this is as good a place as any to stake out,” Bernard pointed to a sandbank that stretched for maybe a quarter of a mile. “You go down that way about three or four hundred yards. I’ll take the other side. Keep your mobile switched on in case we need one another. I’ll give you a call when it’s time to pull out. Listen as well as look and keep alert.”

“Okay.” Chris was not relishing an hour maybe two, sitting out here in an alien world. Already his feet were beginning to go numb.

He set off, his feet dragging now. Once he paused and looked back but there was no sign of Bernard Strickland. He was all alone. Briefly he regretted this whole business. Right now he could be back at home relaxing with Jennifer and the twins. Still, he was here and he had to make the best of it.

The crabs would not show up, he was resigned to that. The Solway covered a massive area, they could be anywhere. In a way it was a parallel to hunting the Loch Ness monster. Maybe he would try that one day, take the kids and Jennifer. A fun holiday that would not be as physically demanding as this.

He wished that he had brought something to sit on, a sheet of plastic or even just a carrier bag. Instead he found a tussock of coarse grass sprouting above a narrow creek. At least it was better than sitting on squelching mud.

Time passed slowly. Wildfowl were constantly on the move overhead. Wigeon whistled, mallard quacked but it was impossible to see them in the clear, cloudless sky.

The moon was up now, a huge orange ball that gradually turned yellow. Out on the mudflats curlew were warbling. It was a magical night in its own way. He shivered.

Chris checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time, Christ, it was nearly eleven and his companion had said that they ought to be back on dry land by midnight before the high tide made the return journey impossible.

He wondered whether or not to call Strickland. The guy might take umbrage at being prompted. Give it another five minutes.

Somewhere far away Chris thought he heard a clicking sound. Like those castanets which he had heard when holidaying in Spain. Then the sound died away. It had probably been made by some species of wildfowl with which he was not familiar.

Well, he’d have to call Strickland, they couldn’t hang about out here much longer. The tide had already advanced and the creek above which he was sitting had started to fill up.

Felling slightly apprehensive about the reception he might receive he listened to his companions phone ringing out. Ringing. Ringing

“The person you are calling is not available …”

Oh, shit! A sudden feeling of panic. Trying to find reasons for his call not being picked up. Maybe Bernard had dropped his phone, lost it, and it was lying there beeping in the mud. Or …

There wasn’t time to ponder over alternatives. Already Chris was starting to panic. Which was the way back to the mainland? Everywhere looked the same and he had lost his sense of direction, yet if he followed this mudbank back the way he had come then he would surely find Bernard. I’d better get cracking.

Progress was slow. He thought about abandoning the idea and trying to find his own way back to Glencaple. If I don’t find him in another five minutes then I’m definitely starting back, he decided.

Those castanets, or whatever they were, had started up again. Louder. Nearer.

Click-click-clickity-click.

A terrible thought crossed Chris Hall’s mind. No, it couldn’t possibly be the crabs. Yet he had come out here especially to find them. They had already been seen here. In which case …

He clambered up another sandbank and that was when he saw them. Five, perhaps six, giant crustaceans which seemed to be fighting amongst themselves. A huge one and some smaller ones, quarrelling like dogs over a bone.

Except that the bone was Bernard Strickland, or rather what was left of him.

Unrecognizable but out here it would not be anybody else. The big one had the torso, the smaller ones had ripped off arms and legs and were squabbling over them. Munching. Slurping.

The head, too, had been torn off. It had thudded down on to the mud where it rested upright. Balding, goatee beard and eyes that were starring directly at Chris. The mouth was wide open like it was trying to say something.

Help me!

Bernard Strickland was way beyond help. Chris started to retch then knew that if he was to save himself he had to act fast.

Run for your life!

It was impossible to run on those mudflats with a ball of stuff on each foot. A slow squelch at a time. Which was doubtless why the crabs became aware of his presence. If one human wasn’t enough for a feast then here was a second just waiting to be pulled down and ripped apart.

Chris knew he would not make it but he had to try. His legs were weak, like they were made of rubber, threatening to crumple beneath him at any moment.

Click-click-clickity-click

He glanced back, they were only about fifteen yards behind him, the big one in the lead like he had trained them that their role in crustacean life was to obey and follow.

In the moonlight he saw their tiny faces, reminiscent of slobbering old men. Evil personified like they were salivating in anticipation of more human flesh.

Thank God I didn’t bring Jacob. I want to see him again, Chloe, too. And Jennifer. I should have listened to her.

The big wide creek loomed up ahead. At least he had fled in the right direction. Once across that and a few hundred yards further on the ground would be firmer.

Then he recoiled in horror. On the outward journey the water had been up to the tops of his waders. Now it was lapping at the sides of the gully, maybe four or five feet deep. The tide had run faster than he had anticipated and was filling creeks and gullies ahead of it.

There was no turning back, though. He had to try to cross, maybe wade up to his neck. Something caught at his jacket, tore it. A pincer had come within inches of slashing him. His pursuers had caught up with him.

Chris plunged into the muddy swirling current, praying that his feet would touch the bottom. They didn’t. He went under, held his breath. Trying to strike out, it was his waders and the clumps adhering to them which impeded him.

Then the dark waters around him were churning as a monstrous crab scuttled in after its prey. Something fastened on his left leg secured a grip and severed it.

Chris screamed mutely, swallowed foul water. Another pincer took an arm. The bastards were holding him down to drown him. Then they would drag him out and begin quarrelling and fighting over morsels of human meat.

Blissful unconsciousness spared Chris Hall the agonizing finale.

After years of breeding in the depths of the ocean the giant killer crabs were back. They had had their first taste of humans and now they were hungry for more.

This was only the beginning.

Eight

Professor Cliff Davenport chaired the meeting in the conference room of the Dumfries & Galloway council building. There were around fifteen others present from various departments of the environmental and fishery services, including a coastguard representative and Chief Superintendent McCulloch of the local police force. Expressions were grave, it was unlikely to be an informal gathering.

Cliff glanced at the others, noted their unease. Questions would be asked to which there were no answers.

“These crabs,” McCulloch was he first to speak, stroking his heavy greying moustache, “So far we have only one actual witness, a distraught and near hysterical woman who is currently on a course of sedatives. She cannot give us any description of the creature other than that it was a large crab. Likewise the haaf netters only saw what they thought was a submerged crab caught up in a net from which it escaped underwater. Now we have two missing persons and no evidence of them having been taken by these creatures. It is more likely that they misjudged the incoming tide and drowned. A search is still continuing for their bodies. Unfortunately the media are jumping to conclusions and creating mass hysteria in the Solway area.”

There were nods of agreement from the others. Cliff sighed; it was going to be a difficult meeting. His hand strayed to his pocket for his pipe, came away. He still could not get used to this stupid ban on no smoking in public places introduced to appease a section of do-gooders. The NHS failed, or did not wish, to differentiate between cigarettes and pipes. That same trend of channelled thinking was now spilling over into this latest crabs situation.

“Let’s be realistic,” the superintendent was clearly determined to dominate the discussion. “There have been several recordings of very large crabs in recent years. A box crab caught in Cornwall and a monster in Tasmania weighing fifteen pounds and with a fifteen inch shell. The latter is now in an aquarium at the Sea Life Centre in Weymouth.”

“Tiddlers by comparison with the species which I firmly believe has taken up residence in the Solway Firth,” Davenport interrupted him. “The crabs which attacked the Welsh Coast in the seventies were huge, some as big as cows. The result of an underwater nuclear experiment, we believe. We thought they had been exterminated but they returned to a sea loch in northern Scotland and then again on the east coast of England. Nobody can deny that they existed.”

“We have to play this down,” McCulloch grunted. “Otherwise we’ll have panic spreading beyond the Solway. The last thing we want is public hysteria.”

“Like you and other police forces covered up Big Cat sightings,” Cliff was becoming angry. “Deny everything; whitewash it so you don’t scare the public. In the end, though, the truth will out. Giant crabs will be proven to exist once again as surely as these mystery large felines will one day. I understood that I had been invited to offer advice on the necessary action we may well have to take. Sweeping it all under the carpet is counterproductive.”

“All right then, lets listen to what you have to say so we can put this entire business into perspective,” the superintendent was churlish. “That way we can all make up our own minds. With drastic cuts in my force I cannot afford to have police time wasted.”

Cliff’s hand strayed back into his pocket, closed over his pipe. Just having it with him, even if he could not smoke it, gave him a feeling of normality.

“First, let me give you a brief insight into crabs, whatever their size or sub species. Crabs are large and dominant organisms which are able to injure or kill most other marine life. King crabs have been found around Antarctica, doubtless due to the areas warming. There is every chance that at sometime in the future they will change the entire ecosystem.

They cannot live in water with a temperature below 1.4 centigrade. Hence they are to be found in most oceans around the world. Warmer temperatures enable them not only to expand their territories but to breed prolifically. In recent times record size animals have been found with some regularity. A fox killed in Aberdeenshire is believed to be the largest known. That is just one example. It is the same story above and below the oceans.”

“But that doesn’t account for crabs as big as sheep and cattle,” a council official spoke, like he needed to have his input and justify his presence in the meeting.

“No,” Davenport smiled like a parent trying to get a point over to a young child. “As I have already explained, those giant crabs mutated as a result of an underwater nuclear experiment. That has nothing whatsoever to do with a natural phenomenon of any kind. It is outside the laws of nature. We cannot deny that these monsters once existed. I saw them with my own eyes as did many other people. There were numerous human fatalities when they ventured ashore. Now we are faced with that possibility again.”

“But we have no definite proof,” Chief Superintendent McCulloch was determined not to be convinced. “Show me one of these crabs, Professor, and I’ll accept that they exist once more.”

“I wish I could,” Cliff Davenport sighed. “However, I have no doubt that there will be a sighting before long. That is why I am here.”

“And if these crabs have returned what action are we going to take?”

“It will mostly be up to the armed forces as it was in the past,” Cliff glanced around the faces, detected uncertainty in their expressions. Only the police officer was stood firm in his convictions. Criminals he understood, crustaceans he did not. His job would be easier if it all turned out to be just media hype based on mistaken identification of some other creature.

“I’ve got a nephew who was living in the Loch Ness area in the eighties,” a lean featured man, representing one of the area’s wildlife trusts, spoke up somewhat nervously as though he feared that he might be bringing the derision of the doubters on him. “He saw one of the crabs. Never forgotten it.”

McCulloch cleared his throat loudly. “Has anybody any suggestions or comments to make?”

Nobody had.

“I shall be based at the Nith Hotel in Glencaple,” Cliff Davenport decided that it was time that this meeting was wound up. Nothing had been achieved; he had not expected it to be. For himself it was little more than a PR exercise. Local officialdom knew where to find him if the need arose. As he was sure it would.

Outside in the street he filled and lit his pipe. Everything pointed to the giant crabs having bred and returned. He had a gut feeling that sooner, rather than later, they would venture ashore. Human flesh was a crustacean delicacy. All that remained was where and when.

Nine

The Kitchen door opened as Brock Logan descended the stairs fully clad in his wildfowling gear. The .450/400 double barrelled rifle was in its slipcase slung on his shoulder.

God, she was even more attractive than he had at first thought. Doubtless culinary chores had led her to shredding that woollen jumper. Now her thin cotton blouse was virtually transparent. She wore a black bra beneath. A comely lass, indeed. She had already given him one erection and now he sensed that a second wasn’t far away.

“Do be careful,” she moved out into the small hallway. “The marsh is a dangerous place, day and night.”

“I’m familiar with it, at least in the Glencaple area. I’ve shot with Mike McConnor a few times in the past. Tell me, Karen,” he used her first name like he had known her for years. “What’s all this about a guy being snatched by a big crab.”

“I only know what I read in the papers,” she answered. “Then there was a fisherman badly injured by one a short time before. There are stories, rumours but nothing definite.”

“It’s geese I’m after,” he lied.

“I’ve seen and heard a few. All this crab news has virtually ruined the tourist industry. I had a fairly good summer but I rely on shooters for my winter income. So far you’re the only one booked in. Closing off the Solway to all and sundry hasn’t done the likes of myself any favours.”

“I might stay on an extra few days.” Her thighs looked pretty good, too. “Depends how I get on”

“That would be nice. I’ll see you at breakfast … Brock.”

He unlocked his vehicle, donned a pair of thigh length waders. Far out on the mudflats he could hear goose talk, that familiar ‘pink-pink’ that set the pulses racing.

Curlew warbled like they were calling him on.

He set out across the grassy merse, headed for the distant tide’s edge, splashed his way through a shallow creek bottom. One place was as good as the next when you were hunting killer crabs. It was probably a fool’s errand; he should have left the big rifle behind and brought the shotgun.

Then he remembered his father’s fate at the claws of the crustaceans. It wasn’t just a trophy he was seeking, it was vengeance.

Brock had almost reached the tideline when he experienced a feeling which only experienced hunters recognize. A sensation that he was not alone out here, a faint prickling at the base of his neck which ran all the way up into his scalp like a trickle of cold water. A warning. One that had once saved his life when he was following a wounded Cape buffalo in dense cover. It had enabled him to take a snapshot when the beast charged. It had dropped dead barely a couple of yards in front of him.

Without that prior inexplicable warning of its lurking presence it would doubtless have been himself who lay crumpled on the narrow, overgrown track.

There was definitely somebody or something somewhere out here on the merse.

Brock crouched, every nerve in his body alert, the way it would have been back in the jungle. Instinctively he thumbed the safety catch on the Jeffery forward.

Come on, come on, show yourself, whatever you are.

Overhead, invisible against the dark sky, a bunch of wigeon passed over. Out there beyond the distant sandbank some mallard were quacking. He recognised alarm in their calling. Seconds later he heard them take off with a rush of wing beats. Something had disturbed them.

He glanced about him and then, in the wan light of the moon, he saw a movement. Whatever it was, it was about a hundred yards to his left on the nearside bank of a creek which he had waded only minutes ago.

Now you see me, now you don’t.

The shape had ducked down, maybe sensed that Brock was looking in that direction.

Right, you bastard, I’ve got you now. I’m on my way.

Catlike, half crouching, Brock moved toward that creek, each step deliberate, lowered slowly in order not to squelch the mud. His rifle was held at waist height, it could be mounted to his shoulder in split second.

Nearer. Nearer.

Nothing moved in front of him. Whatever was in that creek was keeping low. Out on the mudflats the curlew were still warbling.

A shape materialised out of the gully. Brock dropped to one knee, trying to identify it. Now he saw it clearly silhouetted against the background.

It was human.

“Hold it right there!” Brock Logan straightened up in one easy movement, strode forward. Only a few yards separated him from whoever had been skulking below the bank of the creek.

The figure was tall and lanky, arms dangling below the waist. No face, just a black oval where features should have been. Because the other wore a dark balaclava.

“Who are you? What the hell d’you think you’re doing? You’ve been following me and I want to know why?”

A grunt like the snarl of an animal answered him.

The other was no wildfowler; he did not carry a shotgun. A bird watcher, maybe. In which case why had he been stalking Brock with a stealth and skill which had the big-game hunter’s hair standing up on the nape of his neck.

“Answer Me!”

“Bird Killer. Murderer!”

All was blatantly explained in the muffled shout from behind the thick woollen head gear. This guy was a nutter, an animal rights activist who had followed Brock out from Glenkirk because he knew the other was after wild geese under the moon.

Brock let out pent-up breath. Relaxed. This was a situation he could deal with all right.

“What’s your name?”

“Fuck off!”

Whoever it was, he was young. A youth. Brock recalled something which Karen Anderson had told him. A warning. `Jimmie, a banana short of a bunch. There’s no knowing what he’ll do. Keep your eyes about you.’ Brock had done just that.

“You’re Jimmie, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off!” By the way the youth shouted Brock knew he was right. This was Glenkirk’s misfit.

“If you give me anymore lip I’ll give you the thrashing you’ve been short of.”

“Try it.”

Brock moved a step forward. “Head for home and get your ass off the marsh, boy. You’ve got ten seconds.”

“I’ve got as much right here as you.”

“Not when you’re stalking me. Now …”

The youth hesitated, clambered up the bank and started walking backwards. Backing off, scared that this stranger might carry out his threat.

Only when he had put thirty yards between them did he turn his back. The moon disappeared briefly behind a passing cloud and when it shone again there was no sign of Jimmie.

Probably ducked back down in the creek and then he’ll start following me again, Brock decided. A fucking nuisance just when I need the marsh to myself.

Brock retraced his steps. He’d head for the sandbank, snug down and wait for an hour or two. Then …

A piercing scream shattered the stillness of the night, had Brock Logan whirling round for it came from behind him. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Jimmie and the boy was either in big trouble or it was a ruse, a trap. Help me, mister, and I’ll lead you straight into the quick sands.

Brock hesitated and then another sound reached his ears.

Click-click-clickity-click.

Crabs, they were out here after all. And they had got Jimmie.

No more screaming. It was too late to embark upon a rescue but this was what Brock was out here for. He wanted a crab trophy, revenge on the crustacean for his father’s death. Now both were within his reach.

He began moving back towards the big creek, rifle at the ready. The moon was out from behind that cloud bank, there was enough light to see by. Enough light to place a bullet where he wanted it. He had already worked that out; likening it to that huge crocodile he had killed stone dead on the banks of the Zambezi a couple of years ago.

Like with a croc, a crab’s only vulnerable area would be a square of about four inches between the eyes. I’m having you, you fucker!

Where the hell was it? He stood on the bank of the creek where he had last seen Jimmie. The water rippled and swirled, glinting in the moonlight, but there was not a living thing in sight. No crab, no Jimmie.

Right or left? He chose the latter, walking along the bank, watching for any sign of movement which was not made by the incoming tide.

A hundred yards. Two hundred. Then he saw it.

The crab must have shambled along the creek bottom and now it was hauling itself up on to the edge of the sandbank. Moonlight glinted on its shell.

It wasn’t as big as Brock had imagined, having heard first hand stories of that attack on Hayman Island over three decades ago. Bigger than an Alsatian dog, not quite as big as a fully grown sheep. A youngster, but he would have it all the same. A big ’un next time.

His rifle butt was tucked into his shoulder. He tried to sight but the bloody thing had its rear towards him. A pincer raised, gripping some object.

Oh, Jesus Christ it was a human leg, torn off from the top of the thigh, trailing bloody sinews. Jimmie’s Leg!

The creature was moving again. Along the sandbank, still with its rear towards him.

Turn and face me, you fucking coward!

It wasn’t going to; it was heading back to the deep. If only he could turn it. Maybe there was a way …

He drew a bead on that sandy coloured shell, fired. Such was his concentration, his desperation, that Brock scarcely heard the deafening report nor felt the mighty recoil. All he saw was that shell, the way the bullet chipped a splinter from it, made a surface crack. No more.

If the crustacean felt the impact, it showed no sign. Shambling, clicking, now on top of the sloping bank.

Brock fired the second barrel. He heard the 400-grain bullet strike the upper section of the shell, ricochet. Then the crab was gone, heading into the tide beyond.

Brock Logan sank to his knees. Frustration, disappointment at a chance that had come and gone. Maybe there would not be another.

He thought about following his quarry, realised the futility of pursuit. The creature would be well into the incoming tide by now. There would not even be a chance of seeing it, let alone shooting it.

Was the .450/400 Jeffery up to the task? It wasn’t fair to judge it on a shell shot. Next time it had to be facial.

He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. 11.45. The tide was coming in fast and the sooner he was back on Glenkirk’s dry land, the better.

He walked as quickly as the soft, sucking mud would allow. Finally he made out a square of yellow light on shore. Karen Anderson’s cottage.

Maybe she had not gone to bed. He liked to think that she had waited up for him.

He hurried on until he reached the short cropped grassy merse. Brock Logan had a lot on his mind right now.

Ten

As he approached Karen’s cottage Brock’s walk had become a stumble. His legs felt leaden, every nerve and muscle in his body crying out for rest. The rifle on his shoulder bowed him like an osteoporosis sufferer. He was breathing heavily. But he had made it against all odds. Jimmie, the Glenkirk nit-wit had not been so lucky.

The light was still showing in a downstairs window. Maybe Karen had left it on for him. Or she was still up and awaiting his return. He experienced a tremor at the thought of the latter possibility. Please, no, I’d rather she had a good night’s sleep before she learns that they are out there, waiting in the mud to mutilate and kill any human within reach of their pincers.

The door was unlocked. It creaked loudly as he eased it open. Damn, that’s enough to wake the dead. Like Jimmie. Nothing would wake him because there was nothing left of him.

“Is that you, Brock?” Karen’s voice came from the kitchen. He heard a chair being scraped back and then she appeared in the doorway. She wore a nylon nightdress, almost transparent if you looked hard enough.

“Yeah,” he grunted, stood his rifle up against the wall, began to struggle out of his waders.

“My god!” she flicked the hall light on stared at him in shocked surprise. “You look like you’ve fallen in a deep creek. I thought you were familiar with the tide times.”

“I misjudged the speed of it,” he extricated himself from the second wader. “I …”

“Something’s gone wrong,” she moved closer, grasped his hand. “Something awful’s happened out there tonight. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Damned well wish I had instead of that!

“What was it, Brock?”

“I could use a stiff drink.”

“I’ll get you a whisky on condition you tell me.”

“All right,” he nodded. He would have to tell her now. He sighed, shrugged off his mud-splattered Harkila jacket, hung it on a peg, and shuffled through to the kitchen in stockinged feet.

“That’s better,” he swallowed a gulp of the amber fluid, averted her eyes.

“Well, if it wasn’t a ghost, what was it, then?”

“Crabs”, his voice low. “Well, one of them at least. A big one even if it was a little one, if that makes sense.”

“I knew it,” she paled. “And the residents of Glenkirk know but they’re keeping quiet about it. What happened?”

“It got that youth, Jimmie”

“Oh, my god!”

“Don’t ask me for details, Karen. I wish I could forget it but I doubt I ever will. I had the bastard in my sights. That’s a big-game rifle; I brought it specially to hunt ‘em. A going away shot. I cracked and splintered its shell but it made the tide. Then I legged it as fast as I could.”

“Doubtless it was the crabs that got that marine biologist and his mate but the authorities are trying to hush it up, blaming the tide. You’ll have to report it, Brock.”

“I will, in the morning. A few hours isn’t going to make any difference.”

“I suppose not,” she shook her head. “That lot out there,” she jerked her thumb in the direction of the neighbouring cottages, “they’ll deny the existence of the crabs, lie though their teeth. Everybody will blame the tide again.”

“I’m not admitting to taking a shot at that little bugger,” he added. “You see, I shouldn’t have had a rifle with me out there. If the cops got to know I could have my firearms certificate revoked.”

“Point taken.”

They lapsed into an uneasy silence.

“Brock.”

“Yes?”

“I … I’m scared,” her lower lip trembled. “It … it isn’t safe to go outside. This hamlet is only yards from the shore.”

“I plan on staying a while. At least until the crabs are sorted out.”

“Thank you.” Her hand found his. He squeezed it.

“I guess we’d better turn in,” he drained his glass.

“Rather pointless. I won’t get a wink of sleep and I doubt you will either.”

“Guess you’re right. We can rest on the sofa, wait for daylight. I’ll bring the rifle, though, and fetch the shotgun down, too.”

If the crabs did come then Brock hoped for a frontal shot this time, that four inch square between the eyes. The same way as the croc.

“I’ll lock the door.”

“Fine.” Not that locks will stop an oversize crustacean.

They settled down on the old sofa, each grateful for the comfort of each other’s closeness. Neither spoke, there was nothing more to be said.

In the morning Brock would make a phone call to the Dumfries police. The rest would be up to them. Right now a trophy and revenge for his father’s death had faded into second place.

Karen Anderson occupied his thoughts until he slipped into an uneasy doze.

…

Dawn came slowly. Brock stirred, noticed the greyness through the curtains, heard curlews and redshanks in the far distance. The tide would be ebbing by now, a feeding ground for wading birds.

Karen stirred against him, opened her eyes. “It’s getting light. Hadn’t you better make that phone call?”

“In a bit,” he was too comfortable to move. The events of the previous night seemed aeons away.

“I’ll get the number for you,” she wasn’t accepting any excuses, any delays. The sooner the police were on the scene the better.

He watched her walk through to the hallway, the way she wiggled her hips, back as straight as a ramrod. The more he saw of her, the more he liked her.

The sound of flicking pages. He heard the receiver being lifted, the numbers being keyed.

“Damn, I don’t believe it.”

“What’s up?”

“The phone isn’t working. There must be a fault on the line or …”

“Or what?”

“Come with me, Brock.”

He followed her out through the front door. She turned, looked up towards the bedroom windows. Following her gaze he saw a loose cable dangling down severed from the full length which reached down to a lower window.

“The bastards!”

“Somebody’s cut the wire, shinned up that drainpipe to snip it out of reach.”

“It’s happened on a couple of occasions before to stop me phoning out. Or rather, to stop prospective B&B customers ringing to book. Isolation, the way that lot,” she waved a hand towards the nearest cottage, “want it to be. I reckon it was Jimmie did it for them, except that this time he couldn’t because he’s … dead.”

“He could’ve done it on his way out to the mudflats last night. Anyway, whoever did it wasted their time.” Brock pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

“You’re wasting your time too Brock. You won’t get a signal here. Nobody can.”

Shit!

“All right, I’ll drive into Dumfries then.”

“Then I’m coming with you. Brock, please don’t leave me here alone.”

“No Problem. We’ll go right away.”

She turned back, locked the door, pocketed the key. He had gone on ahead of her to where his Discovery was parked.

“Fucking hell!”

He had stopped, stood rigid.

“Brock, what is it?”

“My tyres have been slashed. All four of them!”

She stared in dismay, thought one of the closed curtains in the next cottage moved slightly. Oh, they were watching, all right. Gloating.

“That’s happened before, too. Twice. My visitor’s cars. They swore they’d never come back again. They didn’t. I’m positive Jimmie was the culprit, put up to it by that lot of inbreds.”

“Jimmie was obviously busy before he set out to follow me. Isn’t anybody likely to come to Glenkirk? The postman?”

“It’s Sunday today.”

Christ, this got worse by the minute. “Well, we’ll have to make it to Dumfries on shanks. Let’s have a coffee first. It looks like a long day.”

They went back indoors. Karen switched on the electric kettle. At least that was working.

They sipped their coffee in silence. Somehow, Brock thought, there was a brooding atmosphere in Glenkirk, like the inhabitants enjoyed being cut off from the rest of the world. Captives by their own choice, and making sure that nobody else came or went. It was eerie.

“Well, I guess we’d better make a move,” he stood up. “Nothing like a good ten mile hike first thing in the morning …”

Suddenly the stillness all around was shattered by a piercing scream, one that embodied both terror and agony.

“What the hell!”

Even as he strode towards the window another yell reached his ears.

“The crabs. The Crabs are here!”

Eleven

Brock and Karen stared in horror and disbelief at the scene which greeted them in front of the rows of cottages. There must have been around a dozen crabs, mostly the size of sheep, their sandy coloured shells dripping with mud from the large creek which they had used as cover until they reached the tiny harbour.

In single file like some bizarre military exercise they followed in the wake of a monster crustacean three or four times their size. A bestial embodiment of sheer evil, It had already claimed its first victim, a bloodied figure in tattered oilskin hanging limply from a pincer.

Click-click-clickity-click

The big crab tore and munched as it led the advance, human sinews spilling from its mouth. Slurping.

“Oh, God!” Karen clung to Brock, thought she might faint. “That’s George, the old fisherman. Lives with his sister in the end cottage. They had a son, tried to claim it was an adopted child. He drowned in that creek a couple of years back.”

“They’ve come ashore because they’ve now tasted human flesh, that pair from Glencaple and Jimmie last night. They’re hungry for more.”

“What … whatever can we do, Brock? We’re trapped!”

“Upstairs for a start,” he took her hand, pulled her towards the stairs. “The big bugger won’t be able to get up there but the youngsters sure would. I’ll blast their fucking revolting faces if they try it.”

Outside there was more screaming followed by the crash of falling masonry. He guessed it was that tumble down cottage where the old fisherman had lived. They were after his sister.

The crabs certainly meant business. No longer were they content to skulk out on the mudflats taking the occasional victim who came their way. A snack was developing into a feast. A crustacean banquet had begun.

He closed the bedroom door behind them, unzipped the Jeffrey from its leather slip, loaded both barrels, and snapped the breech shut. Only then did he go to the window and open it. Karen sat on the edge of the bed. She did not want to see what was happening out there.

The porch of the end cottage had collapsed and a section of the stonework above it had come down. The huge crab was attacking the structure with a frightening determination. Having devoured the first victim he knew that another cowered within. Old or young flesh, it was all the same to this beast from the ocean.

The smaller crabs were concentrating on a neighbouring dwelling. A window smashed and the wooden door splintered and fell inwards. Somebody inside was screaming.

The Big Feller. He had backed off, left his brood to it, watching like an army commandant to see how his cadets fared.

“Turn this way, you fucker!” Brock Logan breathed. “Give me one glimpse of your ugly face. Let me see those eyes.” The double rifle’s barrels were trained on the mighty creature. Brock’s forefinger rested lightly on the front trigger.

But the crab did not turn round; it was too interested in the proceedings in front of it.

The smaller crustaceans had broken through the frail barrier, were queuing up, and almost fighting with each other to squeeze through the doorway. Some stonework showered from above, bounced off their shells. They did not appear to notice.

Shrill screaming, dying to a choking sound. They had found the old woman, George the fisherman’s sister. A frantic clicking, squabbling over their human prey.

Brock heard Karen’s rapid breathing behind him. She was scared to hell that they would come here next. They probably would.

Turn this way you bastard!

Still the huge crab remained immobile. This was definitely a training exercise for his troops.

A crab emerged from the ragged doorway a human body clutched in a pincer, dragging it. Its companions followed, angry at being robbed of their first feast, clambering over one another, grabbing for a trailing, bloody leg which protruded from torn, urine and blood soaked bloomers.

Click. Snap

A pincer secured a hold. The human limb snapped. The crab parted from its shambling colleagues, began to munch, splintering the fragile bone beneath the thin, wrinkled skin.

A melee, pincers clicking frenziedly. One of the crustaceans severed an arm, another had the second leg.

Still their leader did not move. Brock imagined a gloating expression on that awful face. There was not much left of the old woman now, just torn strips of flesh and shards of bone. The creatures were scouring the ground all around for fallen morsels, gleaning like grotesque birds after spilled grain on a field.

I’ll bloody shift you! Brock sighted the mighty shell, took a trigger pressure. The report was deafening in the small bedroom but Brock Logan had eyes only for his target. The bullet struck true, chipped the sandy shell, splintered its surface but did not penetrate. He resisted the temptation to fire the second barrel. That was reserved for the ghoulish, countenance when it turned to face him.

It didn’t. It was like the fucking bastard understood, was a move ahead of him. A pincer was raised, two loud clicks.

A command which the others dared not disobey for the wrath of their leader was too terrible to contemplate.

“I don’t believe it!” Brock spoke aloud as he watched the scene before him. “They’re all falling into line like soldiers on parade. Heading back to the big creek which will take them to the estuary.”

“Jesus, it’s awful!” Karen was at his side but there was no mistaking the relief in her voice as one by one the crabs scuttled down into the deep gully, disappearing from view.

The Big One was last to go like he was shielding his young from the bullets of the humans beyond.

In a gesture of frustration Brock sighted the huge shell again, squeezed the rear trigger of the Jeffery.

Again the projectile found its mark, widened the existing crack, and showered more splinters into the air. The beast did not so much as flinch as it lowered its huge bulk into the creek. And was gone.

“I bet he felt that!” Karen laughed, a laugh that bordered on hysteria.

“I doubt it,” Brock removed the spent shells, did not bother to reload. “Well, they’re gone!” His tone was one of disappointment. He had had that coveted trophy within his sights but fate had decreed that the crab’s only vulnerable part of its anatomy had remained hidden from him. And still his father’s death went unavenged.

“Well, what do we do now?” Karen sat down on the edge of the bed. She was fighting hard against breaking down. “They’ll be back for sure.”

“I doubt it very much,” he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know anything about their means of communications but I would suspect that the big crab knows what happened to that little one I had a crack at out on the mudflats last night. Maybe the titchy tosser has died since. Whatever, their leader has sussed out that guns can damage, even kill. They’ll be much more cunning from now on.”

“And what are we going to do?”

“Back to plan C. Phoning and motoring are out of the question so it’s hike all the way to Dumfries. Can you manage it or will you wait here? You’ll be perfectly safe; I have every confidence in that.”

“I’m not stopping here alone. I’ll come with you.” She paused, lifted her head. “What’s that?”

A distant droning was becoming louder by the second, almost vibrating the cottages.

“A chopper,” he was making for the stairs, going down them three at a time. Running outside, searching the sky above and seeing a helicopter that would pass low overhead.

A Chinook, undoubtedly on of the army’s coastal patrols searching for signs of the crabs. They were a few minutes too late.

“Brock waved his arms frantically. “Are you fuckers blind?” yelling, his voice lost in the throbbing of the machines engine.

It passed over, heading out towards the estuary.

“Come back, come back here!”

Then the machine changed course, began to circle, headed back towards Glenkirk. It was coming down, going to land by the small jetty.

“Thank Christ!” Brock closed his eyes, felt the beads of sweat on his forehead and Karen clinging to his arm.

The army had arrived but the giant crabs were already safe in their watery domain.

Nothing much had changed.

Twelve

Hamish Copeland had debated long and hard with himself about setting out in his punt that morning. He had not retired to bed, instead dozed in the old armchair in front of a fire that was long dead.

The geese were in, skein after skein returning from their summer migration to Greenland, weary birds alighting far out on the mudflats. There was the chance of a record shot if he was in the right place at the right time. Bunched on the water’s edge, recovering from their long flight. Unwary, unsuspecting, raked with 20 ounces of buckshot from the big punt gun.

The sale of shot geese was illegal but Hamish had his customers, an hour’s drive from here in the old Subaru pickup. Money for old rope. Except for those bloody crabs.

But the crabs couldn’t touch him if he kept to deep water. The only risk was going in close to the mudflats to retrieve his kills. He was adept at that, a fast pick up and away.

Yes, he would go, right now before dawn which was a good hour away.

Kitted up in waterproofs and waders, the big gun loaded and primed, the punt slid soundlessly out from Glenkirk like a long grey wraith. There was a nip in the air and a mist had drifted in from the Solway. Hamish shivered. It was creepy. No, he shrugged the feeling off, just like any other autumn morning and he had been fowling on the open water since his boyhood. Forget the bleedin’ crabs, concentrate on the geese. It’s your livelihood, man.

He knew the estuary like the back of his gnarled hand. The tide was ebbing, the mudflats were about a quarter of a mile from here. He worked the oars steadily with scarcely a ripple.

The eastern sky now had a grey tinge to it. By the time he reached the long mud bank it would be light enough to make out roosting geese. Already he could hear them starting to ‘pink’ as they awoke. They would not be flighting inland to feed on the field for an hour or more yet.

No sign of the giant crabs, thank God! He tried to push them from his mind. One good shot at geese, a quick pick up and he would be away back to Glenkirk.

Daylight was coming fast now. He used his binoculars. Great, there were geese further down where the big sand bank jutted out into the receding tide. Ten, maybe twenty. He pulled in the oar, began to skull slowly. Another hundred yards and the birds would be in range.

Closer. Closer. He could see them plainly now. Something else, what the hell was it?

A shape loomed up out of the mud, outlined against the lightening sky. Sort of … lemon shaped, as big, if not bigger, than his punt. It didn’t move. He thought for one awful moment that it was a giant crab. No, it looked wrong. Anyway, the geese weren’t bothered and surely wouldn’t have stayed around if it had been one of those outsize crustaceans.

He focused his binoculars again, saw an inanimate object. It was definitely metallic and the lower half appeared to be buried in the sand which meant it was much larger than he had first supposed. Big, real big.

Suddenly he recognized it for what it was. Oh, Jesus wept, it was an unexploded Second World War bomb!

He broke into a cold sweat. No doubt about it, one had surfaced on the English side of the Solway a few years back, there had been photographs of it in the papers.

It might explode at any second. No, that was unlikely, not after seventy years lying there. Leave it alone and it would probably sink back into the mud.

Except … except that he punted these waters regularly. If he had shot at those geese some of the buckshot would have undoubtedly struck the bomb, maybe detonated it.

That restricted his fowling outings for the future, not knowing its exact whereabouts when it was hidden by the tide. He had taken shots at duck and geese on that sandbank in the past and it had to be sheer luck that he had not hit the bomb.

It needed to be dealt with by the authorities, one of those bomb disposal squads. He would have to report it.

At that moment the flock of geese took to the wing with a cacophony of honking. They must have spotted him. Sod it, he had more important matters to attend too.

He came to an instant decision. He would paddle on down to Glencaple, it was nearer than Glenkirk and, anyway, he did not have access to a phone at home.

He would call the police from Glencaple, let them sort it out. He rowed fast, scarcely daring to glance at that explosive device as he passed by.

There was too damned much going on round here for his liking.

Thirteen

“Now we have an unexploded bomb to deal with,” Chief Superintendent McCulloch replaced the phone, turned to face Cliff Davenport, Brock Logan and Karen Anderson. “Crabs on the rampage and a bomb in the midst of them.”

“Well, we certainly need to take some prompt action,” Cliff resisted the temptation to gloat over Logan’s news which certainly proved that the crustaceans had returned with a vengeance.

“I’ll organise a bomb disposal unit right away,” McCulloch picked up the receiver. “That’s the number one priority.”

“They’ll need protection; those crabs are doubtless lurking nearby.”

“I’ll arrange it,” the other replied curtly. “I guess we’ll have to go and take a look in a chopper, Professor. Doubtless you will want to be in on this.”

“Of course,” Cliff glanced at the others. “Mr Logan and Miss Anderson …”

“I’ll arrange transport to take them back to Glenkirk.” This isn’t an outing for all and sundry.

Brock nodded. That suited him fine. If those bastards returned to Glenkirk then this time he was going to bag himself a trophy.

…

On their return to Glenkirk, Brock saw that the army and police had already arrived. Some guys in white coats and face masks were gathering something up into plastic bags. The remnants of the fisherman’s sister no doubt.

Soldiers in combat gear, armed with repeating rifles, were in evidence alongside the jetty.

“So much for my trophy,” he muttered as he and Karen unlocked the door of the cottage.

“We’re lucky to be alive, Brock,” she grasped his arm. “Anyway, nobody knows where those crabs are right now. They could be miles away.”

“Could be,” he stared out of the window. “Those soldiers out there won’t know the one vulnerable area to aim for. If the crabs come back they’ll just blaze away, chip a few shells and I don’t fancy their chances after that.”

He went upstairs, returned with the Jeffery. Cartridges clinked in his pocket. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

…

The Chinook took off from the outskirts of Dumfries. Along with the pilot were Professor Cliff Davenport and Major Kelly who was in charge of the current military operation to destroy the crabs. A humourless man who spoke very little, except when giving orders. Right now he was in touch with the unit stationed at Glenkirk.

“Contact me the moment a crab is sighted,” he switched off his radio, turned to Cliff. “Not a sign at the moment. Unfortunately heat seeking equipment doesn’t respond to crustaceans. Anyway, there’s a bomb disposal unit on the way.”

“The crabs will show before long,” Cliff was scanning the estuary through his binoculars, “take my word for it. I know them only too well. They’ve tasted human flesh and they’ll be hungry for more. Soon.”

Kelly did not reply. He had no time for theories.

They saw the partly exposed bomb on the tip of the elongated sand bank. Grey and sinister, even the morning sun did not glint on its surface. It was as though it had been waiting for this day to show itself.

“Hang on,” Davenport tensed. “There’s something moving on the edge of the tide…”

“You’re right. Pilot, go in closer and lower,” the major leaned forward, every muscle in his body tensed. “Whatever it is, it’s stirred up so much mud that you can’t make out what it is. Could be flotsam, a dead tree and branches.”

“It’s the Crabs!” Cliff spotted a huge shell before it submerged. “They know all about camouflage, they’ll stay in the tide until they find a deep creek that’ll take them inland. Its crustacean guerilla warfare, keep hidden until the last moment and then hit the enemy hard and fast.”

“Are you sure?” For the first time there was a hint of uncertainty in Kelly’s voice. He knew he had to make a decision and he was not absolutely sure what it would be.

“You’d better get your chaps down here fast,” Davenport sensed the other’s decision. “If there’s a bomb disposal team on the way then they’ll need protection whilst they do their job.”

Major Kelly was back on his radio, barking orders at Captain Howell at Glenkirk. “The crabs are up here, not all that far from the bomb. Get everybody down here as fast as possible. I want the bastards hit before they get on the merse. And get the police to evacuate the residents of cottages close to the shore. We can’t take any chances.”

Cliff was scanning the mudflats again. There was no sign of the crabs now, they could have travelled on up the estuary or turned and gone back down. It was impossible to guess just where they were heading.

“We’ll give ‘em a pasting,” Kelly’s confidence had returned now that he had given orders. “Just you watch, Professor. Those crabs will be blown to smithereens.”

Just like tanks failed to do at Barmouth in 1976, Cliff smiled to himself. And they couldn’t handle ‘em on the Great Barrier Reef the following year either. So why should the Solway be any different?

Only time would tell. There was only one certainty; a huge, bloody battle was imminent. There would be carnage and loss of life.

Fourteen

“Everybody’d pulling out,” Karen peered over Brock’s shoulder, saw soldiers running, piling into Land Rovers. An officer was shouting, gesturing wildly. Whatever the reason for the combat unit’s departure it was definitely a matter of urgency. “It’s like they’re retreating, fleeing for their lives, leaving us to our fate.”

“No,” Brock Logan had summed up the situation. “Something’s going on somewhere else, either up or down the estuary and they’ve been ordered into action. For the moment Glenkirk is not a high risk area.”

“I just hope you’re right,” Karen closed her eyes, opened them again. “I’ll make a coffee.”

“I could use one,” Brock rested his rifle on the sill of the open window. “In the meantime I’m staying right here. We can’t afford to relax our vigilance. Where the crabs are concerned, you never know. My father found that out to his cost. I don’t intend to be caught napping.”

The shoreline was deserted, the jetty was empty. Just a wrecked cottage, not a sign of life from the row further down. Like they were empty. Brock knew that they were not, their inhabitants hiding behind locked and barricaded doors. The old fisherman’s sister had been the unlucky one.

“Thanks,” he took a sip of coffee.

“Maybe we should have stayed in Dumfries booked in at a hotel until this is over.”

“I offered to find you accommodation,” he was still staring out to sea. “You refused.”

“I go where you go, you should know that,” she squeezed his hand. “You didn’t have to come back here. Or did you?”

“I’ve got a job to finish, Karen. I don’t want the bloody army to do it for me.”

“A trophy. A piece of bloody shell to hang on your wall.”

“There’s more to it than that. That trophy will always remind me that I paid back some of what I owe to my Dad.”

“A life for a life, eh?”

“If you look at it that way.”

He took another swig of coffee, went back to scanning the merse through his binoculars.

Suddenly he tensed, tightened his grip on the Jeffery.

“What is it, Brock?”

“I don’t know, I’m not quite sure. But the big creek, that water in it will be low yet just beyond that first bend its splashing up … like something below the bank is churning it.”

“Like what?”

He did not answer. He never pandered to suppositions. He continued to watch.

And then he saw it, a crab hauling its body up into view, struggling to grip the edges of the bank with its pincers.

“Oh, my God, Brock. They’ve returned and the soldiers have left!”

“Just one crab. A small one. All on its own, like the others have driven it off, rejected it.”

“What … what d’you mean?”

“See the way it’s struggling. It was all it could do to get up out of the creek. See the way it moves, lop-sided.”

He fell silent, studying it through his powerful lens.

“It hasn’t got much use in one pincer. Like a human with a broken leg. And there’s a crack in its shell that virtually runs from one side to the other. My God!”

“What on earth are you talking about, Brock?”

“The other night, the night they got Jimmie, I gave one of them a couple of barrels, more in frustration than anything else. Its rear was towards me, I couldn’t see the head. I know I chipped the shell, and then it vanished into the tide. I didn’t think my shots had had much effect. Obviously they had. They broke a pincer and put a crack in the shell which has been opening wider ever since. It can’t keep up with the others, they’ve abandoned it and it’s in pain. Probably knows it’s going to die.”

“Then why doesn’t it just die out in the estuary?”

“Because it has good reason to come ashore. We’ll never understand nature as long as we live, the way creatures remember things. There was a bull elephant in Africa many years ago. A hunter with a safari wounded it, not seriously. It escaped. A year later that hunter returned with another party and that beast was waiting for him in the bush, singled him out from the others, charged and trampled him.”

“That’s unbelievable!”

“There are stories of baboons which have followed a party of hunters back to the camp seeking revenge for shooting one of their family. It’s uncanny but it happens. I guess crabs are much the same.”

“So?”

“That little fellow out there has one thing in mind. He’s looking to find and kill me before he dies!”

“Oh, my God!”

“Well, I’m not going to disappoint him. It’s him or me and it ain’t gonna be me!” He stood up, gripping the double rifle.

“No, Brock, please, don’t go out there.”

“I have to Karen.”

“Can’t you wait and shoot him from the window.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Out in Africa a lot of visiting hunters pay fortunes to shoot large and dangerous game. Folks back home think they’re brave with nerves of steel. Some of them are but there are those who shoot lions and leopards from a blind, lured to bait and backed up by the protection of a Professional hunter. If the client is in danger the PH steps in, shoots his beast for him. Then he goes back home, shows off his trophy, makes up a tall yarn and impresses his friends. That’s not me. Elephants, buffalo, leopard, everything I’ve shot has been on equal terms with my quarry, it’s had as much chance of killing me as I’ve had of shooting it. That’s the way it’s always been since I first started hunting and that’s how it’s going to be now.”

She held back her final plea. Whatever she said, Brock Logan was going out there to face his nemesis. It was a case of kill or be killed and nothing she might say would make any difference.

“Wish me luck,” his lips met hers, lingered for a few seconds. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Karen heard the door close behind him. She dared not go back to the window to watch.

…

Brock stood with the Jeffery at the ready, thumb resting on the safety catch. He took a deep breath, expelled it and slowly relaxed. It was no good being tense when dangerous prey was in the vicinity. That way you rushed your shot, missed and died.

The crab was still atop the creek about 150 yards away. An ideal killing range for the heavy rifle. Except that the bastard had its back towards him, just like the other night.

Turn around, you fucker!

It did not move, it appeared to be staring out towards the tideline as though undecided on its next move.

It’s lost, the hunter concluded. Lost and wounded, looking for its parents, its brothers and sisters. It needs their help to get me.

The crustacean’s shell was badly cracked, a wide gap that ran from one side to the other. Maybe it had internal injuries, too.

Logan willed the creature to turn about, cursed it again. It wasn’t going anywhere, maybe it couldn’t because hauling itself up out if the creek had sapped all its strength. In which case … no, he wasn’t going to try to stalk it yet. It might be a ruse to lure him closer. There was no way of knowing just how cunning these buggers were.

I’ll shift it! He pushed the safety catch forward, shouldered the rifle and sighted that widening gap. Maybe if his aim was true he could place a slug through the shell and into its body.

The crashing report was followed immediately by a second. Shell splintered in all directions, a shower of shards. Brock unloaded, slid two more cartridges into the breech.

Still that crab remained stationary. There was no sign of its head, it was doubtless tucked deep inside its protective shelter. Waiting.

Or dead. That was a possibility. Brock glanced at his watch. He would give it five minutes and if there was no sign of the crab moving then he would stalk it. Not on a direct course, that was asking for trouble, rather circling, approaching it along the creek side. If it suddenly charged then its gruesome features would be facing him. Like that wounded Cape buffalo he had followed up in Namibia a few years ago. The beast had turned when it picked up his scent and a well-placed chest shot had dropped it. On open ground it may well have gored him.

Time’s up. He took another deep breath, let it out, and began to walk forward, his eyes never leaving that hunched shape up ahead. He could, of course, give it another couple of barrels. Fifty yards. Now forty.

He wasn’t going in too close. He needed room and time to shoot, reload, shoot again if necessary.

Then, without warning, it came to life with an alacrity that defied its previous slumped form. A clumsy but speedy swirl, the end of the shell dragging, pincers clicking loudly.

Brock’s rifle leaped to his shoulder. An instinctive sighting but even as he pressed the front trigger the shape before him whirled. The bullet struck its side, dislodged part of the fractured protective armour so that it scraped the mud. But it did not hinder the fast clumsy charge.

Brock Logan knew that his second shot had to count for there would be no time to reload. Calmly he took a sighting. His adversary had closed the distance between them to fifteen yards. Now ten.

The shot rang out, created echoes like rolling thunder down the shore. The crab came on, a maddened rush that propelled it closer with every passing second.

Then, suddenly, it slumped, died instantly. A heap of broken shell from which protruded the remains of the head, unrecognisable for what it was.

Brock sank to his knees physically and mentally exhausted. A sense of faintness which passed as quickly as it had come.

Relief. The euphoria.

I got him, I got the bastard!

Shakily he got back on to his feet, staggered across to the lifeless heap, kicked it. Anger and then satisfaction that he had both avenged his father’s death and also secured that coveted trophy.

He would take what remained of that shattered shell, hide it in the garage, deposit the body parts in the creek, give them back to the ocean which had spawned them.

Later he would clean off the shell segments, pack them away in the Discovery. Dried and cleaned they could be pieced together. It didn’t have to be perfect, that damage would serve to remind him for years to come of his most challenging and dangerous hunt.

He patted the .450/400 affectionately. It had never let him down. Today it had performed a feat that heavy military artillery had failed to achieve in the past.

The crab was dead. Brock paid silent homage to W. J. Jeffery, the rifle’s maker. This was surely his finest hour.

Fifteen

“Where the devil have those crabs gone?” Cliff Davenport spoke to himself rather than to the stoic Mayor Kelly by his side as he scanned the estuary through his binoculars.

Kelly grunted. He was clearly agitated. The pilot was flying low up and down the tideline.

“They’ve just disappeared.”

“Maybe they’ve gone back into the tide, abandoned whatever they had in mind.”

“I don’t think so,” Cliff replied. “That’s not like the crabs. Once they’ve got a destination, an attack, in mind they go for it. They’ve gone to cover for a reason. Believe me; I’ve had years of experience trying to outwit them.”

“The assault unit is just arriving on the merse.” Kelly stabbed a finger towards the shore. “Maybe I should’ve left them at Glenkirk. The crabs could be heading back there.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Davenport lapsed into silence. Not knowing the movements of their enemy right now was the most worrying aspect.

“Looks like that bomb’s uncovered some more,” Kelly’s attention was diverted back to the sandbank. “At least an ebbing tide will make the unit’s job easier to disable it. Where the hell have they got too?”

Davenport stared towards the bomb and that was when he saw something emerging from the tide, huge shapes heaving their forms out of the mud beneath the shallow surface.

“The Crabs!”

Kelly followed his companions’ gaze, scarcely believing the sight which greeted his eyes. That monstrous crab, followed by a line of smaller ones, almost as though they moved in trained formation.

He counted them. Fifteen in total.

“What the hell do we do now, Professor? The assault unit is way back on the merse.”

“Nothing,” Davenport expression was grim. “They’re up to something. Right now all we can do is watch.”

The big crab waited until his followers were all clear of the water and moving slowly, cautiously along the edge of the sandbank. Towards that bomb.

In his mind Cliff Davenport could hear their pincers, a sound that had haunted him in his sleep for over three decades.

Click-click-clickity-click

The crab army halted within ten yards of the bomb. Then, as though obeying a command from their terrible leader, the small ones began to form a half circle.

“It’s the bomb they’re interested in.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know … yet.”

The pilot was circling, maybe fifty feet above the crabs. They seemed oblivious to it, living statues with their attention focused on that metallic object. Staring. Curious.

Hostility in their very posture

“I’ve sussed it!” Cliff shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the machine.

“They think it’s a rival of some kind which threatens their domination of the ocean!”

Kelly shook his head. He did not understand what he saw beneath him. Giant crabs were more than his brain could cope with at this moment.

Suddenly the crab leader moved, a fearsome pincer raised, then came down with unbelievable force. Cliff almost heard the screech of bone on metal.

The creature raised its pincer again, not to strike this time but to signal to its minions. They moved immediately, scuttling so that the bomb was completely surrounded.

Another command and they moved in as one, waving, scything pincers, each one finding its mark. A frenzied attack unleashed and incessant, blow after blow, after blow.

“My God!” Cliff Davenport saw and understood that another threat was imminent. Leaning forward he yelled at the pilot “get the hell out of here. Fast!”

The other understood and obeyed instantly. The helicopter picked up speed, swung shoreward.

“What’s going on?” Major Kelly sensed that he was no longer in command. Professor Davenport had taken over and he was happy to go along with that. This whole business was some kind of fevered nightmare from which he wanted to awake.

Cliff had twisted in his seat, his binoculars focused. Watching. Waiting for what he feared, prayed might happen.

The crabs were going crazy, flailing pincers smashing down on that bomb. Its heavy duty plated exterior withstood the attack. Scratched, dented, but not yet penetrated.

“Maybe it’s a dud,” Cliff breathed “and time has rendered it harmless.”

Suddenly there was a blinding explosion, a pyre of orange flame shooting high into the air followed by a thick pall of yellowish smoke which totally obscured the scene. “Go back,” Davenport tapped the pilot’s shoulder a second time, “Circle and wait for that smoke to clear.”

Beneath the smoke they could see fire raging, tongues of spitting flame.

The helicopter hovered, its occupants watching and waiting. Smoke and more smoke but the fire within was dying down.

Now just wisps wafting in the sea breeze. Of the bomb itself there was nothing to be seen, its casing blown apart and scattered across mud and tide.

“Where are those crabs?” There was a tremor in the major’s voice. “There’s no sign of them. They’re gone.”

“Yes,” Cliff answers. “They’ve gone. Blown to smithereens. Look, there’s half a pincer lying on that sandbank,” he focused his lens. “Splinters scattered all around, most of ‘em probably in the estuary.”

“They’re finished?” Almost disbelief, certainly relief in Kelly’s voice.

“Yes, every last one of them. You can call off your chaps, major, there’s nothing left for them to do. Crabs and bomb gone in a matter of seconds. We might as well go back to base. I can return to London tomorrow morning.”

Sixteen

“Finished your grisly work?” Karen smiled as Brock came back indoors. “Dinner will be served shortly.”

“Good, I’m starving.” He began washing his hands in the sink. “When the shell’s dried out I’ll get to work piecing it together. I was good at jigsaws as a kid.”

“Ugh!” She grimaced. “By the way, I expect you heard that explosion further down the estuary. Let’s hope it was the army bombing the crabs.”

“Something like that,” he turned towards her, drying his hands. “I guess we’ll hear about it on the telly later.”

They ate in silence, Brock glancing up from time to time. Karen appeared to be lost in thought, worrying about the crabs probably in case they returned. Only when she had cleared the table did she speak.

“I guess you’ll be going back to London now that you’ve got what you wanted.”

“I haven’t even given it a thought,” he moved close to her, took her hand and squeezed it. “Any objection if I stop on?”

“No … of course not,” her cheeks tingled with a blush, her voice trembled. “That’s … that’s absolutely wonderful, Brock.”

His lips found hers.

“I guess this has turned out to be the most successful hunting trip of my life.”

They laughed together and embraced again.

…

Chief Superintendent McCulloch drove Cliff to Glasgow Airport the following morning. Somehow it seemed ungracious just to delegate one of his officers as a chauffeur.

“A successful conclusion, I think, Cliff.” It was the first time that the policeman had used the other’s first name.

“I didn’t exactly do a lot.” Modesty was the best policy. He could have said ‘I was right all along about the crabs but you were too pig-headed to listen’.

“Your experience was invaluable, Cliff.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, I guess the Luftwaffe did us a big favour. Their bomber was probably in trouble so they jettisoned their bomb. Or else they were bloody bad at aiming. Well, whatever, that should be the end of the big crabs forever, shouldn’t it? Blew the lot up.”

“I would like to think so.”

“Well, you said yourself that it got them all.”

“All that attacked the bomb, certainly.”

“You seem concerned about something, Cliff. What’s bothering you?”

“Just a nagging thought. I may be imagining a problem when there isn’t one. I thought it was all over after the battle on the Welsh coast. And again on the east and other locations. But those crabs come back each time.”

“But if they were all blown up yesterday …”

“If.”

“Whatever are you getting at?”

“There’s just one thing that worries me. There was just a single big one, a male undoubtedly. In order to breed those little blighters there had to be another fully grown one, a female.”

“But there was no sign …”

“Precisely. That’s my concern. Just suppose she’s holed up somewhere in the oceans of the world spawning another batch of monsters. Only time will tell.”

[i] See The Origin of the Crabs (book details)

[ii] See Killer Crabs (book details)

[iii] See Night of the Crabs (book details)

The CRABS Series

Killer Crabs: The Return is the seventh book in the series below, shown in order of publication.

Night of the Crabs

Killer Crabs

The Origin of the Crabs

Crabs on the Rampage

Crabs’ Moon

Crabs: The Human Sacrifice

Killer Crabs: The Return

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the fifty-third book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

19. Warhead.

20. Manitou Doll.

21. Wolfcurse.

22. Crabs On The Rampage.

23. The Pluto Pact.

24. Entombed.

25. The Lurkers.

26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.

27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.

28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.

29. Blood Circuit.

30. Accursed.

31. Sabat 4: The Druid Connection.

32. The Undead.

33. Crabs' Moon.

34. The Walking Dead.

35. Throwback.

36. The Wood.

37. The Neophyte.

38. Abomination.

39. Snakes.

40. Cannibals.

41. Alligators.

42. Bloodshow.

43. Thirst II: The Plague.

44. Demons.

45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.

46. Fiend.

47. The Island.

48. Mania.

49. The Master.

50. The Camp.

51. The Festering.

52. Phobia.

53. The Unseen.

The next book will be :

54. Carnivore.

"The first victim to die on the Corby estate is a starving poacher, condemned to a terrible end by both man and beast. He is not the last. The mad Earl of Corby’s ancient law has been repealed and blood sports are to be allowed once more on the land. But, the pact with Nature broken, the wildlife turn on their killers. Savage, predatory and murderous, they seek and take revenge on the flesh and blood of those who dare to defy the Corby Curse."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.