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no business here.'
Benjie Thompson watched with unblinking eyes, steadily drew his 'guns',
trained them on Gordon. No ka-pows or whining slugs, just a threatening
gesture. Don't try to stop me, mister, 'cause I got a crab to kill. Now step
aside or ...
A single scream rent the silence. And for Gordon suddenly everything was
happening in slow motion, his brain rebelling against what his eyes saw as he
whirled around.
Those giant rocks and boulders had come to life!
A crazy incredible sight that had to be the product of a mind fraught with
tension and fear. Gordon's first thought was, I've flipped my lid. It was as
though the whole beach had suddenly burst into life, monstrous things that
reared up, spilling the men who clambered over them, sprouting arms that
grabbed and slashed. And clicked like castanets.
Click-click-click.
In that one awful instant realisation dawned on Gordon Smallwood. The crabs .
. . Oh, Jesus Christ, those weren't rocks at all, they were the crabs lying
doggo on the beach, perfectly camouflaged in the soft moonlight!
He stood there transfixed. It was like a macabre child's shadow show,
grotesque silhouettes enacting a horror play-except for the sound effects.
Screams that were suddenly cut off amidst a clicking and crunching, flesh
being mutilated and masticated in those filthy jaws, a squelching and snapping
of bones. One last glimpse of the man called Charlie. A crab far bigger than
all the others had got him, was holding him aloft like a playground bully
keeping a bag of sweets out of the reach of other children. Taunting. Then at
full pincer-stretch the big man's body was crushed, a sickening crunch and the
lifeless form dangled. Crabs clicked excitedly then fell back; waiting, so
awful in their orderliness. Surely this was their leader, a King Crab which by
some freak of nature had outgrown the other mutants and ruled over them by
sheer size. And fear.
Suddenly the corpse was tossed, a regal crab's sop to his minions. It seemed
suspended in the air for some seconds, pincers raised awaiting its fall. A
sudden rush, fighting and squabbling over the prey which their leader had
deemed to give them, like hens pecking over a handful of corn. And then
Charlie was no more.
It was Benjie who jerked Gordon out of his horrified trance. The boy stalked
forward, a hunter moving in on his quarry, finger-guns held at hip level;
swaggering.
'Stay where you are,' Gordon leaped to bar his way, arms held wide. This kid
was crazy, he was going to walk right into the carnage.
'Get outa my way, mister.' Words that could have come from a life-sized
gunfighter model in the amusement arcade speaking. 'Draw, hombre.'
'You're crazy. Those crabs will rip you apart. They're heading for the camp,
making a detour overland where nobody will be looking for them. We've got to
get back, warn everybody.'
Benjie did not appear to hear, a robot with jerking steps advancing, 'guns'
held threateningly now. That wax model had come to life, left the arcade and
gone in search of bloody death. He had to be stopped and there was only one
way . . .
Gordon Smallwood moved fast, made a grab for Benjie, a desperate lunge as the
boy drew level with him. There should have been no problem; a firm hold,
dragging him back forcibly if necessary, slapping him down if he struggled.
But Gordon had underestimated the sheer cunning of one whose brain worked
differently from his own. Benjie moved fast, a duck and a weave, his
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finger-guns becoming clenched fists at the same time. A lightning right to
Gordon's solar plexus, a left taking him on the point of the jaw as he doubled
forward. A kaleidoscope of lights more dazzling than anything the Blue Ocean
Holiday Camp could produce in spite of its flamboyancy, red predominant,
coming at him like a scarlet tidal wave; then turning to black.
Gordon's recollection was one of waking up with a hangover, a head that
throbbed abominably and eyes that wanted to remain closed. Unconsciousness had
lasted for perhaps ten seconds, no longer, because as he fought the pain
barrier and gasped for breath through lungs that felt as though they had been
scalded, he saw Benjie advancing on the crabs.
Gordon Smallwood lay there helpless, forced to watch. Oh Christ, that stupid
little bastard was going to take on the whole fucking crustacean army! The boy
was advancing on them, a slow deliberate walk, fingers poised
threateningly-fearless!
The crabs noticed him for the first time, grisly blood-smeared features
staring in what could only be interpreted as crustacean amazement. They, too,
watched and waited.
Benjie opened fire.
Ka-pow , . . ka-pow ... his imaginary slugs were shining, ricocheting, his
expression that of a lusting killer. The big one, that was the one he wanted,
he'd deal with the others afterwards. They were all going to die. Ka-pow . . .
ka-pow . . .
But King Crab wanted him, too. That was why the others held back, shambled to
one side to make way for their leader for it was a brave creature who aroused
his wrath. A steady clicking, the monster and the boy on a course that would
end in bloody death when they met.
There was an urgency to Benjie Thompson's make-believe shooting now. Ka-pow,
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