became more frenzied, smashing into crabs and sweeping and bouncing.
It was enough.
In the past Monk had strolled beaches covered with crabs that—once a seabird or stranger appeared—would clear in a heartbeat, crabs diving back into their sandy burrows. It was the same here. Those crabs nearest the commotion fled, climbing over their neighbors, jarring them into a panic. Soon a trickle became a stampede. The crabs, already riled up, fled on instinct.
The sea of crabs turned their tide—toward Monk—literally becoming a surging, churning wave of claws, climbing over one another to escape.
He fled back to the chestnut tree, pincers snapping at his heels.
He leaped and scurried up into the branches. One crab latched on to his boot. He cracked the shell against the trunk. It fell away. The pincer was still snagged tight to his boot. He felt the sharp edge cutting into his heel.
Damn.
Below, the tide of crabs swept past, obeying some instinct, possibly tied to their annual migration patterns. They fled toward the sea.
Monk climbed up to join Graff. The researcher had one arm hooked around the trunk. He eyed Monk, then turned back toward the slice of open rock that lay around the mouth of the sea tunnel.
The pirates, six of them, were out of the tunnel, spread a bit, but they had ducked low with the pistol shot. Only now were they rising to their feet, unsure.
Then from the jungle, the roiling sea of crabs burst forth.
It struck the man closest to the jungle fringe. Before he could react, comprehend what he was seeing, they scrambled up his legs to the level of his thighs. He suddenly screamed, stumbling back. Then one leg gave out under him.
During combat, a fellow Green Beret had had his Achilles tendon cut by a bullet. He had dropped in the same crooked manner as the pirate.
The man fell to one arm, screaming.
He was overrun, crabs scrabbling across his writhing body. But his wails continued, buried under the mass. For a moment, he surged back up. His mask had been stripped away, along with his nose, lips, and ears. His eyes were bloody ruins. He screamed one last time and fell back under the tide.
The other pirates fled in horrified panic, back to the tunnel, vanishing away. One man was cut off from the tunnel, pinned out on a spur of rock jutting off from the sea cliff. The crabs swelled toward him.
With a final cry he turned and leaped off the cliff.
More screams echoed up from the tunnel.
Like water down a drain, the sea of crabs swirled into the mouth of the tunnel, spiraling away in a red tide of razored claws.
Monk found Graff panting heavily beside him, eyes unblinking.
He reached and touched the man. He flinched.
“We have to go. Before the crabs decide to return to their forest.”
Graff allowed himself to be led down to the forest floor. There were still hundreds of crabs down here; they moved cautiously through them.
Monk broke off a feathery branch of the chestnut tree and swept away any of the crabs that got too near.
Slowly Graff seemed to return to himself, to settle back into his own skin. “I…I want one of those crabs.”
“We’ll have a crabfeed when we get back to the ship.”
“No. For study. Somehow they survived the toxic cloud. It could be important.” The researcher’s voice steadied, in his element.
“Okay,” Monk said. “Considering we left all our samples behind, we shouldn’t return to the ship empty-handed.”
He reached down and snagged up one of the smaller crabs with his prosthetic hand, grabbing it by the back of its shell. The feisty fellow snapped its claws backward at him, straining to get him.
“Hey, no marring the merchandise, buddy. New fingers come out of my paycheck.”
Monk went to smash it against a tree trunk, but Graff waved his good arm. “No! We need it alive. Like I said before, there’s something odd about their behavior. That bears examination, too.”
Monk’s jaw tightened in irritation. “Fine, but if this bit of sushi
It was enough.
In the past Monk had strolled beaches covered with crabs that—once a seabird or stranger appeared—would clear in a heartbeat, crabs diving back into their sandy burrows. It was the same here. Those crabs nearest the commotion fled, climbing over their neighbors, jarring them into a panic. Soon a trickle became a stampede. The crabs, already riled up, fled on instinct.
The sea of crabs turned their tide—toward Monk—literally becoming a surging, churning wave of claws, climbing over one another to escape.
He fled back to the chestnut tree, pincers snapping at his heels.
He leaped and scurried up into the branches. One crab latched on to his boot. He cracked the shell against the trunk. It fell away. The pincer was still snagged tight to his boot. He felt the sharp edge cutting into his heel.
Damn.
Below, the tide of crabs swept past, obeying some instinct, possibly tied to their annual migration patterns. They fled toward the sea.
Monk climbed up to join Graff. The researcher had one arm hooked around the trunk. He eyed Monk, then turned back toward the slice of open rock that lay around the mouth of the sea tunnel.
The pirates, six of them, were out of the tunnel, spread a bit, but they had ducked low with the pistol shot. Only now were they rising to their feet, unsure.
Then from the jungle, the roiling sea of crabs burst forth.
It struck the man closest to the jungle fringe. Before he could react, comprehend what he was seeing, they scrambled up his legs to the level of his thighs. He suddenly screamed, stumbling back. Then one leg gave out under him.
During combat, a fellow Green Beret had had his Achilles tendon cut by a bullet. He had dropped in the same crooked manner as the pirate.
The man fell to one arm, screaming.
He was overrun, crabs scrabbling across his writhing body. But his wails continued, buried under the mass. For a moment, he surged back up. His mask had been stripped away, along with his nose, lips, and ears. His eyes were bloody ruins. He screamed one last time and fell back under the tide.
The other pirates fled in horrified panic, back to the tunnel, vanishing away. One man was cut off from the tunnel, pinned out on a spur of rock jutting off from the sea cliff. The crabs swelled toward him.
With a final cry he turned and leaped off the cliff.
More screams echoed up from the tunnel.
Like water down a drain, the sea of crabs swirled into the mouth of the tunnel, spiraling away in a red tide of razored claws.
Monk found Graff panting heavily beside him, eyes unblinking.
He reached and touched the man. He flinched.
“We have to go. Before the crabs decide to return to their forest.”
Graff allowed himself to be led down to the forest floor. There were still hundreds of crabs down here; they moved cautiously through them.
Monk broke off a feathery branch of the chestnut tree and swept away any of the crabs that got too near.
Slowly Graff seemed to return to himself, to settle back into his own skin. “I…I want one of those crabs.”
“We’ll have a crabfeed when we get back to the ship.”
“No. For study. Somehow they survived the toxic cloud. It could be important.” The researcher’s voice steadied, in his element.
“Okay,” Monk said. “Considering we left all our samples behind, we shouldn’t return to the ship empty-handed.”
He reached down and snagged up one of the smaller crabs with his prosthetic hand, grabbing it by the back of its shell. The feisty fellow snapped its claws backward at him, straining to get him.
“Hey, no marring the merchandise, buddy. New fingers come out of my paycheck.”
Monk went to smash it against a tree trunk, but Graff waved his good arm. “No! We need it alive. Like I said before, there’s something odd about their behavior. That bears examination, too.”
Monk’s jaw tightened in irritation. “Fine, but if this bit of sushi
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