Don locks the door on the way out. A last show of optimism. His CiD's in his back pocket, the gold piece and his lighter in another. A pack of cigarettes over his heart; a lug wrench in one hand.
The sky bleeds color over the ocean. He glimpses something dark and sinuous skimming above the waves, hesitates. Dread rising in his throat.
He starts along the beach at a walk, keeping back from the water to where coarse grass shoots up through the sand. The air seems charged, ringing with unfamiliar noises. Within minutes he's jogging.
He ignores the first chittering thing to knock against his leg. Then comes a second, a third, leaping and hissing. They pluck at his clothes; something nips the meat of his hand and he swings the wrench in wild surprise. The blow connects--he feels it in his arm--and the thing gurgles and after that he's bashing at them, kicking, trying not to trip or think what'll happen if he does.
The ocean roars in his ears. He staggers as the sand underfoot turns dense, soggy. In the next moment water's washing over his shoes. All at once the things put up a screeching; in the corner of his eye a mushroom-pale claw emerges from the water to snap one up. He stumbles, plants a knee in the water, scrambles up and runs heedless of direction.
Later, dry, breathing in gasps, he collapses into a doorway. Slides toward the ground, eyes on the verge of closing. Something moves and he recoils, raising the wrench with trembling hands. He's filthy: face and clothes smeared with blood and grime, coat torn open at the shoulder.
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The sky bleeds color over the ocean. He glimpses something dark and sinuous skimming above the waves, hesitates. Dread rising in his throat.
He starts along the beach at a walk, keeping back from the water to where coarse grass shoots up through the sand. The air seems charged, ringing with unfamiliar noises. Within minutes he's jogging.
He ignores the first chittering thing to knock against his leg. Then comes a second, a third, leaping and hissing. They pluck at his clothes; something nips the meat of his hand and he swings the wrench in wild surprise. The blow connects--he feels it in his arm--and the thing gurgles and after that he's bashing at them, kicking, trying not to trip or think what'll happen if he does.
The ocean roars in his ears. He staggers as the sand underfoot turns dense, soggy. In the next moment water's washing over his shoes. All at once the things put up a screeching; in the corner of his eye a mushroom-pale claw emerges from the water to snap one up. He stumbles, plants a knee in the water, scrambles up and runs heedless of direction.
Later, dry, breathing in gasps, he collapses into a doorway. Slides toward the ground, eyes on the verge of closing. Something moves and he recoils, raising the wrench with trembling hands. He's filthy: face and clothes smeared with blood and grime, coat torn open at the shoulder.