Night of the Crabs by Guy N. Smith

Author:Guy N. Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

SAM OWEN always fished by night. He had done so ever since he was a youth.

Experience had taught him that his catches were heavier and there was more room to move in and about Barmouth harbour without that cursed ferry churning up the estuary and disturbing the shoals of fish every half-hour. Besides that he just liked being afloat on moonlight nights.

He was forty-two, and a strong, silent man. He lived for the sea and his one wish was that he would not die on dry land, When his time came he wanted to pass away peacefully in his little fishing smack out on the open sea. Maybe he'd drift away for ever and they'd never find him.

The warnings of the police and the armed forces didn't worry him. OK, so something had happened on Shell Island. That was their worry. It was ten miles away up the coast. That was far enough away. And those stupid bathers who got lost off the beach? Cramp probably.

Sam Owen was at peace with the world as his boat bobbed just outside the harbour entrance at the mouth of the estuary. By tomorrow night the moon would be no good for night-fishing. He lit his pipe and relaxed. It had been a good week.

Half an hour later he knew he'd got the catch of his life. There was something big in the net and the boat was listing to stern as a result. Whatever it was, it was threshing madly. He had visions of hauling in another Moby Dick as he set about trying to land his catch.

The water foamed. The bows were right up in the air now and he struggled to keep his balance. Hell! There was only one thing for it. He would have to cut the net free and lose whatever was in it as well.

The moonlight flashed on the steel blade of his pocket-knife. He leaned over and began to slash at the netting. He could see something struggling in the mesh. Christ! What was it?

His knife was blunt. Had it been sharp he might have cut through the net quickly and escaped. Instead, he had to saw with the blade. As he leant overboard something clasped his wrist. Something that was razor-sharp. Before he realised it, his bloody hand and the knife had dropped into the sea with a dull plop. The silvery water had a spreading dull red patch on it.

He staggered back, screaming. Blood spouted into the night air like an oil strike. In vain he grabbed at the stump and tried to stem the flow with an oily rag. The blood spurted into his face, blinding him.

The boat lurched again as a huge claw appeared over the stern and two glowing eyes regarded the man who was now easy prey. The giant crab could smell blood.

Human blood. Awkwardly it began to clamber aboard.

Sam Owen caught a glimpse of the advancing creature through a red haze. Blind panic sei2ed him. He staggered to the bows, blood still pumping fiercely from his severed wrist.

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