11 Aug The Clawpocalypse

The town smelled like brine and fryer oil, a mix that hit Ethan Carter’s nose the moment he stepped off the bus. He adjusted the strap of his duffel and scanned the boardwalk stretching ahead of them, all weather-beaten planks and peeling paint, the kind of place where every storefront promised “The Best Lobster Roll on the Coast” in sun-bleached letters.

“This,” said Tyler Banks, striding past him with his sunglasses already on despite the overcast sky, “is where magic happens! I can feel it. I’m gonna meet at least two brunettes, one blonde, and maybe a redhead by Thursday.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “You’re here for women. I’m here for views.”

“Your priorities are all messed up, man.”

“No,” Ethan said, holding up his phone like a trophy. “My priorities are monetized.” The red recording light blinked on. “Day one of the Big Mouth Seafood Tour—”

Tyler groaned and kept walking.

The boardwalk was busy for early spring—families with strollers, old couples walking tiny dogs in matching sweaters, sunburned locals leaning against the railings with fishing rods. A salty wind rattled the colorful flags strung between light poles. Seagulls circled overhead, crying like they were trying to outcompete the arcade music drifting from an open door.

Ethan kept his phone angled to catch it all. His subscribers—nearly half a million now—would expect something picturesque. Something that made them wish they were here, surrounded by fried food stands and ice cream shops, the ocean slapping gently at the pier pilings below.

Tyler, of course, was already scanning the crowd for anything in a short skirt.

They passed a sagging poster stapled to a telephone pole: Annual Sea Monster Festival – One Week Away! The faded illustration showed a cartoonish green creature with claws and a grin. Ethan snorted. “Small-town marketing at its finest.”

An old man in a yellow rain slicker shuffled past, muttering something Ethan didn’t catch. Tyler grinned. “Bet he’s seen the monster.”

Beyond the boardwalk, past the trinket shops and candy stores, the ocean spread wide and gray. Far down the shoreline, a high chain-link fence jutted out into the water, crowned with razor wire and warning signs that flashed orange in the dull light.

“What’s with that?” Ethan asked.

“Military base,” Tyler said without looking. “Read about it on the bus. Apparently top secret. You know—lasers, aliens, the unredacted Epstein files. Probably fishing for mutant squid or something.”

“Sounds like clickbait.”

Tyler shrugged.

A gust of wind whipped at them as they reached their motel—two stories of peeling teal paint, neon VACANCY sign sputtering in the window. A few doors down, a dockside restaurant advertised All You Can Eat Crab Legs in looping script.

Ethan grinned. “First stop.”

Tyler smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

They dumped their bags and, within minutes, were walking back toward the docks, the scent of steaming seafood leading them like a trail. Neither noticed the fisherman leaning against the pier railing, his weathered eyes following them. He spat over the edge into the water, where something faintly luminescent shifted just below the surface.

* * * * * *

The place was called Captain Sal’s, the kind of dockside restaurant where the floorboards creaked and the décor seemed trapped in the mid-80s—fishing nets on the walls, plastic lobsters hanging from the ceiling, framed photos of grinning anglers holding up enormous catches. The air was thick with steam and the tang of Old Bay seasoning.

They were seated near a window overlooking the pier. From here, Ethan could see the gray water sloshing against the pilings. Out on the horizon, a faint fogbank clung to the surface, swallowing the base fence from view.

A waitress with tired eyes and a voice like gravel dropped menus in front of them. “Special’s snow crab tonight,” she said, tapping a laminated card before walking away without waiting for their order.

Tyler leaned back, scanning the room. “I love how they don’t even bother asking what you want, just ‘Here’s the crab, take it or leave it.’”

Ethan smirked. “Works for me. Content gold, my man!” He had already taken out his phone, narrating in a cheerful YouTuber voice. “We’re about to dive into some authentic seaside crab, straight from the—”

The kitchen door swung open. A chef emerged carrying a metal tray big enough to serve a family of six. The thing lying on it wasn’t just large—it was wrong. Its shell was pale, almost milky white, marbled with faint gray streaks. Here and there, the surface caught the light in a translucent shimmer, like the skin of a jellyfish. The legs curled inward as if in pain, and the whole body gave off a faint glow, just enough to make the shadows underneath it twitch strangely.

Tyler frowned. “Tell me that’s the light reflecting off it.”

The waitress set the tray down between them. Crack… crack… crack.

The sound was so faint Ethan thought it might be the cooling of the shell—until it happened again, in a sharper rhythm, like something inside was shifting.

“Uh—” Ethan said, eyeing the crab warily. “Cooked crab doesn’t usually… make noise.”

The waitress didn’t answer. She was already halfway to another table.

Tyler grabbed the crackers. “Don’t be a baby. This is the stuff legends are made of.”

They got to work, Tyler humming tunelessly as he cracked open the first leg. Steam rose, carrying a briny scent stronger than it should have been. Ethan hesitated before biting in. The texture was off. The flesh was too chewy, almost rubbery, with a faint metallic tang that made his tongue prickle.

Tyler swallowed a mouthful and grimaced. “Tastes like it was boiled in a car battery.”

Ethan coughed and grabbed his water. “Yeah, this is—”

Crack.

They both froze. The sound was definitely coming from the crab’s body.

“I’m done,” Ethan said, pushing his plate away. “Nope. Not worth food poisoning.”

Tyler cracked another leg. “C’mon, you can’t wimp out halfway. You’re the eating contest champ!”

“Not with something that’s still making noise.”

The crab’s faint glow seemed brighter now, the shadows under its shell shifting again, almost like breathing.

Tyler leaned in. “Is it… looking at me?”

Ethan stood. “I’m tossing it.”

“What, seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

They carried the tray out onto the pier. The breeze was colder here, the scent of diesel and salt clinging to it. A few yards away, tourists ambled by with ice cream cones and fried clams. A couple leaned against the railing, watching gulls dive for scraps.

Ethan set the tray on the rail as the crab glowed faintly.

“Bon voyage, freak,” he muttered, tipping the tray over the edge.

The body tumbled over the edge and hit the water with a muffled splash. For a second, it just floated there, pale and motionless. Then it began to sink, its illumination fading as it disappeared into the murk.

“Creepy as hell,” Tyler said, brushing his hands.

“Creepy is clicks,” Ethan replied, already thinking about the video title.

They turned to head back inside, neither of them noticing the fisherman from earlier standing further down the pier, eyes fixed on the ripples where the crab had vanished.

Beneath the water, the glow flared once, red bleeding into its light before receding again.

* * * * * *

By the time they left Captain Sal’s, the boardwalk had changed. The wind had picked up, tangling Tyler’s hair and rattling the metal signs that hung over the storefronts. The air smelled sharper, more like seaweed than fryer grease, and the light had shifted into that strange blue-gray just before full dark.

They ducked into The Rusty Anchor, a narrow bar squeezed between a bait shop and a taffy store. It was the kind of place that didn’t bother with music, just the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. Nets hung from the rafters, dotted with yellowed buoys and a couple of fake crabs that seemed like someone’s idea of a joke.

Tyler ordered beers without asking Ethan, then turned to chat up the two women sitting next to them. Ethan was scrolling through his video footage, half-listening, until a rough voice spoke from directly behind him.

“You boys were eatin’ down at Sal’s.”

Ethan turned. It was the fisherman from the pier, still in his yellow slicker. His skin was weathered leather, and his eyes were pale blue, almost milky. He slid onto the stool beside Ethan without waiting for an invitation.

“Yeah,” Ethan said slowly. “Why?”

The man took a sip from his glass before answering. “Ain’t wise to eat crab from the waters they fish in.”

Tyler leaned around the women. “What’s wrong with ‘em? You know something we don’t?”

“Plenty I know you don’t,” the man said. “They been pulling crabs outta the inlet by the base. That’s no ordinary water—been fouled for years. Military don’t dump trash where you can see it. They do it out there, behind the fence. Chemicals. Waste. And worse things.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Like what, exactly?”

The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “They say they’re workin’ on weapons. Weapons that don’t fire bullets. Weapons that crawl, swim, and bite. Things that glow in the dark and don’t stop moving when you kill ‘em. Folks go missing out there. You won’t read that on no sign.”

Tyler grinned. “So, you’re telling me our dinner might’ve been… a government experiment?”

The fisherman didn’t smile back. “I’m tellin’ you, if you threw one back, you’d best hope it sank deep. Deeper than it can climb.”

He finished his drink, slid off the stool, and left without another word.

Ethan glanced at Tyler. “You think he’s serious?”

Tyler shrugged. “If he is, at least we’ve got a good story for your channel.”

Outside, unseen, the tide pulled back hard against the pilings, carrying something pale and glowing toward the shallows.

* * * * * *

The motel’s neon sign sputtered in the damp night air, casting sickly green light across the cracked parking lot. Their room was on the second floor, facing the ocean. Inside, Tyler was sprawled across his bed with a beer, shoes still on, while Ethan sat at the small desk uploading his earlier footage.

“You realize,” Tyler said between sips, “if that fisherman was right, that we basically ate part of a top-secret bioweapon tonight.”

Ethan didn’t look up. “Yeah, and that weapon tasted like wet pennies, and I want a refund.”

Just then, a clicking sound came from outside, soft but deliberate, like someone idly tapping two pieces of metal together. It carried through the thin glass of the sliding balcony door.

Ethan froze mid-keystroke. “You hear that?”

Tyler muted the TV. The clicking grew louder, joined by the faint scrape of something hard dragging across wood.

“Seagull?” Tyler said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

Ethan got up and slid the curtain aside. The balcony was bathed in moonlight, the rail casting thin shadows across the warped planks. At first, he didn’t see anything. Then his eyes caught a pale shimmer in the corner near the doorframe.

The thing crouched there wasn’t the crab they’d tossed earlier. It was bigger now, half again the size; its shell was no longer just pale but almost translucent, with veins of faint red pulsing beneath the surface. And in the center of its torso, where the joint plates should have met, was a face. Not a crab face, but something humanlike and distorted. Its eyes glowed red in the moonlight, and its mouth was little more than a jagged crescent lined with carnivore’s teeth, the kind no crustacean should have.

The clicking came from its claws, opening and snapping shut in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

Ethan stumbled back. “Tyler…”

Tyler came over, took one look, and swore. “That’s our crab.”

“How can you tell for sure?” Ethan asked.

“That thing tasted like it smelled,” he replied, “and I can smell it from here.”

The thing lunged at the glass, the impact rattling the door in its track. It hissed, a wet, gurgling sound, then raised one claw and scraped it down the glass, leaving a gouge. Then it began pressing against the door, claws working the handle.

“Get something heavy!” Ethan shouted.

Tyler grabbed a chair and jammed it under the handle just as the lock began to rattle. The crab’s glow brightened, its face twisting into a grin before it backed away, still clicking, and climbed onto the railing.

It stared at them for a long moment, then dropped soundlessly out of sight.

They waited, breathing hard, straining to hear its movements. Somewhere below, they heard a faint splash.

Tyler sagged against the wall. “We’re definitely not telling anyone about this.”

Ethan shook his head, still staring at the door. “No… we’re filming it next time.”

* * * * * *

The next morning, the motel smelled faintly of bleach and burnt coffee. Ethan was at the sink, splashing water on his face, replaying the image of the crab’s glowing eyes in his head. Tyler sat on his bed scrolling through his phone, looking far too calm for someone who’d had a mutant crustacean at his door a few hours ago.

“Check this out,” Tyler said, turning the screen toward him. “Local news—people are saying something attacked the beach last night.”

The grainy video clip showed a group of fishermen hauling in nets under the pier when the water around them seemed to boil. The camera jerked as they shouted, and for a second, a pale, many-legged shape scrambled up onto a dock, scattering fish across the planks before vanishing into the shadows. The feed cut to a shot of an empty pier littered with cracked shells.

Ethan’s stomach sank. “That’s not a something. That’s our crab.”

Before Tyler could answer, sirens wailed in the distance. They stepped out onto the balcony. Down the road, two police cruisers tore past toward the harbor, lights flashing. The boardwalk was buzzing—not with tourists, but with people running in the opposite direction of the water.

They hurried toward the docks, weaving through the crowd. Somewhere ahead, someone screamed.

When they reached the seawall, Ethan stopped cold. The beach was crawling.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of crabs scuttled across the wet sand, their shells all the same unnatural pallor as the one they’d eaten, but smaller. Among them were lobsters, their antennae twitching like feelers in the air, and shrimp the size of a man’s forearm, leaping in arcs over the writhing mass. All moved with a single purpose, streaming toward the boardwalk steps in coordinated waves.

And leading them was their crab.

It was larger again—at least four feet across now—with claws like rusted scythes. The face in its torso had fully formed, skin stretched tight over bone-like ridges, eyes glowing brighter than the sunlight on the water. Its mouth hung open in a jagged grin, teeth slick and sharp.

It didn’t just move; it directed. It paused to wave a claw, and the swarm shifted in unison, splitting to climb the pier pilings and the seawall. The sound was deafening—thousands of legs ticking and scraping over wood and concrete.

“Jesus!” Tyler muttered, backing up. “They’re organized.”

Ethan pulled out his phone instinctively, recording as the first wave of crabs poured onto the boardwalk. They scrambled over benches, up lampposts, and into trash cans. A man trying to run tripped, and within seconds they were on him, claws snapping. He screamed, flailing, before disappearing under a wriggling tide of shell and legs.

Tyler grabbed Ethan’s arm. “We’re not staying out here!”

They bolted toward the nearest open storefront—a souvenir shop—but a lobster the size of a Rottweiler burst through the doorframe ahead of them, snapping its claws with enough force to splinter the wood. They turned, sprinting down an alley between a bait shop and a shuttered diner.

The clicking followed.

They emerged onto a back street and almost collided with a small group of panicked locals carrying baseball bats and fishing gaffs. One of them, a burly guy in a bloodstained apron, pointed toward the harbor. “They’re everywhere! Get inside before they surround you!”

“Where’s safe?” Ethan shouted.

“Fish market! Brick walls, cold storage. They don’t like the cold!”

That was enough for them. Together with the locals, they fought their way down the street, smashing at stray crabs that scuttled from under cars and storm drains. A shrimp latched onto Tyler’s leg; he yelped and kicked it into a wall, leaving a smear of greenish fluid.

The fish market loomed ahead, its wide front doors still open. The smell of ice and brine rolled out, mingling with the metallic tang of crab blood. Inside, the space was dim, lit by flickering fluorescents. Metal tables stood in neat rows, some piled high with fish on crushed ice, others holding trays of lobster and mussels.

“Lock it!” the apron man barked as they barreled in.

The heavy doors slammed shut, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade.

But then came the sound, first faint, and then growing, of hundreds of claws ticking against the pavement outside.

The lock clicked into place, and for the first time since they’d hit the boardwalk, Ethan let out a breath. The fish market smelled sharply of salt, fish guts, and disinfectant. Metal shutters had been pulled halfway over the display windows, leaving just enough gap to see the flicker of movement outside. The sound of claws on concrete hadn’t stopped; it was constant, a low, insect-like rattle that made the hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck rise.

“Don’t touch the windows,” said the man in the apron, setting down his gaff hook. “Name’s Vic. Family’s owned this market since before I was born. We’re not going to let a bunch of mutant crabs trash it.”

From behind the counter, a young woman in a heavy sweater stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel. She was maybe in her mid-twenties, with her dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and an expression on her face that said she’d already seen more than enough today.

“This is Marina,” Vic said, “my niece. She’s the one who thought of the cold storage.”

Marina gave them a curt nod. “They won’t go near the freezer. I don’t think they can handle the temperature drop. Not sure how long it’ll keep them out here, though.”

Tyler perked up immediately, leaning casually against the counter. “Well, I’ve got to say, Marina, you’re doing an amazing job keeping this place together in the middle of… whatever the hell this is.”

Marina didn’t even blink. “Thanks. And you are?”

“Tyler. Survivor. Protector. Crab killer extraordinaire.” He flashed what he probably thought was a charming grin.

From the back room came another figure—a tall blonde in a zip-up hoodie, her cheeks pink from the cold. She carried a bucket of ice like it weighed nothing.

“This is Jess,” Marina said.

Tyler’s grin widened. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Jess glanced at him, unimpressed, then set the bucket down with a thud. “You two bring this mess with you?”

Ethan started to say no, then caught Tyler’s look. “Maybe,” he admitted. “We, uh… ate part of one and tossed the rest in the water. It… came back.”

Marina crossed her arms. “So this is your fault. Got it.”

“Hey!” Tyler said defensively. “Nobody told us the crab was from some government mutant pond!”

Outside, something slammed against the front door. The metal shuddered. Marina walked over to peer through the gap in the shutters. “They’re testing the weak spots,” she muttered. “There’s more of them gathering.”

Ethan joined her, phone in hand. The swarm was thicker now—claws, shells, and antennae writhing in the narrow street. He spotted the larger crab moving through them like a general among soldiers, its face twisting into a grin when it turned toward the market.

“They’re not going anywhere,” Ethan said quietly.

“Neither are we,” Marina replied. “So unless you’ve got a plan, get comfortable.”

* * * * * *

The next half hour was tense, yet strangely domestic. Vic hauled in crates from outside and stacked them against the doors, while Marina inventoried the walk-in freezer. Jess sharpened a fillet knife with slow, steady strokes, ignoring Tyler’s attempts to strike up a conversation.

The claws outside never stopped tapping. Sometimes the sound rose into a frenzied rattle, followed by a dull thump against the shutters. Other times, it was just a slow, purposeful scrape that made everyone’s skin crawl.

Finally, Tyler broke the silence. “We could make a run for it, grab the truck and—”

Marina cut him off. “The street’s crawling with them. You’d never make it past the first block.”

Jess didn’t look up from her knife. “Besides, where would we go? They’re not just here—they’re in the water. The docks, the beach. We’re boxed in.”

Tyler glanced at Ethan. “Okay, so… plan B?”

Ethan thought for a long moment, and then said, “The fisherman at the bar—he said these things are from the base, right? Maybe there’s a way to—”

His sentence was cut short by a deafening crash. One of the display windows exploded inward, scattering shards of glass across the tile. A half-dozen pale crabs poured through the gap, legs clattering, claws snapping.

Vic swung his gaff, hooking one and flinging it against the wall hard enough to crack its shell. Ethan grabbed a nearby crab mallet and brought it down on another, feeling the sickening crunch reverberate up his arm. Jess was already moving, her knife flashing as she stabbed at a lobster dragging itself over the counter.

Tyler let out an unmanly yell but managed to grab a pair of metal tongs, snapping them shut around a crab’s neck joint and hurling it into a display case.

In seconds, the invaders were down, their bodies twitching on the tile. Outside, the swarm reacted, claws clacking faster and more angrily. The big crab’s pulsed bright red.

Ethan looked at the others. “This isn’t a siege. This is a warning. Something worse is coming. I can feel it.”

“What do you propose we do about it then?” Tyler asked.

The twitching crabs on the market floor were still warm when Ethan replied, “Okay, hear me out… what if we boil them?”

Marina blinked. “You want to eat the things trying to kill us?”

Jess wiped her knife clean on a rag. “Pretty sure that’s how this started.”

“No,” Ethan said, holding up a finger, “I don’t mean we eat them. Listen—this started because the thing was still alive when we tossed it. If we cook them first—steam, boil, fry—and make sure they’re really done for, dead-dead, they’re not crawling out.”

Tyler’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, let’s do it! This is going to do great with your audience! I’ve already got a title. Get this—’The Clawpocalypse!’ We’re sooo going viral, bro.”

Marina gave him a look sharp enough to cut bait. “That’s your takeaway from this? Internet clout?”

Vic, who had been silent, suddenly grinned. “Hold on, the plan’s not bad. It might just work. We’ve got propane burners out back. Big steamers. Could crank ‘em up and boil ‘em all to death, as they come in.”

The idea took root fast. Within minutes, they had dragged a battered propane burner to the center of the market floor, the hiss of the flame filling the room. Vic hefted a steel pot the size of a trash can onto it and began filling it with seawater from a hose, adding handfuls of salt “for flavor.”

The next wave of crabs broke through the shattered window before the pot even reached a boil. Marina and Jess handled the first few with knives and gaff hooks, while Ethan and Tyler grabbed them by the legs, yanking them into a growing pile near the burner.

“Careful!” Vic barked.

It became a macabre assembly line. Catch, toss, boil. Catch, toss, boil. The pot steamed like a witch’s cauldron, the smell of cooking crab mingling with the tang of propane. The sizzle and pop of shells bursting under the heat was drowned out only by the furious clacking outside.

They worked like that for over an hour, steadily thinning the swarm each time it breached the market. The floor was slick with water, shell fragments, and crab juice, and the air had grown stifling from the constant steam. Every so often, a larger-than-average crab or even a lobster would crash through, only to be speared, boiled, and picked apart.

But the big one never came inside.

It stayed in the street, circling, its red glow brightening each time one of its “soldiers” died. Ethan could feel it watching them, its claw tapping as if it were counting down.

“We’re making a dent,” Tyler said. “I think they’re getting scared.”

Jess shook her head. “They’re not scared. They’re just regrouping.”

As if on cue, the tapping of the claw outside stopped entirely. The sudden silence was worse than the noise. Everyone froze, listening.

Then came the sound of something heavy dragging along the pavement, accompanied by a deep, resonant clicking that rattled the metal shutters.

Marina’s face went pale. “That’s not an ordinary crab.”

Vic’s knuckles whitened on his gaff. “No. That’s the boss.”

The dragging sound outside slowed, then stopped just beyond the shattered front window. The silence stretched long enough for Ethan to feel the heat from the burner on his face and the cold from the freezer at his back.

Then the metal shutters began to rise, slowly, as if something far stronger than human hands was lifting them. Claws hooked under the edges, forcing the slats upward with a metallic shriek. Through the widening gap, a glow spilled into the market, red and moist, like light refracted through blood.

When the shutters reached waist height, the crab stepped through. It was no longer the awkward, sickly thing they’d tossed from the pier. This was a monster. The translucent shell was now thick and ridged like armor, veins pulsing beneath it, feeding muscle that bulged grotesquely between the plates. The claws were each the size of Ethan’s torso, the tips worn to jagged points. And in the middle of that broad, glistening chestplate was the face—fully formed now, with cheeks stretched over jutting bone ridges, a nose that had sunk into a bony slit, and a mouth lined with overlapping rows of canine teeth.

Its eyes glowed like coals, fixed on Ethan as the creature stepped forward. Each movement sent a ripple through the swarm behind it, as though they were physically tethered to its will. Smaller crabs poured into the room around its legs, but it ignored them, pushing deeper into the market with a scraping gait.

“Holy hell!” Vic muttered, gripping his gaff so tight his knuckles went white.

The big crab raised one claw and brought it down on a display table. The wood splintered with a deafening crack, fish spilling onto the wet tile. Marina yanked Jess back before another swipe could take her head off.

Tyler scrambled behind the burner. “Uh, so—plan B? We have a plan B, right?”

Ethan kept his eyes on the crab. “We still have heat. Just… need to get it close enough.”

The boss crab seemed to understand the threat. It skirted the burner entirely, stepping sideways like a prizefighter circling prey. Its claws worked in that same deliberate tapping rhythm, and each tap was answered by the swarm pressing harder against the market walls. The building creaked under the pressure.

Jess darted forward and slashed at one of its legs, scoring a shallow cut. The crab’s face turned toward her, lips peeling back in a snarl that exposed far too many teeth. It swung a claw, splintering another table where she’d stood a heartbeat before.

“They’re inside on the left!” Marina shouted. Ethan turned to see a tide of smaller crabs pouring through a crack in the rear wall, antennae twitching.

The boss didn’t move to join them—it didn’t have to. It just stood there in the shattered front window, filling the room with its glow and its stench, letting the swarm do its work.

And then, with a sudden, guttural hiss, it charged.

It was faster than anyone expected. One moment, the boss crab was at the shattered front window; the next, it was plowing through the fish market like a wrecking ball, scattering tables and crates with each sweep of its claws.

Vic swung his gaff at its face, but the claw caught the shaft and snapped it in two. The broken wood clattered across the wet tile as Vic dove behind the freezer door.

Marina grabbed a broom handle and jabbed it into the boss crab’s eyes. It didn’t blind it, but the creature shrieked—a high, metallic screech that rattled the glass cases. The swarm outside seemed to answer, pounding harder against the walls.

Ethan ducked behind the propane burner, brain scrambling for any way to get the monster over the boiling pot. “Tyler!” he shouted. “Get it in close!”

“What do I look like, a crab whisperer?” Tyler yelled back, hopping over a fallen crate to avoid a claw swipe.

The monster turned toward him, teeth bared in its chest-face. It lunged, and Tyler did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed the giant industrial crab cracker from the prep table. The thing looked like a medieval torture device: two four-foot steel arms connected by a heavy hinge.

Tyler swung it open, planted his feet, and waited until the crab’s claw came down in another bone-rattling strike. At the last second, he shoved the claw between the cracker’s jaws and slammed it shut with all his weight.

The hinge groaned. The crab screeched, thrashing, but the cracker held, pinning the massive claw in place. Tyler clung to the handles, legs braced, swearing through gritted teeth. “I got it! I think I got it! Oh god, I definitely got it!”

“Hold it!” Ethan roared.

He and Jess rushed forward, each grabbing a side of the pot. Steam hissed in their faces as they heaved it off the burner, sloshing near-boiling water across the tiles. The crab saw it coming and tried to wrench free, but Tyler’s grip, born of pure adrenaline and terror, held just long enough.

Ethan and Jess tipped the pot, sending a wave of scalding water over the crab’s torso. It howled, legs scrabbling wildly against the tile. Steam poured off its shell, carrying the smell of cooked seafood and something fouler underneath.

Marina didn’t hesitate. She shoved with all her strength, tipping the crab sideways into the burner frame. The pot toppled the rest of the way over, dumping the remaining boiling water straight into the thing’s chest-face.

The hiss was deafening. The crab convulsed, the glow in its eyes flickering wildly before going dark. Around the market, the smaller crabs froze mid-motion, then scattered in every direction, skittering for cracks and broken windows.

The boss crab twitched once more, then collapsed, claws slack in the ruined cracker.

Tyler let go and stumbled backward, chest heaving. “See? Told you I could take it.”

Ethan pointed to the phone mounted on the counter, still recording. “Yeah, the whole internet’s gonna see you screaming like a toddler.”

“Editing,” Tyler said, holding up a finger. “Editing is a thing.”

* * * * * *

By the time the sun crested the horizon, the streets outside the fish market were littered with shells, broken claws, and puddles of brackish seawater. The smell of salt, diesel, and cooked crab hung heavy in the air.

Ethan leaned against the shattered doorway, filming the scene for his channel. Smoke still curled from the burner inside, and steam drifted lazily from the cooling carcass of the boss crab. In the pale morning light, it still looked grotesque, but far less impressive.

Police cruisers idled at the end of the street, their officers standing back as if the wreckage was contagious. A few reporters had arrived, snapping pictures but keeping a wary distance. The locals who’d fought through the night were clustered near the seawall, trading tired nods and muttered thanks.

Marina and Jess emerged from the back room, arms crossed, both looking more exhausted than victorious. A sleeve of Marina’s sweater was shredded; Jess had a smear of crab juice drying in her hair. Tyler, leaning against the counter with a bandaged forearm, was already spinning the story for the two young women who had braved the morning chaos to poke their heads in.

“…and there I was, face-to-face with this crustacean the size of a golf cart,” he said, flexing the arm that wasn’t bandaged. “One claw in the cracker, one swinging wildly—and I’m thinking, this is it. But no. I held on. I fought.”

One of the women nodded politely; the other was scrolling on her phone.

“Sure you did,” Marina said flatly as she passed.

Ethan turned his phone toward Tyler. “Hey, you want to see the footage? It’s mostly you yelling ‘Oh God, oh God, I’m dying’ while Jess saves your—”

Tyler snatched the phone, eyes narrowing.

Outside, the mayor, a stout man in a rumpled suit, was giving a statement to the small knot of reporters. “An isolated incident,” he said. “No cause for panic. The town remains safe for residents and visitors alike.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, safe if you don’t count the killer seafood.”

The police began carting away the carcass of the massive crab-beast under a tarp. Two men in hazmat suits stood nearby, quietly discussing something with a uniformed officer. They weren’t from the local department. Ethan caught the phrases “base perimeter” and “containment protocol” before they moved out of earshot.

Vic came up beside him, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “They’ll clean this up and act like it never happened, but you can’t scrub something like that out of the ocean.”

Ethan pocketed his phone. “Good thing I’ve got proof.”

Vic gave a humorless chuckle. “Son, sometimes proof just paints a target on your back.”

By mid-morning, the boardwalk had been swept clear. Tourists were already trickling back in, drawn by the novelty of “storm damage” and the promise of discounted seafood.

Ethan posted his video on the walk back to the motel. By the time they reached their room, it had over fifty thousand views.

Tyler collapsed on his bed. “See? We’re legends.”

Ethan sat at the desk, refreshing the view count. “Yeah. But what if they expect a sequel?”

* * * * * *

Miles offshore, the morning sun turned the surface of the water into a blinding sheet of gold. A gray military salvage vessel rocked gently in the swell, its deck cluttered with winches, diving gear, and sealed crates.

Two divers, still dripping from their ascent, wrestled a mesh recovery net over the side of the boat. Whatever was inside thrashed against the ropes, sending up sprays of seawater that glistened in the light.

A man in a black windbreaker marked with no insignia crouched beside the haul, pulling the mesh back just enough to peer inside.

It wasn’t a crab. The creature was long and segmented, its carapace the same milky-translucent white as the one Ethan and Tyler had faced, but with spiny ridges that ran down its length. Its antennae twitched, tasting the air, and its claws, smaller but needle-sharp, snapped frantically.

The man frowned. “Lobster.”

“Sir?” one of the divers asked.

“This one’s still alive.” He reached into the net and, ignoring the twitch of the creature’s tail, flipped it onto its back. In the center of its underside, embedded between plates, was something no lobster should have—two small, glowing red eyes. They stared up at him, unblinking.

The lobster’s tail thumped once against the deck, the sound sharp in the stillness.

“Secure it for transport,” the man ordered. “Crate 7-B.”

A crewman hesitated. “Sir… the others—”

“Now.”

They slid the lobster-like creature into a reinforced container and clamped the lid shut. The man in the windbreaker straightened, scanning the horizon toward the shore. In the distance, the thin line of the boardwalk was barely visible, the Ferris wheel a faint silhouette against the morning haze.

Behind him, another winch began to whine. A second recovery net broke the surface, dripping and heavy. This one bulged with movement. The ropes strained against the weight as whatever was inside shifted, a pale glow radiating through the netting.

One of the divers muttered, “Sir… I think there’s more than one in there.”

The man didn’t answer. He was still staring at the shore.

Far below, in the dark water where sunlight died, something enormous moved.

And its claws began to click.