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'Unless they aren't in there at all,' a young captain spoke up. 'Maybe they
went back to the sea after they wrecked the lifeboats.'
'Nonsense!' Colonel Matthews snapped and turned back to his wall map. 'If they
don't show up in twenty-four hours we're going to start dragging for them!'
While Colonel Matthews talked on, something was happening in the estuary. It
was low tide, the lowest for weeks, leaving only a narrow channel of sluggish
flowing water between the large sloping mudbanks. Those repairing the bridge
took advantage of the brief period when the supports would be more easily
accessible.
Suddenly the current began to increase its pace. Those working with the water
up to their waists had to grasp at the steel struts above them to prevent
themselves being swept away.
'Hey!' one gasped as he clung desperately to a rusty girder. 'There's a bloody
tidal wave starting.'
'Look!'
Heads turned. A large wave enveloped the men leaving them gasping for breath.
Another was following in its wake. In comparison the Severn Bore would have
seemed a ripple in a woodland stream. Something was churning the water into a
foaming cauldron.
Someone up on the bridge was shouting. Those on the bridge began running back
along the structure to safety. The men in the water were less fortunate. The
next wave swept them away. There was no hope of being able to swim. The
pounding waves tossed them up and then dragged them down into the deep mud,
'The crabs! The crabs are coming!'
The fearful cries of the terrified workers carried across the estuary.
Soldiers who had waited patiently throughout the long period of inactivity
reached for their weapons. This was it!
Like a never-ending column of soldier-ants the crabs marched out of the
estuary in single file. In fact only in such formation could they have
remained hidden for so long during the low tides. Their method of concealment
was a mystery no longer.
On and on they came. A hundred. Two. Three. Four... It was impossible to count
them.
Clickety-click. Clickety-click.
The five men on the bridge ran for their lives. With luck they would be on
terra firma ahead of the advancing crabs which waddled with astounding speed
across the mud beneath them.
They might have made it had not one of them stumbled and the other four
stopped to help him. As they pulled the fallen man to his feet they realised
that their last hope had gone. Two of the crabs had turned back and come up to
the bridge after them. The rest of the ever-increasing column continued its
advance on Arthog,
The men ran back the way they had come. Their pursuers seemed to be in no
hurry. Possibly they realised that there was no escape whatsoever for the
humans.
'What do we do now?' The men in overalls pulled up abruptly on the brink of
the jagged gap in the bridge. It was too wide to leap across. He looked back.
A steady click-clicking filled the air as the crabs deliberately slowed their
pace. Two pairs of evil eyes glinted in the bright sunlight.
'Jump!' It was the man with the twisted ankle who spoke. 'Into the water. Swim
for it!'
As one they leapt into space. Accomplished swimmers all, they made a perfect
landing. Perhaps they would have made it had not it been for the three massive
crabs, perfectly camouflaged against the background of mud, which slid towards
them.
In the distance the first shot rang out.
Cliff Davenport and Pat Benson strolled down to Barmouth harbour. There was
little else to do until something happened. Without each other's company life
could have become considerably boring.
Cliff bought a paper from a stall and they sat on a bench overlooking the
harbour. Restoration work was in full swing and already evidence of the
invasion of the crabs was becoming erased except from the memories of those
who had witnessed it.
Idly Cliff opened his newspaper. Naturally the Welsh coast was still
commanding front page space on most of the London dailies.
WHERE ARE THE GIANT CRABS NOW? the leading Headline ran. He skimmed through
the article rapidly. The whereabouts of the crabs was certainly not going to
be pinpointed by Fleet Street.
Pat was reading over his shoulder.
'Poor kiddy!' she muttered.
'What's that?' he grunted, being more concerned with the ridiculous views of
some reporter who surmised that the crabs might be hiding out in the
mountains.
'There,' she said, pointing with her finger to a small paragraph at the foot
of the page.
CHILD DRINKS WEEDKILLER AND DIES, he read. 'An eight-year-old girl who drank a
solution of paraquat weedkiller last week in her parents' garden in Surrey,
died this morning. There is no known antidote. Parents are warned ... '
He broke off and suddenly his hand gripped Pat's until she gasped in pain.
'Ouch!' She snatched her hand away. 'Whatever's up. Cliff? 'It's a terrible
thing to happen, I know, but there's no need to...'
'Paraquat!' He banged his fist into the palm of his other hand. 'Paraquat
weedkiller. Deadly to all forms of life. Kills through the pores. Rots the
lungs. I wonder... '
'Whatever are you getting at?' she asked. 'Have you taken leave of your senses
or something?'
'No.' He rose to his feet and smiled. 'I've only just come to them. Come on,
let's go and see Grisedale at once. We've no time to lose!'
'You could be right,' Grisedale observed after he had listened eagerly to
Cliff Davenport's theory. 'It's worth a try anyway.'
Grisedale consulted a well-thumbed telephone directory and then, picking up
the receiver, he dialled a number. After some delay he succeeded in being put
through to the department he requested. The person at the other end of the
line listened while the Professor's theory was repeated.
'Good. Good!' Grisedale sounded well pleased. 'How soon can you have it down
here? Today? Excellent Yes, we shall required the sprays as well. Thank you.'
He replaced the receiver.
'The Farm Supplies are delivering it at once ... ' He was interrupted as the
phone jangled again.
'Grisedale,' he barked, an expression of irritation on his face, an expression
which quickly turned to one of amazement and horror. 'Good grief! Right, we'll
deploy all available troops. Right away.'
'That,' he said, turning to Cliff and Pat, his face ashen, 'was Colonel
Matthews. The crabs are making a daylight raid on Arthog. Not only have they
withstood close range fire from a Centurion tank but they have also rolled it
down into the estuary. They are forcing the troops back!'
He crossed to the window and opened it. Across the estuary they could hear the
firing.
'There's only one hope left now,' Cliff murmured, slipping an arm around Pat.
'I just hope that Farm Supplies truck gets here before it's too late!'
Chapter Fourteen
THE toppling of the Centurion tank was the signal for the troops to withdraw,
forsaking their positions along the banks of the estuary. If the Centurion
could not repel the invaders, nothing could!
Reinforcements began to arrive. Just as quickly they fell back. The crabs were
almost at the station. Moving slowly. The firing ceased as abruptly as it had
begun. It was just a waste of ammunition.
Between the station and the first houses lay several acres of waste ground.
Mostly it was covered with long grass, tinder-dry from the scorching of the
recent heat wave.
'Set fire to that grass!' Colonel Matthews roared. 'Quickly, before they reach
it!'
'Fire doesn't affect them,' an officer replied. 'At Barmouth ...'
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