Crabs

Book Two of The Emerick Codex of Forbidden Terror

They came from the deep. They came from the dark. They came, according to the Bournemouth Echo, "from the direction of Poole," which in many ways is worse.

Crabs. Crabs the size of houses. Crabs the size of bigger houses. Crabs that have, within a single tide, converted the Pier, the Lower Gardens and a branch of Wetherspoons into what experts are calling "a buffet."

The Council has formed a committee. The Army has sent a man called Giles. The Prime Minister has said "we are monitoring the situation" from a safe distance of one hundred and forty miles. A chip-shop owner has been ignored by the police, the Council and the Echo, and has decided to take it personally.

Only one man knows how to stop them. A man with a shotgun. A man with a past. A man with a smaller shotgun, which he keeps for reasons he will not discuss, in a place he will not name, and which he has not fired since the incident at Weymouth.

Brock Salter did not want this fight. The fight wants him. And it is walking sideways towards his house.

CRABS: THE RECKONING. It's not a book. It's a reckoning. (It's also a book.)