Nothing was like before. Yes, the crabs had taken the city in one fell swoop, but the similarities ended there. Fysch was old, weak, and crazed, Trapper was wounded and under equipped, and Horace was a spiteful coot- but that wasn’t so different. Instead of leading a fearless army into the fray or the eight-legged legion, they led a small band of frightened refugees away from the sea of orange-shelled death.

They had a few advantages over their speedy pursuers; long distances were burdensome to the crabs which meant that their pace matched that of a snail after a few yards. Secondly, the crustaceans’ rarely travel alone or leave their own behind. This is what allowed the survivors to reach the rocky hillside in which they set up camp.

Horace stood vigilant guard at the cliff over looking the path they had taken. The moon light shimmer over his peach and brown fur as he sniffed for the recognizable scent the crabs gave his sensitive snout. He was a serene image with his eyes closed and legs tucked inwards.