Clickers vs Zombies (16 page)

Melody grabbed her brother’s arm and squeezed. “What is it?”

Before Richard could answer, gunshots erupted from nearby. Judging by the sound, they were only a few blocks away.

“Lets get out of here,” Mary whimpered.

A low moan answered her. Richard turned to see a woman crawling toward them. She emerged from beneath a jumble of boulders about twenty feet away and pulled herself toward them with one arm. Richard was amazed that she could move—amazed that she was alive at all. Her left arm had been severed halfway between the wrist and elbow, and a splintered bone jutted from the ragged tatters of flesh. Both of her legs were missing, too. One had been cut off mid-thigh. The other below the knee. The rest of her body was mangled, as well. Through what little scraps remained of her clothes, he saw horrific gashes and lacerations.

“Guys?”

They turned to look at Richard and he pointed.

“Help me,”
the injured woman groaned.
“Please help me…”

“Holy shit,” Max exclaimed, rushing toward her.

Richard grabbed him and pulled him back.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Something’s not right.”

Max shoved him away. “She’s hurt, you asshole. We’ve got to do something.”

“That’s right,”
the woman called, her voice loud and strong despite her condition.
“Come help me. Come closer.”

Richard’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the display, and saw that it was his father calling.

“Who is it?” Melody asked, still clinging to him.

“It’s Dad. Should I answer?”

“Call 911,” Max told him, and then started toward the injured woman.

More gunfire and screams echoed from the streets behind them. A car horn blared. A dog barked, then began to howl. Richard’s cell phone continued to buzz.

Max knelt before the injured woman. “You’re gonna be okay. Just stay still and try not to move. My friend is calling for an ambulance.”

The woman grabbed his pants leg and laughed.

“Hey!” Max tried to get to his feet, but his attacker tugged at his leg, tripping him. He fell hard, sprawling on the broken pavement.

“You’re a cute one,”
the woman cackled.
“And I bet you taste good, too!”

Baring her teeth, the woman darted her head forward and tried to bite Max’s ankle. The youth kicked her in the face with his other foot. Her nose crunched beneath the blow. That only made her laugh harder. Max kicked her again, freeing himself, and then scampered backward until he was out of reach. Regaining his feet, he rushed back to the others.

“Jesus,” he panted. “Jesus fucking Christ…”

From the rocky shore below, came another sound: CLICK-CLICK! CLICK-CLICK! CLICK-CLICK!

“See?” Roy Conklin shouted. “They come back! I told you kids they would.”

“What the hell is that?” Mary said, eyes wide with fright. She clung to her older brother Paul much in the same way Melody was clinging to Richard.

“Oh fuck,” Max said.

Far below, where the ruined streets and sidewalks collapsed onto the rocky, debris-littered shore, dozens of Clickers were crawling from the surf and making their way up the cliff. They moved cumbersomely, legs gripping boulders, roots and exposed pipes and cables. They clicked their claws together in frustration, tails raised over their backs. The biggest creature was as large as a mid-size car. The smallest was about the size of a dog.

“See?” Roy squealed. “They’re back! We’ve got to go!”

“Oh my God!” Melody said. She pulled at Richard, stepping back toward the gated fence. As she did, her cell phone began to ring.

“Is it Dad?” Richard asked her. “Answer it! Tell him we’re in trouble.”

“It went dead,” Melody cried. “There’s no signal now.”

Cackling, the half-woman began pulling herself toward them again. Far behind her, the Clickers clambered closer to the top of the cliff.

“We’ve got to run!” Roy threw up his hands and barreled past them, heading toward the gate. And as the first Clicker ambled over the debris, and a fury of clicking claws erupted from further down the slope, Richard, Melody, Mary, Paul, and Max turned tail and ran after Roy. They ran for the gated fence, their terror driving them out, and as they reached it Paul heard the wailing of more police sirens in the distance, a bunch of them, coming from all directions. Roy was sliding through the gap in the fence and everybody was fighting to get through first and then there was what sounded like a staccato of gunfire coming from a few blocks over and then hell came to San Pedro.

San Francisco, California

Ob—still wearing Abigail’s body—and his undead minions were massacring every living being on curvy, crooked Lombard Avenue when a squad of National Guard troops arrived to confront them.

All of the zombies were armed, carrying everything from automatic weapons to pipes and clubs. Methodically, they proceeded down the street, entering office buildings and stores, apartment complexes and places of worship, and slaughtering everyone inside. They pulled people from their cars, knocked them off their bikes, and gunned pedestrians down in the street. They shot them, stabbed them, ran them over, beat them, choked them, and bit them, always being careful to leave the brain intact so that another Siqqusim could inhabit the corpse once the soul had departed.

By the time the National Guard troops arrived on the scene, the zombies outnumbered them ten to one. The soldiers found themselves battling undead Black Lodge operatives, police officers and other emergency responders, gang-bangers, civilians, and an assortment of zombie animals, as well—pigeons, rats, dogs, cats, and other inner city wildlife. The slaughter was quick and merciless, and when it was over, the dead army’s ranks swelled even more, as zombie National Guardsmen joined the fight against the living.

From their vantage point atop a bank building, Privates First Class Wagaman and Messinger watched the chaos unfold, choking down bile as their fellow soldiers were killed. The two men had darted into the bank, seeking cover during a running gun battle with three zombies. When the horde charged them, they had retreated to the bank’s roof, barricading it.

“We’re safe up here,” Wagaman repeated, crouched at the roof’s edge and staring at the carnage below. Fires dotted the city landscape, and black clouds of smoke curled into the gloom. It would be nightfall soon, and he wondered what would happen then.

“Yeah, but the others,” Messinger cried. “Clark and Sylva. Planters. The Sarge. Jesus, dude, our whole squad is down there.”

“Nothing we can do for them now. Keep your shit together. We’re gonna sit tight, and when things clear out, we’ll make our way back down and try to hook up with another squad. Maybe we can radio somebody.”

“How? The fucking zombies drove off in our vehicles! Look. There goes one right now, driving over pedestrians. It’s fucking Scofield driving that thing.”

“Not anymore,” Wagaman reminded his distraught friend. “Scofield’s dead. I saw her get killed. That’s a zombie.”

Messinger checked their barricade for the tenth time, assuring himself that they were secure. While he did, Wagaman raised his weapon and peered through the scope, surveying the situation. Messinger had been right. It was Scofield driving the urban assault vehicle down the sidewalk—or at least, it was what was left of Scofield that was driving. Somehow, Wagaman didn’t think the Scofield they had served with would have grinned with such maniacal glee as she drove through storefronts and mowed down fleeing civilians. Wagaman watched a mother and her toddler disappear beneath the vehicle’s front grill. The oversized tires bounced up and over the two thrashing forms. Blood squirted across the pavement like a juice box that had been stomped on. Then the mother and her child lay still.

“Fuck this.”

Wagaman took a breath, held it, exhaled, and then took his shot. The first round took out the windshield. The second exploded Scofield’s head. The vehicle swerved, striking a fire hydrant. A stream of gushing water exploded into the air.

“This can’t be happening,” Messinger moaned. “This wasn’t what I signed up to do.”

Ignoring him, Wagaman stared through the scope, lining up another shot. He squeezed the trigger and another zombie dropped. The machete the creature had been carrying clattered to the sidewalk. Wagaman picked through them, destroying zombie after zombie, all with shots to the head. It wasn’t until he realized that he was needed to reload that he noticed the new arrivals coming down the street.

Clickers. He knew what they were because he and the others had been briefed on them. But pictures in a briefing room or television news footage paled in comparison to the real things. They marched down the street, their great claws clacking together as they fanned out.

CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK.

The zombies paused in mid-massacre to note the new arrivals. The Clickers rushed forward, seeing only prey. The few remaining humans who were unfortunate enough to still be alive now found themselves trapped between the two opposing forces.

“Messinger,” Wagaman called, reloading. “Come have a look at this. Fucking Clickers! There must be close to fifty of them.”

The frightened solider didn’t move from the barricade. “Get down,” he pleaded, shaking his head. “You’re gonna let them know we’re up here.”

“So? Those monsters can’t climb, and the zombies are about to have their hands full. We’re okay.”

When Messinger still refused to move, Wagaman returned his attention to his rifle scope and the stand-off below. As he watched, the Clickers stormed forward, attacking human and zombie alike. In response, a female zombie with long, blonde hair began shouting orders to the rest of the dead. Wagaman focused on her. Obviously, this zombie was some sort of leader. He knew from his briefing that the Clickers were pretty much bulletproof. Only a lucky shot or a heavy round could penetrate their shells. But the zombies were a different story. He decided to concentrate on them—in particular, the apparent leader. He steadied the rifle, aiming the crosshairs at the corpse’s head.

Down in the street, Ob rallied his troops against their unexpected new foe. The frenzied Clickers ran amok, stabbing anything that moved, regardless if it was alive or dead.

“Oh,”
he whispered.
“We need some of those on our side.”

He saw a flash above him and to his right, and heard the gunshot a second after the bullet sheared away his ear. The zombie lord darted to the left and ducked flat behind the smoking ruins of a city bus.

“We’ve got a sniper on the roof,”
Ob shouted, pointing.
“Take them out!”

From his safe vantage point, Ob watched as the Clickers mowed through the few remaining humans and then started in on his brethren. The dead met them head-on, shooting and stabbing, trying to crack through their hard shells to the soft flesh beneath. Their methods had little impact. The Clickers battered them aside, stabbed them with their stingers, or severed and crushed them with their massive claws. Then Ob noticed one creature that stood out from the others. It’s shell was black, and its tail was longer than those of the other Clickers. A mutant, perhaps? He’d encountered the beasts before, on many different worlds and in many different times, but this was the first time he’d seen a black one. Ob watched with interest as the beast charged a group of zombies. The corpses, all armed with high-caliber assault rifles, prepared to open fire, but before they could defend themselves, a stream of venom erupted from the obsidian Clicker’s bulbous tail, immediately dissolving its foes. The flesh sloughed from their bodies, bubbling and sizzling. Their skeletons smoked and fizzled, as did the concrete and asphalt beneath them. Cackling with glee, Ob clapped his hands.

“Amazing,”
he said.
“The black ones can spray their venom like a fire hose, rather than merely pumping it into their victims.”

He watched as the black Clicker unleashed a stream of corrosive fluid at a nearby building. The venom splattered against the steel and glass, pocking them, and then began to smoke.

“That one,”
he ordered.
“Concentrate your attack on the black one first. Try for its underside. The belly. Cut its legs off if you have to. But don’t damage it too badly. I want it mobile when one of our brothers inhabits the shell!”

The zombies did as ordered. Ob poked his head up from behind the bus, glanced up at the roof and winked, just in case the sniper was watching.

Atop the bank, Wagaman cursed. The fucking bitch had winked at him. Winked! Enraged, he brought the rifle up again and waited, trying to be patient. When the zombie stuck its head out again, Wagaman pulled the trigger.

This time, his shot was true.

Ob cursed as his incorporeal form was dispatched from Abigail’s body. With her brain destroyed, there was nowhere for him to reside. He wondered what his next host vessel would be.

On the rooftop, Wagaman cheered as the female zombie’s head ruptured like a ripe cantaloupe and collapsed to the pavement, bleeding out all over the curb. He sighted another shambling corpse, preparing to blow its head off, when the sky grew dark above him. Wagaman glanced up…