Clickers vs Zombies

by J. F. Gonzalez

  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 bulletproo
f. 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…

  …and screamed.

  A massive flock of zombie birds—pigeons, crows, sparrows, seagulls, robins, and more—hovered above him, black against the slowly deepening twilight. Feathers floated down to him as their dead wings beat the air. Their terrible squawks drowned out the sounds of battle from below.

  “Fuck!”

  Wagaman raised his weapon and fired, knowing that it was a useless gesture. He needed a shotgun—something with a wide spray pattern—to make an impact on the birds. His reaction was solely out of instinct and desperation. The birds dove, swarming toward him as one. They slammed into Wagaman, forcing him backward through their sheer numbers. The rifle slipped from his grasp and fell over the side. Wagaman tried to stand but was driven back down. He crawled away from the edge of the roof, and heard Messinger screaming, but couldn’t see through the fluttering corpses. He collapsed, falling onto his stomach in the middle of the roof, and felt several birds crushed beneath him. The creatures landed on his back, pecking and slashing at him with their beaks and claws, tearing through his uniform and slashing at the skin beneath. Shrieking, he curled into a ball and rolled around, trying to crush more of them, but his foes took advantage of the movement and lashed out at his exposed flesh. He ended up flat again, this time on his back, and the flock fell on him en masse. When he tried to rise, he found that he couldn’t. The birds weighed him down. He could only wiggle and scream as they tore him to ribbons. And when a large, black crow pulled out most of his tongue, he couldn’t even scream anymore.

  Messinger gaped at the red, quivering mass his friend had become, and then ran for the barricade. He fumbled with the boards, trying to pry them loose from the door before the birds reached him, but to no avail. Half the flock launched themselves from their meal and bore down on him. He tried running away, but the zombies were so numerous that it felt like he was racing through wet cement. Claws raked his cheeks and the back of his neck. Another bird seized his hair and began pecking his head. He slapped at them, trying to chase them away, but they only nipped at his palms. A seagull darted at his face, and plucked at his left eye with its sharp, pointed beak, plucking it from the socket. In anguish, Messinger opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so great that no sound came out. Seconds later, another bird took his other eye. Blind, he ran with his hands stretched out in front of him, and toppled over the side of the roof, exploding like a wet sack of grain on the sidewalk below.

  A Clicker scuttled forward and began sucking up the ruptured innards that had spurted out of his broken body. A moment later, when a Siqqusim took residence in his undamaged brain, and Messinger’s corpse began to squirm, the Clicker, assuming its meal was still alive, speared him through his splintered chest with its scorpion-like tail. The segmented appendage buried itself between the corpse’s broken and exposed ribs, and began pumping poison into the zombie victim. The zombie struggled feebly to free itself, but Messinger’s body was too badly damaged from the fall. It could only lay there as its host body bubbled and steamed. Huge blisters appeared all over its skin. Then they burst and the zombie’s skin melted away in a noxious, glistening mess. When Messinger’s brain liquefied, the Siqqusim departed to wait for another host body.

  Night fell. All throughout the city, the battle raged on.

  SIX

  Lomita, California

  “First house on the right.”

  Joker pulled the Toyota to the curb. Behind them, the four other vatos in their group pulled up in a white Honda. Sparky was sitting in the backseat, cradling an AR-15. He saw the house Midget had just referred to. It was a little cracker-box with peeling yellow paint and a threadbare lawn. A brand new Mercedes sat in the driveway, sleek and sinister.

  Five of them got out, leaving one driver for each idling vehicle. As Sparky ran up the lawn toward the house in loose formation with his homies, he felt his heart pound, the adrenaline race through his body. Cyclone was in the lead with an AR-15 of his own. He didn’t even knock on the front door—he pointed the barrel at the lock on the front door and let loose with a barrage of gunfire.

  Sparky and Midget ran around the side of the house to the back according to the instructions they were given at the meeting. As they crouched beneath the windows and paused at the tiny concrete back porch, excited shouts and voices rose from inside the house. A moment later there was a crash, then the sound of running footsteps followed by a sudden barrage of bullets flying.

  There were few screams, if any.

  But there was one straggler.

  That’s why Midget and Sparky were assigned back door duty. Five seconds into the slaughter, the back door burst open and a wiry black kid leaped out, eyes wide with fright. He didn’t even see Midget and Sparky as they stood in his blind spot at the side of the house.
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  The kid rounded the corner and stopped suddenly, as if he’d hit a brick wall. Sparky and Midget pulled the triggers of their weapons simultaneously, knocking the kid back. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Midget stepped onto the porch. “Yo!”

  “Clear out here,” called a voice.

  “Coming in!” Midget called out again. Sparky and Midget mounted the back porch steps and entered the house through the kitchen.

  By the time they reached the living room, El Gato and Josie had already made a quick search of the bedrooms and bathrooms. Cyclone was waiting for them in the living room, his body tense.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Midget said.

  They filed out of the house and piled back into the waiting vehicles, speeding away. The entire operation took less than two minutes.

  Neither of them saw the bodies of the three Crip members who’d been slain in the house, and the young gang banger who was shot outside, rise from the dead, pick up their weapons, and begin making their way to the neighboring houses.

  Mission Viejo, California

  When he couldn’t get through to Jeanette, Rick Sychek tried getting in touch with his kids again. He’d tried them earlier, but had no luck. He dialed Richard’s number, then Melody’s. Each time he called, it rang five times before going into voice mail. Rick had already left messages. The fact that they didn’t pick up on subsequent calls bothered him.

  Frowning, Rick scrolled through his numbers until he found Paul and Mary Bryant’s home number. He hit the connect button and he listened as the phone rang. Surely Mr. Bryant would have some idea of where the kids had gone.

  The phone was picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” It was Stacy Bryant. She sounded hesitant.

  “Stacy? It’s Rick. Rich and Melody’s dad.”

  “Oh, Rick, how are you?” Stacy’s voice became light, slightly bouncy. When the Bryant’s used to live in Mission Viejo, Stacy used to flirt with him like crazy, always making sure Jeanette wasn’t around, of course. Once she’d made a bold pass at him when he’d arrived at their house to pick up Melody. As his daughter was upstairs getting her things, Stacy had told him, in a low voice, that if he ever wanted a blow job, just come to the house any time before the kids came home from school. After all, she was home all day. What else did naughty housewives like her have to do all day? Rick had been taken aback by the bold sexual proposition, had stammered sure, maybe he’ll take her up on it, and then the girls were galloping down the stairs like fumbling colts. Stacy’s voice and facial expression changed in an instant from sultry and seductive and slutty, to All-American Mom.