Clickers vs Zombies

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Carlton was a retired physicist who used to work at JPL in Pasadena. He’d worked on the first Apollo moon landing in 1969 and had assisted in several other missions for NASA. He’d done other government work as well. When Dr. Post saw Dr. Burke, the older man had nodded at him from his back deck. “This is really happening, Al.”

  “Yes, it is,” Al had answered.

  “And your ticket for surviving the next forty-eight hours is staying put inside your house. You have enough food?”

  Al assured Dr. Burke that he did.

  “CNN says to shoot them in the head,” Dr. Burke said. “That stops them cold. But they’re cunning. And fast. If we hunker down and hide, any that might happen to come up here won’t bother trying to hunt after us. They seem to hone in on people who are out on the street. They’re easy prey. Do you understand?”

  Al said he understood Dr. Burke completely.

  “There’s those other things, too. Fox News is calling them Clickers.”

  Al said he knew what Dr. Burke was talking about. He’d performed a necropsy on one of them yesterday.

  Dr. Burke had raised his bushy eyebrows. “Really? And did you notice anything unusual about them?”

  “Aside from the fact that they’re completely different than any other species I’ve ever seen?”

  “So they’re not of this world?”

  Al had shrugged. “I’ve examined thousands of specimens in my line of work and I have never seen anything like this.”

  Dr. Burke had nodded. “I’ve hypothesized about this. That earthquake in the Pacific two weeks ago? It’s location and size on the Richter scale was large enough to disrupt the dimensions. Those Clickers that are invading everywhere? They’re a result of the shifting dimensions—they got let in. So have the things that are invading and reanimating the dead.”

  Al had blinked. Dr. Burke was one of those guys that held three PhDs—Physics, Mathematics, and Archeology. He spoke twelve different languages. His IQ was probably on the very high end of the chart. He was so smart he made guys like Al seem like Snooki. “Are you certain of this, Dr. Burke?”

  Dr. Burke had regarded Al over the fence of their property. Each man was standing fifty feet apart, but Al could see the look in Dr. Burke’s eyes. He was dead serious. “I haven’t been more certain of this than I was about my work with NASA during the Apollo missions,” he answered. “If there’s a God, he really fucked this one up.”

  Al had taken Dr. Burke’s advice. He’d hunkered down in the house with Janice.

  And now this morning, things were strangely quiet.

  Al approached the window and peeked out. The window in Ben’s old bedroom looked out on the back deck. From this vantage point, on a clear day or evening, you could see the entire city of Los Angeles spread out like a great vast plain of twinkling lights. Al had once been to the home of a film producer in the Hollywood Hills, and the view from the back deck of that house had afforded a similar view, albeit from the opposite side of the Los Angeles basin. Now, when he looked out at the Los Angeles cityscape, he wasn’t too surprised to see a thick layer of smoke covering the city like a blanket. He could make out several fires in the streets below. Dimly, from several miles north, he could hear the bray of car alarms.

  What he didn’t hear, however, were people.

  They’d heard plenty last night. Screaming. Begging for mercy. Then, several times, cruel laughter followed by bloodcurdling screams, then silence.

  Janice approached him from behind. She laid a hand on his bare shoulder. Last night, Janice had driven herself sick with worry over Ben. She’d tried calling him over a dozen times but couldn’t reach him. Halfway through the night, they lost LAN line and cellular communication. Janice had wound up crying herself to sleep.

  Al had dozed.

  “What are we going to do?” Janice asked. Her voice was soft. Tinged with fear.

  “I don’t know,” Alfred said, at a complete loss for words. “I just don’t know.”

  Los Angeles, California

  As he always did upon taking possession of a new host body, Ob paused to assimilate himself with his new form. He searched through the host’s memory, and to his surprise, found himself inside a Clicker. The creature’s rudimentary memories were like a writhing nest of vipers. It had been consumed only with eating. Of its death, from what he could discern from its memories, it had been gassed by soldiers. Ob took over the beast’s motor controls, and then looked through its eyes to determine where he was.

  He found himself in a river winding through a city. He assumed it was in America, given the writing on the billboards around him. Probably California or Florida, if the foliage was any indication. The river was bordered by graffiti-covered concrete abutments. Trash clung to the overgrown vegetation that drooped over the banks. He searched his memory—or rather, the memories of the various host bodies he’d possessed over the years. When he surveyed his surroundings again, he recognized several landmarks and realized that he was in Los Angeles.

  The sun glinted off a mirrored skyscraper, and Ob turned the creature’s eyestalks in that direction. Then he cackled with surprised glee. He wasn’t just inside any Clicker. Instead, he had taken possession of a two-story tall behemoth.

  “Well, I think I’ll have to take this thing for a little test drive!”

  Although he spoke aloud, the Clicker’s vocal chords, which weren’t designed for speech, merely chirped and hissed in a crude pantomime of language. He directed the monstrosity over to the bank, and then clambered from the foul water. All around him, hundreds of Clickers waded ashore on their insect-like legs, including several as large as the corpse he inhabited. The monsters trampled everything in their path, leaving destruction and death in their wake. Their claws clacked together, the noise audible over the shrieks of those fleeing in terror. Then the Clickers began to feed. Ob watched as they speared their prey, injecting the victims with poison and reducing them to biological slag.

  “That’s no good. How are my brethren supposed to inhabit the dead if you don’t leave behind anything for them to take possession of?”

  Ob thundered onto the choked freeway, battering cars and buses aside with his massive tail and snapping trees and electrical poles in half with his serrated claws. The hot asphalt cracked and split where he trod. Sewer and water mains erupted, and a ruptured fire hydrant spewed a geyser into the air, adding to the choking smoke from the nearby burning buildings. Experimenting with his stinger, Ob stabbed a few of the other Clickers with his tail and pumped venom into them. The results were unremarkable. While the appendage itself was indeed strong enough to penetrate the tough, resilient shells, the poison seemed to have no effect. Hearing a series of popping sounds, he looked down to find several humans shooting at him. Laughing, Ob scooped the entire group of humans up in one monstrous claw and sliced them all in half. They spilled onto the pavement below, squirming and screaming in their death throes. Moments later, more of his kind inhabited their soulless, mangled forms.

  “Sorry, my brothers,” Ob chirped at his fellow zombies. “I didn’t mean to leave you such useless shells. I’m still learning this host form’s strength.”

  The city streets were filled with a cacophony of sounds—car alarms, screams, breaking glass, gunshots, the laughter of the dead, and the trilling cries of the Clickers. Smoke filled the sky as cars and buildings burned unchecked.

  Moving toward the mirrored skyscraper, Ob raised his claws and smashed through the glass, shattering windows and slicing through steel support beams. Then, rising up on his hind legs, he began to do the same to the people inside. He pulled screaming humans from the upper levels and dropped them to the ground below. Something exploded inside the structure, making it vibrate from the concussion. Ob pressed his weight against it. The building groaned and tilted, spilling more hapless victims into the air, along with office furniture and other debris. Black smoke billowed from the upper levels. A horde of smaller Clickers converged on the scene, intent upon consuming t
he plummeting victims, but before they could begin, they were attacked by a group of zombie Clickers. Ob paused, watching the battle play out below him. The living Clickers were no match for their dead brethren, and once they were defeated, their corpses reanimated with more Siqqusim inside them.

  Turning his attention back to the leaning skyscraper, Ob backed up and then pivoted, lashing his tail through the air. It struck the building’s lower wall, pulverizing concrete and buckling steel. The skyscraper trembled, and then collapsed, blowing out the windows of the nearby buildings. A tremendous cloud of dust and smoke billowed from the wreckage, spreading out across the highway and engulfing everything in its path. Flames shot upward and the sidewalks shook as gas mains exploded. A news helicopter hovered over the scene, capturing the horrific aftermath as Ob emerged from the destruction, unharmed, and trudged downtown.

  “City of Angels,” he rumbled. “Not anymore.”

  San Pedro, California

  Jim awoke to the sound of sirens. What sounded like a fleet of police cars raced by his apartment. Seconds later he heard a volley of gunshots, followed by a scream. This was followed by a bizarre sound he couldn’t fathom.

  CLICK-CLICK…CLICK-CLICK…CLICK-CLICK…

  Still groggy, he leaped to his feet and ran to the window. Parting the blinds, he peeked outside and recoiled in horror. Although he had fallen asleep on the couch, he’d apparently awoken in Hell.

  In the yard of his apartment complex, one of Jim’s neighbors was firing a handgun at a horse-sized monster that looked like a cross between a crab, a scorpion, and a lobster. The neighbor—Jim didn’t know his name, and indeed, had never spoken to him before—stood calmly, aiming carefully, but his bullets had no effect. The creature scuttled forward, its eyestalks waving like wheat in a field. It seized his left arm and squeezed, severing the appendage just above the elbow. Blood welled out around the pincers, and when the beast opened its claw again, a scarlet fountain sprayed from the wound. Shrieking and in shock, the unfortunate victim tried to run, but his attacker was quicker. The crab-thing raised its segmented tail high in the air and then lashed out with the stinger, jabbing the man in the abdomen. His flesh bubbled and hissed as if he were being cooked from the inside. His arm stump still sprayed blood, but now the liquid steamed and smoked. Blisters formed on his body. Jim watched in horror as they swelled and then burst. The man melted into a puddle, his skin and bones breaking down and disintegrating in a matter of minutes, which the monster began to devour.

  Jim’s attention was momentarily distracted by a motorcycle racing by on the sidewalk. In the distance, more sirens wailed. It was then that he became fully aware of what was happening outside. Each scene was more horrific than the last.

  Several more of the crab-monsters roamed the streets and sidewalks, attacking anything that moved. But worse, Jim saw people attacking each other. A young man raced by on a bicycle, hunched over the handlebars and pedaling as fast as he could. A half-dozen people charged out of a doorway and fell upon him, knocking his bike to the ground. The young man struggled, flailing as they stabbed him with knives, clubbed him with rocks and pipes, and clawed his skin with their bare hands. Only then did Jim notice that the attackers didn’t appear to be ordinary people. Some of them sported horrific injuries—bites and gunshots and deep lacerations. A broken bone jutted from one of the women’s arms, but she didn’t seem to care. Indeed, she raised her arm and used the splintered end of the bone to stab the victim in the throat.

  Stunned and in shock, Jim let his gaze wander the street. A burning car belched smoke on the curb two buildings away. It looked like there were people inside of the vehicle, but they weren’t moving. Body parts littered the street. Dozens of people thrashed in yards and on the sidewalks, the obvious victims of the crab-monsters. Their arms and legs were severed, and some of their bodies were cut in half, but despite this, they moved. They crawled and rolled after other victims. Other injured people roamed the street, feasting on their fellow neighbors or battling the crab creatures. A flock of birds dive-bombed a speeding car, shattering the windshield. The car swerved, smashing into a telephone pole. Before the driver could escape, a horde of rats spilled out of an alleyway and swarmed into the car. The driver stumbled from the vehicle, trying to flee as the small, brown creatures raced up his legs. They bit and clawed at his groin, abdomen, and face. The man collapsed, screaming.

  “Danny,” Jim moaned, letting the blinds go shut. “Tammy!”

  He glanced at the television. As usual, he’d left it on the night before, watching Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim until he fell asleep. But this morning, the network wasn’t showing cartoons. It wasn’t showing anything. The screen was blank.

  Jim rushed to the coffee table and grabbed his cell phone. When he tried to call Tammy, the phone beeped at him, flashing a message that said ‘No Service’. Cursing, he tried again, silently willing the call to go through. When it didn’t, he quickly typed her a text message and tried sending that instead.

  While he waited to see if the text would go through, Jim picked up the television remote and scrolled through the channels. Many of them were off the air. A few were showing news coverage rather than their normal programming. He jumped to the cable news outlets. FOX was off the air. MSNBC’s had video but no sound. CNN was still broadcasting, but their coverage was chaotic and disjointed. Jim stood there, gaping at footage of a two-story tall crab-monster plowing through buildings in downtown Los Angeles. A graphic beneath it read ‘CLICKERS IN LOS ANGELES RIVER’. He turned up the sound.

  “—numerous casualties, Ali. Officials tell us there may be as many as five-thousand people dead in Los Angeles alone, and that figure is expected to rise. In addition to the Clickers and the zombie outbreak, we’re also seeing widespread looting and other crimes. Just a few moments ago, we saw—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there, Candy,” the anchorman reported, “because we’ve got an update from Kiran. She’s joining us via satellite phone. Kiran, what can you tell us?”

  A woman’s garbled voice sputtered static. Then the signal strengthened.

  “…and none of the news is good…with each passing moment…highways are clogged with traffic as people rush to escape...bumper to bumper…”

  “We’re losing her,” the anchorman said. “Kiran, are you there?”

  If she heard him, Kiran gave no indication, continuing with her report. “…martial law has been declared…the traffic jams…heading further inland…dead…Clickers reanimating, as well…and with the outbreak showing no signs of…experts…destroy the brain…incapacitate…”

  “We’ll come back to Kiran,” the anchorman said, his expression shocked and his pallor pale, “because we’re just getting word the White House has confirmed that President Genova was among the victims in Washington D.C. Again, if you’re just joining us, the world is in chaos this morning as…”

  Jim’s door shook as someone pounded on it. He jumped, startled, and the remote control slipped from his hand. He glanced down at his cell phone, and saw that the text hadn’t gone through.

  “Damn it!”

  The pounding at the door continued.

  “I know you’re in there,” a female voice crowed. “I can hear your TV!”

  Jim frowned. “What the hell?”

  More blows hammered the door, rattling it in its frame. The wood splintered and the hinges squealed. Jim glanced around, searching for a weapon, and then the door crashed inward. The woman from out in the street, the one with the shard of bone sticking through her skin, shuffled into the living room, dragging her broken leg behind her. She wagged a finger at him, and Jim noticed that her fingernail was missing.

  “Shame on you,” the woman rasped. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

  “Get out of here,” he warned, inching toward the kitchen. “I have a gun.”

  “Oh, I bet you do, cutie. Why don’t you pull out your gun and let me see it?”

  Grinning, the zombie loped closer. Jim r
ecoiled from her stench. As hard as it was to believe, the evidence was right there in front of him. This woman was dead—a zombie. Dried blood had stained her clothing brown. Fresher blood shined on the sharp edges of the broken bone sticking out of her arm. Her pale skin had blotches of black and purple on it, and her hair was matted with leaves and twigs. But the worst thing was the flies. They swarmed about her, lighting on her head and shoulders, and busying themselves with her wounds. Jim cringed in disgust as several flies crawled out of her open mouth and took flight.

  “Give me a kiss,” the zombie said.

  Jim turned and ran. Laughing, the zombie lumbered after him. He raced through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He slammed the door shut behind him and shoved hard on the dresser, pushing it against the door. Then he flung open the closet door and stood on his tiptoes. On the shelf at the top sat a pistol box. He’d bought it when Danny was born, wanting to safeguard his firearm and not let it fall into his son’s hands. Jim pressed the buttons, entering the four-digit numerical code, and the lock clicked. He opened the box and pulled out a .45 handgun. His fingers shook as he loaded it.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

  Outside, the zombie pounded on the bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, he stood in front of the door, waiting. The next barrage knocked the dresser to the floor. The door cracked. When the woman burst through, he fired. The first shot hit her in the shoulder, driving her back against the wall. She left a bloody smear on the plaster as she slid across it. Then, regaining her feet, she reached for him again. Jim’s next shot hit her in the forehead. The back of her head exploded, driving skull fragments into the wall. Jim fired another round into her face, just to be sure. Then he checked the living room. The busted door hung open, and there was no way to close it, but the doorway stood empty. Apparently, the other creatures were too busy to notice what had occurred. He reloaded the .45 and stuffed his pockets with extra ammunition. As he was doing so, the power went out. With the television suddenly silenced, the noises from outside grew louder.