Clickers vs Zombies

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “Internet? I don’t know, I haven’t even tried getting on. CNN and Fox was down last time I tried to access the internet.”

  “Try again.” Despite the chaos and destruction that was happening, if major LAN lines were still running and power was still being supplied to Internet Service Providers, the internet might still be up, at least partially.

  “It’s not,” Stuart reported, a moment later. “I get a network error.”

  “Try rebooting your router.”

  Stuart tried, and a few minutes later the results were the same. “Okay, it was worth a try. But I’d like you to try something else for me, Stuart.”

  “Sure, what’s that?”

  “Get back on the horn and connect with some of these other folks you’re in contact with. See if any of them have any internet connection.”

  “Why do you want to connect with the internet so bad?”

  Al couldn’t explain it, but he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, either. He grinned. “I’ve got an idea. An idea involving string theory and alternate realities—other versions of our Earth. Maybe we—”

  At that moment, the house shook. The light swung back and forth overhead, and the glasses and plates rattled in the kitchen. Al glanced at Janice. She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. Gripping the arms of her chair tightly.

  “You still there?” Stuart asked.

  “Yes,” Al said. “We’re having an earthquake. Just wait for a moment and it should—”

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

  “Oh no…”

  “I know that sound,” Stuart shouted. There was a sudden electronic squeal of feedback. “You gotta hide!”

  Al leapt from his chair and grabbed his wife’s hand. Around them, the shaking grew more intense, and the sounds got louder, drowning out what Stuart was saying.

  “The basement,” he yelled, pulling Janice with him. “We’ve got to—”

  The windows in the living room shattered, and the sounds of the Clickers grew deafening. Their briny stench seemed to fill the house. He heard wood splintering. Then the windows at the rear of the house broke.

  “What do we do?” Janice’s fingernails dug into his hand. “What do we do?”

  “Your idea,” Stuart shouted. “Tell me your idea!”

  A horde of dead Clickers charged into the house. He heard them smashing furniture and slashing at the walls. More barged into the rear of the house, cutting them off from the stairs. One of the hybrids tried to squeeze through the door into the room, but got stuck in the frame. It squealed with frustration, thrashing about. Its shell scraped against the doorframe. The wood splintered. Behind it, other Clickers began tearing away chunks of wood and drywall. Apparently unsatisfied with their progress, they then ripped the stuck Clicker to shreds, slicing through it with their claws. With a final push, they shoved through the wall just as the hybrids at the front of the house gained access to the room. One of them swiped at the radio equipment, smashing it to the floor and silencing Stuart’s voice forever.

  “Janice?”

  Her only response was a frightened sob.

  “Janice,” he repeated, squeezing her hand. “We’ll be together in another world.”

  Al was still squeezing his wife’s hand when a massive stinger punched through his chest. His blood sprayed like a geyser, arcing over the creature’s shell and his wife’s horrified face. He felt the venom surge through his veins. Al opened his mouth to tell Janice that he loved her, but vomited blood and his own rapidly liquefying insides instead. The last thing he saw before his eyes bubbled from their sockets was his wife screaming as the same thing happened to her.

  San Pedro, California

  It took Rick another two hours to reach Sunken City.

  By the time he reached the San Pedro city limits, the SUV was covered with decaying flesh and blood, and there were spider web cracks in the front windshield. Rick had to fight to keep the vehicle on a straight course. At some point during his mad race through Harbor City, he’d come across a horde of zombies who had given chase through the streets. Rick had damaged the rear axle of the SUV while driving over something. Weren’t SUVs supposed to be able to be driven over rough terrain? Maybe in rural areas, but not in the middle of the city in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic showdown between zombies and Clickers.

  A showdown was the only thing Rick could call it. While he saw the creatures roaming around the streets on his journey, they were mostly sitting around eating dead things. And why not? It was a smorgasbord out here. Likewise, when he came across the zombies they were usually in groups. Most times he came across them they were a safe distance away and he always drove away from them. Only occasionally would they give chase, usually by foot. These zombies weren’t like the ones in the Romero films. Rather, these zombies were like the ones in the film 28 Days Later, only smarter. They could drive cars, too, as evidenced by that zombie kid he saw in Compton trying to drive a Lincoln. So far, the ones he’d come across piloting vehicles were in cars that were pretty beat up, and he’d been pretty lucky and able to speed away from them because of it.

  Princess had remained in the front passenger seat throughout the trip, ready and alert for anything. She’d sat up, ready and at attention like a canine soldier. The few times Rick was driving through unknown territory, Princess seemed to sense something up ahead and would bark in such a way that Rick came to instinctually trust. Depending on the tone of the bark, he would either stop the vehicle and head down another street or, if she were looking in a particular direction while she was barking, Rick knew not to venture down that avenue. The few times he passed such streets, Rick had chanced a glance and had seen zombies milling around.

  At one point he’d passed an intersection and glanced to his left to see a full-on war. He didn’t stop to watch it. The brief glimpse he got as he zoomed past was enough to burn in his memory. It also brought a sense of realization to him. No wonder I’ve made it this far, he thought.

  That brief glimpse he’d caught was this:

  A large mass of zombies were gathered in a park and they were facing off an opposing mass of Clickers. The moment he breasted the intersection and glanced toward them they ran toward each other like Norsemen and Saxons coming together on an ancient battlefield. Claws clicked, snapping zombies in half. Zombies ducked, flipped some of the Clickers over and then attacked their soft undersides; stingered tails jabbed into zombie-flesh and that was the extent of what Rick saw. As he drove away, putting the battle at a comfortable distance behind him, he could hear the squeals of the Clickers and the mad clicking of their claws grow faint in his ears. And with it came the realization for why he wasn’t experiencing much in the way of attacks from both Clickers and zombies.

  They’re fighting each other, he thought, his heart pounding. That’s what those sounds I’ve been hearing are. The Clickers and zombies are fighting each other all over. If we’d only had an invasion of one of them, things would be much worse. But they arrived at the same time and now they’re battling for supremacy.

  Rick didn’t know why this battle was being raged, but it didn’t matter. It was providing him with the perfect diversion to get to Sunken City and save his kids.

  As he reached Cameo del Mar Street he thought briefly of Jeanette. He’d tucked her away in the back of his mind this morning, offering a silent prayer that she was still alive. Then he’d gone back to the task at hand. Save the kids first. Then, if possible, try to reconnect with Jeanette somehow. See if she was alive. Most likely, she wasn’t. Rick knew this was the most likely scenario, and while emotionally he wasn’t prepared to face this yet, he had considered the very real possibility that she was dead and he was never going to see her again. He only hoped the kids would be prepared to deal with this loss as well.

  And then he was at the end of Cameo del Mar, driving past puddles of congealed goo. A zombie Clicker that had been smashed by something was trying to move—it’s entire bottom half was crushed, one of its claws
had been severed, and it could only move by pinioning itself on its remaining claw. It eyed the SUV as Rick pulled up to the rundown gate and threw the vehicle in park. Rick watched it as it tried to move itself forward. It couldn’t move at all. It was stuck to the pavement. Rick thought briefly of putting a bullet through its brain, but decided against it. He didn’t want anything to be attracted to the gunshots. Plus, he didn’t know what he was going to be facing beyond that gate. He needed all the ammunition he could get right now.

  On the heels of that, he had another thought as he glanced at Princess. It’s not just people coming back to life…it’s every living thing. Realizing that Princess was at risk, that if she was killed and could come back and turn on him as one of the undead, raised the risk exponentially.

  Rick eyed the rundown street, noting other piles of goop and a resurrected head lying in the middle of the street. Richard had said they were hiding in the third apartment building. He could make out the structure perfectly—it was about fifty yards from where he was sitting in the SUV. He gave the fence a quick visual inspection, then turned to Princess. “So what do you think? Wanna come with me?”

  Princess wagged her tail and gave an encouraging whine.

  “We’re going in there to get Richard and Melody and their friends. I need you to have my back. If you sense any trouble, you let me know. Okay?”

  Princess gave a low bark.

  Jesus, this is weird, Rick thought. It almost feels like she understands me.

  Princess didn’t take her eyes off Rick. Her ears were alert, tail raised. She was sitting in a strong, dominant position, as if she were ready to kick some ass and take names. He’d heard about people having a strong connection with their pets, and while Princess had always been a good dog and a great family pet, the connection he felt with her today seemed different. They were connecting on a different level. It was instinctual. That was the only word Rick had for it. They each knew that they needed each other to survive. They were going through that fence to find and rescue Richard and Melody and, if possible, their friends. If there was any trouble, Princess would defend them from any threat, and he would defend her as well. They were going to work together to get out of this.

  Rick ruffled Princess’s fur behind her neck. “Let’s go. Stay with me, okay?”

  Grabbing the rifle, Rick let himself out of the vehicle and Princess bounded out after him. He debated leaving the vehicle running, but then decided against it. What if somebody else was hiding out nearby, saw the running vehicle, and decided to steal it? Rick couldn’t take that chance, so he turned the SUV off and took the keys. He put them in his jeans pocket, pulled out the backpack that contained the extra clips and shells, then closed the door. Princess was already at the gate, looking down the street toward the zombie head glaring at them with mad eyes. Rick approached the gate beside her and looked down into the heart of Sunken City.

  It didn’t look like anything he remembered from his youth. Every time he’d come down here he’d been drunk or stoned with his goofball friends. It was always night when they’d come down here, too. From what he remembered, the area had no streetlights. Rick glanced along the side of the streets and, sure enough, no streetlights. As Rick visually inspected the immediate area, he was struck by how narrow the street actually was. He spied a small concrete path that led down to the rocky beach below. He wondered if that was the same path he and his friends used to take to get down to the beach on those nights they came down here. It probably was.

  With the exception of the severed head that was looking at him with a kind of insane rage, there were no other zombies in the immediate area. He looked up at the building the kids said they were hiding in and thought of calling out to them. He decided against it. His best course of action was to get through the fence, approach the building, then maybe look up and see if anybody was watching the street from one of the upper floors. From this vantage point, he didn’t think anybody watching from the second or third floor could see him.

  “Come on, Princess,” Rick said. He pushed at the gate and it was stopped by the padlocked chain that had been wound through it. Thank God the chain had been wrapped loosely around the bars. He squeezed through the gate, gritting his teeth as his belly brushed against the steel. If I live through this, I’m going on a weight loss program, he thought as he slid his bulk through the gate. He managed to get through with a little difficulty, then Princess came through effortlessly after him.

  They stood at the other side of the gate for a moment, listening, observing. The coast was clear.

  Rick and Princess began to move down the street toward the apartment building.

  PART THREE

  ELEVEN

  Pasadena, California

  Greg Weaver had been holed up in his suburban tract home nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains since late yesterday afternoon. The house didn’t have a basement, so Greg had chosen the next best place to hide—the back bedroom that had been converted to Elizabeth’s office.

  The kids had gone to visit his parents a few days ago down in Orange County. He currently had no way to get in touch with them. Phone service had been down since last night, and most of the major networks had gone off the air in the early hours of this morning. The moment shit started going down, Greg had retreated to Elizabeth’s office and had monitored events on the Internet until it, too, went offline.

  Elizabeth had been at work in Burbank, where she was employed as a staff writer for the television show Criminal Minds. Greg was between jobs this summer, so he’d elected to stay home and hang out with the kids. Elizabeth’s busiest time as a writer for television was between the months of June through March, when prime-time network series shows were in production. This was Elizabeth’s second season as a staff writer for the show, and with six of the last two season’s episodes written by her, she had accumulated enough points in the Writer’s Guild to continue her health benefits until work resumed in June. In a way, it was like her old job when she was a high school teacher and had nearly three months off every summer, only this time she was usually off between April and June.

  That worked well for Greg. He could stay home this summer, hang out with the kids, and read scripts his agent sent him.

  Greg hadn’t had a job in nine months. Not even a walk-on for a prime-time dramatic series episode. His last real gig of any importance was nine months ago when he’d taken a bit role in a feature, the sequel to a horror film called The Fury, which was completely unrelated to the 1978 film of the same name. The Fury was the title of a horror novel, published in 2006, by a novelist/screenwriter named David Spires, who Elizabeth knew. David had written the screenplay. The 2008 film adaptation had done reasonably well, so the producers had arranged for a sequel, which Greg had worked on in 2001. He’d played the Catholic priest who the hero and heroine consulted with at the top of the third act.

  After that gig, there hadn’t been a whole hell of a lot.

  Residuals still came in for past projects, and he still had his SAG benefits. And thank God Elizabeth was gainfully employed. Greg had kept busy during the kid’s school year by running an actor’s workshop in Glendale. When school let out, and no serious casting calls came his way, he decided to take the summer off from the workshop circuit. Hounding his agent over the phone didn’t require much effort anyway. He could do that in his sleep, from anywhere.

  When society started breaking down and the zombies and crab-creatures had begun wreaking havoc, Greg had tried calling his parents down in Newport Beach and Elizabeth in Burbank, but had been unable to get through to either of them. Stunned with the realization that they could be in incredible danger, even dead, he had slumped in Elizabeth’s office chair in shock, glued to the internet until it, too, went offline.

  And now he was hearing a noise outside.

  Greg rose from the desk, his knees popping. He winced at the flare of pain caused by the stiffness of his joints, then cocked his head listening. There was the slam of a car door i
n the driveway. Was that Elizabeth?

  Greg raced through the house to the front door. From the living room window, which had not been shuttered with the curtains, Greg could see part of his driveway. Sure enough, he could see the rear portion of Elizabeth’s Nissan Altima.

  “Elizabeth!” Greg leaped for the door, fumbled for the lock, got it open.

  Elizabeth stood on the front stoop, grinning at Greg. Her hair was mussed up, tangled with sweat and blood. The blue jeans she’d worn to work the day before were gone, stripped off her body. Only the top portion, where the belt loops rested and strips of denim that flopped along her bruised and torn legs remained. There was a gaping hole in her neck, and Greg could see the bones of her spine through the flesh. Greg took a step back, gaping in horror.

  “Hi honey, I’m home!” The Elizabeth thing screeched. She reached forward, grabbed him, and pulled him to her. Greg screamed.

  Moments later, Greg was gone and a Siqquism occupied his brain. It searched through his memories, learned where his children were, as well as some of his friends and colleagues. Some lived close by.

  “Why don’t we see how are friends are doing?” it cackled to Elizabeth.

  “Honey,” the Elizabeth thing said, grinning. “You are so full of great ideas.”

  San Pedro, California

  “Hey, I think I see Dad!”

  Melody’s voice brought a burst of relief from Richard as he raced from the north-facing bedroom to where Melody was stationed on the other side of the building. The others rushed in from their stations along the other four corners of the apartment complex and joined her, crowding around the window to get a good look.

  Melody pointed outside to the street below. She was grinning. “See? Isn’t that him!”

  “And it’s Princess, too!” Mary squealed in excitement.

  Richard suppressed the urge to quiet the girls down. It was Dad, all right. He was walking cautiously down the narrow pot-holed street carrying his hunting rifle, a backpack slung over his shoulder. The late afternoon sun bled orange across the horizon, shadowing their father’s face from view, but it was clear he was focused on their building. “It’s him. Let’s see if we can get this window open.