Melody was struggling to free herself from Max’s grip. Rick raced over, his adrenaline coursing through his veins, barely aware of the frightened yells from the other kids, which was sure to attract the attention of more zombies if they were anywhere within earshot. He quickly noted that his shot had been perfect—there was a neat, round bullet hole in the upper left portion of the zombie’s head. Fresh gore coated the ground below the zombie’s head. Max was struggling to free himself from the zombie, who still had a grip on his arm.
“Get it off me!” Max was yelling. “Please, get it off me!”
“I’m so sorry, son,” Richard murmured. He’d noted the horrible bite wound on Max’s shoulder. It was huge. Blood jetted from the wound in large gouts. The hole was too large to apply a tourniquet. Rick peered closer and realized that he could see the inside of Max’s neck. He’d be dead in minutes, without medical assistance.
And then…
Rick decided that he wasn’t taking any chances. Acting quickly, before any of the kids could react, he brought the stock of the rifle down hard on Max’s head. Max fell back, unconscious.
Melody was up and over to her brother instantly. Mary took her in their little huddle as she looked back at the scene, her eyes wide with fright. “Did he get me?” she asked in a shaky voice. She was looking down at her torso, running her hands over herself. “Did it get me?”
“No, it didn’t get you” Richard said.
Max’s eyes opened. He looked at Rick and grinned.
Rick acted quickly. He brought the rifle up, aimed the muzzle at Max’s head, and pulled the trigger.
“Dad!” Richard shouted. “What are you doing?”
Rick felt an instant stab of guilt in his gut as he stood over Max’s corpse. Another clean headshot. The newscasters had been right. It was just like in the movies. You had to shoot them in the head.
The kids were freaked out and Mary and Melody were crying. Rick turned to the kids, his features set. “I’m sorry, I had to. He…he came back.”
“Holy shit,” Paul said. “I—you killed Max!” He was staring wide-eyed at Max’s corpse, then he glanced at Rick, as if he couldn’t believe what had just taken place. His sister, Mary, was welded to his side, her face turned away.
“I didn’t kill him. He was already dead. I’ll do what I have to do to keep you kids safe.” Rick turned to them, his senses now on high alert. “Come on. The faster we get out of here, the better.”
Princess had investigated the side alley they’d come down last night and now she came back, looked at them, then turned back toward the side of the building. Come on, she seemed to say. This way! The coast is clear! Princess made a low woof sound, went to the mouth of the side alley, then back to the group, her message clear. They had to leave now.
Rick gripped his rifle, looking at Princess. “You’re okay,” he said to her. “Good girl. But be careful next time. I don’t need these things killing you, okay?”
Princess headed back to the mouth of the side alley.
“Let’s get going,” Rick said, as he herded the kids after Princess. They reached Cameo del Mar, then began to head toward the chain link fence and the SUV.
Richard sniffed the air. “Something stinks out here.”
South Atlantic Ocean
As far as Dave Thomas could tell, he was at least five hundred miles out to sea from the tip of South Africa, heading on a northwest projection toward the US mainland. It would take another four days to get there at his current speed, but Dave wasn’t taking chances. He had to get home. The news he was receiving from satellite radio and the other frequencies were pretty much unanimous that it was global chaos. Dave could see that even from the yacht he’d managed to take-over and pilot away from South African waters on a mad rush to reach the US coast. Out here in the middle of the ocean it didn’t appear that all hell was breaking loose on land. But if you looked closely you could see those crab-lobster-scorpion things—Clickers, the people on the radio had called them, before the radio went silent. Sometimes he could see schools of fish madly swimming away from them. The ocean was a large place, and Dave’s position in the middle of it had put everything in perspective. He was just one small cog in the tree of life. One little drop in the ocean. But if he could make it back to North Carolina and his house in the Outer Banks, everything would be okay. And even if it wasn’t okay, then at least he’d die in the place he loved more than anywhere else in the world.
Dave eased off on the throttle and checked his position. He was still on track. He had to conserve gas. He’d taken off knowing the boat had a full tank and two extra tanks of reserve fuel. That should be enough to get him to the US mainland. If he hit a storm, there was a chance he’d waste a significant amount of fuel trying to battle his way through it or have to make a wide detour off course just to avoid it. So far from what he’d been able to tell from the satellite images coming through, there was a tropical storm heading north from the Caribbean. If he continued on his course at the current speed, he’d be well ahead of it.
Looking at the vast ocean ahead of him, Dave realized if he hadn’t acted quickly after Todd Perry turned greedy, he’d probably be dead. It was either act accordingly, or wind up at the bottom of the ocean like his crew or Todd and his men.
After pulling up stakes back in the location of the shoot, Todd and Peter had a talk. The result of this talk was Todd had changed his mind about fleeing back to South African shores. He’d wanted to head back to shoot footage of the carnage so they could sell it for top dollar to network news organizations. He’d even tried convincing Bob Thurman to start shooting some footage. And because Bob Thurman was as dumb as a sponge, he’d actually started doing it. Dave had told Bob to shut off the camera, and that’s when things had gotten ugly.
There’s been an argument. Dave wanted to head back to shore. Todd wanted to remain out at sea at least until the sun went down so they could capture more footage. “Are you crazy?” Todd shouted at Dave. “Just look at this shit! We can be rich!”
“I’m not risking my life or the life of my crew to get footage of what’s happening here,” Dave said. “This isn’t what I signed up for, and it isn’t what they signed up for. Now turn this boat around and get us back to shore.”
“No,” Todd had said, smug defiance creeping in his face. The argument had commenced immediately after Peter abruptly steered the yacht back into deeper waters. Todd gestured back to Peter, who was standing at the wheel. “Keep going! Go back to our former location!”
“Yes, sir,” Peter had said.
Doug Chambers and Jack Becker had been standing at the edge of the boat, spellbound by what was happening. Doug hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the carnage in the water. All Jack could do was mutter about that asshole Todd. No wonder things had been so fucked up in South Africa for so long. It was all due to assholes like Todd Perry who felt everyone was beneath them. Doug and Jack had been so absorbed by with their own little world during this argument that Dave had pretty much forgotten about them until Doug started screaming.
Bob Thurman, and Jack Becker started shouting. “Oh my God, look at that shit!”
One of the Clickers had surfaced and seized Doug by the arm in its massive claw. The thing looked as big as school bus. It was clearly big enough to sink the yacht. It must have seen Doug peering over the edge and decided to pluck him out of the boat for a snack. Doug screamed and the thing pulled him into the water.
Todd Perry yelled at Peter Oldsdale. “Full steam ahead. Get us the hell out of here!”
Peter pulled up on the throttle and headed further out to sea.
“No, we have to go back,” Dave had said. “We have to get out of here.” Looking around at the carnage, it was clear to him that they had to get out of this area.
“Fuck you,” Todd had sneered. “We’re just getting away from that creature for a bit, then we’re going to start filming from another angle.” He’d turned to Jack. “You—get in that skin diving gear and get re
ady. I’m going to give you a camera and—”
“Jack’s not setting foot in these waters,” Dave had said. That was about the time he’d started getting incredibly angry. And when Dave got angry, he got explosive.
“And I’m telling you to shut yer nob!” Todd shouted. He was standing almost nose-to-nose with Dave. “You sit your ass down on that bench and keep yer yap shut!”
“Fine!” Dave had fumed. He’d turned around and without another word went to his seat where his large canvas duffel bag had been stowed and sat down.
As Peter had piloted the boat out into deeper waters, Dave had seen that the carnage was intensifying. He could see large schools of fish leaping through the water as they attempted to escape the creatures. Larger fish—swordfish, sharks, even whales—were leaping through the water to try escaping them. Every so often one would leap out of the white-foamed water in a bloody spray only to splash down again amid bloody, frothy water, but for the most part they seemed to get lucky and avoid much of the carnage.
What hadn’t stopped was Dave’s rage.
He’d reached into his duffel bag and quickly brought out his Taser gun. Dave Thomas owned an M-26, which was the US Military version of a commercial Taser. He carried it and replacement cartridges everywhere he went. He didn’t have a special license to carry it or anything. He just felt the need to have one. A Taser was a very reliable weapon. It didn’t make any noise, didn’t leave people dead unless you really continued to give them the juice, and for the most part, Taser guns generally couldn’t be traced back to you. Dave had never used it on anyone, and it was a good thing he insisted on carrying it everywhere he went because now was the perfect time to put it to use. If this was the end of the world, then by God, it was time he did the things he’d always wanted to do.
Todd and Peter weren’t even paying attention to Dave. Instead, Todd was trying to bully Jack into donning Doug’s scuba diving gear to get back into the water again.
Dave wasn’t having that.
He rose to his feet and turned the Taser on. Six thousand volts of electricity hummed at the push of a trigger. Dave marched over to the forward position of the yacht where Todd and Jack were arguing.
“Hey, asshole,” Dave said.
Todd had looked up, momentary confusion giving way to grim realization. “Hey….no, you don’t know what you’re—”
Dave pulled the trigger, firing two small dart-like electrodes that hit Todd’s face. Their barbed ends stuck firmly in Todd’s face and he was immediately incapacitated as thousands of volts of electricity flowed through the conductive wires, causing him to lose immediate control of the muscles of his body. Todd yelled once and fell to the deck with a thud. His jaws clattered together with such force he bit his tongue. Dave pressed the trigger, delivering jolts of electricity into Todd.
Jack stood near the edge of the boat, stunned. “Dave?”
But Dave wasn’t letting go. He was determined that Todd Perry receive his full wrath.
“Todd?” That was Peter, calling down to his boss.
Bob Thurman stepped forward. He cast an angry glare at Dave. “The guy was an asshole, but you didn’t have to Taser him! Jesus Christ, Dave!”
Dave didn’t say a word. He replaced the cartridge casually. Todd Perry moaned in pain on the deck.
“When this is all over, the Discovery Channel is going to hear about this,” Bob continued.
“Oh, are they?” Dave asked.
“You bet they are,” Bob sneered.
“Do you know what’s going on? Do you even think there’ll be a Discovery Channel left when all is said and done?”
“You’re insane,” Bob said. “Just you wait until—”
Dave raised the Taser at Bob and pulled the trigger, sending the electrodes into his bare chest and stomach. Bob became completely incapacitated as he began convulsing as electricity surged through his body. Bob fell forward. Jack, who had been standing near the edge of the yacht watching in stunned shock, stepped back to get out of the way and slipped. He fell overboard.
“Shit,” Dave said, releasing the trigger on the Taser gun. “Look what you made me do! I just lost Jack!”
There was a dim splash from below. Then, Jack started yelling. “Help! Oh, God help, get me out of here!”
“You piece of shit bastard!” Dave said, advancing on Bob’s motionless body. The electrodes were still fastened to Bob’s chest and the cartridge still had juice. Dave pulled the trigger again and Bob’s body shuddered and jittered, smoke rising from the burn marks that were starting to appear. There was a whiff of flame and then Bob’s shirt caught on fire.
“Fuck,” Dave said. He stepped back. It looked like Bob was dead.
The sound of footsteps behind him. “You crazy sonofa-bitch, what did you just do?”
Dave whirled around, ejecting the spent cartridge and slapping in a fresh one with all the skill of a master Taser gunslinger. Peter Oldsdale stopped up short and Dave grimaced madly, pointing the weapon at him. “Fuck off and die,” he said, squeezing the trigger again. The electrodes hit Peter’s bare chest. Peter yelled, leaped up, and tried to run away.
“Motherfucker.” Dave tried to give chase. The electrodes were still embedded in Peter’s chest and Dave pulled the trigger again, sending another series of electrical charges through to Peter, who screamed and fell to his knees. He curled up into a fetal position as Dave pulled the trigger again. This time Peter started convulsing. His feet beat a steady staccato on the yacht’s deck. His eyes rolled up, showing the whites.
Out in the ocean, Jack’s screams became more high pitched, then suddenly cut off. Dave stopped torturing Peter, stepped toward the edge of the yacht and cast a look down.
Jack was gone. All that remained was a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
Dave turned to Todd, Bob, and Peter. Todd was beginning to recover, but he was dazed. Bob was unconscious or dead and Peter looked completely incapacitated. Dave ejected the spent cartridge and slapped in another one. “Let’s see if these things like their meals cooked.”
Todd looked up at Dave and his eyes grew wide. He raised his hands up. “No! No, not again, not—aaauugghhh!”
“Take that!” Dave muttered, shooting Todd again with the Taser. He kept his finger on the trigger as electricity jolted Todd’s body, making him quiver and quake. A moment later he fell to the deck unconscious.
Dave dragged their limp, unconscious forms to the edge of the yacht and managed to get them over the side and down. They fell like sacks of meat. Then he watched as they floated in the water only to be devoured by the Clickers.
That had been almost twenty-four hours ago. Since then, Dave had caught the cliff-notes version of what was now a global event—that his fears had been confirmed. The world was ending, not just by the invasion of the Clickers, but by the simultaneous rising of the dead. To head back to shore would be suicide, especially if there were really zombies on land. The mayhem on land was undoubtedly worse there than it was here—according to the reports he heard, the crab-scorpion-lobster things were beaching themselves, scuttling onto shore and attacking people. Once dead, the people were coming back as zombies and turning even more people into zombies. It sounded like one of those Sy Fy Channel movies Dave liked to watch, only this was the real thing. Therefore, Dave opted to head out to deeper waters. With the yacht’s navigation equipment, he hoped he’d be able to spot any unnatural activity in the waters, allowing him to steer far away from it. The first few hours had been touch and go, and his stomach had been in knots as he navigated the vessel into deeper waters. But the further out he got, the less he saw of the creatures. Finally, at around eleven-thirty last night, he’d retired below deck, satisfied that he’d been able to steer himself as far away from the creature’s migratory pattern as possible. Once in the yacht’s cabin downstairs, he’d fallen into one of the beds and fell asleep.
Upon waking up he did a quick survey of his location and found he’d drifted about ten miles slightly off course.
He’d turned off the engine last night and had let the yacht drift in open waters. After raiding the downstairs kitchen galley for food—a banana and some graham crackers—Dave had headed back up to the steering wheel and resumed his journey.
Four days was his estimate on being back in North Carolina. He’d tried radioing in to his Discovery Channel contacts, his agent in New York, he’d even tried calling his friend Jeff back in the Outer Banks. He was unable to reach anybody. This worried him, because what news was coming out of the scanners had completely ceased. Everything was dead. No information was forthcoming.
For most of the day, Dave wondered if the lack of news meant that civilization had collapsed entirely.
How can it go down so fast? He thought.
Dave pondered this and other things on his journey west. He thought about his life, his career as a producer for the Discovery Channel’s programs he loved so much. What had happened off the coast of South Africa was tragic and horrifying, but Dave also knew that if he were on the other side of the fence—that is, a normal citizen at home who had an interest in watching the kind of material he produced for television—he would have killed for a chance to watch a special on what had happened. Those creatures, whatever they were, had been the ultimate killing machines. They’d killed one of his staff members. They were ferocious in their appetite for pretty much anything in the ocean. And they’d completely destroyed a Great White shark, a large one too, judging by the size of that dorsal fin Dave had seen.
So long as those things stay out there, Dave thought. He wasn’t going to take the chance and get too close to the edge of the yacht the way Doug did yesterday. He was staying right in the middle of the boat. Of course, if a big one decided to smash its way in he was toast, but for now Dave really felt that the safest place was on the yacht. While the overwhelming desire to make sure his house was okay was strong, Dave already had a plan for that. He would cruise by slowly along the Outer Banks where his house was located. He would be able to see it from the ocean. And if things looked hairy, he was staying put.
Clickers vs Zombies Page 26