Clickers vs Zombies

by J. F. Gonzalez

  No way I’m going to shore when there’s zombies around.

  A series of splashes in the water caught Dave’s attention. Frowning, he peered over the steering wheel. Once again, it looked like the same patterns from yesterday. Schools of fish appeared to be fleeing from a large predator. Probably another mass of those Clickers, Dave thought. He turned around and looked back at the water behind him, trying to see what was going on. All he saw was a mad migratory pattern of large fish, including dolphins and porpoises, swimming like mad in a north west direction as if they were trying to escape something.

  And then Dave saw something else. He stared at it, squinting in the sunlight. “What the fuck?”

  Dave grabbed a pair of binoculars that were resting near the steering wheel. He brought them to his face, made an adjustment. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing, but when he finally realized what it was, he saw that it was heading toward him at a fast speed. “Holy fucking shit!”

  Dave raced down to the deck, still clutching the binoculars. He stopped, sighted in on the object again, his breath held. It was amazing.

  A giant dorsal fin was plowing through the water heading in his direction. It was clearly the dorsal fin of a Great White. Judging from the size of the fin, it was a monster specimen, one of the rumored behemoths he’d heard of but had never personally seen. Great White Sharks were rumored to grow as large as thirty feet in length with a total weight of four tons. One had allegedly been caught off the coast of Rhode Island in the late eighties, but that catch wasn’t verifiable by scientists. The biggest one Dave had seen during his career was a twenty-one footer off the coast of Australia. Dave was a very accurate judge of dimensions and weight, and judging from the size of that dorsal fin sticking out of the water, the shark it was attached to was close to thirty feet long.

  “Where’s my cameraman when I really need him?” Dave said to himself. “Oh, that’s right. I killed you yesterday, Bob. You were being an asshole.”

  That explained why the fish were racing to swim away. It was a phenomena Dave had witnessed before. Dave picked the binoculars up and watched again, mesmerized as the monster shark drew closer.

  A moment later it was close enough to observe with the naked eye. Dave watched, spellbound as it swam past the boat. Its huge dorsal fin was easily five feet high. As the monster shark swam by the yacht, Dave followed its movement, at once awed and frightened by how close it was. He also realized his initial estimate of its size was way off. As the shark swam by the boat, Dave realized it was closer to forty-feet in length. Oh my fucking God, Dave thought. I never thought I would see a shark this big, but this has to beat the cake!

  Dave continued to watch the shark swim away, spellbound. It was clear to him that this was a Great White and not its extinct cousin Megalodon, which was believed to have surpassed the Whale shark in size. Whale sharks grew to about fifty feet in length; Megalodon’s were thought to exceed lengths of sixty-five. The specimen Dave had just seen swimming past his boat was in no way bigger than this fifty-foot yacht, but it was clearly forty feet. Definitely big enough to take the yacht down if it wanted to.

  His awe was short lived, however, because the beast was clearly not a perfect specimen.

  It was missing a large chunk of its mid-section. He could see it clearly as it swam past the boat, about fifty yards out. The wound was wide and gaping red. Even this far out, flies were buzzing over it, speeding along the surface of the water as the great beast swam at the top surface of the ocean.

  What the fuck? Dave watched, gap jawed as the beast swam out past the boat, away from the direction the fish were swimming in. How can it be alive? How can it—

  And then the realization of what he’d just seen hit him.

  The zombie shark turned around and began heading back toward the boat.

  Dave’s face went ashen. “Oh shit.”

  The beast was picking up speed. Dave dropped the binoculars and turned to run.

  There was a splash and then a terrific whump! as something heavy with great strength behind it fell onto the side of the yacht with a terrific amount of force. The yacht tipped over. Dave yelped and fell, landing on his left arm. He felt his fibula snap with a resounding crack. There was no pain. What Dave was witnessing eclipsed all pain.

  The monster shark had launched itself out of the ocean and landed on the side of the yacht. It had heaved itself out of the ocean and through the air at the yacht just like the shark in the movie Jaws. Things slid down the deck and bounced off the shark, falling in the ocean. Dave grabbed onto the deck chair that was bolted into the floor and kicked his legs, screaming. The monster shark gnashed its teeth together, chomping those things that slid into its massive jaws—it ate a pillow, several toolkits, a fishing pole, Doug’s wetsuit. Dave tried to scramble up as the yacht tipped into a dangerous angle.

  “Oh fuck!” Dave screamed. His fingers were slipping. Looking into its eyes, Dave saw that this wasn’t just a gigantic Great White shark. This shark was clearly dead. It was often said that sharks have dead eyes—large, black, with an empty look to them. This shark had those eyes, too, only there seemed to be something else about this specimen that was different. Something lived in this great beast, this behemoth that had lived for decades in the deepest ocean, allowing it to grow to such a massive size in order to become the most feared predator of the ocean. Something lived in this shark that was clearly dead judging by the decay that was already beginning to set in to its skin, which was turning white and mottled and had a sheen of slime on it from rot. And whatever it was that lived in the shark, it was evil, and intelligent, and it wanted Dave.

  “Holy fucking shit, I’m about to be eaten by a zombie shark!” Dave screamed. His legs kicked as he fought to maintain his grip.

  The zombie shark continued whipping itself around, trying to secure better leverage on the sinking yacht. Its jaws clashed together—its mouth was a good four feet across in diameter.

  Dave felt his grip loosening even more. The pain in his left arm started to radiate outward now from the fracture and then…

  His sweat-slicked fingers lost their grip and Dave plunged down the deck right into the zombie shark’s massive jaws.

  “Aaaaughhh!” Dave screamed once before being killed immediately as the zombie shark’s teeth cut Dave in two at the torso. Dave’s legs and hips disappeared down the zombie shark’s throat and then the rest of him slid down into its waiting jaws.

  And then once Dave Thomas was completely swallowed by the massive zombie shark, it scuttled back and slammed its bulk into the waters of the South Atlantic and continued on in search of prey. Two hours later, it was sliced in half by a monstrous Clicker three times its size. The reanimated corpse of Dave Thomas spilled from the wound in a cloud of blood and innards.

  Mount Shasta, California

  “This is insane,” Michele grumbled as she squeezed off another shot. “This is like every bad B-movie, cheesy 80’s horror paperback, and old pulp magazine all rolled into one.”

  If Clark responded, she didn’t hear him over the thunder erupting from his 16 gauge shotgun. She turned in time to see another zombie—a small child—fly backward. It slammed into a tree and slumped to the ground, minus most of it’s head.

  “Eyes front,” Clark snapped. “Don’t let them flank us. Keep moving.”

  They struggled onward up the steep, winding trail, slipping on the rocky terrain, stumbling as the thick vegetation deepened the gloom around them, hounded by an army of the dead. The creatures laughed at them, cursing and jeering in a multitude of languages, screeching foul promises of the crude, evil things they’d do to them once they’d been caught.

  The zombies had set upon them just a few hundred yards north of the Buddhist monastery. Until that point, their progress had been relatively easy. After Clark had procured the things he needed for the spell from the New Age bookstore, they’d found a hardware store and a sporting good store on the same block. They’d encountered a few zombies in
each building, as well as out on the street, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Clark had wondered aloud to Michele if perhaps the rest of the dead had wandered off, maybe heading to the next town to slaughter the citizens there. In the sporting goods store, they’d armed themselves with an assortment of rifles, shotguns, handguns, and knives. Each had taken a backpack, as well. Michele’s was full of extra ammunition. Clark’s held more ammunition, as well as the stuff from the New Age shop. He had cautioned her not to weigh herself down too heavily, but to have plenty of extra weapons on hand. Before packing everything, Clark said some charms and blessing over the ammunition. Then, armed and equipped, they began the long hike up the dormant volcano.

  At first, the mountainside had seemed deserted, but just after creeping past the monastery, they’d been attacked by a group of undead birds—everything from large, fat crows to tiny starlings. They’d managed to destroy the attackers with their shotguns, but the noise of the battle had attracted the attention of a group of dead Buddhist monks. The zombies had streamed out of the monastery, screeching and howling, armed with clubs and knives. Soon, the pursuit was joined by an array of other dead creatures—deer, squirrels, skunks, raccoons, and even a pack of coyotes.

  Michele’s .45 clicked empty. In one fluid movement, she tossed the weapon aside and drew a second .45 from one of the many holsters around her hips. Sweat stung her eyes, and her face bled from a number of scratches and cut the birds had inflicted.

  “How much further?” she gasped.

  Clark didn’t answer. Not wanting to risk taking her eyes off their rear, she shuffled backward, and uttered a surprised cry when she bumped into him. Her supervisor had come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the trail.

  “About five hundred yards,” he panted. “But I don’t think we’re going to make it. They’re all around us now. Keep your back to me. I’ll take twelve o’clock to seven. You cover six o’clock to one. Don’t stop shooting until we run out of bullets or run out of zombies.”

  “Oh fuck…”

  “Michele,” Clark said, keeping his gaze fixed ahead of them, “you’re a damn good agent. It has been an honor to serve with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. The honor has been mine.”

  The dead emerged from the forest, encircling them. The stench of decay and putrefaction was overwhelming, and it grew stronger as the creatures drew nearer. Michele’s eyes watered. Her stomach roiled.

  “You fucks need a bath,” Clark muttered. “Or maybe a couple gallons of Old Spice.”

  The creatures didn’t respond to the taunt. They crept forward in silence, leering, teeth bared, knives and claws flashing in the shadows. Then, as one, they surged forward with a horrible cry. Michele and Clark stood back to back and reigned bullets down upon them. The guns grew hot in their hands. The air filled with smoke. Empty brass casings littered the ground at their feet. And still the dead kept coming.

  TWELVE

  San Pedro, California

  “But I don’t want you to go outside, Daddy.”

  Jim glanced up at Tammy as Danny clung tighter to his leg, pulling at his hand. She didn’t have to speak. He’d been married to her long enough that he knew the expression on her face all too well. Sighing, he pried Danny loose and knelt beside him, looking the boy in the eye. When he spoke, he kept his attention fixed on Danny, but talked to them both.

  “Listen, squirt. We’re going to be safe here in the house. Mommy and I barricaded all the windows and doors—that means we blocked them off. The monster people can’t see us. They don’t know we’re in here, so they’ll leave us alone, as long as we’re quiet. We can stay in here a long, long time. But to do that, we need some things—food, water, medicine—stuff like that. I’m just going out to get some. I promise you I’ll come back.”

  “Like Anthony did?”

  “No, Danny…” Jim struggled to speak around the lump in his throat. “Not like Anthony or Samhain. It will be me. I promise. And besides, I bet you’d like a few new comic books, right?”

  Danny’s eyes widened. “Yeah!”

  “Well, I’ll bring back some of those, too. And Butterfinger ice cream for Mommy.” He glanced up at Tammy. “If that’s still your favorite?”

  Despite her misgivings, she smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  Jim shrugged, grinning slyly. “I bet I remember more than you think.”

  Tammy blushed as her smile grew broader. Danny stood between them, staring up at them both. Then he grinned.

  Jim reloaded his handgun, and grabbed a butcher knife from the block on Tammy’s kitchen counter. He stuck the knife through his belt, letting the blade rest against the back of his thigh.

  “You’re going to cut yourself,” Tammy cautioned. “Hang on a second.”

  She disappeared into the hall closet, rummaged around inside, and came out holding a small hatchet.

  “Where’d that come from?” Jim asked.

  “Anthony picked it up at a yard sale a few weeks ago, but he keeps…I mean he kept forgetting to take it home. I put it in there so Danny wouldn’t play with it.”

  Jim removed the knife and hung the hatchet in its place instead. “Much better.”

  “Be careful,” Tammy said.

  “You, too.” He gave Danny a hug. “You be brave, and take care of Mommy until I get back, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy. You promise you’ll come back?”

  “I promise. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Jim moved the furniture away from the front door, sliding it slowly so it wouldn’t squeak. When the door was free, he peeked outside. Verifying that the street was clear, he opened the door and hurried outside. After a moment, he heard Tammy locking it behind him. Too late, he realized that he’d forgotten to bring anything to carry supplies in. Glancing around in frustration, he scanned the street and nearby homes, and spotted a wheelbarrow several houses away, laying on its side in someone’s yard. A dead Clicker lay close by. Even from this distance, Jim could see the dark cloud of flies hovering over it. A pick-axe jutted from the creature’s head.

  That’s why it isn’t up and moving around, Jim thought. Destroy the brain, destroy the zombie.

  Stepping onto the driveway, he wondered if the head was a particular weak spot for the Clickers. Obviously, destroying the brain was the only way to stop the zombies, but what about the Clickers? Their shells seemed so tough—virtually impenetrable. Was there less of a carapace around their heads? Was the shell thinner there, perhaps? He hoped he wouldn’t encounter any more of them, but if he did, he intended to find out.

  Cautiously, he stepped out into the street and headed for the wheelbarrow. The neighborhood was quiet. Gone were the screams and gunshots, the sirens and shouts, and the incessant sound the Clickers’ claws made as they clacked together. The wind shifted, and Jim became aware of the smell—a putrid, road kill stench, like spoiled meat left sitting out too long in the sun. Beneath it was a briny, pungent odor that reminded him of dead fish rotting on the beach. Jim assumed that must be what it was. Tammy’s home was very close to the cliffs—what the locals referred to as Sunken City. The Clickers had undoubtedly come ashore there, and the beach was almost certainly covered in the carcasses of whatever sea creatures or sunbathers they’d slaughtered as they came ashore.

  Unless of course those victims had reanimated as zombies…

  Jim stopped in the middle of the street, listening. Just where were the zombies? It seemed strange that the entire neighborhood was vacant of them now.

  As he edged closer to the wheelbarrow, his tension mounted. Tightening his grip on the pistol, Jim reached for the hatchet with his free hand. He could hear the flies and other insects now, buzzing madly as they busied themselves with the Clicker’s corpse. The smell wafting off the dead sea creature was intense, but not strong enough to account for the more overpowering stench that seemed to hover over the neighborhood like a cloud.

  “What the hell is that?” he whispered.

&
nbsp; A loud, electronic chirp answered him. Shouting in surprise, Jim swept the pistol up and turned in a frantic circle. Further down the street, he saw several figures standing next to an SUV. One of them was a man about his age. The rest were kids. A dog was inside the vehicle, and one of the teenaged boys had just shut the door. The dog barked, the sound muffled inside the closed vehicle. The group stared at him, seemingly just as surprised as he was. Slowly, almost as an afterthought, the man pointed a rifle at him.

  “Drop it,” Jim yelled.

  “You drop it first!”

  “Dad!” A tall teenaged boy ran over to the man with the rifle. “If he was one of them, wouldn’t he have shot us already?”

  Shit, Jim thought. They think I’m a zombie.

  “I’m not dead,” he called, pointing the gun up into the air. “I’m not one of them.”

  The man motioned with the rifle. “Come closer. Slowly. I want to make sure. And put that pistol on the ground.”

  “I can’t do that,” Jim said. “How about I holster it and keep my hands in the air?”

  The man frowned, considering the request. Then he shrugged. “Fair enough. But so help me God, if you try anything, I’ll drop you quicker than a sack of wet cement.”

  Jim shuffled toward them, making an exaggerated effort to show that he meant no harm. When he reached the side of the street directly across from the SUV, he stopped and slowly turned in a full circle. Then he looked at the man and smiled.

  “Can I take my hands down now?”

  Nodding, the man lowered the rifle.

  “Thanks. Name’s Jim Thurmond.”

  “Rick Sycheck. These are my kids, Richard and Melody, and their friends, Paul and Mary. And that’s Princess inside the SUV there.”

  The kids nodded. Jim waved in return.

  “I take it you’ve been hiding out?” he asked Rick.