Eleanor responded by resting her head against Cordelia’s side. They waited until the fire was nothing more than a smoldering pile of embers and roasted meat. The smell still wafted in the air even without active flames.
Ten minutes later, just as Eleanor began losing hope, a deep, rumbling whoooosh that almost sounded like wet thunder erupted from the darkness of San Francisco Bay.
Eleanor’s hopeful smile slowly disappeared when she saw the massive tidal wave emerge from the blackness, coming right at them.
“Nell, duck!” Cordelia screamed, hugging her sister close.
But it was too late; the massive wave was upon them, drowning out their screams.
The force of the water knocked both of the Walker sisters to the ground and pushed them thirty feet back, right off the walking path and onto the lawn of a nearby café and gift shop. It also scattered the cooked meat across the wharf.
Eleanor pushed herself to her feet and looked around frantically for Cordelia.
“Nell! Are you okay?” Cordelia asked, staggering to her feet a few yards away.
“I think so,” Eleanor said, trying out her arms and legs, shocked that she didn’t even feel bruised.
“That was close,” Cordelia said. “We almost got—”
“Fat Jagger!” Eleanor screamed, cutting off her sister.
Fat Jagger, still submerged from the waist down, towered above the wharf, his hair stringy and sopping. Salty ocean water dripped off his hairy torso and splashed onto the concrete wharf like a torrential rainstorm. When the colossus saw the Walkers, he grinned.
“Waaalk-eers,” he said.
“Fat Jagger!” Eleanor yelled again, running toward him.
Cordelia followed her.
Fat Jagger turned his attention toward the wharf landing, where bits of meat were still scattered about. He reached down and began deftly plucking clumps of meat off the ground with his thumb and forefinger. He popped them into his mouth, a grin still plastered on his huge face.
“Fat Jagger, you need to listen to me,” Cordelia shouted up at him. “You have to . . .”
But she didn’t get to finish, because she was suddenly interrupted by the whoop-whoop of a cop-car siren behind her.
Seven miles north, in the Fernwood Cemetery, near the expensive mausoleum for Mr. Marlton Houston, Brendan Walker’s phone flashlight shone directly onto a man several feet away. He wore a gray security guard uniform and had his hand on the butt of a gun.
“What’s going on here?” the security guard asked.
“Uh, nothing much,” Brendan said. “You know, just visiting my uncle’s grave. Yup. Definitely not performing magic spells to raise the spirits of the dead. No way.”
The guard sighed.
“Come on, kid,” he said. “Give me a break. I just wanted a quiet night. But now I’ve got to arrest you. There are signs everywhere that say no trespassing after visiting hours. Didn’t you see them?”
“I guess not,” Brendan said, already trying to plot his getaway.
He could not afford to get arrested.
“And where are your friends, kid?”
“Friends?” Brendan asked. “It’s just me.”
“Are you kidding me?” the security guard asked. “Nobody sneaks into a cemetery alone. Who would be that dumb? Unless you’re some kind of weirdo. . . .”
“Now you sound like my sisters.”
“Look,” the guard said, “just tell me where your friends are hiding and I woooon-aaaAAAHHHHHH!”
Brendan stumbled backward a few steps as a pair of rotting gray arms emerged from the darkness and wrapped around the security guard’s neck, turning his last sentence into a horrifying scream. The arms dragged the guard into the shadows. There was one final scream. And then silence.
“Mr. Security Guard?” Brendan called out. “This isn’t funny, man. It’s not cool to play sick jokes on kids.”
From the darkness, the only reply was a deep, guttural groan. It sounded . . . hungry.
Brendan took a few more steps backward until his calves hit the cold marble steps of Kristoff’s mausoleum. There was another groan, this time followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. The groaning got closer as Brendan fumbled with his phone’s flashlight. It felt like his heart had stopped beating, as if the pure terror of the situation had shut down all his bodily functions.
He pointed his flashlight up again and found himself face-to-face with a dead guy. Most of the corpse’s flesh was gone. His face was basically a skeleton with a few scraps of skin stretched across it, covered by a mop of long gray hair in desperate need of a shampoo. The corpse’s left eye was gone and an eye patch covered the right eye socket.
The zombie groaned again as it continued to shuffle toward Brendan.
“Um, hi,” Brendan said, terror welling inside his chest. “We haven’t met. I’m . . . Brendan. I should inform you that according to my sisters, and that security guard you just killed, I don’t really possess a brain, so you’re probably wasting your time.”
The zombie stopped walking. It almost seemed to cock its head like a confused dog. And for a moment, Brendan thought he actually might have saved himself with his sense of humor for the first time ever.
But then the zombie suddenly lunged at Brendan and wrapped its bony fingers around his right arm. Before he could even scream in shock or terror, the zombie leaned forward and sank its teeth into Brendan’s fleshy forearm.
San Francisco Police Department Patrolman Nick Boyce was just three hours into his twelve-hour night shift, but he had already downed three coffees, a Red Bull, and one espresso. If it weren’t for all the caffeine, it’s possible that he wouldn’t have believed what he was seeing when he pulled up to Torpedo Wharf.
It was a giant. Not a member of the three-time World-Champion San Francisco Giants out for late-night trouble, but an actual giant! Like from the beanstalk book he sometimes read to his nephew when babysitting.
Officer Boyce knew he couldn’t just pull over a giant like he would pull over a vehicle in a routine traffic stop, so he got out of the car and took a few steps toward the monster, unsnapping the leather loop on his gun holster. In spite of his shock, he took a moment to marvel at how much the beast looked like Mick Jagger from the Rolling Stones. Well, if Mick Jagger were to go on a four-month diet of Big Macs and twenty-piece McNuggets, that is.
Officer Boyce grabbed his shoulder radio and clicked it on.
“Dispatch, this is unit fourteen-eleven.”
“Go ahead fourteen-eleven.”
“I’m down here at Torpedo Wharf,” Nick said into his radio. “Requesting immediate backup. We have a . . . uh, a code four-two . . . no, um, we have a code . . . well, um, there’s a giant, fat Mick Jagger down here, and he looks hostile. Send all available units. Send the chopper. Send SWAT! Send everyone!”
Officer Boyce was so transfixed by the colossus standing before him that he didn’t even notice the two young girls next to the monster. He didn’t hear them shouting in vain that the giant meant no harm. Instead, he pulled his service gun.
The giant was staring past Nick at his patrol car, seemingly transfixed by the lights. Then the beast reached out his massive hand, which was easily twice the size of the police cruiser.
Officer Boyce ducked instinctively, fearing he was about to become a midnight snack.
But the giant Mick Jagger reached past him and instead picked up the patrol car. It looked like a Hot Wheels car in the colossal hand. Fat Jagger held it up to his face, entranced by the flashing blue-and-red lights. This time, the caffeine and adrenaline backfired. Office Boyce felt the panic rise up into his throat. He was going die. He knew it.
And so, without considering the consequences of agitating a fifty-story colossus, Officer Nick Boyce raised his gun and fired.
Cordelia and Eleanor were practically hoarse from shouting, but the cop didn’t seem to hear them.
Cordelia barely had enough time to pull Eleanor back before the cop started shooting at
Fat Jagger.
“Noooo!” Eleanor screamed as the gun cracked several times.
“It’s okay, Nell,” Cordelia reassured her as they huddled down on the concrete. “There’s no way those small bullets can kill Fat Jagger. They’re just like bee stings to him.”
“Bee stings still hurt,” Eleanor said, sniffling.
Fat Jagger was still holding the patrol car, his head tilted to the side when the cop fired. He seemed more confused by the onslaught of bullets than anything else. Several of the rounds struck him in the belly but he didn’t even seem to notice. Several more ricocheted onto the concrete surprisingly close to where the Walker sisters were huddled.
Eleanor screamed.
Fat Jagger looked down at them, then back toward the cop, whose hands were shaking as he reloaded his gun. Jagger quickly tossed the cop car over his shoulder. It crashed into the San Francisco Bay with a massive splash at least a hundred yards behind him.
The cop readied his gun and pointed it back at the giant, his hands trembling so much that he likely couldn’t even hit a target just two feet away.
The Walkers were in danger. Fat Jagger’s eyes went wide with fear. He reached down, scooped Eleanor and Cordelia into the palm of his hand, and then popped them into his mouth like a pair of raisins.
The police officer began to scream.
Officer Boyce grabbed his radio.
“Dispatch!” he screamed. “Where is my backup? The giant, he . . . he just . . . oh my God, it was horrible! He just ate two small kids! In one bite! Like popcorn! Please get me backup!”
On cue, several patrol cars pulled up alongside him. Four officers jumped out and gaped at the massive giant standing in the San Francisco Bay. The sound of an approaching helicopter whirred in the distance.
“At first we thought this was a joke, Boyce,” his sergeant said. “But strange things have been happening everywhere! First, there were reports of a real yeti getting killed in Santa Rosa. And now this . . .”
“He just ate two kids,” Officer Boyce mumbled, still in shock.
“What are we waiting for then?” the sergeant growled. “Let’s take him down!”
All five of the SFPD officers drew their weapons and began shooting at a confused and panicked Fat Jagger. The bullets tore into his skin, not causing any real damage but still causing him to wince in pain.
Fat Jagger swatted his huge hands around his head like he was shooing away a swarm of gnats as more cops and a SWAT van pulled up to the wharf. They were armed with even heavier artillery. The sound of the police chopper drew closer.
Cordelia and Eleanor sloshed around inside Fat Jagger’s mouth; his thick saliva was warm and gooey, but actually provided pretty decent cushioning to the constant movement of his head as the bullets pelted him on the outside. It felt like a bulletproof hot tub in desperate need of a whole dump truck of Listerine mouthwash.
They realized rather quickly that Fat Jagger had put them in his mouth to protect them.
“They’re killing him!” Eleanor shouted.
“Not yet,” Cordelia said. “But eventually they’ll bring more weapons . . . bigger weapons . . . and he may not be able to survive that.”
“We can’t let that happen!” Eleanor said as the sound of a police helicopter whirled around Fat Jagger’s head.
“This is the San Francisco Police Department,” a voice echoed through a megaphone. “Surrender yourself immediately, or we will begin using heavier force. We will not hesitate to take you down.”
“Deal, this is horrible,” Eleanor said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We have to stop this!”
Her sister was right. Cordelia needed to do something.
“Fat Jagger,” Cordelia shouted. “Can you hear us?”
They were suddenly swept off their feet by sloshing saliva as Fat Jagger nodded his head up and down. They heard the sound of machine gun fire outside and Fat Jagger winced in pain, sending them sprawling onto his slick tongue yet again.
“We need to get to Brendan!” Cordelia shouted, hoping that her brother had actually managed to summon the Storm King. It was their only chance now. “He can help us! Understand?”
Fat Jagger nodded again.
“Good!” Cordelia shouted. “Now take a deep breath and dive! Dive back into the water where they can’t shoot you or find you! Swim along the huge red bridge toward the shore on the other side. Then I’ll tell you how to find Brendan!”
Fat Jagger nodded one last time, and then suddenly Cordelia and Eleanor felt their stomachs drop as Jagger dove deep into the San Francisco Bay, essentially becoming a living submarine. The two girls hung on to Fat Jagger’s huge molars for dear life as the colossus made a break for the Golden Gate Bridge.
Deep within Fernwood Cemetery, Brendan Walker stumbled away from the zombie that had somehow managed to clamp its deadly jaws onto his forearm. Brendan yanked free from its clutches, and in the process tore off one of the zombie’s arms. But the damage had been done.
Brendan slumped down into a sitting position and looked at the gory bite wound on his forearm. This was it; he was a goner. Everyone knew the first rule of zombies: If they bite you, then you will eventually turn into a zombie.
He swore to himself. He had always believed he would thrive in a zombie apocalypse. He’d read instructional books, had escape routes mapped out, and even had drawn up construction plans for a fortress on the cliffs of Battery Crosby. Now here he was about to become the world’s second zombie, literally the worst you could do in this situation.
He looked up and noticed more zombies stumbling toward him. Some of the walking corpses looked much fresher than others. A few looked old enough to have even fought in World War I.
They continued to advance on Brendan. Didn’t they understand that he’d been bitten? He was already as good as dead.
He only had himself to blame. Not only had he failed to raise the spirit of Denver Kristoff, but he had somehow managed to accidently raise the dead! Brendan had just accidentally jump-started the end of the world with a zombie apocalypse.
But that didn’t mean he’d go down without a fight. The knowledge of his own impending doom erased any fear and replaced it with pure rage and courage the likes of which he’d never experienced before. It was almost like drinking some sort of hero potion. It made him feel invincible—because, in a way, he sort of was.
Brendan leaped to his feet, still holding the zombie’s severed left arm. He stepped forward and reared it back like a baseball bat. Then he swung at the nearest zombie like he was back in T-ball. The zombie arm connected with its head and it flew into the trees at least fifty feet away, still groaning the entire time.
“Home run!” Brendan screamed, before pivoting and taking another swing at a different zombie behind him.
He connected again. This time the zombie’s head stayed attached to the neck but exploded on impact like an old rotting pumpkin. Bone and dirt and dust sprayed everywhere.
“Gross!” Brendan yelled.
He whirled around, swinging the severed zombie arm as fast as his injured arm would allow. Brendan stayed near the mausoleum, since it provided protection on at least one side, as more zombies began showing up.
Eventually, he climbed up the three stairs on the mausoleum. He looked around and then promptly dropped the zombie arm he’d been using as his weapon. From his new vantage point, he finally saw just how hopeless his situation had become.
The sea of zombies spread out around the mausoleum had grown to rock-concert proportions. If he weren’t feeling so hopeless, he might have even performed the Bruce Springsteen song “Glory Days,” which had saved him back in Emperor Occipus’s Colosseum.
But, instead, he slumped against the ornate bronze doors and waited for the zombies to devour him.
Fat Jagger came bounding into Fernwood Cemetery still dripping wet from the ocean water he’d been soaking in for the past ten hours. His mouth was open just enough for Cordelia and Eleanor to see outside so they could dir
ect his movements. He’d been careful to avoid smashing any houses on the short walk there, just as Cordelia had instructed. But now, inside the cemetery, he was crushing people with each step.
“Oh no!” Eleanor gasped. “He’s smooshing all those people! Wait . . . what are they all doing in a cemetery at three in the morning?”
“Those aren’t ordinary people, Nell,” Cordelia said, straining to see over Fat Jagger’s huge lower lip. “I think they’re . . . zombies!”
“But zombies aren’t real!” Eleanor said. “That’s impossible.”
“So is a colossus with two kids in his mouth walking around Mill Valley, California!” Cordelia reminded her.
Eleanor was about to admit that Cordelia made a good point, but was distracted by shouting somewhere far below them.
“Down here!” the tiny voice yelled. “Jagger, down here!”
“It’s Brendan!” Eleanor yelled, pointing to their left. “Fat Jagger, can you see Brendan down there? He’s in trouble! Save him!”
They saw Brendan on the landing of a white marble mausoleum, jumping up and down hysterically. There were hundreds of zombies closing in around him.
Fat Jagger closed his mouth to keep Cordelia and Eleanor from falling out and then reached down and pulled the entire mausoleum from the ground. Brendan clung desperately to one of the marble pillars. The bronze doors had burst off from the force of Jagger’s grip. The roof of the mausoleum crumbled.
Fat Jagger opened his mouth wide and shook the mausoleum over it like a box of candy, dumping a screaming Brendan inside. Then Jagger closed his mouth and turned back toward the ocean.
An SFPD helicopter suddenly hovered down into view from the clouds above the giant. A man in a blue SWAT uniform sat inside the open door of the chopper. He raised a huge rocket launcher, pointed it at Fat Jagger, and pulled the trigger.
Brendan fell into Fat Jagger’s mouth, not having any idea why his friend would eat him. Maybe Fat Jagger had become a colossus zombie himself?
Clash of the Worlds Page 4
