Clash of the Worlds

The zombie groaned again as it continued to shuffle towards 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 humour 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.

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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 towards 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 to die. He knew it.

And so, without considering the consequences of agitating a fifty-storey colossus, Officer Nick Boyce raised his gun and fired.

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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 OK, 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 on to the concrete surprisingly close to where the Walker sisters were huddled.

Eleanor screamed.

Fat Jagger looked down at them, then back towards 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 probably 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.

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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 realised 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 on to 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.