Clash of the Worlds

“Now what?” Cordelia asked her little sister. “We’ve been here almost twenty minutes.”

“I don’t know,” Eleanor said. “This was the end of my plan. I guess I just thought he’d be hungry enough to smell the meat.”

It definitely smelled. Cordelia held a hand over her nose to fight off the stench. But maybe the odour simply wasn’t enough? The wind was blowing in from the bay, after all, carrying the shoreline scents away from where Fat Jagger lurked. And it would certainly be even more difficult, if not impossible, for him to smell anything underwater. There had to be something they could do to intensify the smell.

Cordelia was torn from her thoughts by a shrill squawk. A white seagull plopped down on top of their four-hundred-dollar pile of meat and greedily gobbled up several chunks into its gullet.

“Shoo!” Cordelia yelled, swatting at the bird with her hand.

The seagull flapped its wings a few times and hovered above the meat for several seconds, before settling down again on the other side of the pile. Several other pilfering white birds descended out of nowhere, squawking greedily.

“Nell, I need your help here,” Cordelia said desperately as she removed her jacket.

She swung it in wide circles near the growing group of seagulls feasting on the pile of meat. As the jacket neared them, they quickly hopped away or took flight. But each time it passed them by, they dived back in for another helping.

“Go away!” Eleanor yelled, charging in at the birds. “This is Fat Jagger’s!”

The birds must have sensed her frantic energy, because they fled for cover as she neared. But then, one after another, they circled back hungrily.

Cordelia looked at Eleanor desperately.

“We need to do something fast,” Cordelia said to her little sister. “Or else pretty soon there’s not going to be anything left!”

Meanwhile, seven miles away, across the Golden Gate Bridge, Brendan paid the cab driver and stepped out of the car into the dark night. He had no idea how he was going to get home. The number forty bus stopped running at eight p.m., and he’d had to spend all of his remaining money on the cab ride there. Thankfully, his driver didn’t speak English very well, and didn’t even bother asking why a twelve-year-old kid was taking a cab to a cemetery at two thirty in the morning on a school night. Brendan supposed this was a benefit of living in a big city like San Francisco. Nothing seemed weird there.

He was surprised to see that Fernwood Cemetery did not have a perimeter fence. He’d been fairly certain he was going to have to climb a ten-foot-tall iron fence with impaling spikes at the top. But the huge cemetery, surrounded by woods and built on a gently sloping hill, seemed almost welcoming to late-night trespassers.

It was dark; the only light was from several streetlights nearby and a few faded stars in the black sky.

Brendan braced himself with several deep breaths as he stared into the blackness of the cemetery, trying to tell himself that facing savage warriors, bloodthirsty pirates, Roman gladiators, hungry lions and a vicious wolf the size of a horse had all been way more terrifying than this. There was no reason for him to be afraid.

His mind drifted towards the time when he was nine and snuck into the living room late at night to watch Night of the Living Dead On Demand. He might as well have been a delicious brain sitting on a dinner platter. Brendan would have laughed at the image of his brain sitting neatly on a silver platter flanked by sides of braised kale and mashed potatoes if he were less petrified.

He tried to ignore his fear and instead focus on what he was there to do. First things first: he had to somehow find Denver Kristoff’s tomb.

Brendan switched on his phone’s flashlight and made his way into the cemetery, weaving past most of the headstones. It actually took far less time to find it than he’d suspected, given the cemetery’s size. But his gut instinct to start by checking the larger, more expensive mausoleums paid off. After jogging to four or five of the newer-looking mausoleums, Brendan found the one labelled Marlton Houston, the false name reported by the news in the days following Denver Kristoff and Aldrich Hayes being killed by a city bus downtown.

Kristoff’s mausoleum was a grand affair. It was roughly the size of a large tool shed, but all similarities ended there. It was constructed of white marble and had three steps leading up to a set of bronze double doors covered in intricate carvings of hooded figures and mythical beasts. Two marble columns flanked the doors beneath a peaked roof containing a large carved symbol Brendan didn’t recognise.

He stood in front of the steps and took a few deep breaths, cleared his throat, and thought back to the horrifying experience of watching Denver and Aldrich summon the spirits of past Lorekeepers inside the Bohemian Club with a simple spell.

“Diablo tan-tun-ka,” Brendan said, softly at first. “Diablo tan-tun-ka.” His voice grew louder as he chanted the spell several more times. “Diablo TAN-tun-ka! Diablo tan-tun-KA!”

Nothing seemed to be happening. Brendan continued anyway, recalling words the two Lorekeepers had spoken, but not quite remembering the inflections.

“Diablo TAN-tun-ka, spirit of my … uh, great-great-great-grandfather, um, I think,” Brendan said. “I summon you! I wish to speak to the one departed called Denver Kristoff!”

Brendan raised his arms towards the sky, as if he were literally trying to lift up the dead spirit of the Storm King from his resting place. He stopped and waited, his arms still raised into the air like he was signalling a touchdown.

Only silence greeted him. He lowered his arms and realised how ridiculous it was to think he could possibly raise the spirit of a dead Lorekeeper … or anyone for that matter.

A chill went up his spine as a breeze whipped across his neck and face.

Then a twig snapped behind him.

Brendan spun around, raised his phone’s flashlight; his heart lodged firmly in his throat. And then he screamed loudly enough to wake the dead.

Back on Torpedo Wharf, Eleanor realised that Cordelia was right. They needed to do something fast or else the growing pack of seagulls would eat all of Fat Jagger’s bait.

Eleanor looked around desperately. Her eyes rested on a nearby metal trash can full of newspapers and plastic bottles and Styrofoam coffee cups. A snoring homeless man in tattered clothing lay next to it. It was obvious he had just passed out because the still smouldering butt of a cigarette dangled loosely from his fingers.

Eleanor glanced at Cordelia, who was still waving her jacket at the flock of seagulls. It was chaotic, and getting louder as more birds cawed along with Cordelia’s screams.

Eleanor knew there was no time to waste. She didn’t always need her older sister’s approval or supervision; Cordelia wasn’t the only smart one in the family!

So Eleanor pushed away the fear and marched right up to the man. She knelt down beside him and gently and carefully plucked the cigarette from his fingers. She stood up, a triumphant smile spread across her face.

A hand grabbed her leg.

“Gimme back my smoke!” the man growled.

She quickly shook the man’s hand from her leg and ran around towards the other side of the trash can.

“Get back here, you little brat!” he screamed, trying to get to his feet. But he wobbled unsteadily, having unusual difficulty standing up.

“Nell, what are you doing?” Cordelia yelled, swatting at several seagulls that were dive-bombing her, apparently tired of being hit by her jacket. “Stop torturing that poor man and help me!”

Eleanor didn’t answer, carefully cradling the burning cigarette in her cupped hands so it wouldn’t burn out. She knew that smoke and heat travelled upward. That’s what the firefighter who came and spoke to her class about fire safety had said. She crouched down near the bottom of the mesh trash can.

“Get back here, kid!” shouted the man, who was finally on his feet and stumbling towards Eleanor.

“Nell, let go of that disgusting thing! What are you doing?” Cordelia asked as she swatted at another seagull.

“You’ll see,” Eleanor said as she touched the red ash of the cigarette to the bottom of the garbage.

She had no idea what the wadded-up newspapers at the bottom had been soaked in, but the whole thing ignited much quicker than she’d expected. After just a few seconds, the entire trash can was engulfed in flames that leaped several feet into the air, sending sparks floating into the night sky.

The vagrant grabbed Eleanor by the back of the collar and lifted her up.

“Gimme my smoke!” he shouted.

Eleanor held out the still-lit cigarette. He grabbed it and set her back down.

“Thanks, mister,” she said.

“You really should respect other people’s property, kid,” he said and then slumped back down to the ground.

“Nell, will you please tell me what’s going on?” Cordelia shouted.

Eleanor ran towards the hungry seagulls, waved them off, and scooped up an entire armload of raw meat. She held her breath and reminded herself that she was doing this for Fat Jagger. She’d take an earthworm bath if that’s what it took to save him.

She ran over and tossed the meat inside the blazing trash can. The fire crackled and popped as the fat seared instantly in the heat. The aroma of cooking steaks and poultry was almost immediate and far more intense than the mound of raw meat.

Eleanor ran back for another armload.

Cordelia marvelled at how clever Eleanor was as she grabbed an armload of meat herself. Fat Jagger would be much more likely to smell cooking meat the next time he resurfaced for air. Together, they ran back and forth, dumping loads of meat into the burning trash.

The smell of searing meats was so powerful that both Cordelia and Eleanor covered their faces with their shirts. They stood next to the makeshift barbecue and looked out into the dark bay. Cordelia draped an arm around her little sister’s shoulders.

“Do you think he’ll come up for air soon?” Eleanor asked.

“I hope so,” Cordelia said. “But either way, I’m proud of you. That was really risky what you did, but it was a smart idea, Nell.”

Eleanor responded by resting her head against Cordelia’s side. They waited until the fire was nothing more than a smouldering 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 on to 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 OK?” 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 on to 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 towards him.

Cordelia followed her.

Fat Jagger turned his attention towards 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 on to a man several feet away. He wore a grey 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 backwards a few steps as a pair of rotting grey 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 backwards 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 of 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 grey 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

“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 towards the shore on the other side. Then I’ll tell you how to find Brendan!”