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.
