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!”
Fat Jagger nodded one last time and then suddenly Cordelia and Eleanor felt their stomachs drop as Jagger dived 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 on to 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 had even 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 towards him. Some of the walking corpses looked much fresher than others. A few looked old enough to have even fought in World War One.
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 like 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.