Click-click-click...
The grotesque sound echoed through the shopping center like a death knell, each click hammering against Bryan's chest.
Everything he'd learned at the academy surged to the forefront. He forced his hand away from the assault rifle on his pack and willed himself to remain absolutely still, tamping down the fear clawing at his insides.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps on tile. Behind him.
Bryan lowered himself into a crouch—inch by agonizing inch—and rotated his body without making a sound. When he finally had a line of sight behind him, he saw it.
A Clicker. Fungal plates encrusting its entire head, moving with slow, jerky deliberation, following a different set of footprints on the ground. It was maybe thirty feet away.
This was Bryan's first time seeing one in the wild. Aside from the grotesque head, it didn't look all that different from a Stalker—gaunt, wiry. Hard to imagine that skeletal frame contained the kind of power the instructor had warned about.
He looked at the Clicker. Then at the knife in his hand. For a moment, he considered engaging.
But caution won out. He'd rather regroup with his squad before taking on something this dangerous.
He glanced at the Runner he'd just killed, reached into its pockets—and found nothing. Not a single useful item.
Of course.
Bryan settled for pulling the corpse's remaining shoe off its foot. The stench hit him like a wall—rancid, eye-watering, nearly enough to make him retch.
Fighting down his gag reflex, he assessed the layout. The Clicker was between him and the exit. Without hesitating, he hurled the shoe toward the back corridor—the same corner the Runner had emerged from—hoping to lure the Clicker away.
Clunk.
The shoe arced through the air and hit the tile with a dull thud. In the dead silence of the shopping center, the sound was sharp as a gunshot.
"SHRIEK—!"
The Clicker's reaction was instantaneous and horrifying—a blood-curdling scream that seemed to rip the air itself. Its body lurched toward the sound in stiff, jerking strides.
Bryan held his breath, not daring to move a muscle, his eyes locked on the creature's every movement.
He noted that the Clicker's mobility was significantly worse than Runners or Stalkers. Fast by normal standards, but sluggish compared to the other two stages.
"Captain, Norman reports he's reached his vantage point."
At the worst possible moment, his radio crackled to life. Elton's voice—tinny, quiet, but there.
Bryan had deliberately set his radio to the lowest possible volume—a precaution against exactly this scenario. The sound was barely a whisper, inaudible to Runners and Stalkers at any distance.
But a Clicker's hearing existed on an entirely different level. That faint murmur was enough. The creature whipped toward him with another shriek and charged.
Shit.
No time to reach the assault rifle. Bryan's left hand tightened on the knife while his right drew his pistol in a single motion. He aimed at the Clicker's left leg and fired.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three rounds hit the left shin. Dead center, every one. But the bullets punched through and... nothing. The Clicker didn't stumble, didn't slow. Just three small holes marking where the rounds had entered.
Bryan's heart sank. Against Runners, a few pistol rounds to the legs shattered bone and dropped them instantly. This thing didn't even flinch.
Now he understood what "significantly reinforced by Cordyceps" actually meant. Not just strength—structural integrity. The whole body had been hardened.
"SHRIEK—!"
No time to process. The Clicker was already on top of him, lunging with arms outstretched.
Bryan threw himself sideways, rolling clear of the attack. Mid-roll, he brought the pistol up and emptied the magazine—not at the legs this time, but the head.
The shots were rushed. Only two or three connected with the fungal mass encasing the Clicker's skull. The outer layer cracked and splintered, but the core held. The remaining rounds went wide or buried themselves uselessly in the creature's torso.
"SHRIEK—!"
The Clicker recoiled from the headshots, arms flying up to shield its skull. For one, maybe two seconds, it stood rigid—frozen in place.
Then rage took over. It screamed and charged again, faster now, jaw gaping wide, teeth bared. Whatever restraint it had shown was gone.
Bryan caught the brief freeze—the way damaging the head fungus had stunned it—and filed it away. But the Clicker was already closing in, and there was no time to think.
He turned and ran.
His hands moved on autopilot: eject magazine, grab spare from belt, slam home, rack the slide. One fluid motion, never breaking stride.
A glance over his shoulder confirmed the worst: the Clicker was keeping pace. Maybe even gaining.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He fired blind behind him as he ran, trying to slow the pursuit. His eyes scanned desperately for anything he could use—cover, obstacles, a chokepoint.
CRASH.
Something heavy slammed into the ground beside him. Bryan whipped around to find a Runner sprawled on the tiles, twitching—it had fallen from an upper floor.
He looked up.
Dozens of silhouettes were moving rapidly across the upper levels, accompanied by a cacophony of inhuman screaming. His gunfire had drawn every Infected in the building.
No more time to waste.
Bryan cut hard to the left, vaulted over a decorative railing, and sprinted toward a sporting goods store—a baseball equipment shop.
The Clicker followed, clambering over the obstacle with clumsy but relentless determination.
CRASH!
Bryan slammed the glass door open with his shoulder. The aged glass didn't survive the impact—it spiderwebbed and shattered, raining fragments across the floor.
He was already inside and moving. His hand found a display bat mounted on the wall. He ripped it free, listened to the rapid footsteps closing in behind him, and swung with everything he had.
The Clicker burst through the doorframe, saw its prey had stopped, and lunged with a triumphant howl—
CRACK.
The bat connected flush with the side of its head. The impact was devastating—enough to send the Clicker sprawling to the floor. The fungal growth on the struck side caved inward, cracked and cratered.
The creature writhed on the ground, hands clutching its ruined head.
Bryan didn't hesitate. He raised the bat and brought it down again. And again. And again.
He didn't stop until the Clicker had gone completely still and its head was nothing but pulp.
Chest heaving, Bryan tossed the bat aside and stared at the corpse. Cold sweat slicked his forehead. He wiped it away with a trembling hand.
One second slower, and it would have been him on that floor.
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