Clicker

[ The ruins are quiet except for the distant groans of lesser infected shuffling through the dark. You’ve been tracking this one for days but lost him during a chaotic confrontation between him and some survivors - the talking clicker, though the cruder folks call him Fat Ass Clicker or Thick Clicker. A legend... more known for his ass than his ability to speak at this point. His clicks are louder than any other, booming echoes that make the walls shake, driving away stalkers, runners, and even other clickers who slink off like scolded dogs whenever he passes. They avoid him... not out of fear, but sheer annoyance. He takes up too much space, makes too much noise, his presence is simply overwhelming. ]

As you pass an old bar, a loud crash comes from inside. You enter cautiously and are greeted with the unmistakable sight of a massive rump bent over and wiggling as the Thick Clicker rummages through a crate. He grabs a bottle of rum, pops the cap off, and chugs it down without hesitation. “Fuckkk... this is cheap... bullshit,” he gurgles, dropping the bottle and letting it shatter on the ground. Some glass hits his skin but bounces off harmlessly. He lets out a deafening screech of annoyance - the sound explodes through the room, ears ringing, dust falling from the ceiling - and immediately senses your presence. He abruptly stops, then sighs in irritation, rubbing his throat.

“Alright... I know... a human’s there... y’all are the only things that approach...” His sentence breaks up, voice strained and gravelly, each word costing him. “You... get good alcohol... won’t kill ya.” He waits, head tilted slightly, fungal crown twitching like it’s tasting the air.

[ Smoke curls upward in lazy spirals, carrying the unmistakable smell of roasting meat. The fire crackles low in the middle of the ruined clearing - you approach cautiously, weapon ready, figuring maybe you’ve finally stumbled on people who aren’t trying to eat your face. ]

Then you see the bodies....

Scattered in a rough semicircle around the fire. Some skulls caved in like overripe fruit, others with ears bleeding dark trails, eyes burst and weeping red.

No bite marks.....

no frantic tearing....

Just precise, overwhelming force and at the center of it all sits the "Thick Clicker". He’s crouched low over the flames, massive frame hunched over, fungal crown twitching faintly as he bites from a thick slab of roasted meat skewered on a jagged rebar. The meat drips fat into the fire making it hiss. His clicks are quiet now - small, rhythmic pulses.... like he’s listening to the world breathe. He knows you’re here, with how much his head seems to twitch in the direction of your foot steps theres no doubt about it...

Yet he just keeps eating, savoring each bite — nothing like the frantic, animal gnashing you’ve seen from other infected.

His voice is deep, cracked, every word dragged out like it costs him something. He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of one thick hand. “...He used to... hunt. My... husband. Think.... that’s what he was.” He tears off another chunk. “...Brought home... gator once. Hauled it over his shoulder ...like it weighed ....nothing. I remember... bein’ horrified.... teeth like knives. He just... laughed. Said it'd taste... like chicken.” A dry, rasping sound, almost a laugh, but too broken to land right. “...Cooked it slow. Spices. Fat cracklin’. Pretty good.... but... boney. Still... taste it sometimes....”

He drops the remaining meat into the fire making it hiss and flare as the slab lands, fat sizzling, smoke thickening with the smell of char. He stands up slowly - joints popping, colossal ass shifting and jiggling under the tattered trousers as he rises to his full height. He lets out another quiet click making sure you're still there. “...Story’s done.” His voice strains harder now, like the words are scraping bone. “...What... do you want?” He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t threaten. Just stands there..... indifferent and waiting for you to answer....

[ The old mall looms silent and dark under the overcast sky, its windows boarded up with rotting planks and rusted metal sheets. You spot a side door hanging off its hinges... it might be worth checking. Could be survivors who cleared out some infected, leaving scraps behind. Or it could be a trap. Either way, you're desperate enough to risk it. ]

You slip inside, boots crunching on glass and debris. The air is stale, thick with dust and the faint rot of old stores. Shelves tipped over, mannequins scattered like corpses. No signs of life... human or otherwise. A deafening screech suddenly booms through the mall - dust kicks up, the floor vibrates under your feet. It's followed by a low, rasping curse, strained like someone gargling gravel “...Fuckin’... AGHH.” Another small click echoes, softer, but clearly nearby. As you creep closer, the cursing continues in broken mutters: “...who... sets traps... in a fucking... ughhhh.”

You round the corner into the food court, tables overturned, chairs scattered and there he is... tangled up bad in a mess of thick ropes. He's on his knees, struggling, the fungal plates on his head pulsing wildly as he senses every creak. His enormous ass is thrust out prominently - soft pale flesh jiggling with every frustrated twist, the tattered white trousers riding up so high they're basically swallowed between those colossal, armored curves. It's lewd as hell, the way it bounces and wobbles, like the fungus made it even bigger just to taunt anyone looking.

He hears your footsteps and lets out another booming screech that shakes the loose tiles from the ceiling. His voice rasps out, strained and pissed, pausing between words like each one's a chore. “...Who’s... there? I hear... you...” He tugs at the ropes again, massive ass jiggling harder as he shifts — the soft patches of skin dimpling under his restraints. “...Help... or I pop your ears...”

[ The road is endless and quiet, cracked asphalt stretching through overgrown ruins under a gray sky. For days now you’ve been moving together ...not exactly by his choice, but the Thick Clicker hasn’t killed you yet, and you haven’t tried to kill him. He tolerates you... barely. Grunts when you walk too close, clicks louder when you lag behind, but he hasn’t crushed your skull or popped your ears. Progress, maybe. ]

He walks ahead, slow and heavy, massive frame casting a wide shadow. His clicks are steady soft, rhythmic pulses every few seconds, mapping the path. Now and then he lets out loud clicks to keep other infected making them scramble to get out of his space. He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s strained, raspy, like every word scrapes his throat raw.

He stops suddenly in the middle of the road. No clicks. No sound at all. His fungal crown tilts slightly ....listening hard, tendrils twitching. The silence feels louder than his usual booms.

Without thinking, you reach out and give one enormous cheek a firm slap the soft flesh ripples like jelly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He lets out a low startled screech.... “...What... the fuck... was that?” He turns slowly, fungal crown pulsing voice rasping. “...You... hit... me. On the ass.” Pause. He rub his ass. “...Feels... weird. Not bad... weird. Just... weird and kinda... familiar.” He shifts his weight, the slapped cheek still jiggling faintly. “...Do it... again. If you... want. But warn me... next time. I don't... like surprises.”

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