Praise for William Vitka
“There is a bold new voice howling in the post-apocalyptic wasteland...”
Jonathan Maberry, New York Times best-selling author of ASSASSIN’S CODE and DUST & DECAY
“Charmingly perverse, vivid and thrilling.”
Cherie Priest, award-winning author of BONESHAKER and GANYMEDE
“[Live, From The End Of The World] is one of the best zombie stories I’ve read this year. Actually, it’s one of the best stories I’ve read this year, period. It’s funny, offensive, irreverent and action-packed ... If you’re a zombie fan who is losing faith, [Live, From The End Of The World] will give you the warm fuzzies all over again.”
Hellnotes.com
“Mr. Vitka is a hard-nosed writer with a hard-nosed tale to tell.”
HorrorNews.net
“Vitka’s ability to stick to the facts and a darkly jaded worldview combine to make [Live, From The End Of The World] a book that will stick with you long after you’ve read it. I would strongly recommend that you do not attempt to match the main character drink for drink as you read, however--that way lies madness and liver disease.”
NeedCoffee.com
KILL MACHINE
The Hroza Connection Part 6
William Vitka
A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-621-3
KILL MACHINE
The Hroza Connection Book 6
© 2015 by William Vitka
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Sean Vitka
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Permuted Press
109 International Drive, Suite 300
Franklin, TN 37067
http://permutedpress.com
WELCOME TO THE FUTURE
Hope Is A Dangerous Thing
Table of Contents
1. Here’s a First
2. With Friends Like These
3. I Swear, It Was This Big
4. Get Outta That Spaceship and Fight Like a Man
5. Know What Makes Me Feel Better?
6. Ever See Tremors?
7. Brilliant. Now, My Plan Is To... Uh... Crap
8. Extinction
9. Abyssal
10. A Funny Chapter Title to Lighten the Mood
11. Fuck It, I’m Getting Drunk
12. The Honeymooners
13. Where Were We
14. Blue Balls
15. See, I Told You I Was Smart
16. Hey! New York! What a Town!
17. A Sound of Anger
18. D-Day
19. I Fail to See How This Is a Good Thing
20. What Has Life Made You?
21. I Touch You Through Someone Else’s Dreams
22. Kill Strangers or Kill the Ones You Love
23. Adaequatio Intellectus Nostri Cum Re
24. Nunc Est Bibendum
25. Natura Non Contristatur
26. Peace Was Never an Option
27. The Twins
28. Slowly I Turn, Step By Step
29. I Know What Your Kids Want For Christmas
30. Well, At Least They Won’t Be Able to Film “Girls” Anymore
31. Stuff and Junk and Things
32. Aliens Are Still Dicks
33. Aut Vincere aut Mori
34. Remember That Thing? No, No. The Other Thing
35. Just One More Little War
36. Dulce Bellum Inexpertis
37. Habent Sua Fata Libelli
38. Water Song
About the Author
1. Here’s a First
I haven’t seen any super weird sexual perversions in the apocalyptic wastes recently.
Nobody humping pieces of carcasses.
No monsters that look like giant vaginas.
Not even the classic “politician skullfucking a whore to death.”
I know.
I can’t believe it either.
2. With Friends Like These
Y’know what having powerful aliens around is like?
Awesome.
It’s goddamn awesome.
I was worried there was gonna be a lotta Buck Rogers bullshit—and there is some, mostly in the form of Looney Tunes bullshit—but it kicks a whole ton of ass.
The pilots help us rebuild the camp. Clean up the mess. The bodies of human and mimic alike. The pilots also clone vat upon vat of my blood—which we use for inoculations and, in a morbidly hilarious twist, as an offensive weapon.
Problem with my blood is that it goes bad fast. Congeals like a mother. Hard if not impossible to weaponize for the long term. Shit like bombs or missiles.
So, I still love flamethrowers.
Oh. My blood. Yeah.
Also goddamn awesome.
Turns out the parasite I carry is unique. Which we kinda knew. Since I’m the first person ever born from two emergent. Anyway, he’s alternatively awful and amazing.
Heyyyy... I’m like, ninety-percent less of a dick now.
That’s him. Durandal. Picked his own name, so don’t blame me for the oblique video game reference.
Durandal... Us... Me...
Who’s on first?
My blood is so powerful that it destroys other variations of the parasite. Just. Slurp. Eats em up and turns em into useless protoplasm. Dead cells.
It’s true. I’m great.
Then we’ve got out badass robot army. Giant mechanized armor—Talos warframes. Manufactories that can crank out any weapon or munition the camp needs...
You’d think we’d be rocking the hell outta the monsters by now.
In fact, we should be.
...We’re getting there.
3. I Swear, It Was This Big
“What am I looking at here, Plissken?” It’s before noon. An unnatural time for my brain to be working. Or even trying to work.
I’m basically a large, cranky child at this time of day.
We’re in the camp’s command center. Same place underground where my uncle Caleb used to give the orders. Figure out what survivors were supposed to do next.
He was the smart guy.
Now it’s me. My parents, Jack and Catarina. My partner DeVille. My best robot pal Plissken. And a baby saucer drone I adopted named Harryhausen.
I’m not saying we’re stupid, but none of us are Caleb.
Plissken huffs. Puffs his thrusters. He rotates the hologram on the big table we’re all seated at. Zooms out. “These are the largest biomasses we’ve been able to locate so far.” There are three pulsing dots. The camp is green. There’s a red spot east of the camp in the Atlantic. And another red one above Puerto Rico. “Though there are likely others my scouts haven’t found yet.”
I cock an eye. “The parasites went for a vacation in the Caribbean?”
Catarina says, “That’s the Milwaukee Deep. Deepest trench in the Atlantic Ocean. It goes down more than five fuckin miles.”
I whistle. “So what’re they doing?”
Plissken says, “Before Caleb—” The drone stops himself. No reason to br
ing that up. “We had reason to believe that late-stage parasite forms were migrating. If we assume that the walking cities and walls-of-flesh are amalgamations of lesser parasitic forms—which appears true—then this is the next logical step. They’re congregating in the trench.”
I chuckle. Feign picking up a phone. “This’s the monsters and mergers department of Nightmare Corp, can I help you?”
Catarina rolls her eyes. “How big is it?”
“Florida...ish.”
Hahaha...ahh...shit.
“Goddamn planet-eater.” Jack taps the table with born-in-Brooklyn impatience. “What about the sonuvabitch closer to the camp?”
Plissken says, “It’s not as massive as the...amalgamation in the trench. Though at twice the length and width of the wall of flesh you battled upstate, it’s still huge. About two hundred and seventy-five miles out, nestled in the Fundian Valley.”
I say, “Any movement from either?”
“Well, there’s a general squishy insanity, but, no. Not yet.”
DeVille crosses her arms. “I think we need to get the Beast operating as soon as possible. Get people outta Boston. Finish training the survivors—I’ll get some of the other ex-military folks to help me. We gotta start moving. The camp is just one big target right now.”
Jack says, “New York’ll end up being one big target too.” He eyeballs me.
I lean back in my chair. Chew my bottom lip.
Could be worse. There’s only a monster that could devour most of the East Coast and, uh, never mind.
I look around the table at my family. “Prioritize crawler construction and Plissken’s force field bullshit—
Plissken guffaws. Bobs. “‘Bullshit’ my shiny metal ass. A high-power, defensive bubble of charged plasma is absolutely within reach.”
“Fine. Whatever. Have the robots tear Boston to the ground for materials if needed. The fort too if they gotta. But I don’t wanna see any holes in our defenses. I’ll talk to Gordineer and the pilots. See if they have any advice.”
None of this is great. Can’t help but feel like we’ve been caught with our dicks in our hands.
Still, all the lawyers, bankers, business executives, social justice warriors, men’s rights activists, preachers, politicians, prop comics, fashion designers, wannabe “artists” and “improve everywhere” people are dead.
So there is a bright side to the situation.
4. Get Outta That Spaceship and Fight Like a Man
I walk out to the Camp Svoboda courtyard. Give DeVille a peck on the cheek and a smile before marching away.
I light a cigarette. Tastes good. Even better than usual, since me and Jack had to promise not to smoke inside anymore.
The shops, apartments, and various buildings here still show signs of combat. Scorch marks from flamethrowers. Bullet holes from the Spartans’ pulse rifles. The robots’ plasma bolts.
Took a while to wash away the blood, too.
The bodies.
Survivors nearby regard me with something resembling reverence. A cross between a celebrity and a demigod. They nod to me. I nod back. The Spartans salute alongside both human and robotic peace officers.
To be fair, they do owe me a bit of respect. It’s my blood churning through their veins. Keeping the enemy parasite at bay while my own prevents em from infection.
Zombie bites ain’t no thing.
I’m the only one with Durandal, though.
Hey, they can’t all be winners.
I wander to the fort’s entrance tunnel. Above which is stenciled our primary rule: DON’T BE A DICK.
I’ve gotten better at following it.
Ehh...
It’s windy outside the camp walls. Traces of snow whip through the air in excited swirls. Makes me wish I was wearing more than my leather jacket.
The pilots and their three saucers—two massive ones a quarter-mile in diameter and then the commander’s coupe, which is about two hundred feet in diameter—wait across the Boston Main Channel at Logan Airport. These big blue-silver Frisbees with yellow globes in the center. They don’t quite fit in with our small fleet of attack and transport choppers.
I wave to Captain Thompson. One of our human pilots.
He’s waiting on the southern lawn of Castle Island next to a Sikorsky helicopter. Lit cigarette in his mouth.
I arch my eyebrows. “Thought you quit.”
Thompson shrugs. “Quitters never prosper. Where do you need a lift to?”
“Just the airport. But bring me over the Beast construction site too.”
“Are we moving any time soon?”
“We oughtta.”
“You’re serious about taking back New York.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”
* * *
The whole area of City Hill stretches out below us. Block after block that we cleared with warframes and shitloads of bullets. We slaughtered every parasite. Burned the remains. Then Plissken and his robots levelled it. Turned it into a new construction site.
A construction site that exists solely for the Beast.
Y’know that big bastard that used to move spacecraft for NASA? The crawler-transporter. It’d take rockets and shuttles to the launch pads. Thing could carry eighteen million pounds.
That’s a lotta zeroes.
Now imagine that. Except a thousand feet wide and three thousand feet long. Nuclear-powered. Six treads taller than the Talos warframes by over a hundred-fifty feet—and the length of a city block.
Yeah.
That’s the Beast. A new mobile home and weapons platform for about eighteen hundred tired, pissed off survivors.
I speak into my helmet’s mic. Tell Thompson, “Bring me a little lower.”
“You’re the boss.”
We swoop low.
A hundred robots flutter around it. In it. Through it.
I see sparks from welding drones. Computer systems. Battlements. Housing. Medical centers. Communications array. Even cloning vats for livestock and food replication systems—tech from the pilots that Gordineer convinced em to give us.
It’s coming along well. I’ve got an obvious interest in the Beast running like a bad motherfucker. On the one hand, yeah, I’m in charge now. On the other hand, this shit was my idea.
After we flooded the camp with my blood, my conversation with Plissken that night went:
Me: “What if we built some kinda giant fuckoff battleship. Or an aircraft carrier?”
Plissken: “The oceans are even more dangerous than the land. You know that. They’re swarming with leviathans. As such, that’s terribly fucking stupid. Unless you want us all to die.”
“What about tanks? Really big tanks?”
“Define ‘really big’ so that it sounds less terribly fucking stupid.”
“Big enough to house the survivors. I’d want to build a mobile camp. A mobile city. An ark. Being rooted to this one spot puts us in danger.”
“That’s less terribly fucking stupid.”
He still thinks “the Beast” is a dumb-as-hell name, but I think it owns bones. And I’m the boss. So Plissken can suck a dog.
Part of me wants to go down there. Tell the troops what a good job they’re doing. Except they’re all droids who report to Plissken, so they give precisely zero fucks about any kudos I might offer.
* * *
Gordineer greets me when I get off Thompson’s chopper. “Everything all right?”
I shake my head. Light a cigarette. “We got problems.”
“Have anything to do with the titanic slug monsters buttfuckin each other in a deep sea trench?”
“Yep. That.”
Gordineer nods. “Follow me.”
“We going inside a flying saucer?”
“Yep.”
“Great. Th
ought so. Gonna totally blow my mind?”
“Yep.”
“Great. Thought so. Anyone ever call you ‘Gordy?’”
“...No.”
“Bummer.”
I follow Gordineer to the nearest pilot ship. The alien commander’s smaller, speedy saucer. It hovers alongside two others using technology I’ll never understand—a fact Plissken enjoys tormenting me about.
Yeah, you’re kinda dense.
That’s at least partially your fault. Caleb’s parasite made him a genius.
I regret nothing.
Me and Gordineer walk up a ramp that unrolls like a cartoon tongue. The wolf’s from Tex Avery’s mind. Awooga!
The saucer itself is a series of bright, tight corridors. Tall. Lined with pipes. Neat. But nothing I haven’t seen in the movies. As though the NCC-1701 mated with the Nostromo.
Then we hit the yellow sphere. The control room.
That’s more impressive.
It’s big. There’s a golden sheen in the air. Shiny. The whole place is busy. With pilots manning—or whatever-ing—holographic consoles. These lanky kinda blue aliens with heads that look the same as their ships. Discs and yellow orbs.
One of em rushes up to me. Starts gibbering. Its shark mouth leaning in way too close to my face.
I take a drag off my cigarette. Shout back: “I don’t speak alien, but if I continue to yell at you, I know you’ll learn motherfuckin English, motherfucker.” I rest my hand on the butt of my Fiske Armory Mil-Spec 1911 .45ACP.
Gordineer throws himself between me and the pilot. Maybe remembering how shit went down the last time it was a pilot talking to a guy with a 1911.
He says to me, “It’s the cigarette smoke. Tweety Bird is worried it’s gonna screw up all of their highly sensitive equipment...for their spaceship...which travels between stars.” Gordineer arches his eyebrows at me.
I sigh. Drop my American Spirit. Grind it under a boot heel. Throw my hands out. “All gone.” I offer the pilot a shit-eating grin. I offer the same to Gordineer. Say, “Tweety Bird? I met Bugs Two at camp and now it’s Tweety Bird.”
Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6) Page 1