Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6)

by William Vitka

  He makes a guttural noise similar to laughter. Passes over to Athena. “It is nice to meet you. I am glad I sent your father through Newark. Otherwise, you would not be here at all.”

  I don’t think Hroza can smile. But Athena does. She glances at me. Sorta happy. Sorta proud. Of what, I don’t know. I’m just glad she’s here. Kicking ass.

  Three eyeballs Aiden, Booker, and Sarah. “You...I do not know.”

  Aiden says, “We don’t know you either, man.”

  Sarah says, “Yeah. We’ve been trained to kill things like you. Not shoot the shit.” She catches herself. “So to speak, anyway.”

  Booker remains silent. He shifts his weight. Bad leg to good.

  Three turns to Jack. “I had hoped that after meeting you emergent in Brooklyn, succeeding generations would not be quite as rude.”

  Jack shrugs.

  Catarina says, “You realize you’re talking to people who’ve lost everything, right?”

  Three says, “Should I remind you that I am the last of my kind?”

  Catarina sticks her tongue in her cheek. “Fair point.”

  Three returns to Booker. “I have never seen an emergent like you before.”

  Booker arches his eyebrows. “Cuz I’m black?”

  “You all look the same to me. Hairless mammals. Differing shades of stupid. I am referring to your damaged limbs. I am surprised that you were able to survive.”

  “I’m a resilient motherfucker. What do you want from me?” He nods to Sarah. “She’s the one who got me to the camp. I’d be a goddamn crippled mutant zombie in a wheelchair if it wasn’t for her.”

  Sarah shuffles her feet. Stares straight ahead. Obviously not real happy about being the center of attention. “I did what was necessary to save the two of us.”

  Three says, “Necessary?” The Hroza chuckles. “And what was that?”

  Sarah squints. “I killed people.”

  “Who was it necessary to kill?”

  Catarina cuts in. “Back off, Three. I don’t know why you’re here, but it can’t be to fuck with our—”

  “I killed my parents,” Sarah says. “And my little brother.” She looks to the ground. Then to Booker. Catarina. Jack. Me. “My dad was a cop in Philadelphia. He, uh...stole one of the department’s MRAPs. Those big mine-resistant armored personnel carriers. He shoved us in the back and we ran.” She stiffens.

  Booker grabs her shoulder. Says, “They found me along the Mass Pike. Just outside Boston. I’d been bit but hadn’t turned. I was living in the back of my family’s van. Locked myself in. Eating candy bars. Getting fat in my wheelchair and wondering when I was gonna die.” He pauses. Remembering. “Mr. Yuan found me when he was scavenging. Carried me out to their MRAP.”

  “He got bit on the way. Just a shambler. I think he knew what was going to happen, but he thought he could get us to Boston—we’d heard Caleb’s transmissions on the radio—or something. I don’t know. He was a stubborn, strong bastard. And we’d been surviving well on the road.” She takes Booker’s hand.

  Booker says, “We woke up when her little brother, Tommy, started screaming.”

  “My father was eating my mother’s face. And he’d already bitten one of Tommy’s fingers off.”

  “I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

  “I got ahold my father’s service pistol and shot him in the head. Then my mother. Then my brother.”

  “We were deaf for hours. I still remember how bad it hurt.”

  “My mind shut down, I think.”

  “She taught herself how to drive the damn carrier. She got us to the camp.”

  Sarah frowns at Three. “Does that answer your question?”

  The ancient titan grunts. “Yes.” Three considers the information. “I like to know my kin. I like to know who is carrying my genes. Especially the new ones among you.” Three pans his gaze over the rest of us. “Determination and dedication are keys to survival. These are traits my race understood well.” Three says to Aiden, “What about you?”

  Aiden looks a little thrown off. Didn’t expect to be spilling his guts. “I don’t wanna disappoint anyone, but I got nothin.” He shrugs. “I’m an Irish kid from Boston. I was on a fast track to juvenile hall and later prison. The end of the world wasn’t...all that bad for me.” He offers us an apologetic expression. “Sorry.”

  Hey, your daughter’s dating a criminal! Hooray!

  Ugh.

  I cross my arms. “Well, Three, thank you for making us all real damn uncomfortable.”

  Jack says, “That’s par for the course.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you. But I figured that’d happen when we got back to New York City. What’re you doing here?”

  Three sighs. “I am tired. I have reached the end of my time here. I came to say goodbye. I wanted to die somewhere nice.”

  Fuck.

  8. Extinction

  Jack and Catarina follow me as I follow Three away from the Beast and the wary eyes of the pilots and survivors. Plissken peels himself away from his duties to join us.

  We four. The old guard.

  Feels like that anyway.

  Trotting after our dying dog.

  Not that he was an angel...

  I say, “Three, you can’t just fuck off and die. We need help. I need help. I need a guiding hand. I don’t know what to do here.”

  “How, precisely, have I been involved in any of your decision-making thus far and why do you think it would change things now? I have only told you where to go. Set you and even your parents on the correct path.”

  “No, no. Wait.” I shake a finger at Three. Chase him as he lumbers. “You said what you did in Brooklyn was to save the planet. I still wanna save the planet.” My fists clench. “This is my home. I wanna save my home.”

  Three pauses. This forty foot tall crustacean nightmare with a skull face buried under tendrils. The flesh above his eyes contracts. He looks at me with something like pity. But it passes. “My memory extends to the first storytellers of my race. I am not them, but they live in me. We were all living libraries.” Three huffs. Plants his weird lobster ass down in the dust of the wasteland south of Massachusetts Avenue. “I am older than the words you’ve used to tell my tales, and I am very tired.” He lies down. “I saved you from the tyranny of my own mad kin. I have done ‘my job,’ as you might say. I would like to die in peace, surrounded by my new family.”

  Catarina says, “We don’t hate you, Three.”

  Jack says, “Speak for yourself sister.”

  I glare at the old titan. “Yeah.” I don’t know what to say but I wanna be pissed at this cranky old bastard. “How can you cozy up and die feeling happy? You used us.”

  Three tucks two arms under his chin. So he looks like a Technicolor ad from the fifties. Or maybe Mad Magazine. Y’know: What, me worry? Ancient mutt in the suburban ruins of what Caleb and Plissken took apart piece by piece to make the camp.

  He says, “I think you momfuckers had glimpses of happiness. Caleb, on the other hand, was the only one who truly dedicated himself to the cause.” He flaps a dismissive tendril at us. “You don’t even know about his spawn, do you?”

  Jack cocks an eye. “Spawn?” He licks his lips. Glances from Catarina back to Three. “My brother didn’t have a lover. Or a kid. You big fuckin sushi side dish.”

  “I appreciate that you never liked me or even trusted me, Jack. But the fact remains: Your brother bred. He did have a lover. I smell her.”

  Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you sound less fuckin clinical, please.” He throws his head back. Stares at the cloudy sky and the wavering snow. “Fuck it.” Pulls his big Colt revolver. Marches up to Three’s face. “It’d be a great pleasure to kill you. After everything. A great fuckin pleasure. Talk.”

  Three sighs. “That has never work
ed. Ever. You tried in the burrow below Brooklyn. I assume you remember. And, yet, where did that get you?”

  The ancient monster and my wayward father have a staring contest that lasts a minute. Two.

  Jack shouts. Screams. “Tell me about my brother.”

  Three says, “I can smell Caleb’s spawn on that massive carrier. Much as I can smell you, the female, your son, your brother’s lover. Ask your son’s machine. Perhaps you will find it a more agreeable conversationalist.”

  Jack whirls. Points his .45 at my oldest friend.

  I stand in my father’s way. “You hurt Plissken, I’ll kill you.”

  Jack glares at me. Shoves me. “They’re monsters, you idiot. All of em in their own way.”

  I snap back. Crack my father’s wrist with a solid grip and a strong blow from my right palm under his gun hand. “Some of these monsters took care of me when you were nowhere to be found.”

  He drops the Colt. Doesn’t cry out. Just moans. Drops to his knees. “I wanna know...if they know something about Caleb.” He stares at the dirt. “I wanna know if there’s some part of my brother fuckin left.”

  Catarina strides over to him. Wraps her arms around him.

  My asshole father.

  She says, “Plissken, if you know something, please tell us.”

  Plissken’s pudgy saucer body rotates toward me.

  I nod. “Spit it out, bud.”

  “Caleb did indeed have a child. A son, to be specific.” He looks at me again. “You met him, briefly. The boy, Max. Both caretakers less-than-thrilled to see you since they know what being involved with you means.”

  I lick my lips. Puff my cheeks. “Fuckin hell.”

  Jack says, “Why? Why keep it secret?” Voice lilting. Close to breaking. “And why tell you? A goddamn robot.”

  “Caleb knew I would find out. I know everything...within reason.” Plissken bobs. “He didn’t want his son conscripted. He had faith that his kin would fight. No matter what. But he wanted to spare his son the responsibility—the misery.”

  Jack shouts, “My brother thought his son could grow up....what? Eating fuckin cereal and watching Saturday morning cartoons?”

  Catarina brushes Jack’s hair, “Hey, hey. C’mon, cowboy.”

  Plissken says, “Is the idea so terrible? He wanted his son to have a chance at a normal life. Or what passes for normal. If you care about your brother, you should honor his wish.”

  Jack nods. Cries. He’s a sobbing figure in the snow.

  Catarina holds his shaking form. Herself a bundle of tears.

  I don’t join em.

  Three studies me. Says, “You will soon have to make the same decision. Do you want to save your world? Or do you want to be a father?”

  I say, “Fuck does that mean?”

  “I think it is rather clear. The creature inside your head has mentioned it before. The Durandal? Curious thing. You can end it. You can end all of this. Your brain seems aware. It’s somewhere in the back, though you have buried it. Deliberately, I assume. The idea of I Am Legend—which is a culture reference I am not familiar with. But you have to decide. Do you want life? Or do you want to ‘win?’” Three chuckles. “I take no particular joy in reminding you that humans are the only species who have developed a concept of ‘winning.’ Every other creature seems to find waking up to face another day a triumph. The one idea you all seem to have is that there is glory in death. I cannot disagree.”

  I did tell you...I warned you. It was always gonna come back to this.

  Now I wanna shoot the old fuck. If only to make myself feel better. I yell. Holler at the aging monster. “Just tell me what I gotta do you shitbird. Tell me. We haven’t fuckin got this far to...we’ve built death machines. We’ve built everything we need to survive.” I storm toward Three’s half-lidded red and blue eyes. I point toward the Beast. “There are eighteen hundred motherfuckers up there alive cuz of me. Me. All of em immune cuz of my blood. This shit in my veins you unwrapped. I’m not gonna condemn em to scraping along anymore. If I’m so special, fine. Fine. I accept the fuckin responsibility. And it took me a long time to get here, but I’m not gonna let those people down. Not now. Not ever. I’ll kill everything in my way. But you don’t get to tumble up here and stay cryptic. The fuck am I supposed to do?”

  Three sighs again. Says, “You have to decide.” He blinks his big eyes. Tucks all of his legs under his form. Like he’s gonna go to sleep. “In spite of your hatred, I am glad to have known you. Now, please, let me die.”

  His eyes close.

  Then he’s gone.

  Gently, at least.

  9. Abyssal

  I walk back toward the Beast. Tell the pilots over the radio, “Don’t touch the Hroza’s body. We’ll take care of it.”

  I tell Booker, Athena, Sarah, Aiden, DeVille the same.

  This’s a family thing.

  A close family thing.

  And, sorry, just let us do this.

  Me and Jack and Catarina crawl into our Talos warframes.

  My mother cuts lumber down outta Franklin Park to our south. Builds a funeral pyre as me and my dad carry Three’s big body toward the shore.

  Jack saying, “We owe him this much.”

  My old man close to tears over and over.

  Along with me, cuz I dunno what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.

  You know.

  Plissken and Harryhausen float near us.

  Catarina sets the pyre ablaze after me and Jack lay Three’s body on top.

  We weep as he turns to ash.

  10. A Funny Chapter Title to Lighten the Mood

  No.

  We’re miserable.

  And I’m not feeling too funny at the moment.

  Look, this has gone on for a while. There’s what you can do, what you wanna do, and what you should do. I dunno what the last one is. You can keep the survivors alive. You wanna get back to New York. And you should...decide what your final goal is.

  I don’t know. I really don’t know.

  I’ve been harassing you about this shit for years. Years. Do you want to be a father? Do you want your Baby Bear? Finally?

  Yes, you fuck.

  Do you want your city back?

  Yes.

  Do you want to destroy the infection? Save your world? You can end all of this. I’ve been saying that. A lot.

  Fuckin yes.

  Well, you can only have one. Decide.

  I want em all. I deserve all of it. After the crap I’ve been put through. I deserve it. It ain’t fair. None of this is fair.

  “Fair” ain’t got dick to do with life. You know that.

  How the fuck would I destroy the infection? Tell me that.

  The only way to save this planet is to feed us to the enormous tumor in the Milwaukee Deep. You can sacrifice yourself. I’ll do the rest. Cuz, frankly, I won’t have much choice in the matter. Think of it as a counter-infection.

  But I’d rather you didn’t.

  11. Fuck It, I’m Getting Drunk

  I walk across one of the wide-open decks on the Beast. Alone.

  Maybe you think I’m a prick for not being with the mother of my child. Or my parents—who’re both hurting. Or my own daughter and her partner. Or the damaged emergent kids.

  Well, I don’t give a fuck and also: Fuck you.

  I need a goddamn drink and some quiet. I ain’t ready to talk to anyone.

  Survivors wave to me and clap my back. Happy to be on the Beast. Happier still that the meat slug couldn’t get through the shield.

  So they’re, y’know, thrilled.

  Some guy gets too close. Too excited. Grabs my shoulder. “Hey, great job man. Congratulations.”

  I nod. Fight the urge to sock this chipper jerk. “Thanks. Awesome. Fuck off.” I shrug to g
et free of him. March forward. Leave the guy looking pissed and hurt and confused.

  I stomp past people trying to put their lives back together on this rumbling crawler. Mothers. Fathers. Little kids. Others who’re shoveling snow off the deck.

  Some of the older folks’ve already set their shops up again. Manny, the curmudgeon who makes lizard chili, is tucked into a big metal shipping container.

  And—fuckin perfect—Aaron’s restarted his grimy little Palmer’s Pub nearby in another steel box.

  So I take a stool at the counter. Say, “Didn’t take you long.”

  Aaron bites his bottom lip. Arches his eyebrows at me. “Know what folks do when shit goes fucky? They drink. Which I assume’s why you’re here. So whaddaya want, Godking of the Apocalypse?”

  “Godking?”

  “You wanna be called something else? You’re the ‘savior’ right? Everyone here’s got your blood in em. Kinda creepy, but I got my injection too. So...whaddaya want?”

  I light a cigarette. “Shot of whiskey and a beer, if you got it.”

  “Alcohol is wonderfully portable.” Aaron smirks. “Yeah, I got it.” He pours me my drinks.

  I down the booze. Sip my beer. Smoke my smoke.

  Aaron says, “You wanna talk?”

  I cock an eye at him. “What? You volunteering to be my emotional fuckin tampon or something?”

  “Just told you about the whole goddamn blood thing. Figured I’d ask.”

  “Having my blood doesn’t mean there are eighteen hundred mes running around on the crawler, you old bastard. The stock of mes should be limited to one or less.”

  “Kid, I’ve got forty years on you. Seen a lotta awful shit. I might know something.” Aaron flaps a hand at me. “But hey, no sweat off my sack.”

  I try not to think about it.

  But it comes back after a few drinks.

  The “talking” thing, not Aaron’s wrinkled sack.

  I rub my chin. Scratch my cheek. Maybe it’s a good idea for me to discuss this crap with someone other than my family. Start to say, “Listen—”

  Then Madison and her mute lover Gunnar take the two seats next to me. She taps the counter. “Two beers.” Turns to me. “You all right?”