“Been better. How’re you two?”
Madison shrugs. “Hard to complain, all things considered. Don’t have to deal with the cult. We’re as close to safe as we’re gonna get.” She nods. “Yeah, we’re doing okay.”
Gunnar holds his beer up. Clinks glasses with Madison.
She smiles. Chugs a mouthful. Says to me, “You wanna talk about it.”
I take a breath. Exhale through my nose. Jerk my head toward Aaron. “You taking directions from him?”
Aaron says, “I figure after a few more drinks, we won’t be able to shut him up, but he’s doing his stoic thing right now.”
Gunnar grins.
I take a lungful of smoke. Throw my hands out. “Well, haha-fuckin-ha,” I grumble. Point at my empty shot glass. “Another.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Got a whole buncha shit coming down on my head right now.”
Aaron says, “We gathered as much.”
Madison says, “Kinda why we’re asking.”
“Ain’t every day the Godking saddles up to the bar to drink with the rest of us plebes.”
“I’d vote for you.” She turns to Gunnar. “He really seems like a guy I can ‘have a beer with.’“
I do my shot. “Never understood why that was in the ‘plus’ column for elected office. ‘Hey, that guy’s a dirtbag like the rest of us.’” Close my eyes. “But when the human race consists of eighteen hundred motherfuckers on a nuclear crawler going about five miles an hour, y’know, chances are better’n fifty-fifty.”
Aaron pours himself a beer. “Talk, man. Us ‘dirtbags’ would like to know what the hell’s going on.”
“All right.” I sniff. Stamp out my cigarette. Light another. “That big creature me and my parents burned on the pyre? That was called a Hroza. An ancient monster we called ‘Three.’” I stare at my beer. Drain it. Aaron silently refills my glass. I say, “It was the source of the genetic gifts my family carries. It was also the source of the infected—the parasite. And—” I lift my glass “—that last of its kind.”
Takes me a buzzed moment to notice the crowd of survivors gathered behind me.
Well, you’re all-in now. Take it home, cowboy.
Madison squints at me. “Isn’t that a good thing, though? That the Hroza’s dead?”
“Nope.” I drink my beer. “Three was a dick, but he was a smart dick. Gave my parents enough information so they could save Brooklyn. Did the same for me—my daughter’s only alive cuz I followed Three’s directions. We lost a big, fat fuckin source of information. Never gonna know all the things Three knew.” My eyes tear.
The crowd’s quiet. Listening.
I ain’t no politician. Never gonna be that bastard who lies and placates for votes.
So fuck it.
I keep talking. Drinking. “On top of that are the pilots. Aliens and their human pal. Those three saucers following the Beast like puppies. I don’t understand em. Maybe they’re waiting to see if we fuck up in some entertaining way. They seem to give about half a shit about us. Dunno why. Enough to keep us alive. Their expert opinion is that we should blow up the planet. Write it off as a loss.”
I hear the crowd tense behind me. I finally turn to acknowledge em. Say, “I’m not gonna do that. I’m gonna do my best to keep it from getting anywhere near that.”
Their eyes study me. Not quite trusting but wanting to believe.
My own eyes are tired and red and angry and sad. “I’m sharing intel. Letting you all know what’s been happening. I haven’t let you down yet.”
Aside from, uh, losing almost half the population of survivors at the fort due to mimics but, hey, who’s counting? Amirite? At least nobody has to pay for anything thanks to technocratic-social-democra-facism. Or whatever.
I reintroduce myself to my beer. “Then there’s the Milwaukee Deep. An ocean trench near Puerto Rico. It’s five miles deep and the size of Florida. Apparently, the entire world’s supply of infected flesh has migrated there to create the mother of all biomasses.” I chuckle. “It’s a planet-eater.” Point again to my empty shot glass.
Aaron fills it. Says, “The fuck’s it doing?”
“Aside from being that fuckin aforementioned planet-eater? I don’t know, man. I don’t know.” I do my shot. Head’s a bit swimmy now. Not a bad feeling. “The kicker with all this crap is that the parasite in my brain tells me—”
Ahhh, wait, might not be the best idea to throw that one out there.
“—that if I sacrifice myself, it’ll be like a counter-infection that could wipe out the parasite.” I smile at Aaron. Madison. Gunnar. My lips falter. Tremble. “I learn this when I’m on the cusp of being a father.” I bite my lip. “So that’s where I am.” Arch my eyebrows. Turn to the crowd. Shout, “But, please, lemme know how all of you are doing.”
I stop. Rub my face. “Shit. Sorry...sorry.”
Rule of thumb: Don’t scare the shit outta the people you need on your side.
Madison says, “What...” She shakes her head. “What the fuck are we all supposed to do now? Ride around on your crawler till we croak?”
“No. We are gonna take back New York.” I reassure the crowd. “It’s gonna be our city. And we’re gonna kill every fuckin parasite in our way.”
So...you...are a politician now.
Shut up.
12. The Honeymooners
DeVille gives me both barrels when I get home.
Which’s sort of an accomplishment in and of itself. Since I didn’t know there was such a thing as home till Plissken and Harryhausen guided me there.
Stupid drunk, of course. Which won’t last long cuz of how fast my body processes it.
DeVille says, “Mother of living shit, what were you thinking?”
I flop onto the bed. “Transparency.” I burp. “Wasn’t that one of our campaign promises?”
Cuz I’m so very clever.
DeVille sneers. “You can’t throw information at the survivors and expect em to be able to sort it all out. Yeah, sure, you told em everything, but you didn’t explain anything.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You spent an hour being fear-mongering journalism. A talking head on Fox News. Now there are eighteen hundred people trying to figure out what the fuck you said means.”
“It means everything is all of the bads.” I titter. Harrumph. “They’re better knowing than not knowing. They’ll be fine. They need to—” I stretch. Fall back on the bed. The pillow. “They need to know we’re not a load of ubermensches in a high castle dictating their lives.”
“That’s exactly what we are. Without us? Without the emergent? These people would all be goddamn dead. It’s our responsibility to save these people. For fuck’s sake, you’re so powerful that injections of your blood keep em from being infected.” DeVille sighs. “The survivors came to the fort cuz Caleb gave em a chance at life. Protection. They need us to protect em. They do not need us to scare the hell out of em.”
I talk to the ceiling. “You don’t have much faith in people.”
DeVille sits on the bed next to me. “What’s this shit? Neither do you. You never have. Now you’re...trying to be a down-home man of the people? Some asshole I’d vote for cuz I feel I can ‘have a beer with him?’”
Goddamn it.
I sit up. More sober. “I’m having a hard fuckin time reconciling journalism with hiding shit from the people we’re supposed to take care of.”
DeVille leans over me. “Suck it up, cupcake.” She glares at me. Then grimaces. “You’re drunk. Which you aren’t supposed to be doing anymore. Last thing our kids need is a father like that.”
“It’s this NSA...surveillance...fuckin...‘for the best’ shit I can’t stand. If we can’t trust the people, why should the people trust us?”
She smirks. “Didn’t you tell me that a person could be reasonable but people are mobs of insanity?�
�
I blink. Rubs my forehead. “Something like that. Yeah. Sounds like me.”
DeVille takes my hand. Brushes it against her cheek. “Don’t worry about telling people everything that spills outta your mouth. Worry about how to save em.” She moves my hand to her stomach. “Worry about our children. Worry about giving em a real chance. And don’t for a second entertain this notion you’re gonna sacrifice yourself like the hero in a badly-written epic.”
“All right.” I smile. Let my fingers feel her flesh. “They’ll be hardcore fighters.”
She rakes her fingers through my hair. “Like their dad.”
I pull DeVille down to me. So my chest pushes against her back. Wrap my hands around her chest. “Like their mom.” I press my lips against her neck.
She chuckles. Takes my hands in her own. Slides em up to her breasts. “You sober yet?”
“Sorta.”
She pinches her nipples with my fingers. Straddles me. She pulls her grey sweater over her head. Her undershirt. “If you don’t make me scream, I’m gonna be pissed.”
And staring at her gorgeous scarred breasts, I’m glad we gave up on producing bras.
Definitely decreases the number of awkward scenes in romantic comedies though.
That’s not a bad thing.
I kiss DeVille’s scars. Her neck. Get lost on her lips.
She pushes me down. Rubs herself on me.
My hands grip her midsection. The growing bulge at her belly. “Is it safe?”
DeVille takes my hands in her own again. “For the babies?”
“Yeah, I don’t—”
She points to her pelvis. “There’s a lot more blood moving through here.” She grins. “I think the technical term is ‘engorged.’” She snakes her fingers up under my sweater. Rips it off me. Buries her nails in my chest. “I want sex, you dumbass. At least right now.” She tugs my jeans down. Stops. “But if you even try something stupid when I don’t want it, I’ll cut your balls off.”
“You realize my balls’ll grow back, right?”
“I’ll just cut em off again.” She makes a scissor motion with her fingers. “Turn it into a party game.”
13. Where Were We
The Beast doesn’t move that fast. At one mile by three miles, it’s goddamn huge. Not the kinda machine you can rush. Five miles an hour ain’t the upper limit, but it’s safe and it keeps us moving.
I think about this.
And Three.
And my job.
And my kids.
And Caleb’s son.
And what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
While we roll toward Rhode Island. Providence.
Woulda been there sooner but thirty-five miles takes seven hours as it is. And the crawler doesn’t move with eight Talos warframes docked at its sides. Not cuz of the added weight or anything. Just a matter of making sure me or my family is around if we run into something.
So when the emergent need a break, the whole goddamn Beast has to stop.
And gimme a break with the “blah blah you’re super people why do you need to rest?” thing. You pilot a big warframe for five hours and lemme know how you feel afterward.
I stand at one of the upper decks on the Beast. Where our trusted drivers sit. All ten of em. A mix of humans and robots.
I watch the geography over the railings outside the command tower control room. Like I’m retracing my steps up from New York City, only with a taller view. I’m three or four hundred feet up.
Also able to launch city-killing missiles! Whole lots of em. Neat!
If my NRA card had a vagina, it’d be dripping.
Or if it had a dick, it’d be throbbing.
Take your pick.
I honestly don’t care.
Thrill at the gender politics we won’t go anywhere near! Except when we do!
I say to the crawler’s drivers, “Anything out there needs killing?”
A female voice says, “Define ‘needs’ within ammo expenditure.”
I duck inside the command center. Look around at all the workers and their holographic control panels.
It’s Swift. Valerie Swift. She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Horde’a Keefs ain’t worth an antimatter missile. Maybe not even worth wasting high explosive ammo on. I mean—” she gestures toward her holoscreen “—we can just roll the fuck over a horde of zombies.”
I cock an eye at her. “You’re pissed cuz we took the choppers off duty.”
“I’m pissed cuz I ain’t doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Flying choppers.”
Valerie huffs at me. “Killing motherbitches and rescuing people.” She furrows her brow. “Sir.”
“Keeping the choppers in the air eats fuel for no reason. Can’t have pilots at station indefinitely.” I roll my tongue around my mouth. Well-aware she’s the descendant of someone who saw horror before I was born. And won. “You wanna be on Spartan duty instead?” Legitimately asking cuz I’d rather have killers in killer roles.
I remember a buncha bullshit came out at one point. Movie where a USC sniper was so stupid fuckin good at killing people he was, I dunno, the patron saint of killing people.
Maybe it was tough for folks to suss out cuz they didn’t get it. The mentality you gotta have to fight that way.
But I also remember thinking, why get mad at a dude who’s good at his job? And, like, the best dude at his job.
When I call a plumber or a carpenter or whatever, I want the best motherfucker and I would prefer the motherfucker who’s both the best and enjoying it.
Job description for soldiers involves obliterating the other sonuvabitch before he obliterates you. Ain’t like the bastard on the other side of the RPG or sniper scope ain’t thinking the same thing.
Seems simple enough to me.
Granted, I get murderboners all the time. So what do I know?
Uh, you know murderbonering.
Well, yes. Clearly.
My primary goal in life is to kill all the things.
I say to Valerie, “Did you pass Talos training or no?”
“Non-emergent ain’t allowed to even attempt Talos training.”
“Congratulations. You’re our contest winner. Talos training is open. Long as you stop whining.” I scrunch my face up. “Doesn’t mean you get a warframe, but there it is.”
Valerie’s eyes light up. Then she frowns. “You sure Plissken’s gonna let me?”
“Just tell him you pissed me off. He’ll believe that.” I take her seat as she stands. “If Jack or Catarina have a problem with it, they can call me at your station.”
“Yessir. Thank you.” She salutes.
I return the gesture. Study the computer as she scampers off toward the high-speed lift. I can see the Beast at the center of a two hundred mile-in-diameter circle of radar. There’s a topographical map under it. Green dots representing drones. Red dots and smudges to indicate infected activity.
Ain’t much there.
At least, nothing that won’t get turned into an flesh tube leaking gory paste by the Beast’s massive two hundred foot treads. We’re even crushing houses. Small condo complexes.
The Keefs, stilt-walkers, and flesh-towers drawn to the noise of the crawler all go squish in a way that’s sickeningly pleasant to me over the external microphones.
Gunners in their battlements rattle off rounds that rip apart more targets.
It’s kinda like being laid off.
I mutter to myself. “Valerie was right.” Stand. Strut back out to the railing. Light a cigarette. Blow smoke at the sun. “Can’t be this easy.”
Nope.
“It’s never this easy.”
Nope.
“Something’s gonna go horribly wrong.”
Yep.
&nb
sp; A young dude calls me in from the command center. Don’t know him. If he matters, I’ll try to learn his name.
He says, “Jack’s on the comm.”
I nod. Grab the handset from him. “Yeah.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your earpiece?”
“Haven’t worn it since we docked our warframes. Needed some quiet time.” Then, to be a dick. “How’s the wrist?”
“Be fine in a couple days. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome. What’s the issue.”
“The guy who runs with the aliens called in. He wants to meet—just you and me and Cat. And he wants to do it on the crawler. Doesn’t wanna bring the pilots into it directly. Not for this talk anyway.”
I scratch my neck. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“The pilots creep me out, but Gordineer seems to wanna save the planet he’s got memories of. Same as you and mom.”
“Maybe he’s sick of being with the skinny blue bastards, wants to join us?”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one. When you’re pals with the most powerful creatures in the solar system, why piss on that?”
“Right. So, he probably wants to join us. I mean, we are the most powerful creatures in the solar system.”
14. Blue Balls
The alien commander’s smaller coupe saucer holds steady near the Beast’s deck. A silver tongue uncurls from the yellow eyeball at its center. Gordineer strolls down. Flanked by two skinny aliens who only follow him to the end of the ramp. Their big circular heads cast around. Check out the Beast and all us angry apes onboard.
Gordineer waves to me and Jack and Catarina. Jack with bandages around his hand. Gordineer still in his dumb jumpsuit. He says, “Hi.” Once he hits the deck, he waves the aliens off. They turn back. The saucer floats away. Gordineer says, “Please tell me you’ve got alcohol... Human alcohol.”
Catarina says, “If you’d asked, like, three months ago, we coulda hooked you up then.”
Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6) Page 5