Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6)

by William Vitka

  Plissken’s got his own family too. Juliet. Lovelace. Turing—who’s roboning Jade...

  Family get-togethers are gonna be weird. All these interlocking relationships.

  Getting kinda biblical with all the begetting, if you can dig it.

  I’m getting off track here.

  My point is, I dunno if I can handle retirement.

  Durandal’s got a point. It’s getting late in the story.

  We’ll have Manhattan soon. Topside, anyway. Then it’s a matter of dealing with the cockroaches and the skinnies. Then...what? Me and my family hunker down in some choice New York real estate? Whittle away the days?

  Shifting from war to peace...a lotta soldiers have trouble with that.

  Going from a kill machine to a guy bouncing babies on his knees.

  I should probably shut the fuck up and be happy.

  At the very least, this means all the death and blood meant something.

  Plissken hums. “The skinnies are actually impressive creatures.” He puffs his thrusters as we near Thirty-third Street. “Do you realize what they are?”

  “More goddamn slender freaks waiting for bullets to the brain?” I smirk. “Except they ain’t blue like the bastard pilots.”

  “Well, yes. There is that.” My drone makes a grunt. “No, the parasite is trying to recreate humanity. Civilization.” He stops. Turns to face me. “The parasite wants to be you.”

  “Sucks for them.” I spit. Less blood squirts out. Hooray. “So we’re siding with the cockroaches, I assume.”

  “I think that’s the safe play. Unless you want to ally the last survivors of the human—more or less—species with para sapiens.”

  “Eh. Not so much.”

  We pass the shattered shitty stores and fake Irish pubs that litter lower Midtown. I mean, hey, fuck those places anyway. They all blow. But I look up. Stretch my neck.

  There she is.

  Beautiful. Gleaming in the dying sunlight.

  The Empire State Building.

  I nudge Plissken with my elbow. “Welcome home.”

  Then I notice the doors.

  One’s open.

  Fuck me.

  “Mother of piss.” I pull my Colt. “How the hell—”

  Plissken says, “It wasn’t bashed open. It was cut with a high-powered torch.”

  “I’ll gut the motherfuckers.” Even if they’re kids. This place is mine. “You said there weren’t any humans left on the island.”

  “There aren’t.” With that, Plissken zips up to the ESB entrance. Swivels sideways. Slips inside.

  I follow. My boots clomp through the Art Deco lobby. The polished marble. The brass and the mural of celestial awesomeness watch me as I run for the stairs and my metal buddy.

  We’d take the elevator shafts like we used to, except I weigh too much with the Pegasus suit. Or so Plissken says. I think he’s just getting lazy.

  I ignore the pain in my chest. March the stairs.

  Plissken scans each floor on our journey.

  In my condition, it takes two hours to get to the observation deck. Eighty-sixth floor. Without a peep or a hint of resistance. I’m reduced to the cardiovascular performance of a heavy smoker which, to be fair, I would be anyway without Durandal.

  I creep onto the observation deck. Gun drawn.

  The wind-strewn remains of my camp are still here. But it’s messier somehow. I mean that in the sense that I didn’t think anyone could be more of a slovenly pig than the bachelor version of me. I was wrong apparently.

  There are more empty cans of food clattering around. Plastic and aluminum wrappers flutter against the low walls in the wind. Glass from broken bottles of booze.

  Plissken hovers to me. Says, “Weapons bench.”

  I walk to the metal shack. Still tethered with steel cabling. The door bounces on its hinges. I spy a body slumped over. Head down against the bench were I spent so much time caring for my weapons.

  If the guy’s got any surprises for me, I don’t think he’s in much shape to do anything about it.

  I keep the Colt trained on the back of his skull. Not much hair or skin there anymore. I slip a finger into the collar of his decayed winter jacket. Yank the body back.

  The carcass falls in a heap at my feet. Bones with flecks of papery skin. Skeletal fingers limp around the handle of a Glock 37. The slide locked back.

  Means he was outta ammo.

  I glance at the side of his head. The big hole there that shattered his cranium.

  Means he saved the last bullet for himself.

  I pick up the Glock. Pop the empty mag. Place the gun and the magazine on the bench. My bench. Crouch on my knees. Wince. Stare at the empty sockets in what used to be this guy’s face.

  I mutter, “Man, things coulda gone a lot differently.” I pat the skull. It cracks away from the spine. Tumbles a little. I snatch it up. Hold it like a curious monkey. Talk again: “Fucked up variables, huh? Except for a few, it’d be you finding me the same.” I carry the skull back to my workbench. Find a big screw that punches up through the wood. Ram the skull onto it so it sits quiet. Sits there watching everything. “Coulda been... Coulda been.”

  There’s a chair nearby. One that hasn’t blown off the observation desk. Oak with curved armrests. Don’t remember where me and Plissken found it. I do remember we had to remake the cushion. The ass bit.

  It’s still here. Hasn’t quite been killed by wind and rain and snow and sleet and stupid.

  I drag it to the west-facing wall. Plant my butt. Kick my legs up. Watch the sun become red sludge against the horizon.

  I rub my eyes. Fight the urge to scream while my insides get repaired.

  Plissken settles near me. Stops firing his thrusters. Metal frame warm. He just waits. My hand on his fuselage.

  I pat him. Kick my legs up. “Oh, shit, wait.” Go back to the workbench. Grab a bottle of whiskey hidden there in a corner. Resettle my tuchus. Spin the cap off.

  This bottle of whiskey had a name when we stole it, but who knows what it is now. Label’s unreadable.

  I gulp the amber liquid.

  Light an American Spirit.

  Tell Plissken, “You had ten years. With all your gizmos. You never found anyone better than me to hang out with?”

  “It is, believe me, tempting to fuck with you. But...no. No. Never. Who else could accomplish such a maddening task but the two of us?”

  I shrug. My eyes moist with tears. Memories. “Yeah it’s a thing, huh?”

  Plissken boosts himself up. Hovers. “I died once. I don’t intend to do so again.” He floats in front of me in the weakened light of the evening sun. A panel slides open on his undercarriage. A slim robotic hand extends from it. Toward me.

  He says, “We never had the chance. Too busy, I suppose.”

  I chug my whiskey. Take a drag from my cigarette. “No. We didn’t.”

  I grab his hand in mine. Shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Plissken.”

  He bobs. “Likewise.”

  “If they kill you—”

  “They won’t.”

  “You sure?”

  Plissken dips his saucer shape toward me. “I’m sure.”

  I hear DeVille over my shoulder. “So this is it, huh?”

  She stands at the entrance to the observatory deck. Eyeballs the crap someone else left when I was gone.

  I stand. Grind out my cigarette. Don’t make any excuses. “Yeah.” Wave my arms around at the debris. “Say ‘Hello’ to my home when I was stuck in the NYCZ.”

  She smirks. “Could use a woman’s touch, but the view is fantastic.” Walks over to me. Pries the whiskey outta my hand. “Always have some stashed away, huh?”

  I shrug. Wipe my eyes. “Just me and Plissken up here for ten years. Ended up needing a lotta liquid courage.�
� I bite my lip. “Is what it is.”

  DeVille touches the side of my face. Nods. “I know.” She kisses me.

  We walk arm-in-arm to the railing. Face the falling sun.

  I watch the troops move. Watch a Talos warframe—Aiden’s, I think—lunge at a leviathan in the Hudson. He pounds it with fists. Rips its jaws apart till they snap off. Crushes its brain with his hands.

  Kid’s got moves.

  DeVille takes a tiny nip of whiskey. Hands me the bottle. I take another mouthful and set the bottle down.

  She shakes her head. “Ten fuckin years.” She looks me over. “You need to rest. Heal up. How long till you’re at full strength?”

  Gimme eight hours of a good coma, you’ll be all right.

  I clear my throat. “If I can pass out for a few hours, I’ll be fine.”

  DeVille leans around me so she can look at Plissken. Says to the drone, “Really?”

  Cuz I guess she doesn’t trust me much in terms of taking it easy.

  All Plissken can manage is a bob. A shrug.

  Like, Who fuckin knows. Dude ain’t dead yet. Gotta be doing something right.

  DeVille furrows her brow. Wraps her arms around me. Hugs me. Tries to make sure she doesn’t mess me up any more than I already am. She nuzzles my neck. Whispers in my ear: “Our children need a father. And I need you.” She pulls back. Locks her eyes on mine. “I don’t want to lose you again. You need to let other survivors lend a hand. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

  I hold the back of DeVille’s head. Smirk. “You know me better than that.”

  22. Kill Strangers or Kill the Ones You Love

  I crash for six hours. Pretty much where I used to. Under a metal roof. In a tent. On a bigass sleeping bag. The Pegasus suit’s climate controls keep me comfy.

  Sleeping in the middle of a war zone ain’t easy. But it can be done.

  Especially when the parasite in your head slaps you into a coma.

  Oh, boo-fuckin-hoo. Your ribs are still bruised. So’re your lungs. But you’ll manage.

  Thanks.

  I wake up to my parents.

  Plissken’s playing Night of the Living Dead on one of the walls.

  Jack and Catarina share what remains of my whiskey. Asses in two aluminum lawn chairs. Their backs to me. Hands knotted together. Like they’re a couple kids in a theater.

  To be honest, the flick doesn’t have quite the same punch for me that it used to.

  Can’t imagine it does for my folks, either.

  But maybe it does. They’re quiet. Tense.

  They jump when the camera cuts from Barbra’s panicky face in the farmhouse to the fleshless, bug-eyed face of the dead lady upstairs. The sting of music.

  Then they laugh. Each takes another swig of booze.

  Jack lights a cigarette. Blows smoke at the projection.

  Catarina grabs his stogie. Steals a puff before handing it back.

  I chuckle. Can’t help myself.

  They are two kids at the movies.

  My parents whip around. Then grin at each other. Then go back to me.

  Jack says, “Morning kiddo.” He extends the bottle of whiskey toward me. “Breakfast?”

  I sit up with a grunt. Pain ain’t so bad in my chest anymore. So I light a cigarette. Scratch my face. My beard. I cough. Only a tiny bit of blood now. Tell my dad: “Sure.”

  He struts over. Hands me some alcohol. “How’re you doing?”

  I gulp the whiskey. Swallow. Feel fresh burn. Open my eyes wide. Blink hard. “Shit, that brings me back.” I sniff. Look around the observation deck. “Can’t believe I’m here again.”

  Catarina walks to us. Sits cross-legged near me. “We kinda can’t either. Any closer to home and we’d have to be—”

  “In Bay Ridge. Yeah. Same.” I rub my face. It’s not as though being here again is a fuckin good thing for me. “Where’s DeVille?”

  Jack says, “She’s back at the Beast. Resting up. The, uh...” He nods to Catarina. “I’ll let your mom explain. I’m terrible at it.”

  “If something fuckin touched her while you were supposed to be protecting her, I’ll—”

  My mother holds up a hand. “Slow down, little man.” She grabs the booze bottle from me. Takes a pull. “First off, DeVille can take care of her damn self. Even while carrying around two emergent babies in her belly.”

  Jack laughs. “I swear, dude, your mom killed more motherfuckers when she was preggo with you than without. She was a terror.”

  Catarina squints at my old man. “...Secondly, giving birth to a single pure emergent is not easy. Giving birth to two is...well, worse. Harder.” She cocks an eye at me. “Neither you or your dad are quite equipped to deal with it.”

  I twirl my fingers. Breathe smoke. “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  Catarina rolls her eyes. “Emergent embryos grow faster than normal. It’s not too noticeable. Generally just a few weeks early. Pure emergent?” She gestures to me. “You were the first. The twins will be the second and third. It’s all kinda—” Catarina seesaws her hand back and forth. “It’s all kinda wishy-washy.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Lick my lips. “Was I unclear? Did I stutter?” I squint at my parents. “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  My mom throws her hands out. “I thought you were supposed to be less of an asshole now?”

  Jack gestures with his hands. “Y’know, growing as a person.”

  I smoke. Scowl. “I’m gonna grow up both your asses with brass unless someone tells me plain what the fuck is going on.”

  “The pregnancies are unpredictable.”

  “You mean DeVille might die?” I clench my fist.

  Catarina shakes her head. “No. She’s strong enough. She’s hard. Hard as the rest of us. Maybe harder. But the babies might come a lot faster than you think.” She shrugs. “I was only pregnant with you for five months. Then you, uh—”

  Jack says, “Came storming outta the uterus like Hannibal.”

  My mom smiles. “Ugh, remember the blood?”

  “I remember blood and poop and a whole lotta screaming from our little bundle of joy here.” Jack jerks his head toward me. Smiles. Takes a drink. “Doctors with The Collective thought you were some...weird abomination. Wasn’t anything they’d ever seen. And they were goddamn aliens.”

  Catarina shrugs. “They thought you should be studied. Raised with their ways.”

  “Become an agent like me and your mom and your uncle.”

  “We didn’t agree. We knew you had to be here.”

  I scratch my face again. At once unsure but also certain how this story plays out. “So...what’d you do?”

  Jack bites his lip. Arches his eyebrows. “I may not have been entirely honest, back when we were rolling over the New New York Bridge. Well, more specifically, I didn’t tell you everything. The reason we can’t call The Collective for backup? To use their tech to hop around the time stream? Escape?”

  “...Yeah?”

  “We killed em all.” Jack drinks. “That’s part of what we were, uh...busy with while you were stuck here.” He pawns the whiskey off to Catarina.

  She takes it. Drinks. “We couldn’t square the idea of alien dipshits deciding the fate of our son.” She gives me the booze. “And killing is the family business, after all.”

  “Business is good.”

  “Business is always good. Rest in peace, Griffin.”

  That’s...nice. I guess?

  Yeah, I dunno either. Hard not to be impressed by the idea that my parents slaughtered an entire station of space and time-faring beings cuz they wanted me left alone. I mean I’m totally fine with that. Makes me like Jack and Catarina more. The rest of it though...

  Eh. Fuck it.

  I look my parents over. Roll my tongu
e around my mouth. “Thank you.” I stand. Look out across the city at night.

  It’s bright. Comparatively, anyway. Instead of the yawning death and darkness, there are survivors. Robots. Glimmers from construction and defensive projects. A thousand men and women and machines—whose genders are, y’know, whatever they want em to be—who work to make NYCZ livable again.

  The Talos warframes are beautiful with their running lights engaged. Enormous sentinels standing guard around Manhattan.

  I flick my cigarette off the side of the observation deck. A personal shooting star.

  Jack and Catarina sidle up on both sides of me. Dad on my right. Mom on my left.

  Catarina says, “What’s the plan, Napoleon?”

  I shrug. “Kill the skinnies. I assume Plissken filled everyone in. We get rid of these evolved forms of the infection. Convince the pilots the roaches ‘don’t count’ and then hopefully the space dicks fuck off.”

  “There’s a wrinkle with that.”

  I mouth the booze. “Course there is.”

  Jack says, “The skinnies reached out. Gave me and your mom the same spiel the cockroaches did. Similar one, anyway. They’re dying. This war between the tribes is kicking the shit outta all of em. They’re gonna wipe each other out.” He takes the whiskey from me. “Unless we take a side.”

  “Man, the hierarchy of the universe really sucks dog.” I tap the deck rail. “The pilots to us to the roaches and the skinnies to all the lower class parasites.”

  “At least there ain’t any raggedy-ass wannabe euro-trash upper-class-undead vampires.” Jack swigs whiskey. Hands the bottle back to me.

  I drink. “What if we let em kill each other? I mean...do we give a shit?”

  Catarina plucks the booze from my hand. “I think we’ve reached a point where we need to give a shit.” She drinks. “Look at all the deaths caused by the UN’s uninvolvement. And bullshit rules of engagement. We can’t be pussies about this.”

  “Counterpoint: The USC’s involvement in almost every major war. How many soldiers came home fucked?” I rub my face. Goddamn it. “But, yeah, I agree.” Politics crap. “Who’re we backing?”

  It’s like I’m in the fuckin Illuminati. Secret cabal deciding the fate of not only my own people, but a species I don’t know dick about.