I feel the tip hit one of my back molars. The gum there.
The skinnie hammers its knife.
My molar cracks. Splinters. I chew the Chiclets of my tooth. The gore of my gums.
Spit em out.
My eyes bulge. “Yeah?”
I wrap my hands around the skinnie’s wrist. Force its makeshift knife back. All the way from my broken tooth and gum back through my split cheek. I growl.
The skinnie that was holding me loses its shit in a big pile then runs like a motherfucker to some unknown part of the tunnels.
The skinnie with the makeshift knife really can’t figure out how hell I did what I just did.
I smile at it. Blood flecks from my mouth as I talk. “Parasite made us both, asshole. Guess it just did a better job with me.” I wrench the skinnie’s skinny wrist. Break the bones. Twist the knife. Punch it up through the underside of the skinnie’s jaw. Far enough that the blade pierces the damn bastard’s brain case.
The skinnie goes limp. I toss its body aside.
Stand.
Amble over to Plissken. “Where’s the rest of the colony?”
“You’ll find a maintenance entrance farther down the tunnel, passed the platforms. It’ll be on the right. Scans show a tunnel system connects there. And that is most likely where the cowardly skinnie fled to, in fact. To warn the others. Be careful. I will be along once my power levels are up.”
I nod. “You be careful too, bud.” Put my helmet on.
“Sure. But I’m not the one whose head they want on a pike.”
* * *
I find a tunnel vein next to a bunch of rusted lockers. There’s nothing left here. Nothing useful. The skinnies—or someone—picked it clean a long time ago.
Doesn’t matter.
I squeeze into the tunnel. Fight to keep from slipping on slick rocks during my descent.
When this shit’s over, I’m never going underground again.
Movement in front of me. Dunno what. The crevice I’m in widens a bit. Instead of the big open cavernous space the cockroaches have, though, seems like the skinnies live more like ants. Lots of passages and side rooms.
I mark my position as a waypoint on the helmet’s heads-up display. Don’t wanna get lost. The other teams can track me anyway, but if I gotta go running I don’t wanna fart around with a digital map.
For now, though, man, it’s clearing rooms. One by one.
I peek my head into the first one. See two skinnies sitting in rags. Hose em both with pulse rifle fire.
Hell. They coulda been grandparents. Old pals down for a chat.
I hate em anyway. Makes it easier.
Told ya.
Shut up.
I cook the place with an incendiary grenade.
Got plenty of those. Four more on my belt. Twelve in my MOLLE backpack. Since this was always gonna be a scorched-earth operation.
No survivors.
Don’t even wanna leave memories.
Another room has eggs. Dozens upon dozens. At least I think they’re eggs. A few clutches guarded by a handful of warriors that end up sucking 10mm ammo.
I spray the eggs next. Light the place up with an incendiary grenade.
I walk back into the hall.
A few skinnies gather near me. Drawn by the gunfire.
Some of em are small. Children. Larger ones stand between me and the kids. Protecting em.
I shake my head. “Fuck.”
Fuck.
You need hate right now.
Use it.
Yeah. Hate and the hope I can save humanity.
Fuck.
I pull the trigger. Explosive rounds blast through the skinnies.
The children too.
By the end, it’s a haze of shrieks and cries and pleading and gunfire and flames. Reloading and more shrieks. More flames. More pleading.
But it ends. All the same.
It ends.
Plissken catches up with me.
Doesn’t say a fuckin thing.
Doesn’t need to.
24. Nunc Est Bibendum
The sun rises over Manhattan. Survivors are still busy alongside the bots.
Me, I’m slumped in an old wooden goddamn chair on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Helmet off. Pulse rifle to the side. Bottle of whiskey half-gone. I rummage through my vest for a fresh pack of cigarettes. Find it. Spark one up.
Try to keep the booze and the smoke from slithering out through the still-healing slit in my cheek.
I don’t mind that both burn my ruined gums and the sand castle my molar used to be. I just wanna keep the drugs in.
Plissken cranks Exodus for me. Good old thrash metal. He runs from “Piranha” to “Shovel Headed Kill Machine” up to singer Souza’s return with “Body Harvest.”
Part of me...misses this shit.
But I don’t wanna revert. Not for good.
I just want some time. Alone.
Plissken moves on to Machine Head’s “Imperium.”
That’s a good one.
I breathe smoke.
Know I’m never gonna be “okay” with what I’ve done.
The young ones didn’t do anything to us, but they had to die.
Kill the kids so the rest of us can live.
Maybe I’ll come to terms with it.
Maybe I’ll ignore it.
Never gonna ask for forgiveness, though. Don’t give a shit about forgiveness. I did what I had to do. What was necessary.
Three would agree.
I take a gulp of whiskey. Big. Don’t wanna sober up too fast.
I pat Plissken. Him seated next to me.
Ever see Gran Torino? Movie with Clint Eastwood. Old vet. Sits on his porch every goddamn day with his dog. Drinks his beer. Just wants some peace and quiet in between shouting crazy racist shit at the Asian neighbors—up till he helps end an Asian gang’s little fatwa. “Zipperheads” and “gooks” or whatever.
I feel like that. Y’know? “Get off my lawn.”
That kinda thing.
Not all the crazy racist shit.
Victory leaves a funny taste in my mouth, but this helps. Plissken. The smokes. The booze. The music.
Holy shit I am a toxic savior.
My parents keep buzzing me. Buzzing Plissken.
We both keep telling em to go away.
Come back in eight hours. Nine. Ten.
Shouldn’t I be concerned about DeVille?
I am. But there’s no creature in the world better protected and cared-for than her right now. On the Beast. In the medical bay.
And right now, I’m a wreck.
Need a good sleep.
Need to try to get cancer.
Need to try to cause liver disease.
Then I’ll be okay.
Sure.
This’s the same shit every addict tells themselves.
I tap Plissken. “Gimme something I’d listen to in a bar. Let’s complete the scene.”
Plissken chuckles. “I’ve got something.”
George Thorogood’s “Who Do You Love?” filters through the air.
I tap my feet. “Fuck yeah.”
“So who do you love?”
I pat Plissken again. “Like you gotta ask.”
“Just checking.”
I keep tapping my feet. Stand. Drink. Walk to the edge of the observation deck. Watch the Talos warframes on patrol in the morning light. The monsters Plissken made to fight monsters. The choppers engaging targets I can’t even see. Eradicating sections of the city cuz they’re crawling.
I grin. “Hey, New York. What a town.”
Take another pull from the bottle.
Scratch my face. Rub my forehead. Tug on my hair. My
scruffy beard.
Start to cry. Sniffle.
“What a fuckin town.” I smile. Taste the salt of my tears. “We did it though, huh?” I throw my hands out. Turn to Plissken. “We did it.”
Plissken puffs his thrusters. Hovers. Joins me. “We did.”
Thorogood gives way to Hot Tuna’s “Water Song.”
Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Cassidy and Sammy Piazza and John Creach.
A song that seems to be the human experience condensed to a little more than five minutes. No lyrics. Just notes. These perfect notes. Emotions.
I rub my face again. Smoke. Drink.
Fuck.
My saucer pal plays Joey Ramone. “What a Wonderful World.”
I suck whiskey. “Shut the fuck up, Plissken.”
25. Natura Non Contristatur
Not...really sure how drunk I got.
Aside from very.
I wake up to Jack’s face. Cowboy hat on his head. Mouth saying, “Dude. Wake up. We gotta talk to the pilots. Work on this bargain.” He pauses. “You stink like a dive bar.”
I groan. Sit up. “I’ll shower.”
Jack lights a cigarette. Hands it to me.
I blink in the morning light. Which means I crashed for almost a full day. Can’t say I didn’t need it. But if we’re supposed to be chatting up the pilots, guess that means Manhattan’s clear. Or clear enough, anyway.
I say to Jack, “How’s DeVille?”
“She’s good. And Catarina’s very into the idea of being a grandma. So she’s been sitting nearby. Keeping watch.” He shrugs. “Your mom hasn’t had much of a chance to...well, to be a mom. This’s her time to shine.”
“So we get to play with the aliens.”
“You and me and Plissken. Yeah. At noon. So we got about two hours.” He pats my shoulder. “C’mon. Guys’ day out.”
* * *
I piss. Shit. Shower at one of the outposts—a command center the survivors set up in Herald Square. A pop-up barracks kinda deal with thin metal walls. Three buildings. A mess hall with picnic tables. Warehouse with supplies. And a coed washroom.
No reason to construct bunks. Anyone wants to crash, they just hit up one of the dozens of hotels nearby. Ain’t gonna be able to get room service anymore, but, hey. There are benefits to taking over an area and using the infrastructure already available.
People in the washroom stare at my scars. Not a piece of my skin untouched. I’m a walking callus. That earns me some kinda respect.
Means I’ve seen hell. I’m leading em. Leading the survivors. But I’m doing it from the frontlines. Not a back fuckin office somewhere.
Jack meets me in the mess hall. A tray in each hand. Both loaded with scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Grits. Bacon. Sausage. A cigarette dangles from his lips. Smoke curls around the brim of his cowboy hat. “Grease is a good hangover cure.”
“That doesn’t really happen anymore.” I smirk. Tap the side of my head. “Not since the parasite started managing my internal organs.”
I have a name, goddamn it.
Jack blinks. “Neat.” He sets our trays down. Motions for me to sit. “How’s that work, anyway?”
“No fuckin idea. I can hear it all the time. The real healing only happens when I’m knocked out. When it puts me into a coma.” I shovel eggs into my face. Could use some salt, but they’re delicious. Ditto the bacon. The sausage. The grits—ooh, with some butter. I point at my food with my spoon. “Is this real or—”
“Replicated?”
“Yeah.”
“Replicated.”
“Fuck me.”
Jack chuckles. “I know, right?” He gobbles bacon. “For a while, I was worried we’d be stuck with rations and fuckin...protein bars. Crap we scavenged. Don’t get me wrong.” He arches his eyebrows. “The farmers at the fort kept us all alive. But it was all work. Cut our fighting forces. Now, y’know—”
“It’s some Star Trek shit.”
“Yeah, it’s 3D printing on a molecular level. Genetic level. Hell, the nutritional value of the food is there. Folks ain’t exactly thrilled with it—we all hold out hope we can get real farms working again—but it’s no worse than the genetically modified shit we ate for years.” Jack laughs. Eats some sausage. “No preservatives! Plus we’re actually honest about it. Unlike, uh, every corporation ever. FDA’d be thrilled.”
The bacon makes me feel better. The whole meal does. It’s nice and warm and my dad’s here. So I scarf it all down. Lean back. Let my belly bulge. Light a cigarette. Which’s the best desert.
Jack finishes his tray. “How are you holding up?”
I blow smoke through my nose. “Don’t feel great.”
“Listen, dude, it sucks, but it had to happen.”
“I know, but man.” I shake my head. “I killed kids.”
“You killed skinnies.”
I roll my eyes. “Skinnie kids, then.”
Jack scoffs. “Me and your mom and your uncle. We learned real fast that life doesn’t give a shit. Life is a train with a cow plow on the front. It just keeps going. You’re either on board or you’re not.” He locks eyes with me. “We’re doing the best we can with a bad hand.”
I nod. Grimace. “Yeah. Yeah I know.”
“I’m proud of you. Don’t forget that. You’re the reason we have what we have.”
“Yeah.” I inhale. Exhale. “Yeah.”
* * *
Gordineer greets us at the command saucer’s landing gear. Alone. At Bryant Park. Place used to be a jerkoff factory for the fashion crowd. Now it’s the only place nearby has the space for a spaceship. That big area behind the New York Public Library.
Gordineer says, “You ready?”
I shrug. Look like I’m down for a house party in my jeans and hoodie and leather jacket. Sans the Colt M1911 strapped to my thigh.
I say to Gordineer, “You got any insight?”
“Uh...” Gordineer stares at his feet. “They don’t like you. They like me less cuz I got laid and bragged about it.”
“So we’re...what?”
“Shit’s creek.”
I glance at my dad. “Got a paddle?”
Jack pats his thigh. “I got a friend with six other little friends who run real damn fast.” Pats his combat vest. “And those .45 Colt bullets are very popular.”
Gordineer puts his hands up. “No. Wait. Don’t get on board thinking like that. They’ll hear you. It’s what they do. You gotta empty your head. Don’t think about anything.”
“Is this a Ghostbusters Stay Puft Marshmallow Man situation?”
“Yeah, just, like, don’t think about anything, okay?” His eyes plead. “I’m on your side. I’m still human. I’ve been working for you guys under the radar for weeks. Don’t fuckin fuck it up by thinking bad. Imminent threat sets these guys off.”
* * *
The ship. Again.
With Bugs and Daffy and Wile E. and Road Runner and Porky and Tweetie and Sylvester and Speedy and all the fuckin Looney Tunes.
This’s how the world ends. Not with a whimper but a WHOOP! Th-th-th-th-th-th—that’s all folks!
I think about the skinnies. Gunning down families. If the pilots wanna root around in my brain, that’s what they get to enjoy. A horror show. I refuse to share anything other than misery.
Have fun, fuckos.
Gordineer guides us to the commander’s room. Same place I saw before with the holograms and maps. Where they were all concerned about the big biomass in the Milwaukee Deep.
Now it’s us and Bugs Two and a couple other blue bastard shits. I can’t bring myself to care about their cutesy dumb names.
Plissken uploads his data to the pilots’ computers. Says, “As you can see, we’ve contained and eradicated the infection. Other than the local fauna—the indigenous species of insects�
��there are no remaining parasites on Manhattan Island.”
Bugs Two says, “Still parasites.”
I cross my arms. Stare him down. “Crawl into my head for a minute, huh?” I tap my skull. “Take a look at what I did for you.”
The pilot commander stares at me.
I let my thoughts run wild. Replay the wholesale slaughter of the skinnies.
Bugs Two seems repulsed. “Disgusting.”
I grin. “Yeah, welcome to my head, pal. One-hundred percent American filth.”
Jack says, “We did what you wanted. Send your armada home.”
By which he means, Fuck off and die.
I’m in total agreement.
Bugs Two shakes his head. He points to me. My dad. One of the holograms showing the cockroaches. “Still parasites.” He moves to the table. The map with the biomass. “Still parasites. Not safe.”
Jack shouts. “We’ve got this on lockdown. The parasites won’t leave the planet, and you don’t need to blow it the hell up.”
“Not safe. Concern beyond Earth.”
“Fuck does that mean?”
“Eliminate parasites or planet will be destroyed.” Bugs Two holds up his hands. Seven fingers. “One week.”
“Listen, asshole, nobody gets to ruin our planet but us.”
The pilot sighs. “Violent apes.”
My dad pounds the table. “Motherfucker, can’t you see that—”
Bugs Two flashes his palm. There’s a blinding blast of energy.
Jack’s hand is over the hilt of his Colt.
His eyes snap to mine. Knows what he’s done.
Knows what he’s done without having done it.
He screams. “Keep them—”
Then my father is gone.
A pile of ash on the fuckin ground.
I hear Plissken’s plasma cannon charge.
Durandal shouts: Don’t get us killed.
Gordineer’s voice shrieks. “What the fuck. What the fuck.” He freaks out for a few breaths. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”
I holler at Plissken. “Don’t.” I can’t fathom losing another family member. Can’t imagine losing Plissken to these space-faring bastards. “Don’t.” Holy shit. “Don’t.” Holy shit. “Weapons down.”
Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6) Page 12