Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6)

by William Vitka

  Bugs Two looks at me. “He meant me harm.”

  I sneer. Fight to keep my mind blank except for slaughtering skinnies. “No, you donkeydicking cunt. It’s called emotion.” I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. Let the red dribble down my chin. It pitter-patters on the floor. I squint. “I want you to know that you will be held accountable.”

  I crawl over to my dad’s ashes. Pick up his belt. His rounds. The fabled Colt six-shooter. I stand. Lock the belt around my waist. Cinch the holster low on my thigh. Breathe through my nose.

  Bugs Two says, “Seven days.”

  * * *

  I’m too filled with hate to cry. But my knees shake. Walking down the saucer’s silvery ramp tongue is hard. My vision swims. Turns red.

  When I set foot in NYCZ again, I fall to my knees. Pound the dirt and overgrown weeds of Bryant Park. Then I just stay there for a while. Stare at nothing. Scream. Grit my teeth. Mumble to myself like a crazy person. Punch myself in the head. The pain is nice. The physical pain redirects other crap.

  I drink rage.

  Light a cigarette.

  Plissken hovers by me. Knows better than to attempt to console me. Says, “I helped myself to the information in their computer systems. My brain is...fat right now. Give me some time to go through it all.”

  I nod. Still dirt-focused. So close to throwing up that I don’t know what to do with myself. “Kay.”

  Gordineer stands next to me. Lets me be.

  Smart fuckin move on his part.

  Then he says, “What’re you gonna do?”

  I smoke my cigarette. Play with the leaves on a nearby plant. A tulip, I think. Breathe heavy for a moment. Ash falls from the tip of my American Spirit.

  I turn to Gordineer. Look him in the eyes.

  Say, “I’m gonna kill them all.”

  26. Peace Was Never an Option

  I declare war.

  Again.

  But quietly.

  My mother seems oddly accepting of Jack’s death. Knew it was gonna happen sooner or later.

  She says, “It was a matter of time. Always a matter of time.” She nods at nothing. Sniffs and looks at me. “We’ve been beating the odds for a long time.”

  Then she’s in tears. Clinging to me while DeVille clings to her in the hospital bed. And it’s a goddamn weep-off.

  My father’s weapon weighs heavy on my side.

  My mom looks to me. Says, “We’re gonna kill the cocksuckers, right?”

  I rub my face. “Yeah. We are.”

  I offer Catarina Jack’s Colt.

  She holds it for a moment. Eyes raining sadness. Little splashes of heartbreak on the metal. Then she shakes her head. Hands it back to me. “No. This machine kills monsters.” She wipes her nose. “This machine has to stay with the person who’ll bring us vengeance.”

  I take the gun. The Colt. Nod. Play my fingers over the grip. The barrel. The cylinder. I check the breach. The chambers. Twirl the gun on my fingers. Drop it into its home on my thigh.

  Feels good. But I really never wanted to carry this.

  DeVille narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t you fuckin dare die on me.”

  I taste the salt in my mouth. Taste all the tears flowing down my cheeks in thin rivulets. Them finding their way to my tongue. I furrow my brow. “I’m trying to figure out a way not to.”

  * * *

  Once word gets out, nobody talks to me.

  Nobody even holds my gaze for more than a second.

  Better to let the pissed off bear be.

  Wise choice.

  The core problem is the effect Jack’s death has on the camp.

  On everyone.

  For a while there, the survivors had something to hold onto. It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly. Uglier than anything I’ve done before. But there was hope. Or something like hope.

  Now a storm is brewing. Literally and figuratively.

  Low dark clouds swirl over Manhattan.

  Fits everyone’s mood.

  We lost the world. Lost everyone we loved.

  Caleb created a beacon in the nightmare.

  Then we lost Caleb.

  Jack was a symbol of our unending drive.

  Now we’ve lost Jack.

  Seven days. Seven days until the pilots blow up the planet. Or we destroy all that remains of the parasite. Which we ain’t gonna do. Cuz fuck the pilots right up whatever bullshit blue holes they have. No more missions on their behalf.

  I stroll over to Fifth Avenue. The front of the New York Public Library. I amble up the short steps to the terrace. Sit my ass on the stone underneath the first lion statue. Light a cigarette.

  The options in this situation kinda sorta suck shit.

  What? You don’t feel like lying down and dying? Letting the human race and all your kin go extinct?

  Not really.

  Well, good.

  What happens if we surrender?

  Dunno. Since you’re all me-carriers now, they’ll probably study you and perform gross—though possibly entertainingly sexual—experiments.

  Yeah. Fuck that. But I gotta save the roaches too.

  ...Why?

  I’m responsible for em. I wasted an entire species of skinnies with the idea that the roaches’d pass for indigenous life.

  “Needs of the many,” kinda thing.

  Yeah.

  Yeah. Before you go trying to adopt every stray dog you find on the street, you figure out how to save even the humans yet?

  Not so much.

  Especially since it means going to the mat with the pilots.

  Survivors’ll be thrilled with that idea. All of em going up against creatures that managed to kill Jack fuckin Svoboda.

  Plissken’s not sure how to bring the blue bastards down, either. Not sure we can.

  What’d he say? They wouldn’t’ve given us the antimatter missiles if it could kill em. The thought being: Antimatter—strongest thing we got—wouldn’t do dick to the aliens.

  On the other hand, what if the pilots only thought we’d think that. So we’re only thinking what they think we’ll think. So if we stop thinking that what we think is the thing they think we think, then we’re good.

  Sure. Wait, what?

  I gotta talk to Plissken.

  I gotta talk to Gordineer.

  * * *

  My saucer pal and the wayward human from Alaska meet me inside the relative privacy of a fake Irish pub at Thirty-eighth and Fifth.

  Light doesn’t get far into the joint. It’s dark. Dim. So I crack a couple chemical flares. Toss em around. Makes everything glow green. Like we’re in a shitty club.

  When Plissken sees the state of the place, he plays some equally shitty techno music.

  I wave em both in. Point to the mostly-intact stools. “Holy hell, stop that. And I’m the bartender. So what I say goes.” I peek under a cabinet. There’s an untouched bottle of Tullamore Dew whiskey. I gawk for a second. “Sonuvabitch...” I hold the booze in my hands for em both to see. Crack it open. Search for glasses for me and Gordineer. That ain’t so easy. But there’s a few dust-riddled plastic cups on the floor. They’ll do.

  I say to Gordineer, “I can trust you?”

  Gordineer sits on a stool. Furrows his brow. Nods. “Yeah. You can.”

  “How do I know that?” I tilt my head toward Plissken. “No listening devices?”

  My bot bobs. “None. Not nearly as dirty as the NSA or FBI.”

  Gordineer nods. “I’m clean.”

  I hand him a plastic cup of Irish whiskey. “Hope so. Cuz if you ain’t, I’ll make sure the robots and survivors and cockroaches turn you into a gibbering display of anal leakage.”

  “I didn’t know the pilots were gonna do...what they did.” He stares at the flame-licked bar top. “I�
��m sorry, man. I really am.” He touches the wood like he remembers something about it. Then pulls his fingers away and sips the booze. “This planet never did me any favors. When I left, I thought it was the right move.” He shrugs. Eyes down. “I was wrong.” Drinks again. “I knew some of what was gonna happen.” Says again, “I’m sorry.”

  I look to Plissken.

  The drone says, “He’s telling the truth. At least, he thinks he is.”

  I grimace. Drink. “Guess that’ll have to do.” Look to Gordineer. “How many people could live on one of the pilots’ ships?”

  “Well, uh... I mean, they’re pretty big. A couple hundred? Maybe three hundred.” He shrugs. “Be kinda tight though.” He drinks. Then his eyes go wide. “Ah...shit. You’re crazy, did you know that?”

  “Totally aware.”

  Plissken says, “According to the saucer schematics, the larger ones will hold closer to five hundred humans and robots. The commander’s smaller ship isn’t ideal, but I can rebuild parts of it in a pinch. As such, six vessels would be ideal. I’d rather not confine my people any more than necessary.”

  “We need space for the cockroaches too.”

  Gordineer scratches his cheek. “There are twelve other saucers on the far side of the moon. They’re standard ones. Quarter of a mile big. But as soon as you turn against the pilots here, the rest of the fleet’s gonna turn Earth into ash.”

  “They wanna turn it to fuckin ash anyway.” I drink. Light a cigarette. Breathe smoke. “They murdered my father, Gordineer.” I narrow my eyes at him.

  He says, “I know man. I know. I’m sorry. Just—” He shakes his head. “This shit is dangerous on a whole new level.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s gotta be done. What I need to know is: You on our side or theirs? You said you thought you were doing the right thing when you took their ship before. Now, you really do have a chance to do the right thing.”

  Gordineer stares at the bar top for a minute. Maybe two. He drains his cup of whiskey. When his eyes finally meet mine again, he says, “Yours.”

  I pour him another healthy dose of booze. “Good call. Otherwise I was gonna kill you and feed you to the roaches.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “A precaution. Can’t have you blabbing to the aliens.”

  “I’ve been around em long enough I can keep em outta my head.” Gordineer smirks. “Probably woulda killed me a while ago if they saw all the stuff in my head.”

  “Dirty?”

  “Also murderous.”

  I arch my eyebrows. “All right.” Drink. “So now the question is: Can the saucers be destroyed?”

  “If you can get through the shields, yeah.”

  “How do we get through the shields?”

  “Hell, I dunno. Can we Independence Day the motherfuckers?”

  Plissken grunts. “That movie was utter horseshit. Especially since the answer to most of the grating ridiculousness is ‘Jeff Goldblum plus mid-nineties PowerMac equals victory.’” He scoffs.

  I eyeball the robot. “You saying we can’t do it?”

  “No. I can do it.”

  “Cuz you’re Jeff Goldblum?”

  “No, because I am awesome... And also I’ve been studying all the data I pulled from the ship’s computer system. That helps.”

  “Hoo-goddamn-ray.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be a ‘mothership’ to disseminate any code I could write to bring their shields down, though. But I can probably send a command through their communication array.”

  “Like...what?” I squint. “‘Hello, I am a Nigerian prince and you’ve just inherited 250,000,000USD’ kinda deal? We’re gonna kill the aliens with spam?”

  “I’ll have to build my own masked comm transmitter, but...yes. Well. This will be more like a cancer.”

  Gordineer holds out his hands. “Guys, the armada will still blow our asses up.”

  “Yes.” Plissken bobs. “We’ll need to get the saucers here. All of them. So that they’re within striking distance of the warframes.”

  I tap my chin. Think. Say, “I got myself an idea.” Point to Plissken. “Keep me posted on progress. Don’t do dick till I say so. And keep it quiet.” Point to Gordineer. “You too. Keep it quiet.”

  “What, pray tell, is your plan?”

  “One that hinges entirely on their scientific curiosity.”

  “...So, a suicide mission.”

  27. The Twins

  Most folks get airlifted back to the Beast when they want or need to. Given how fast we’ve been able to set up shop, that ain’t too often. But it’s what they do.

  Never know when you’re gonna get a hankering for Manny’s lizard chili, I guess.

  Me, I get a lift with Captain Thompson cuz...I’m fuckin beat.

  Fried.

  Toasted.

  I don’t wanna drink right now.

  Just wanna see my kids.

  Or the little blobs that’ll become my kids.

  And DeVille.

  Obviously.

  I rub my eyes in the copilot seat next to Thompson. Free a cigarette from its pack. Offer one to my good pilot.

  He nods.

  I pop the stogie between his lips. Light it for him.

  He takes a deep drag. Tilts his head back to blow out the smoke. Mutters, “Thanks.”

  I spark my own American Spirit. Say, “How’s Talos training?”

  “Real goddamn hard-nose bitch.” He cracks his neck. “I gotta get back into the simulator. Dump a few hours there instead of this chopper.”

  “So do it.”

  “Can’t. Gotta—” he uses a hand to point at the instrument panels and holograms on the dashboard. “Gotta fly.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I’m grounding the choppers except for one for either transport or if a team needs extraction. Even then, I’d rather have the robots handle it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I take a puff. “Who else you think’s a good candidate for Talos?”

  “You got Swift?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then Fiske. She’s Johnny-on-the-spot with the stick.”

  I scratch my chin. “Are you the only male pilot?”

  “Yep. You mighta noticed that women are...better at some of this than we are.”

  “Got that impression.” I chuckle. “How very Heinlein.”

  Thompson laughs with me. “Seems to be the case, though.” He clears his throat. Smokes. Says, “Why’re you grounding the helicopters anyway?”

  “Just what I said, man. I need more Talos operators.”

  “For what? I mean, I’m not complaining. Just asking.”

  “Security.”

  Thompson sets us down on deck. Shuts the chopper’s engines off. Gives me the side-eye. “There something I should know?”

  I grunt. “Get your ass to the simulator. Fiske too.”

  * * *

  I knock on DeVille’s door at the medical center. Wait.

  The door creaks open.

  Catarina’s there. Of course. She smiles. Eyes tired. “Hey kiddo.”

  I smile. “Hey mom.”

  Give that phrase a whirl.

  Ain’t so bad.

  I say, “How’s DeVille?”

  “Eating for three.” She shrugs. “Doing good, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “Considering two of the most powerful creatures humanity—or anyone fuckin else—has ever encountered before are growing in her uterus.”

  I bite my lip. “Strong, huh?”

  “Yeah. I thought you were bad.” She whispers. “You and DeVille’s...babies. They’re...new. Different. They’re growing really fast. And we’re fighting to make sure DeVille has enough nutrients being pumped into her to keep em all
alive.”

  “Lemme talk to DeVille.”

  Catarina ushers me in. “She’s asleep. But yeah. Come on.”

  And DeVille is. Knocked out on the bed. Face up. Big belly pushing against the sheets. I see a bump kick out. Like in a horror movie.

  I walk to DeVille. Rest my hand against her—our—pregnancy. Gentle. The babies reach out again. I feel em. “Holy...shit.”

  I smile. Laugh a little. “Holy shit.” Look to my mom. “Dude...I don’t even...” I giggle. “What—”

  Catarina squeezes my shoulder. “Those are your babies.” She tucks her lips in. Eyes wet but wide. “Your Baby Bears.” She grins. “Poppa Bear, Momma Bear, and Baby Bears.”

  Ah, fuck.

  Yeah. Fuck.

  I breathe deep. Exhale slow. Put my ear against DeVille’s belly.

  A tiny hand or foot or something rubs through the skin. Against my cheek.

  Then again.

  I smile like a big idiot. Listen to DeVille’s pulse. The lockstep pulse of my children. Say to Catarina, “Do they know I’m here?”

  Catarina watches me. Then walks to one of the holographic displays. Punches a few buttons. The screen shows me. DeVille. The kids inside her.

  I stare at the hologram. At myself leaned over the body of the woman I love.

  There they are.

  The two of em.

  Thought they’d look like bloody aliens. Cone-headed freaks covered in viscera. And maybe they would if it wasn’t for the holograms. But to me they’re perfect tiny humans. Moving tiny arms and feet around. Reaching for me. Reaching for my face from within their mother.

  I talk to em. “Hey guys.” I lick my lips. Pretend I’m not crying. “Hey guys, it’s your dad. How’re you doing in there?”

  Plissken enters the room. He hovers next to Catarina.

  Now it’s the two of em watching me.

  Neither say anything.

  My two babies push their hands toward me.

  I laugh. Squeeze my eyes shut. Say, “It’s gonna be all right.” Something in my throat Catches. Clicks. And my voice is a gruff whisper. “I’m gonna make sure it’s all right.”