Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6)

by William Vitka

  Cuz why not. Haven’t talked to the squirmy jerks in a while.

  And I did do that whole genocide thing for em.

  So I slink down the tunnel at Forty-ninth. Leave the booze behind for once. Don’t bring anything except Jack’s six-shooter. Extra ammo. I’m in jeans and a leather jacket. Sporting an electric lantern. Flashlight. Holopad.

  After about twenty minutes, I find the roach I drilled with a few .45 slugs near the subway tracks. Recognize him from the wounds healing in his carapace. All capped with a white callus.

  I nod to him in the cold blue light. “Hey.”

  The roach buzzes. Flutters its wings. “Parasite-walker. What you need?”

  “Nothing, really.” I grimace. Shake my head. “Kinda...wanna talk to your leader. I guess.” I shrug. “Check in. Some things may be changing.”

  The roach buzzes again. “Yes. Yes.” Its antennae skitter around. Taste the air. “Good thing change. No skinnies. Quiet is good. Tribe find strength. Thank you. Forever in debt.”

  “You’re welcome. That’s all part of what I wanna talk to your leader about.” I shift my weight from foot to foot in the muck of the tunnels. “You haven’t talked to any assholes with heads shaped like—” I move my hands around my skull “—discs?”

  The roach’s mandible click together. It cocks its own head. Moves four of its legs around. Roughly mimicking my movements. “Talk to...what? Party hat?” The roach buzzes. “No. No disc. Only parasite-walker.”

  * * *

  I sit on the big crummy chair from fuckin TGIFs. Lean back. Light a cigarette. Glance around at the plethora of giant intelligent insects.

  The little ones who curled up to me before? They’re big now. Only took a couple days. I don’t recognize em so much as just...know who they are. Cuz they watch me with something like reverence.

  New ones gather around my warmth. Nymphs that look like thigh-sized sausages with chitinous bodies and feelers that tickle.

  I nod and smile at the bug parents around me. Just trying to, y’know, let em know I’m not gonna put bullets in their kids’ brains.

  Since I’m sure they know I did it to other creatures’ children.

  Several warriors march the greying king cockroach out. They settle him in front of me.

  He looks me over. “Thank you, parasite-walker. You have all thanks. But...tired. Why you here?”

  “Things are gonna change, man.” I scratch the side of my head. Pet the baby cockroaches at my side. “I’m not sure we’re staying here anymore. So...if you want your tribe to survive, you’re gonna have to follow me.”

  The king roach is silent. For a moment. “We here for thousand generations.”

  “That’s just, uh...man that’s a fart in the wind. But if you stick with us—stick with the parasite-walkers—I think you’re gonna be okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah. If you see anyone with saucer-heads? Kill em.”

  31. Stuff and Junk and Things

  Same with the journey here in the Beast, there ain’t much to tell.

  It’s awkward and strange.

  Just counting the days until the day.

  Chewing scenery.

  Shatnering.

  I split my time between the top of the Empire State Building and DeVille. The twins who become a little more human all the time.

  I confess that they’re a little creepy.

  Since I’m their dad, I’m allowed to say that.

  Know those weird inverted Jesus statues that follow you around the room? With the bug eyes? That’s the look my kids have all the time.

  And I always wanna tell em something. Reassure em somehow. So I do. I try. Try. Say strong things to DeVille’s belly. Dunno if it works since the kids never quite change their gaze.

  Part of me wants to shriek back, though.

  Like:

  “Fuck do you want me to do?”

  But I don’t.

  I quit the drinking. Tone down the rampant smoking.

  Wait.

  Anxious like some dumb schmuck before prom who asked the ugly-inside-and-out girl hoping she’d be an easy lay and she said “Yes.”

  I don’t bother with any kinda “Last Supper” deal—getting what remains of my kin together for drinks—cuz I find the idea depressing as hell. I’m worried it’d be some long, overwrought goodbye.

  Do I really need to do this?

  Plissken tells me he’s ready.

  His ninja terminal is good to feed the virus to the pilot saucers.

  Gordineer tells me the pilot commander wants to talk.

  So I pucker up.

  Chew the scenery a bit more.

  It’s the sixth day. Even though we’ve got one more, this is the last.

  Come on, pal. Time to put your big boy pants on.

  32. Aliens Are Still Dicks

  Even in the apocalypse, space is at a fuckin premium in New York. Only area that makes any sense for the ships to land is Sheep Meadow. Central Park. Even then, they ain’t all gonna be able to put down.

  Which’s fine. The park at least offers a clear line of fire.

  I stand at the edge of the clearing. Robotos and a few survivors got the park looking normal...ish...again. No more psychotic squirrels, though. Or hobos.

  The morning sky’s half-clear. The sun shines. Light bounces off snow flurries that blow in from the other side of the sky.

  The three saucers that’ve been stationed here hover along the perimeter of Central Park.

  I push the itchy comm bud in my ear. Tell the fourteen warframes—my kin—that surround me, and a contingent of survivors: “Nobody blow anything up until I give the signal. That’d be kind of unfortunate.” I fiddle with the strap around my wrist. My emergency Talos beacon. Puff my cheeks. Blow air out.

  Figures the aliens wouldn’t even be punctual.

  Twenty goddamn minutes late.

  At least my jeans are comfy.

  I light a cigarette. My fourth today. Which’s an improvement, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

  Plissken says, “Incoming.”

  I look up. Watch the sky. Smoke.

  The ships appear as dark specks. Twelve spots I mistake for eye floaters at first. Till I squint. Catch their profile against the sun. Thin silver-blue lens shapes with the yellow bulge in the center.

  My stomach knots up.

  It’s the initial, tense moments from Robert Wise’s The Day the Earth Stood Still. Same plot in principle, I guess. Except way bigger. Scarier. So maybe it’s War of the Worlds.

  We’ve got the Gorts, though.

  We do have the awesome death robots.

  So klaatu barada suck my dick.

  Could use some Bernard Herrmann music.

  One saucer takes the lead. Another small one like Bugs’s. Two hundred feet in diameter. A command coupe. It settles in close to me. To us. Right in front. The ship thrums. Hums. There’s no landing gear. Damn thing just hovers. Till the gangplank unrolls like a metal tongue onto what remains of the grass.

  I suck the last bit of nicotine from my American Spirit. Grind the butt with my boot.

  Five gangly pilots march down the ramp. The disc-headed freaks.

  The sonuvabitch in front’s taller than the others. Darker shade of blue. Dunno if that means he’s older or more full of shit.

  Both.

  I rub my face. Take a breath. “Fuck it.” I wave to the space-faring fucks. “Hey.” Nod to the dickshit who I guess is the commander. “Greetings... Kemosabe. Welcome to Earth.”

  Don’t you mean “Earf?”

  Nope. Still hate that dumbass movie and I still hate Will Smith.

  And his kids.

  Man, I can’t believe he had those.

  Kemosabe stares at me. “Human.”

 
; Then he...it...whatever.

  He. Let’s go with “he.” Real scumsuckers in charge are usually dudes.

  Then he looks around at the warframes. Makes a face like someone farted. Little shark-mouth pulled down. Guess he ain’t impressed.

  He points to me. “Step on ship. We discuss surrender.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Surrender?” Lick my lips. Arch my eyebrows. Notice Gordineer approaching from across the field. I hold my giggles.

  His eyes are wild. He nods. Flaps his hands. Frantic. Mouths: Say yes.

  I squint at Kemosabe. Snap my fingers. “Right. Surrender.” Nod. Roll my neck. “Yeah. Cuz that’s...totally something I’d do.” I march over to Kemosabe. “Lead the way dumbbutt.”

  Kemosabe tilts his head. “What is a dumb butt?”

  “It’s how exalted Earth politicians used to greet one another.”

  * * *

  I walk through the alien ship. The tall corridors. Behind Kemosabe. In front of Gordineer.

  The other pilots gawk at me. A living experiment they can’t wait to get their grubby hands on. I’m just so goddamn interesting.

  I smile. Nod. Keep on keeping on.

  Ain’t no thing. Just a special ape trying to not go extinct.

  But I’m fuckin flattered. Really.

  I pass a monitor and some holograms that show the saucers lifting off again. So the whole fleet floats a hundred feet above Central Park.

  The pilots lead me into an office. Some side room.

  Always the same with these kinda motherfuckers.

  Don’t wanna talk straight in front of anyone. Gotta be away in some locked room. Where they can torment us without the hope of seeing a friendly face. Or, worse in their minds, embarrass em in front of some other bureaucratic worms.

  So I plop my ass down at a big table. Surrounded by holograms. I try to keep my head empty. My hand away from Jack’s Colt.

  Gordineer sits near me. An interpreter.

  Kemosabe watches us.

  I maintain a poker face.

  Another blue bastard waits by the door—one of those swish-swish deals that opens from the side on an unseen sensor.

  I spread my hands out at the table. “What’re we doing here?”

  Kemosabe says, “You want surrender.” He’s still standing. These guys, they never sit. Unless they’re folding their hands at the head of the table. Power moves or whatever. “Take you. Others on ships.”

  “What about the cockroaches?”

  “No.”

  “What about the robots?”

  “No.”

  I scoff. “Dude, the robots ain’t infected. Why can’t they go with us?”

  “Threat.”

  “To who?”

  “Us.”

  “My pals are smarter than you?”

  “No.” Kemosabe finds a seat that fits his frame. Tall. Slim. Now he puts his elbows on the table. Jerk. “Robots too much like you.” The pilot presses his fingers together. A politician’s power move. “They kill us. Maybe take ships. No trust Pissken. Too clever.”

  I scratch my cheek. “It’s Plissken, you diseased string bean—” I clear my throat. “But you still want me. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

  “Yes. Want you.”

  “Great. Glad to hear it. But you could just kill me and do an autopsy.” I smile. “Except that doesn’t work cuz it fucks up my blood. Doesn’t stay fresh, right? Goes bad fast.”

  “Correct. Need you alive.”

  “So why do you want me at all?”

  “We think...use you. Control parasite. Perfect biological weapon.”

  “Dude I can’t even control the parasite in my own head.” I laugh. “You ain’t controlling dick.”

  Kemosabe shrugs. “Take you back. Peklo Prime. You—” the pilot searches for words “—pieces grow again. We study pieces at Peklo. Put pieces of you in biowarmachines.” Kemosabe nods. “They behave.”

  “They really don’t, man. I did that to my own people...” Now it’s my turn to shrug. “No dice. Keeps em from being infected, but the thing that makes me me? Or my family...” I clear my throat again. “Who they were? The healing? Perfect aim and determination? Intelligence and cunning? My parasite, Durandal... That shit doesn’t just roll over. It’s either there or it ain’t. You can’t—” I wiggle my fingers in the air “—make this kinda crap happen.”

  I’m seconds away from an inspirational speech.

  You gotta find the magic...in yourself!

  Yeah. It’s tucked into my filthy balls.

  Kemosabe sneers.

  Can they hear me and Durandal bullshitting?

  Well, crap. That ain’t good at all.

  Gordineer speaks up. Finally. Says, “The initial terms of the surrender were fair, I think.” He eyeballs Kemosabe. Me. The gangly guard at the swish-swish door. “The point of all this was to find some kinda mutual stance we can all take.” He nods to me. Kemosabe. Swish-swish. “Now, Yosemite Sam, we all agreed that if this man gave himself up, you’d leave.”

  Kemosabe is silent.

  My head falls against the table. Thud. “Kemosabe’s name is Yosemite Sam.”

  Kemosabe says, “Problem?”

  I wave my hand. “Nope.”

  Gordineer says, “If you accept the surrender, you get a scientific prize worth thousands of worlds. And no more blood needs to be spilled.” Gordineer smiles. “This man is willing to give himself to you as long as you leave. Nobody else has to die.”

  I glance up at Kemosabe. A dog with its muzzle flat against the floor. Eyes big. Unsure.

  Ooooh. We’re being sneaky now.

  Hush, you.

  He seems to mull the proposition. Says, “No. We take him. Destroy planet from orbit.” Kemosabe shrugs. “Already have him. Don’t need any other vermin. Do not forget biomass. It eating planet. Eating everything here from underneath.”

  I sit up at the table. Dig a cigarette outta my pocket. Light it. Take a drag. Blow smoke. Suck my teeth. Smirk at Kemosabe.

  Say, “Man, did you back the wrong horseyou should’ve learned your lesson about humans.”

  I hit my emergency Talos beacon.

  33. Aut Vincere aut Mori

  I don’t see it in person.

  What my Talos does. What Clyde does. Not directly.

  I see in my purview. In the holograms around Kemosabe’s little intimidation room.

  Basically?

  Clyde wrecks shit.

  For me.

  Just to get to me.

  It’s beautiful.

  Here’s how it happens:

  Clyde detaches himself from the Beast. A showed-off shotgun and a rifle on his back.

  Plissken initiates his asshole protocol. Says into our comms: “Twenty seconds.”

  Clyde tears his way across town. Then down. He moves like a psychotic monkey. Leaps over small buildings and any vulnerable survivors. Bigger buildings he climbs. Swings off of and around. A combination of King Kong and Tarzan.

  Kemosabe gives me the fart-smell look.

  The pilot at the door shakes his head like he’s got fleas.

  I think about DeVille. The twins.

  Not the weapon I wrap my hand around.

  I draw. Snap a shot off that plows a blue-blooded canal through Kemosabe’s face. It punches out the back of his head in a gorgeous eruption of gore. I fan the hammer. Gun down a surprised swish-swish dipshit who squeals as .45 slugs send tremors through his body.

  Gordineer yelps. “Fuck me.” He rushes to the door. Locks it. Activates a blaster in his palm that glows red instead of blue. “Well...that was something. What happens now?”

  I reload my father’s Colt in a rush. “Cover the door.” Then nod to the holograms surveilling the fight. Specific
ally my warframe. Who’s about to go all fuckin Air Jordan on the saucer we’re riding. “Hold onto your butt and hope Plissken’s virus worked.”

  The door to our room bangs inward. Melts a little.

  Gordineer says, “They want in.”

  “Don’t let em.”

  Plissken says in everyone’s ears. “The pilots’ shields are down—and I’ve disabled their ability to self-destruct. Watch out for their cannon. They can only fire once every seven seconds, but there’s enough power in them to turn us to ash.”

  Clyde’s hologram jumps. Over the thickets of trees in the park. Catches the small command saucer I’m on. This blue-silver Frisbee. His forty foot frame tackling the two-hundred foot coupe. He clamps his hands around its edges. Presses his thumbs in.

  The saucer groans. Creaks. I hear the metal strain.

  Clyde rips it open.

  The floor splits underneath.

  Me and Gordineer fall. Tumble through the air amid a light show of plasma weapons, rockets, bullets, tracers. Total battlefield insanity.

  Clyde spins. Nuclear musculature working overtime. He whips the saucer on some wild trajectory east. Over Queens.

  I watch the grassy ground of Central Park get closer and closer and closer to my face.

  Then I stop.

  Safe in Clyde’s grip.

  He catches Gordineer too. Sets the doofus down.

  Sets me onto his neck. Where the entryway to the Talos command slides apart for me. Where Clyde’s Vincent Price voice says, “Welcome back, sir. Are we going to kill all the things?”

  I slam my back against his neural spikes. Wait for the rest to pierce my skin. “Yeah. We’re gonna kill all the things.”

  One of the big saucers angles its orb. Its cannon.

  Pretty sure I pissed em off.

  Time to play “Dodge the Death Beam.”

  The alien ship fires.

  I roll to the side.

  It cuts a burning trough from Sheep Meadow to Sixty-sixth street. Fallout from the blast evaporates unarmored human and machine alike at ground level. There’s only ash left.

  That’s a hundred innocents gone. At least.

  I shout to the other warframes. “Move. Get their attention somewhere else. Get the motherfuckers away from the survivors. As far from the Beast as you can. Move now. East. East.”