Kill Machine (The Hroza Connection Book 6)

by William Vitka

  Guess they don’t realize what fifteen hundred rounds-per-minute can do to their cockroach carapaces.

  I scream. “Come on you bastards.” I grin. Fire into the insect stampede. “Die, motherfuckers.” I wave em on. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  I dump twenty-fire rounds into one that gets close. There ain’t much left. Mostly splatter marks that look like someone’s stupid modern art project. I drop my mag. Send a high-explosive grenade into a mass of wriggling critters. They’re smoked.

  I slam another magazine home. Hurl another incendiary grenade. Cook some creatures. Shatter the shells of a dozen freaks. Mutter, “How many of you fuckers are there?”

  Between bursts of gunfire, I radio the Beast. “The bugs under Madison Square Garden were a diversion. They’re breaking out under the Port Authority. Repeat—”

  Plissken responds, “They’re breaking out everywhere.”

  “Pull everyone back to the Beast. Now.”

  The call for retreat sounds over my headset. Survivors and robots are supposed to get their asses back ASAP. New line of defense is 170th Street. The southern edge of Plissken’s saucer repair area. That’s it.

  We’re writing the rest of Manhattan off.

  I keep the fire going while I step backward. Send as many grenades into the horde as I can. Don’t take my eyes off em. We’re gonna pound the area with antimatter missiles once we can get the other survivors safe.

  Haha. “Safe.”

  A roach snaps forward. Clamps its mandibles around my right bicep. Tries to drag me into the army of bugs.

  I stare into the thousands of lenses in its eyes. “I do not have time for this shabby shit.” Twist my arm counter clockwise. Break its mandibles. Shove the pulse rifle into its mouth. Hold the trigger down till there’s nothing left of the sonuvabitch but a grotesque husk.

  I tell nobody: “I...am...leaving.”

  Take the stairs one uneasy step at a time. Pulse rifle barrel getting so hot it’s red. And I’m worried it’ll fall off. Or warp the wrong way and an explosive round’ll misfire take a chunk off my face.

  Which itself isn’t the end of the world, but you know what I mean.

  I find more Spartans waiting for me in the lobby. Madison and Gunnar. Glad they’re still around. They maintain a hail of death that halts the march of the insects.

  She taps my shoulder. “Come on, man. We gotta book.”

  “No shit.” I unsling my rucksack. All the grenades inside. Toss it down into the maelstrom of mandibles. Shoot the bag so there’s a brilliant wall of flames that burns any roaches trying to follow us.

  Then we take off on a jog. Right up Eighth Avenue.

  Follow the heavy footfalls of the general retreat.

  It’s only like a hundred and thirty blocks. No sweat.

  Fuckin hell.

  Good thing about the old bulky power armor is it really moves you. Average human running speed is something like fifteen miles an hour. The power armor wants you going thirty-five or forty. So that’s where we clock in.

  All those boosts to our musculature.

  At the Fiftieth Street station, I gotta remind a bunch of survivors that we ain’t got no medals for bravery. So they should stop shooting bugs and start boogying.

  Our numbers grow as we move farther and farther north. The whole bunch of us running and gunning. Mowing down roaches on the move. Our feet punching craters in the asphalt.

  Around Columbus Circle, we stop. Turn. Hammer the carpet of cockroaches that’re still pursuing. A firing line of three or four hundred Spartans that spans blocks and unleashes thousands of explosive rounds.

  The flood of bugs slows.

  We keep going.

  Eighth Avenue mutates into Central Park West as the sun starts to dip in the sky. All that greenery with battle scars in Central Park on our right. The American Museum of Natural History on our left.

  When Central Park West turns into Frederick Douglas Boulevard after 110th, our run slows to a jog. We shift west over to Saint Nicholas Avenue.

  And the stream of bugs behind becomes a trickle.

  Gunnar and a few other survivors hurl incendiary grenades into the street to cover our tracks. Doesn’t seem to matter that much. Either the cockroaches didn’t expect to get their asses kicked that badly or... No, they probably didn’t expect to get their asses kicked that badly.

  The Beast stands farther up in the waning light. A beautiful big black sentinel a couple of hundred feet tall. Turrets along its command tower fire at targets I can’t see. Missile pods unleash trails of vapor that’ll make distant objects cease to exist.

  I hit the edge of Plissken’s repair bays. The whole area of what used to be Washington Heights now ringed by really angry motherfuckers with bug goddamn guns.

  I tear my helmet off. Spit. Sweat.

  Pant.

  I lean against an outcropping of brick that used to be a Gristedes supermarket. Or what passes for a grocery store in Manhattan. “Goddamn.” Light a cigarette.

  The gunfire ceases.

  Plissken hovers next to me. “You have a visitor.”

  I squint at him. Turn. Look down Broadway.

  Grey’s there. Hobbling. All by his lonesome. All his legs on the ground. But there’s another tidal wave of roaches a couple blocks back. I see em in the fading light.

  They’re close enough that we can’t use antimatter or any of the big cannons on the Beast.

  I spit again. Pop my cigarette between my lips. Tell the other kill-happy Spartans: “Wait here. Let’s see what Doctor Dipshit has to say.”

  Not that I care much.

  I walk. Pulse rifle slung over my back.

  The wings on Grey’s backs shudder. His antennae flit around.

  I say, “You are some kinda stupid.”

  Grey says, “Here as sign of good faith.”

  Good faith?

  He continues, “Humans stay here. Go no farther. We take ships. We escape.”

  I breathe smoke. Puff my cheeks. Blow out air. Cock an eyebrow at the aging cockroach boss. “How many are you? How many of you are there?”

  Grey’s antennae flutter. “We are forever. We are legion. We are—”

  I pull Jack’s Colt. Fire into Grey’s face. Fan the hammer. Put the other five .45 rounds in his rotten carapace. “Holy shit. Sorry I asked.”

  Idiot.

  The flood of roaches resumes. All those scuttling legs and flapping wings. They storm around short apartment buildings. Dreary local pharmacies. Bodegas. Banks.

  My survivors shout. Scream. Rally each other.

  Madison hollers. “Over there. Come on, let’s go! Get em.”

  The air is heavy with bullets from Spartans and plasma from robots. It’s a light show. A death metal concert in hell.

  Cockroaches drop as fast as they appear.

  The fight rages for hours.

  But we hold the line.

  Till the sunlight dies.

  And the bugs die with it.

  When it’s over, I realize that’s the second species I’ve eradicated this week. Not bad. Though it pales in comparison to what humanity’s done as a whole.

  Still, you’re carrying on a proud tradition.

  37. Habent Sua Fata Libelli

  Another round of celebratory drinks?

  Hey. Why not.

  Things are normal. Ish. Again.

  Survivors cheerful. Hopeful.

  They enjoy their food. Their booze. Their sex.

  I mean, shit. We’re happy.

  That in and of itself is so antithetical to my life that I wanna fabricate some crap to create tension and drama and all that other garbage. I could go wandering off the reservation. Back into the wastelands. Find some more monsters. Leviathans.

  Get myself into some more trouble.
>
  But that wouldn’t be honest.

  Whole deal here is for me to tell you what’s going on. Not make stuff up.

  I used to be a journalist, after all.

  And in a weird way, I’m the only person in history who can tell you the “streets are safe again” while not also being totally fulla shit.

  Not including the titanic parasite eating the Earth’s crust, that is.

  I rub my face. Lean back in my chair in DeVille’s room. I watch the twins. So close to popping. Watch the biomass on my datapad. Which also looks close to popping.

  This’s how I spend the next few days.

  I stare at meat slug. The nasty undulating tumor the size of a state. A mutant potato with squiggly arms to push or pull itself along. Dunno if it really intended to, but it’s already consumed Puerto Rico. The Dominican Republic. Haiti. Jamaica. Cuba. It’s somewhere under Mexico now. If I knew more about Mexico, I’d tell you where, but I don’t, so there we have it.

  I bite my lip. Watch the shape. “What the hell are you doing, fatso?”

  Plissken’s form flutters to life from another holographic emitter on my datapad. “I have something you should see.”

  I take a deep breath. “On my way.”

  Crap.

  * * *

  I walk south of the Beast with my pudgy-saucer pal. He leads me through the repair bays for the alien ships. All of em elevated on various pieces of machinery.

  I say to Plissken, “Dude, I’m not even sure I wanna know what’s wrong now. I just...” Shrug. “I feel like we’re in a good holding pattern. If you’re about to bum me out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

  “I never said it was bad.” He bobs. Puffs his thrusters. “Watch.” He dips toward the pilots’ craft.

  The five saucers hum. Crackle to life. The yellow orbs at their center pulse. Thrum. They rise. Slowly off the jacks that’d been keeping em aloft. They hover under their own power. Perfect silver-blue discs that gleam in the afternoon light.

  They’re ours. And they’re gorgeous.

  I smile any harder and my face’ll tear. “Plissken, if you had lips, I’d kiss you.” I rest my arm around him.

  He says, “I’m sure I could manufacture some.”

  “Moment’s passed, bud.” I gesture at the saucers. “But this...this is goddamn amazing. I can’t believe you did it. You did it.” I move my hand to my mouth. Shake my head. “You did it.”

  I’m not the only one gawking. Every survivor’s gaze is glued to the technological marvel happening right before em. A miracle. The best thing that’s ever happened to humanity.

  All thanks to a former New York Public Library drone.

  * * *

  I sit in the captain’s seat of my own personal saucer.

  Plissken drives.

  Most of the interior’s been redesigned by the robots with them and humans in mind. So it’s a helluva lot more comfy than it had been under pilot rule.

  Now, I’d love to pretend I’m Carl Sagan in my “ship of the imagination,” but that ain’t quite it. I feel more like Hunter Thompson. Whacked outta my gourd behind the wheel of some enormous car. The top down. Bats swooping in from all directions. Him or Mad Max. Maybe both. An irresponsible mutant.

  Doesn’t matter.

  There’s just one thing I need to do before we leave.

  It isn’t important to anyone except me. Won’t change a thing. Won’t make anyone’s life better. But Plissken’s happy to indulge.

  He brings us up over the Beast. Over the devastation and carnage of Manhattan. The new, deep scars my city has suffered.

  I see the buildings. Their remains. They’ve all been beat to hell.

  Only one has really survived...

  We slow as we near Thirty-fourth Street. The Empire State Building fills the forward view screen. The mooring mast—with its narrow terrace at the hundred and third floor—below the massive antennae tower.

  Plissken extends a docking tube. Locks it onto the mooring mast.

  I stand. Smile. Chuckle.

  An airship has finally docked with the Empire State Building.

  First time in history.

  I stroll through the umbilicus. Plissken follows.

  We don’t say anything to each other.

  I hop down onto the narrow terrace. Work my way inside. Amble down the stairs to get to the observation deck on the eighty-sixth floor. The saucer blocks most of the sky above, but I can still see the horizon in every direction.

  I take my time. Pace. Smoke. Look west, toward the Hudson River and the wastelands in Jersey. South toward Brooklyn and Bay Ridge, my old home that I’ll never see again. East toward Queens and the chaos we introduced there. North toward the Beast and the four other flying saucers that’ll take humanity away from the only world they’ve ever known.

  Yeah. We paid dearly for it.

  But we held our own.

  And we won.

  I flick my cigarette into the air. Over the deck fence. The wind takes it. Sparking and flaking ash.

  I rest my hand against the exterior wall of the Empire State Building. Leave it there for a moment. It’s very much like saying goodbye to an old friend. I nod. Pat the wall.

  “Thanks.”

  38. Water Song

  Our five saucers take flight.

  All the survivors and robots on board.

  Manhattan becomes a mess of buildings. Then a spreadsheet of streets and avenues flanked by shimmering green-grey ribbons of water. Then a smudge surrounded by a devastated landscape. Then it’s lost in the outline of the eastern seaboard. Land smooshed against the ocean.

  We move to position above Mexico.

  High orbit.

  Plissken assures everyone it’s a safe distance.

  I lean forward. Stare at the front screen.

  The parasite’s there. Big enough we can see it from goddamn space. A state-sized slug crawling over the face of the Earth. The creature pulsates. Tendrils slither from it. They stretch across Texas. Oklahoma. Arkansas. Mississippi. Louisiana.

  It’s changed direction. The damned thing is chewing its way northeast. Doesn’t take a genius to figure the biomass is curious about the last big piece of action we performed in New York.

  Guess five ships launching from the city is quite a sight.

  Who wouldn’t wanna check it out.

  I shake my head. “You don’t get to have it.”

  Plissken moves the saucers into formation. So they make a pentagon. One ship at each point. Linked by blue tethers of energy.

  He says, “We’re ready.”

  “Do it.”

  The machinery of the saucer whirs. Vibrations under my feet grow more and more intense. Till there’s a loud crack of thunder and a blast of bass.

  Everyone on the saucers watches as five overcharged plasma beams join together and plummet into the Gulf of Mexico. The water boils instantly. Evaporates into a cloud of steam.

  The biomass jerks away from the sudden heat.

  Not that that’ll save the shitstain.

  The ground cracks. Splits.

  A ring of blue death spreads from the impact site. It devours everything in its path. Torches vegetation. Forests. Flash-fries rivers and lakes.

  The meat slug shudders as plasma envelopes it. Cooks it. Burns it. A pale fleshy hot dog left on the grill too long.

  I wish I could hear it screaming.

  I sneer. “Fuck you.”

  Then it’s ash.

  Plasma punches down into the planet’s core. Melts the iron and nickel there.

  The beam stops.

  The Earth simply...shatters. Sloughs quietly apart. The pieces bleed molten rock and metal.

  All it ever was or could be—gone.

  Nothing lives. Nothing can live.

 
I stare in silence at the dead world.

  * * *

  DeVille grips my hand. Sweat cascades down her face. She grunts with exertion. Veins in her neck and forehead throb.

  She doesn’t scream or cry out.

  She grits her teeth and fights through it.

  A medical droid waits between her knees. Assisted by two young nurses. One male and one female. They’re calm. Certainly calmer than I am.

  My heart’s doing jumping jacks in my chest.

  A combination of terror and excitement.

  What the fuck’ve I gotta myself into?

  After everything we’ve been through, fatherhood is what gives you the heebie-jeebies?

  Uh...yes. It’s far, far scarier than anything else.

  DeVille strains.

  The medical droid reaches into her nethers. Leans forward. Pulls back. There’s a pale blue bloody bundle of a baby in its mechanical hands. “Female.” It hands my daughter to the female nurse. Umbilical cord still dripping red. Gestures to me. Then the rope of tissue connecting my girl to my...other girl. “Cut.”

  I nod. Pull my Ka-Bar combat knife. Split the tissue.

  The female nurse disappears with my child.

  DeVille reaches for me after I move. Misses. Groans. Grunts.

  The droid leans in again. “Male.” Holds the veiny, gory creature up.

  I cut another umbilical cord.

  Glance at the floor to see all the spilled sweat and blood.

  The male nurse disappears with my son.

  DeVille’s still panting. A confused look of stress and worry on her face. Forehead damp with perspiration. She grabs me. Pulls me back. She takes deep, controlled breaths. “Are we good? Are we good?”

  My eyes water as they meet hers. “We’re good.” I squeeze her hand. Brush her cheek with my fingers. Push back her dark hair. Hold the back of her neck. Kiss her. And kiss her. And make sure our lips are never too far apart.

  I run my hands along her belly. Her neck. “Hold tight, flygirl.”

  She nods. Sleepy. Smiling.

  I walk to the door. Open it. Greet Athena. Aiden. Booker. Sarah. Lovelace. Harryhausen. Madison. Gunnar. Don’t say much of anything. Just grin. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re all right.”