Hath No Fury

by Melanie R. Meadors

  “Watch…?” I look around the room doubtfully.

  She snorts and pops out her hip. “The fight.”

  “How do you know there’s going to be one?”

  “Because the crocs are creatures of habit and the robots are punctual dicks. Here they come.”

  I pick up what she means a beat later. The noise outside has gotten louder, and now there’s another noise. The machine—that’s obviously a robot. And the scraping rasp has got to be what the robot wants.

  “Hurry, or you’ll miss it.” She holds open another door, revealing a dark stairwell. “Just leave your bag. Nobody here wants your pajamas.”

  I pause too long, and she goes up without me. I guess she knows I’m curious, as I catch the door and follow her up. It must be where she lives. It’s spare but tidy, just like I imagined a New York apartment would look like. High ceilings, tall windows, a bathtub serving as the kitchen table with a door laid overtop.

  “Over here.”

  As I walk to the window, I run a gentle palm over the three-legged orange tabby snoozing on an ottoman. It blinks green eyes and stares at me like it’s bored to death of megacrocs and giant robots.

  “There.” The girl points to the left.

  Way to the left is a giant croc. It’s the size of two elephants taped together and nudging an upside-down Toyota like it’s a dog toy.

  Way to the right is a… well, robot doesn’t seem to cover it. It’s three stories tall, looks like an anorexic Transformer. Mostly dull gray metal, although you can see the red and blue designs scraped off by dinosaur teeth.

  “Plutonium Commando?” I ask.

  “We call him Iron Dick around here.”

  “He looks different on TV.”

  “I know, right?” She chuckles and opens the window.

  The smell hits me in the face. City in summer, overlaid with swampy sewer monster and hot, oily metal. They haven’t seen one another yet, as far as I can tell. I kneel and lean out the window like a little kid watching a parade, and she stands over me, arms crossed like an indulgent babysitter.

  “Yeah, it’s weird. He scratched off a lot of the paint himself when he went haywire. It was like a suicidal teen cutting. His tech is messed up, and the government can’t control him anymore, but he still does the same patrol. Folks used to line the street, waving flags. When he stomped on Mrs. Gunderson’s Pekingese, she ran up to his giant foot, crying, and hit him with her cane. When he stepped on Mrs. Gunderson, everyone else started screaming.”

  “Where were you?”

  She scans me, and I figure she’s weighing how much she wants to say.

  “I was on the street with everybody else, holding up my baby girl so she could see him.”

  I glance around her apartment. There is no indication of a kid. When I look back, feeling guilty and crappy, her eyes are as hard and gray as the robot marching by outside. She doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps talking. She sounds like a war vet who’s seen too much and can’t shut up about it because then she’d have to feel it, bone deep.

  “It’s pretty simple. Old Iron Dick really only cares about two things: punching crocs and cracking open Jeeps to guzzle their gas. So, everybody just stays off the street when he’s due to pass. Six-fifteen every morning and afternoon. Once he’s gone, everything’ll creep back to life.”

  “And the megacroc?”

  “Just watch, noob.”

  Plutonium Commando, or Iron Dick, or whatever, marches patriotically down the yellow line in the middle of the cracked street, his steps even and echoing down the empty block. When I look up, I see shadows behind windows. One little boy has his nose pressed up against the glass like this show never gets old. I used to watch dump trucks and excavators like this, when I was a kid. They were just digging up pipes, but it was still pretty exciting. This, though… it looks like CGI. But it’s not.

  Iron Dick stops, and a high whine makes me think he must be charging up some weapon. Down the next block, the megacroc stops nuzzling the car and slides into the street. A monstrous shimmy shakes its huge tail back and forth. I see now why there’s nothing in the middle of the road—everything gets swept aside as it charges the robot, tail wagging furiously and enormous jaws open to reveal a thousand teeth.

  “You never seen a megacroc, either?”

  I shake my head and lie. “Just the little guys in zoos. Never one of the…”

  “Freaks?”

  “Whatever you call it.”

  “We call this one Mama. She’s one of the biggest. See all the scars? No matter how many times she gets punched, she keeps crawling back.”

  And that’s when it happens. The robot’s eyes light up green as he charges the croc and lands a fistful of metal in the gray-green armored back. Mama flips over backward to show her white belly, her legs flailing frantically. Then she uses her tail to flip over, spins, and knocks the robot’s legs down with a powerful swipe. Iron Dick falls on his square metal ass, his arm raised to show a cannon that could blow up my home town. Explosions of air rattle, but nothing comes out.

  “He ran out of ammo on the first day,” the girl mutters, smirking.

  “But he still tries to shoot.”

  One eyebrow quirks up. “Just because a guy’s shooting blanks doesn’t mean he stops shooting.”

  “Truth,” I mutter.

  She’s right, though. The dude cycles through an arm cannon, a bazooka, and a flamethrower. None of it works. If he were a person, he’d stare at his failed equipment, mouth open, caught between embarrassment and fear. But since he’s a robot, he just keeps going. His punches land, but the croc is a hell of a lot bigger than I expected. The news talks about the robots a lot but doesn’t say much about the crocs. They used to give death tolls, like it was a contest to see who could kill more civilians, the man-made freaks or the man-made robot monsters. You could go to Vegas and place bets on them. Somebody even managed to lure a weaponized robot and a megacroc to Madison Square Garden for a fight.

  And that was the end of Madison Square Garden. By all accounts, now it looks like a bomb went off there.

  Watching them now, these two are like toddlers with wiffle bats, bashing while doing no damage. The croc grabs the robot’s leg, the robot punches the croc, the croc lets go. Again and again, they dance around. Chunks of concrete get knocked off buildings. Empty spots on the sidewalks suggest where a bench or mailbox got taken out, once upon a time. There’s nothing left to get in their way, now.

  “How long do they do this?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Until the croc remembers that she can’t eat metal and scampers back down into the sewer.”

  As if on cue, the alligator lets out a honk of annoyance, knocks the robot over, turns tail, and wiggles down the street and around the corner. By the time the robot is standing again, she’s out of sight. The robot stares after her for a moment before letting his arm cannon fall to his side and marching down the yellow line as if he’s forgotten the whole encounter.

  “The street should be safe now.”

  “But why—”

  She shakes her head. “You ask a lot of questions. I’m not used to talking. If you’re headed to the Corps, they’ll have answers. Come on.”

  Holding the door open, she motions me back down the stairs. The gym doesn’t feel as creepy now. I stop at the plywood door.

  “Can I see you again?” I ask.

  “You won’t. Good luck out there, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid. My name’s Susan.”

  She gives me a real smile. “You’ve got a baby face, Susan. Don’t let Iron Dick smash it up, okay?”

  “What’s your name?”

  This smile is private and rueful. “You’ll have to ask someone else what they call me these days. Now go on.”

  All I can say is, “Thanks. I’m glad I met you.”

  I don’t tell her she’s only half right about the Corps. I don’t tell her I’ll find a way to see her again because that’s part of my job. I don’t tell her I work
for the enemy.

  I WATCH HER FOR TWO weeks before I show up on her doorstep, shuffling my scuffed-up construction boots. I timed my visit so it’s just before the evening patrol. She takes her time answering, only opens the door a crack. Inside, music blares and weights clatter. She gives me a look that says she wants me gone but not necessarily dead.

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  She steps outside. “No.”

  “Uh, so. Like I said, I’m Susan. And you’re Rip.” My voice is shy and halting, and I do that thing that makes my brown eyes look huge. “That’s what the guys say you go by. It’s from Alien, right?”

  She gives a tiny grin. “Not my choice, but it works. What do you want, Susan?”

  God, she sounds like a bitch. But that’s probably why she’s still alive.

  “Carlos said you train him. Lots of the guys.”

  She nods. Her arms are crossed, and I stare at her bulging muscles.

  “Would you train me, too?”

  “Why?”

  I scuff a boot toe. I picked these government-issued pants on purpose because they make me look tinier than I already am. Rip needs to think of me as small and helpless, or this’ll never work. “It’s harder work than I thought it would be. My arms are killing me by the time we’re done. And there aren’t a lot of women in the Corps. I could use…”

  “Someone to talk to?” Her eyebrow raises. It’s a hell of a dance.

  “Definitely someone to talk to,” I echo, although my eager smile suggests I’d take anything, at this point.

  She considers, lips pursed.

  “Eight a.m. tomorrow. Be ready to work. I won’t go easy on you.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to.”

  “Fifty bucks a session. Or two sheets of high quality plywood.”

  My nose wrinkles up. “How would I get plywood?”

  “You’re in the Corps. Steal it. It’s valuable around here.”

  We stare at one another. Her arms stay crossed. My hands are shoved into my pockets.

  “Tomorrow at eight, then,” I say.

  “Don’t be late.”

  “What happens if I am? Do I get a spanking?”

  Her face…shuts down.

  “Look, Susan. You’re cute. But the flirting won’t work. I’m married.”

  “So where’s your…?”

  Her eyes go even colder. “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.” She holds open the door. “We stick to business, so here’s how that works. You get here on time. We train for forty-five minutes. At nine I leave to do something more important than you. You got that?”

  The blush that rises to my cheeks is real. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t know. It sounds important.”

  “Keep busy or go crazy,” she says, relaxing a little.

  When I don’t move, she gently pushes my shoulder toward the CCC.

  “If you hurry, Iron Dick won’t step on you.”

  Then she’s gone and I’m outside staring at plywood.

  A rhythmic thumping tells me the giant robot is on his way. I run.

  THEY CALL HER RIP, BUT her real name is Tori Burrell. Born 1985, married Olivia Suarez in 2011, had a daughter with a donor in 2014. Her daughter Bibi died in 2015, when the first crocs showed up and the robots were built to fight them. Sad story. But they all are, in neighborhoods like this. It wasn’t that nice even before the fights destroyed it.

  It’s strange, learning about someone online before meeting them. I read everything Tori Burrell ever wrote on Facebook, Twitter, and her blog, although she stopped posting everywhere as soon as Bibi died and then Olivia left. I checked out the Yelp reviews for her gym, because even when the city is in rubble, people still have to be rating whatever’s left and complaining about service. She gets good reviews, but her clients are united in calling her a hard ass. But not like it’s a bad thing.

  I’m there five minutes before our appointment. Music thumps the plywood door. I don’t know whether to knock or pull it open, so I try both, and neither works. I end up standing there, looking up and down the street like a croc might show up at any moment. At exactly eight, the door opens. Three huge, sweaty guys walk out, casually joking. I get some up-and-downs and a casual up-nod, but I’m not here for them. I catch the door the last one holds open and slip inside.

  Rip’s waiting for me in a sports bra and shorts, glistening like Southern girls say they do but don’t. She doesn’t even greet me.

  “When’s your shift start?”

  “I’m on night shift. Down on—”

  She stops me with a hand. “Don’t care. You ready to work?”

  I grin. “I’m always ready.”

  A cocky scoff. “Yeah, we’ll see. Those guys that were just in here won’t be able to lift their arms all day.”

  Although I’ve seen her plenty and secretly, she’s only ever seen me twice, and only in the oversized work clothes they hand out to the Civilian Conservation Corps construction crews. Now, I peel off the huge gray tee with the interlocked three Cs of the Corps logo and step out of the baggy pants. Underneath, I’m wearing a matching magenta sports bra and compression leggings, definitely not government issued. She looks me up and down, her professional observation warring with her interest when she hits my eight-pack.

  “You’ll probably last ten minutes.”

  I smile sweetly. “Oh, I can last a lot longer than ten minutes.”

  “Cut that shit out and start stretching. What do you lift?”

  We run through it all as I bend and twist and touch my nose to my knees, and she fills out a form, which I sign. The workout would be exhausting if I hadn’t been training for this assignment for months. She’s pushing me hard, which is a welcome challenge.

  “What do you do in the Corps?” she asks as I pump out chin-ups.

  “Arc welding. And hammering up drywall.”

  She doesn’t question the lies because they’re good lies.

  “You ever think about joining?” I ask.

  A snort. Rip snorts a lot. “Hell no. Government couldn’t keep me and mine safe, so I don’t do what the government says.”

  A rugged shoulder lifts. “You’re gonna pay me with government cash. That’s help enough.”

  Just like that, the flirtiness is gone. She pushes me harder. I meet her demands. The power shifts back and forth deliciously, dares and triumphs, taunts and grunts. It’s fun, in its way. Takes me back to training at Quantico. I can see why another girl might fall for her, in the right circumstances. I pretend I’m that girl. I almost believe I’m that girl.

  After I finish the final circuit, she gives an approving nod and says, “You know how to cool down.”

  She leaves to go upstairs. I could go back to the barracks, like she wants me to. But that won’t get me what I need.

  “Rip?” I call tentatively, my steps shy but quick on the stairs.

  I push the cracked door open. I don’t know where she went, but she’s not here. I hurry to the bathroom like a normal girl who needs to pee and hunt through it silently. No prescriptions. The NSAIDs any athlete would keep on hand. A box of feminine products and old decorating magazines addressed to her wife. Nothing that tells me anything new.

  “Susan?”

  It’s angry, and I flush and hurry out.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t find you, and I had to go…”

  Her mouth twists. “I shouldn’t have brought you up here that day. This floor is off-limits. There’s a bathroom in the gym, next time.”

  I give her my perky face and bounce a little. “When’s the next time?”

  “Pay me fifty dollars, then tell me how many times a week you’d like to pay me fifty more dollars.”

  I’ve already worked out how often a Corps worker could reasonably afford her services.

  I hold out five tens. “Maybe twice, I guess? Or do you have a group class at a lower rate?”

  It’s like she’s always weighing me with her eyes. “You last a month, and we can work out a trade. I could use some hel
p.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Last a month and I’ll tell you.”

  And just like that, I’m in.

  SHE’S TESTING ME, BUT I’M ready for it. I live through four weeks of the hardest training of my life, never complaining. I puke doing sprints once but shake it off, wipe my mouth, and keep going. As I harden, I can feel her soften toward me.

  Then one morning, she puts a firm hand on my sweating shoulder and gives me a significant stare. “Tomorrow. Nine a.m.,” she says.

  I grin as I towel off my forehead and pat a line of sweat slithering down my chest.

  “Wear something that can get wet and dirty. Something dark.” I nod like I’m proud, which I am. The fewer words I use, the better. I push out the door and jog down the street. I don’t bother with the baggy clothes anymore, and I can feel her watching my butt. Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, she’ll finally take me underground.

  I SHOW UP IN BLACK cargoes and a black tank top, my hair tightly French braided. The door opens at exactly nine, and she’s dressed in cargoes just like mine, plus a long-sleeved black top.

  “Are we burgling?” I ask.

  I’m rewarded with a rare smile, curling as a cat’s. “Not quite.”

  Rip takes off at an easy lope. I’m on her heels, enjoying the stretch of my muscles. I haven’t run like this since I left Maryland, only this time, the forest is broken gray buildings and smashed concrete. There’s a gun on one hip, a machete on the other; I watch them dance as she runs. She’s ready for trouble and I wonder if we’ll find it.

  We go up four blocks and dart down an alley. She scans it up and down before kicking up off a dumpster to yank down a fire escape ladder. When she scurries upward, I follow. It’s six flights to the roof, where a strange bit of construction stretches between the buildings, crossing the alley. It started as a ladder, long boards placed over the rungs. Metal guardrails and plywood act as walls. It’s an open-air hallway.

  “You ready for this?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know what this is yet.”

  “It’s what it looks like. Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

  Aside from the bridge, it’s your average roof, except there are rows and rows of summer vegetables growing in long raised beds and barrels to collect rain. I realize what we’re doing the moment I notice that the garden stakes are written in a child’s awkward handwriting. Rip’s at the door now, the one that leads into the building, and she gives a coded knock. A different knock responds from the other side, and a series of locks clicks before it opens to reveal a dozen or so kids. They’re every shade of brown, clean and quieter than I’d expect. But wouldn’t a kid learn to be quiet in a world where giant crocs and robots hunt the streets?