Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5)

by William Vitka

  A lighter appears in front of me. Zippo. Flickering flame dancing in the breeze.

  I turn my head.

  “Man, I’d punch a baby in the face to be back at my grandad’s ranch. All those huskies.” Thompson arches his back. Says, “I wouldn’t worry too much about those ‘ground rules.’ Shit probably doesn’t apply to you, anyway.”

  I let Thompson spark my American Spirit.

  He says, “Can I bum one?”

  I squint my eyes. “What? Don’t they have cigarettes here?”

  “Oh, sure. Plenty. Raiding has its benefits.” He smiles. “But I quit smoking.”

  I grin. “That’s only funny cuz I spent ten years alone and haven’t heard it in a while.” Give him a stogie. “So why won’t those rules apply to me?”

  Thompson arches his eyebrows. “You’re Jack and Catarina’s boy, right?” He lights his cancer stick. Smoke trails from his mouth. “Didn’t you know you’re famous?”

  * * *

  I walk the hundred feet to the fort entrance. Turing on my right. Lovelace on my left. Plissken dead ahead. There’s a sign over the big stone archway. Reads: DON’T BE A DICK.

  Another sign says: RECYCLE—REUSE—SURVIVE.

  Two guards in power armor nod to me. Helmets in one hand. Pulse rifles in the other.

  I offer a quick salute in return. Step into the tunnel.

  The chaotic sounds of a busy city hit me. Bounce around. Echo.

  I emerge to a compressed city. New York and Boston squished down to a single block where the sprawl goes vertical instead of horizontal. Cramped as shit. The sounds and smells. Minus vehicle traffic.

  Ain’t no cabbies here.

  But there’s street vendors. Guys with halal carts. Shacks like shops that hawk “REAL CHILI” and “Fresh honey” and “holovid classics” and “Nutribars” and an outdoor pub playing AC/DC with a chalk sign that says “Soup of the day: Whiskey.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “The last bastion of humanity is Chinatown.”

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  It’s just weird.

  Quick reminder: Everything about reality is weird. Don’t forget that you’re related to a race of giant monsters called the Hroza, your parents sent you back through time to make sure you were there for the start of the infection, your monster-genes give you gifts, and so on. I am also the parasite in your body talking to you. Do we really need to make a list of what is or isn’t weird at this point?

  I grunt.

  Just go with it.

  The soup of the day at the pub sounds good. Plus, y’know, AC/DC.

  I take a step. Heads start to turn to me. I try to ignore em. Try to blend in. But that’s hard when you’re strolling through a crowded space and you’re flanked by robots.

  All the noise ceases. It gets creepy quiet.

  I stop. Look around. Try to meet everyone’s eyes. Announce: “Sup.” Keep walking. Sit myself on a rickety stool in front of the bar. Which looks made from a few old wood dressers laid next to each other.

  The bartender watches me. White guy in his seventies. All grey in dreads. He takes a gulp from a glass of beer like he doesn’t give a shit who I am, but his eyes say different. “What’ll you have?”

  Turing and Lovelace sit themselves down.

  Plissken hovers.

  I say, “Soup of the day, then two beers, then a soup of the day.” I eyeball him. “And turn up the music. The weird quiet around here is freaking me out.”

  He nods. Lays out an alcohol feast before me. Says, “Folks might be a little shocked. You rolling up in here outta the blue.”

  I down the shot. “And who am I, exactly?”

  “A legend.” The bartender shrugs. “A ghost.” He drinks his pissbeer. “There’s rumors that you’re gonna stop all this. Stop the infection. People are just...well, we live in some weird times.”

  I sip flat, warm ale. Don’t tell the bartender I’m one of the big fuckin reasons the parasite got out in the first place. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Palmer.” He extends his hand. “Aaron Palmer. What do you go by?”

  I reach my hand out to shake. “I’m—”

  A strong hand claps my back. I whip around to see who it is.

  Some white dude. All happy in khaki cargo pants and a hoodie. Got light hazel eyes and an I-just-got-outta-bed light-brown hairdo. Bit younger than me.

  First instinct is to put a .45 slug in his head, but I gotta remind myself to do that whole stupid integration thing with society. So I say, “Who the fuck’re you?”

  Very calm and polite and shit.

  This dude.

  He chuckles. Takes the beer I ain’t currently drinking. Wipes his mouth.

  Says: “I’m your uncle. Caleb.”

  9. The Peace Won’t Last...

  Plissken, Turing and Lovelace bail on me. They have work to do at the western wall with Juliet—momma tank. But they say they’ll find me later.

  Me and Caleb finish our drinks. Then he guides me through the tightly-packed sidewalks. The people of Camp Svoboda (Svobodians?) gawk at me.

  He says, “Yeah, it’s funny. I’ll admit it. A few hardline Brooklynites set up shop in Boston. But the reasoning is very sound: I had access to the waterways and the industry, and a very defensible position. Fort Independence was built here for a reason.”

  “Caleb, no offense, but I don’t care right now. I’ve been locked up on an island of cultists who fed parts of me to zombies. We can get into all this later. I need a shit and a shower. I need a bed.”

  My uncle turns to me. Grips my shoulder. Meets my eyes. “I heard. And I am very, very sorry. Are you all right?”

  Been a while since someone looked at me with genuine concern and not weird curiosity.

  I grimace. Stare at my feet for a heartbeat. “I’m just—” I shrug. “I’m burned out. Running on empty. Whatever cliché phrase you think fits here.”

  Caleb’s fingers squeeze. Release. “I’ll take you to your apartment.” He waves me on. Chuckles. “Not as though it’s a far walk. You’re in the northwestern point.” He points to a ten-story steel spire built into the defensive wall.

  Looks like it’s for rich fuckers.

  I say, “Looks like it’s for rich fuckers.”

  Caleb shakes his head. “Doesn’t work that way here. There’s no separation between rich and poor cuz there is no rich or poor. There isn’t even a need for money. Everyone works. Everyone fights. Food is free. Housing is free. Education is free. Healthcare is free. Yadda yadda yadda.”

  We pass more shops. Daycares and preschools and cafes snuggled up against gun stores and liquor stores. Guess culture shock ain’t gonna be an issue for folks living here.

  They’ve seen worse...

  I say, “So you and my mom and dad created a little socialist utopia here.”

  Caleb seesaws one of his hands. “Ehh. Sorta. There are touches of technocracy and democracy and just a pinch of Heinleinian fascism too—hell, robots get a voice and a vote here.”

  “I still don’t understand how you built this in ten years.”

  “Well—” Caleb smirks. “There’s a reason robots have that voice and that vote. Without em, none of this would be possible.”

  A female cop and her bipedal robot partner walk by. Salute us.

  I arch my eyebrows. “Explains why the Plissken family’s so keen on Camp Svoboda.” Light a cigarette. Adjust the weight of my rucksack. “There’s one thing pissing me off, though: Why the fuck did you leave me alone for those ten goddamn years on the Empire State Building? I thought all this shit was about family.”

  Caleb hangs his head. Sighs. “This is a shitty answer, but...it was necessary.” He pulls a folded manila envelope from the front pocket of his hoodie. “If you’re anything like my brother—” He sto
ps. Considers it. “Since you’re very much like your parents, you’re as likely to slug me as get bored for any long-winded answers right now.” He hands me the envelope. “Apartment key, ration and requisition cards are inside. Get some downtime. I can explain everything later.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be a great fuckin reunion.”

  “Hey. Remember the sign when you entered the fort? Don’t be a dick.”

  I bite my lip. “Sure.”

  Oh, I know. We’re gonna be such dicks! This place won’t even know what kinda dickery hit em!

  I don’t wait for Caleb to respond. If he’s some fuckin genius, he should be quicker on the draw with quips. So I march to the elevator. Flick my cigarette away. Check my apartment keycard: 10C. Top floor.

  Least it’ll have a hell of a view.

  Four walls. A floor. A ceiling? Possibly shitting in a real toilet? Screw the view. You hit the jackpot, motherfucker.

  * * *

  Well.

  It’s smaller than my place in Brooklyn.

  But it’ll do.

  The apartment is utilitarian as hell. Streamlined. Like a hotel room, but... No, it’s basically a hotel room. Cold. Efficient. There’s random touches of human warmth, though. It’s strange.

  Floor’s wood. Irregular. Some of the slats still have graffiti from when they were part of a fence. Disjointed words from years and lives that’ve flitted away through parasitic and nuclear lenses.

  The kitchen is near the front door. On the left. All metal. Recycled. But gleaming. Electric stove. Fridge. Cabinets and shelves from polished aluminum. Two glasses. Two bowls. Two plates. An island with drawers creates a sort of half-wall of separation.

  Farther in is a queen-sized bed on a metal frame. All made up with sheets and a grey blanket and two pillows. It folds up into the wall. Steel shutters cover the adjacent wall. The window. Across from the bed is another wall with a screen that takes up most of the real estate there.

  The apartment hooks left. There’s a tiny hallway with closets on both sides. Then the bathroom. Sink in the center. Shitter on the right. Shower on the left.

  Holy fuck they have toilet paper!

  It’s a shoebox. Only interior walls are for the crap room.

  I toss my rucksack on the bed. Green military jacket. Hoodie. Plop down.

  Dunno why you’re bitching.

  The fuck am I supposed to do with myself? Get domesticated? Hang posters? Adopt a kitten? Find a job?

  I open the side pouch on my bag. Stare at my photo of Momma Bear. The edges frayed from age and friction. I tell the blonde smiling face there, “Wish you were here.”

  Holy shit. Norris was right. You are intolerable. I’m absolutely certain that there will be some crazy, outlandish, monster-related obstacle in your near future.

  And Durandal’s been accessing my memories of watching Mystery Science Theater 3000. Great.

  Anybody else would be happy that nothing’s trying to eat em...

  I grab my extra clothes. Hang em up in the hallway closet. They take up no appreciable space. This depresses the shit outta me.

  Don’t have a fuckin thing to make the apartment feel like it’s mine. I don’t even have a footprint.

  You could pee in a corner or something.

  I slump on the bed. Dig out my bottle of whiskey. Mouth it. Light a cigarette. Punch the shutters open.

  Boston stretches out before me in the afternoon sun. I see Caleb’s great western wall. Flashes of gunfire there. Maybe the Plissken clan at work. Then the seaport district beyond. The cityscape farther out.

  Dark shapes strangle the skyscrapers.

  They’re so far away.

  I’m safe.

  Safe.

  Watching from a distance.

  Like a fuckin tourist.

  I chug whiskey. Grab a can of Red Bull outta my rucksack. Suck it down. Use the empty can as an ashtray. Stare out the window at the shapes.

  I start crying. I’m not even sure why. Drag the sleeve of my carbon suit across my nose. Sniff snot back into my head. Some goddamn kid. A brat. A baby.

  Finally with my family, and where are they?

  Finally somewhere safe, and I’m back to being alone.

  Better off in the fuckin wastes.

  Least I knew what the score was there.

  My door buzzer goes off.

  I wander to the kitchen. Plant the bottle of whiskey on the counter. Rub my face. Turn on the faucet. Splash water against my eyes. Try to make it look like I ain’t been crying.

  Sidestep to the door.

  Open it.

  DeVille’s there.

  She frowns at me. Crosses her arms. “For fuck’s sake, Big Daddy. You didn’t even take your armor off yet.” The frown turns into smirk on her olive-shaded face.

  She’s in snug jeans. Sneakers. A dark blue knitted wool sweater. Holster on her hip with a Sig Sauer pistol. She has a rucksack with her, too—camo, slung over her shoulder.

  Never seen her outta her flight suit. I stare. Say, “Well. Come on in.”

  Oh boy! There’s a lady in your apartment.

  DeVille says, “Took you a minute, huh?”

  She walks by me. I watch her hips and her legs in the jeans. Her ass. Her slim waist. The bounce of her chest. The bob of her short-cut black hair.

  Perv.

  I’m not trying to be. It’s just been so goddamn long.

  She’s a marine pilot. So she can probably kill you in a heartbeat.

  So I try not to make it obvious. Say to her, “What’s in the bag?” I close the door. Listen to it auto-lock with a couple of clicks.

  DeVille sets it on the kitchen counter. “I’m just down the hall from you. Convenient, huh?” She pushes my bottle of whiskey away. “I brought house-warming gifts, cowboy.” She pulls out packets of meat. A couple of cuts of beef. Chicken. Says, “I think it’ll be a few years before we get a fishery running, but the livestock’s good long as you don’t mind gene manipulation and hormone injections.” She looks over her shoulder to smile at me.

  I ash my cigarette into the empty Red Bull can. “Considering how goddamn wonky my own genetics are, I ain’t worried.”

  She sets her own bottle of whiskey next to mine. Jameson. Then tosses me a package of undershirts. A package of boxer-briefs. A towel. Bar of soap.

  I catch em. Clumsy. Say, “You trying to tell me something?”

  “Yeah. You stink.” She opens my fridge. Populates it with cheese. Milk. Lemonade. “Take a damn shower.”

  I mumble to myself. Shift weight from one foot to the other. Kind of annoyed. A little pissed off. My brain’s just scrambled.

  Weh weh, the mean lady is forcing you to be an adult.

  DeVille watches me. Furrows her brow. Throws her hands out. “Okay. I’m gonna make this easy for you.” She marches toward me. Three big steps. She grabs my gunbelt. Unbuckles it in a flash. Hefts the fabric and both holsters. Both Colts. She cups the side of my face with her free hand. “Take. A. Shower.” Her voice a mix of marine and mother.

  I lock onto her hazel eyes. Feel my anger and loneliness drain.

  I nod. Slow. Walk to the bathroom. Stare at myself in the mirror. Long shaggy hair. Beard like a lazy lumberjack. Blue eyes—but skin that was never light enough to be considered white.

  “Fuck it.”

  I slide open the beveled glass door. Crank the shower up to slightly below scalding.

  My first hot shower in a decade. I should celebrate. Seeing as how I spent a hell of a long time using baby wipes and rags soaked in rainwater.

  This’s a marked improvement.

  I strip. Step outta my boots. I peel away my carbon mesh armor. Pile my filthy garments in a corner.

  Steam turns the mirror into hazy glass. My reflection’s just a shadow.

  Water c
ascades off my body. It burns. But it feels wonderful. I lean forward. Rest my forehead against the porcelain tiles. Let the heat work its way through my back muscles. I watch the water turn pink as it flows over the bullet wounds in my back and leg. Melts away some of the scabs.

  Takes me another ten minutes to scrub myself clean.

  Worst part is my hair. There’s too much of it. And I keep finding weird shit in there. Dried blood. Mostly other people’s. A fingernail—not human. A lump of what I realize with horror is dried monster splooge.

  I dry off. Pull on underpants and a shirt. Then I decide I probably shouldn’t strut around looking like my junk is vacuum-sealed in cotton. So I snatch a pair of jeans.

  DeVille’s next to the bed. She’s got a datapad in her hands. “I got your apartment on the network. The screen—” she nods to the wall opposite the foot of the bed “—has your radio, announcements, holovids from data storage—” DeVille flaps her hand. Yadda yadda.

  She looks up at me. Smirks. “Well, well, well. At least it doesn’t look like things are living in your hair anymore.”

  I tug some of the long strands that run past my shoulders. “Yeah I don’t really like this style...thing anymore.” I twist my beard in my fingers. “But barbers are tough to come by nowadays. Plus I had a shitload of other things to worry about.”

  “I know.” DeVille walks. Waves me toward the kitchen.

  We stand on opposite sides of the island.

  She pours a few fingers of my Evan Williams whiskey into two metal cups. Opens up the recycled plastic container of lemonade. Says, “Tastes good as a chaser.”

  I eyeball the sugary juice. “What...changed your attitude between Sikorsky and here? Closest we got to a friendly moment was right after Jade severed my spine and right before we fended off an army of parasites. Now you’re bringing me booze and meat.” I arch my eyebrows. “I mean, that is the way to my heart and all, but—” I shrug. Gulp the whiskey. Follow it with a mouthful of lemonade from the bottle.

  Tastes pretty good, I admit.

  DeVille downs her own whiskey. Sniffs. Grabs the lemonade from me. “You realize that people go through a variety of emotions, right? Moods?”