Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5)

by William Vitka

  “Which means,” Jack says, “if the robots go after Wilson, then the camp knows we’re going after Wilson.”

  Catarina chugs her beer. “No bueno.”

  I cackle. Can’t help it. “You sneaky fuckers. This is about plausible deniability.” I rub my eyes. “Un-goddamn-believable.”

  Madison squints at me. A question on her lips.

  I shake my head. Say to her, “My family wants us to go kill this cocksucker cuz we’re new in camp and if someone comes around asking em about squashing political dissonance they can pretend their hands are clean.” I eyeball my parents. Caleb. Even Plissken. “They’re fascists who don’t wanna look like fascists.”

  Caleb sighs. “A fear of us could decrease stability.”

  Jack points to me, “You’ll need to shave. Cut your hair. Look different. But since you’re all mostly new arrivals, he won’t recognize you. That’s why we need you. He won’t be alerted. Won’t be expecting you.”

  DeVille says, “Why does that matter?”

  Catarina says, “We think he’s emergent.”

  Caleb says, “Not like anything we’ve seen before, though.”

  Catarina’s hands ball into fists. Her knuckles go white. Her mouth is a thin line. “He did something.” Catarina’s face shows nothing but hate. She points to her head. “Something to my head. He...”

  Jack grabs Catarina’s shoulder.

  Caleb keeps his eyes low.

  Catarina says, “That bastard made me...see him as Jack, and...”

  Plissken says, “I have the video files to back her up. The problem is that it doesn’t look like rape. She just...” Plissken stops. Waits.

  Caleb says, “We don’t forgive. We don’t forget.”

  Plissken bobs in the air. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Bring him here.”

  “We want to dissect his brain.”

  Jack stamps out his cigarette. “Slowly and painfully.”

  The room’s quiet for a minute.

  I finish my American Spirit. Say, “I’ll get the sonuvabitch.” Lock eyes with my mother. Then my father. “But I’m not doing it till Caleb explains why I got abandoned on the Empire State Building for ten years while he was up here creating a little utopia.”

  DeVille drums her fingers on the table.

  Jack and Catarina wait for Caleb. They don’t offer up any defense.

  Even Plissken rotates toward my uncle.

  I figure he wants an explanation too. Since his ass was stuck with me.

  Caleb takes a deep breath. Exhales slow. “I told you, when you first got here, that the shitty-but-honest answer is: It was necessary.” He drains the rest of his beer. “That remains true. As does the adage that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He motions to Jack and Catarina. “Which is even more true for emergent. Pain is part of what triggers the onset of our gifts.”

  I twirl my finger. “I know all this. And I know pheromones from other parasite carriers can trigger it too. The Hroza specifically. None of that explains why you left me to rot.”

  Caleb props his elbows on the table. Puts his head in his hands. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Slaps the table. “You had to suffer. You had to be ruined. Destroyed and rebuilt. With no interference from me or your parents. It was the only way to ensure that you’re strong enough.”

  “For what?”

  “To lead the survivors.”

  12. Survey Says?

  We stand in my bathroom.

  DeVille lifts a handful of my hair. Scissors it off with a quick snikt. “What do you think?”

  “I think it sucks.” I sniff. Watch a decade’s worth of hair tumble to the bathroom floor. No more psycho-Viking look for me. “I don’t like being used.”

  DeVille grunts. “Wilson deserves to die, though.”

  I narrow my eyes. “He raped my mother. You’re goddamn right he deserves to die. I’d kill him on principle. But I still don’t like being used.”

  “I think you’re just real bad at taking orders.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  * * *

  After a while, I appear more human. Or at least less like a caveman. Almost respectable. And with any luck, stuff will stop getting lost in my beard.

  DeVille hands me a cup of whiskey. Keeps tapping her holographic datapad.

  I say, “Thanks. What’s the plan?”

  “You don’t have any bright ideas?”

  “Dunno if you noticed, but I ain’t a great tactician. I tend to punch or shoot shit till it stops moving.”

  DeVille snorts. “Well, it’s worked out okay for you so far.” She pulls up a map of the camp on the datapad. Pulls the hologram so it floats on the surface of the island. “Your folks want this done quietly. So...”

  “So no bang bang?”

  “Sorry, cowboy. No bang bang.” She blows up the map. Taps our apartment building. “We’re here. Duh. We’re gonna meet Madison and Gunnar at Palmer’s Pub near the camp entrance once it’s dark. Now—” she taps a sidebar on the map. “While we can’t use the fort’s robots to take down Wilson, Caleb did give us access to the surveillance feeds so we can track him.”

  A grid of screens blossom to life above the map. None show the inside of any apartments or toilets or places you’d consider “private.” But it does look like there’s a camera pointed at every fuckin public space of the camp.

  Wouldn’t shock me if some NSA boners helped Caleb set this up.

  Are my communication lines tapped? Are anyone’s? Or are everyone’s?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Doesn’t this strike you as creepy? Back when I was a journalist, I’d shit kittens over this kind of Big Brother monitoring in the New York Zone.”

  DeVille purses her lips. “You still a journalist?”

  I shake my head. “No, no, no. Don’t deflect. That ain’t an answer.” I sip my whiskey. “We’re having secret meetings and taking orders from the royalty in charge who want us to help maintain this police state.”

  “They’re your family. Which makes you royalty, too.”

  I roll my eyes. “They abandoned me when I was a baby for the express purpose of making me suffer so I could fulfill this bullshit idea of becoming an ubermensch. Hitler had similar ideas.”

  “Except it worked for you.”

  “Yeah, and ain’t that uncomfortable.”

  DeVille grabs my cup. Has a taste. “People have been arguing about this since there even were governments. Freedom versus security. Stability.” She frowns at me. “Maybe you don’t wanna hear this, but here’s how I see it: A person is capable and smart and reasonable. People are dangerous and violent and panicky. They need order. And right now, given how badly the planet has been fucked, I think what your family is doing is...necessary.” She winces at the word. “And don’t forget that those cameras watch the cops, too. It’s a way to maintain efficiency. They have records of every confrontation.”

  I light a cigarette. Steal my cup of whiskey back. “Just wait till there are sudden curfews. Or lines of fuckin robots marching down the street, keeping people from protesting.”

  “Governments can change with time. The camp’s still small. Still growing.” DeVille crosses her arms. “What do you wanna do, cowboy? I’ll back your play.”

  C’mon, cowboy. Let’s make it interesting. I promised I’d keep you aliiiiiiiiive. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Yeah.

  I take a drag off my American Spirit. Lick my lips. “Let’s make this interesting.”

  * * *

  Me and DeVille get to Palmer’s Pub as the sun sets. Smile at Aaron—the old white dude with the grey dreads behind the makeshift bar.

  Aaron says, “So, what can I getcha?”

  DeVille says, “Beer.”

  I echo her. “Lots of beer.”
<
br />   We sit there in our jeans and sweaters. Normal. No armor.

  Got my Colt revolver on my right hip.

  DeVille’s got her Sig.

  Madison and Gunnar arrive. Neither looks too happy.

  Dunno why they would be, though.

  Madison made it pretty damn clear she didn’t want anything to do with this. With taking down Wilson.

  So I nod to her and Gunnar. Tell em, “Change of plans. You guys don’t need to have any part of it. You wanna walk, that’s fine.”

  Gunnar grunts.

  Madison pats Gunnar’s shoulder. “Yeah, big boy here was looking forward to crushing some skulls.” She orders a beer. “I, on the other hand, don’t feel like playing fiddle for your goddamn fascist family. No offense. I had enough of that certainty bullshit with the cult.”

  Gunnar frowns.

  I snort. “That makes two of us.” I scratch the side of my face. Give DeVille a look. Say, “See? Madison gets it.”

  DeVille gives me a look back. Oh, you’re adorable and intolerable.

  I say to Madison, “All you gotta do is sit here and promise to patch us up afterward.”

  Madison says, “After what?”

  DeVille says, “After our bonehead Chosen One finishes his psychotic plan.”

  * * *

  It’s full-dark outside. The camp and the stores inside ain’t lit by anything fancy or cliché—what’re the chances fragile neon signs would survive the apocalypse?—it’s all spotlights and work lights and faint blue hanging Coleman lanterns.

  If any of the survivors in the streets still recognize me as the man with his robot, they don’t show it. I don’t get any stares. Any reverence. I’m just another shitbird.

  Which means I’m no longer a tourist.

  I’m happy about that until I bump into a guy and he calls me an “idiot retard faggot.”

  DeVille pulls me away from a potential fight. Says, “I’ve got video of Remy Wilson following the northeast wall. He’s headed toward the northern tip of the camp. Three bodyguards with him.”

  I say, “What’s at the northern tip of the camp?”

  “His apartment.”

  “We—” I stop. Gunnar and DeVille stop with me. I sneer at her. “We know where he lives?”

  DeVille shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

  I slap my forehead. “We coulda set up some cool trap where we’re waiting in his apartment in the dark and then he comes home and flips on the lights and then we’re all like ‘Gotcha, bitch.’ And then we CIA black site his ass. I mean, this is a serious missed opportunity.”

  Gunnar considers it. Grunts.

  DeVille claps her thighs. “Does anyone wanna know what I thought would be cool? A spy-y chase-down. We track Wilson through the camp, sneak in with him, take him down in a dark corner. That’s what I like. Some tension. Not sure if he’s looking or not. Then—” DeVille punches her fist out. Pow. “We get the bastard.”

  I frown at DeVille. “Movie night’s gonna be a bummer.”

  You wacky kids! If only I had a slide whistle.

  Gunnar chuckles. Laughs through his nose.

  I march forward. Slip between people in the crowd like a true New Yorker. Anyone in the way gets a stiff shoulder. Old ladies. Kids.

  Like I give a fuck.

  Same as trying to get off the goddamn subway... Those people are fuckin terrible though, that’s not a joke.

  Doesn’t take me long to catch up with Wilson and his goons. Down a dark alley. I recognize him by his weird bald head and the fact that there’s three giant guys around him who look like they could eat someone’s brain.

  Not exactly inconspicuous.

  I jog between Wilson’s goons. Say, “Mr. Wilson?”

  He stops. “Yes?” Full Australian accent.

  “Oh!’ I make a doofy schoolgirl face. “I just wanted to say I’m a big fan. Big fan.”

  Wilson smiles. Quickly tucks his worn down button-up into the slacks around his bulging stomach. “Great. Glad to hear it. Who are you?” He holds his hand out. “We’re always looking for people to help shine a light on the crushing influence of the Svoboda brothers.”

  I scrunch my face. Don’t wanna touch him. “Elmore. Elmore Lovecraft. I’m with the, uh, Fort Daily. We’re—” I fake an embarrassed laugh “—we’re just getting set up.” Finally shake his hand.

  It’s too sweaty. Goddamn gross.

  Either he’s always like this or he knows something’s up.

  A guy who shakes hands for a living suddenly has sweaty palms?

  Wilson says, “Well, here’s a quote for you—”

  I whip my Colt out and jam it in his mouth.

  His tongue licks against the seven and a half inch six-shooter barrel.

  His goons move for me

  Gunnar and DeVille are there.

  She kicks out the back of one goon’s knee. Takes him to the ground. Puts him in a sleeper hold and knocks his ass out.

  Gunnar punches one guy hard enough to collapse his rib cage. Grabs the final goon’s head. Wraps his massive mitts around the guy’s head. Holds him there.

  I arch my eyebrows. Grin like an idiot. Nod.

  Shit, even I’m impressed.

  I feel something try to get in my head. There’s pressure on my brain. Both physical and emotional. Wilson’s sweaty face starts to shift. Becomes Momma Bear’s. Becomes DeVille’s.

  The faces whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

  I push the Colt barrel a little farther. So Wilson gags. I tell him, “Don’t fuck with me.”

  The pressure stops.

  Wilson’s sweaty face returns.

  DeVille shouts behind me. “Survivors!”

  I look over my shoulder.

  A crowd gathers.

  DeVille points to Wilson. Says, “That man is a rapist. You know what this world has done to us.” She preaches. Implores. “You and me. We have been left with nothing. The only reason we have anything are the robots and the people in this camp. There is no room for predators. Predators like Remy Wilson.”

  The crowd sure as shit doesn’t disagree. It’s full of moms and dads and kids. A hundred. Two hundred other people whose eyes tell me they don’t just want, but need the camp to be a place safe from the nightmares. Human and parasite alike.

  Will it make you feel better about this execution if I say the crowd is multicultural? Got blacks and whites and browns and yellows and all the shades quietly okay-ing this fucker’s death?

  I lead Wilson by the mouth so everyone can see. I push the gun into his cheek when there’s a direction I want him to go. Put him on his knees.

  The crowd separates like a curtain. Caleb, Catarina, Jack, and Plissken wade through.

  My family doesn’t look pissed. More curious. Though Jack’s carrying a lit cigarette and a bemused smirk.

  I shout to the crowd. “Remy Wilson has to die. Jack, Catarina and Caleb seem to be under the impression that after this man assaulted Catarina, he had to be dealt with quietly. Like you shouldn’t know about it. They’re worried you might freak out if you knew what was going on. That you might lose faith in the camp. In the emergent. Seeing as how this piece of shit is gifted like we are.” I chance a glance at DeVille.

  She nods.

  I keep on. Say, “Thing Wilson did was different though. My gift kept me alive. Caleb, Catarina, Jack’s gifts kept em alive and helped establish this camp. This motherfucker—” I pull the Colt barrel outta his mouth. Say, “What the fuck are you? French-Aussie?”

  Wilson spits. “My father was French and—”

  I pistol-whip him. Shove the barrel back down his throat. “This frogfuck aussie used his gift to trick women into fucking him. There’s no way to know how many. No real way to go after him legally. Cuz on the video feeds, shit looks like women are seducing him.”
I cast my eyes around the crowd. “He needs to die. You decide how.”

  There’s a couple hundred pissed off faces.

  Jack’s eyes reflect his cigarette.

  Catarina’s eyes don’t move from Wilson.

  Caleb watches me.

  I look to DeVille again.

  She keeps steady eyes on the crowd.

  Gunnar drops the guard whose face he’d squished. Grunts.

  Madison works her way along the outskirt.

  The two lock hands. Stand behind me as a titanic symbol of FuckYou-ness.

  I shout. “There shouldn’t be any secrets. No bullshit. I’m telling you like it is. I was sent out tonight to take this fucker. He ruined my fuckin mother.” I take a deep breath. “But I leave the decision to the camp.” I shrug.“You’re the jury.”

  I pull the Colt from Wilson’s mouth. Hand it to my mom.

  Catarina holds the gun steady against Wilson’s forehead.

  I nod to Plissken.

  He replays video from a dozen attacks on the wall.

  All the scenes when Remy Wilson convinced people he was a nice guy. He was their friend. He was their lover.

  Two more women step forward. Three. Four.

  All of em with their sidearms drawn.

  Too afraid till now.

  Wilson whimpers. “I wasn’t trying to—”

  Catarina fires.

  Drives a canal through Wilson’s face. The .45 Colt slug drills its way through Wilson’s nose. Sprays out the back.

  All blood, brains, and bone on the wall.

  Four other women unload. Cathartic.

  Wilson’s body shakes with the impacts.

  I kiss Catarina on the cheek. Peel my Colt outta her hands.

  I tell the crowd, “This is how it works now. I’ll tell you every goddamn thing that’s happening in the camp. Cuz I’ve got a reason to believe you’re smart. You want the fort to survive and so do I.” I holster the Colt. “No bullshit. We have to protect each other. But if you don’t...” I point to the bloody remains of Remy Wilson. “You won’t live long enough to regret it.”

  Caleb walks toward me.