Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5)

by William Vitka

  Plissken says, “The one at the center had a critical boot failure. He’s better now.”

  DeVille says, “The humans don’t, I dunno, they don’t force you guys to stay down here, right? This isn’t some weird internment camp? Like you’re second-citizens.”

  “No, no. The camp has been a source of salvation for many of us. We actually prefer the tunnel. We prefer working. You humans might have a few thoughts you recognize per minute. We have several thousand thoughts we recognize per second. We have to keep working. That’s what we enjoy.”

  I grunt. “So Fort Svoboda is what it is cuz you guys get bored easily.”

  “Well, that’s why I enjoy my time with you. It’s never dull. I’m not saying you’re particularly intelligent, but you’re clever and batshit insane enough to challenge even my problem-solving skills.”

  “Do what I can, man.”

  Plissken stops. “Ahhh.” He swivels toward a rack of warframe-sized weapons. “Welcome to my pet projects. Other than the Talos, obviously. I’m very curious about how you’ll outfit yourselves.” He hums. Catches himself. “I don’t mean that the warframes aren’t capable of ruining even the largest leviathan bare-handed.” He chuckles. “I just mean that options are nice.”

  DeVille/Bonnie leans over the weapons. “I don’t see any melee tools. In case we run outta ammo.”

  “Each Talos comes with a sword buried in both arms. Make a fist and bring your wrist in. Voila. I’ve got you covered.” He bows to DeVille. “Alpha was a great inspiration.”

  “And just where is my daughter?”

  “Caleb has her scouting. Tracking the progress of the wall of flesh. Now...once you choose your weapons, make certain you stock up on ammo. The Talos’s outer thigh contains ample storage space. And you can wear custom rucksacks. If things go fucky, it’s not as though you’ll be able to restock in the field.”

  DeVille grabs a gun that looks like it belongs on a goddamn aircraft carrier.

  Heads-up display in my vision tells me it’s a Swift Industries Slugger. 40cm cannon with a thirty-round mag. Bullpup design similar to the FAMAS for the accuracy that goes with its twenty-foot barrel.

  DeVille says, “I’m good.”

  Plissken says, “I recommend two weapons. You have two magnetic clips on the back of each Talos to hold weapons. Switching is easy. Holstering both is also easy if you want to punch things to death.” He turns to me. “Which you will inevitably want to.”

  I heft a double-barreled something the size of a bus. Readout says TALOS TXP12S SHOTGUN. I grab shells from the oversized ammo tray behind us. Even the fuckin shells are the size of motorcycles.

  I sling the TXP12S over my back. Lock it in place. Stick a few Hondas’ worth of shells in my thigh.

  Plissken hums again. Says, “We’re not sure about that one. I’m glad you picked it. The weapon needs a proper test.”

  “Explain ‘not sure’ to me.”

  “Imagine your average 12-gauge shotgun firing 00-buck with nine pellets per shell. That’s a decent average. Not bad at all. Tears faces off. Explodes heads. But in those, each pellet is a little over eight millimeters in diameter. We followed the same idea with the TXP12S—except each shell holds twelve pellets at twenty centimeters in diameter.

  “Might knock your arm off.”

  “Never know till you try.”

  DeVille grabs a second TXP12S. Says, “Well, I wanna play too.”

  Which means I should pick something else before we go to the wall.

  I say, “Plissken, what’s the scariest goddamn thing you got here?”

  Take him a second. But he finally says, “The Bolter. While the Quake was an attempt to downsize Juliet’s railgun, the Bolter is out attempt to make it bigger. Should work. Though I confess it’s all patent-pending.”

  I look to DeVille. You wanna go?

  She smiles at me.

  Time to give the warframes a workout.

  14. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

  We emerge from another elevator. The doors split over our heads. Like a missile silo ready to make some Russians very unhappy.

  We’re pushed up into a different world. One far from the fort.

  One we’re more used to than the assumption of safety.

  The western wall.

  Big sonuvabitch. Goes all the way down Farragut Road. Seals off the fort and the big pond. Ten feet thick with a guard rail on top and snipers scattered around. Shit’s better’n thirty feet tall.

  But me and DeVille, we got ourselves a helluva view looking out at City Point and Telegraph Hill. South Boston. The bones of a city picked clean picked clean for Caleb’s enclave. So the rest of us can live.

  Plissken wants us to secure more land. Expand our territory. Except I don’t see a goddamn door on this wall.

  Plissken says, “A door means another weak point. We can’t allow that.”

  “How do we get out there?”

  “You’re both in giant death machines. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  I look to DeVille. Shrug.

  She takes a few steps back. Bonnie leaves big craters under her feet.

  DeVille runs forward. Leaps. Clears the wall like a hurdler. Skids to a halt on the other side. Her heels kick up cracked asphalt. Smear infected fuckers wandering around. Her knee breaks down a small two-story family house. She shouts to me. “Come on, Big Daddy. Get your ass over here.” She makes a kissy noise.

  This could go poorly.

  True. But, hey, fuck it.

  I back up the way DeVille did.

  Plissken says, “Please refrain from breaking my fucking wall.”

  I charge toward the wall. Jump. Can’t hurdle. I dive. Add a new crater to the ruined neighborhood with my shoulder. Splatter a stilt-walker. Roll. Come up standing in the middle of what used to be a brick warehouse.

  My warframe is covered in bits and pieces of parasites.

  Plissken hovers over to me. Says, “I knew you could do it.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, pal.”

  I see Juliet below me. Old Glory still tied around one of her antennae. Battle-scarred. But she looks good. She’s surrounded by the remains of monsters. Skulls. Femurs. Impossible to tell how many goddamn infected she’s killed while holding the wall.

  Athena’s there with Juliet and Plissken’s kids: Turing and Lovelace. The next generation of superkillers.

  My daughter waves to me. Spartan power armor helmet in her hand. Head almost comically small between the big, reinforced shoulders. She shouts to me, “Hey, daddy.”

  “Hey, monkey.”

  She takes a lazy-looking shot with her pulse rifle. Like she doesn’t give a shit. A short burst that chews apart two stumbling parasites. Says, “You gonna help us kill all the monsters?”

  “Of course.” I smile. Look out across the blighted landscape in the afternoon sun.

  Kerfuffles of Keefs shamble through the streets amid stilt-walkers and flesh-towers. An army whose end I can’t see.

  I say to Plissken, “Where the fuck are they coming from? When we escaped from New York, there didn’t even seem to be this many left.” I see random Keefs wearing the tatters of sports jerseys from Philly. Baltimore. Tampa.

  Plissken says, “Not locally, no. This is the only part of the planet with living human beings. The creatures are coming from every corner of the country. And soon, we might even see foreign tourists.”

  “Like the French?” I shiver.

  Anything but the French.

  French monsters would probably show up and sip lattes and just criticize the other wretched monsters from a distance. Really stink up the joint.

  More, I mean.

  Plissken says, “Would you two be so kind as to eradicate the next few blocks so that we can put up new walls and safely lock down the area for the camp?”

&n
bsp; DeVille grabs the massive shotgun off her back. Points it downrange. Unleashes both barrels. The oversized pellets are a hail of cannonballs that blow apart buildings and shatter the bodies of infected in the way.

  A lurching flesh-tower takes three. They pound the shit outta him. Turn him into gory, red mulch.

  DeVille cackles. “I’m totally okay with this.”

  I march west down East Second Street. Zombies turn into paste beneath my feet. I squish em with glee. Strut up to two flesh-towers. When I didn’t have a giant robot, these fuckers were my biggest problem.

  Now?

  I wave my hands at em. They’re half my size. “You guys are so little.” I grab each one’s head in my big mitts. Squeeze. Pop the rotten bastards. Toss what remains of their bodies.

  I unsling the shotgun. Aim from the hip. “Let’s go, motherfuckers.” I send a storm of gunfire through a horde of monsters. Obliterate thirty. Reach into the storage compartment in Clyde’s thigh for more rounds.

  My turn to be the bully. My turn to ruin the infected’s day.

  I wish they had kids. Families. Loved ones.

  I wanna break their hearts.

  Destroy em.

  I wanna torture em and make em feel the way I did.

  Instead I gotta settle for plastering their innards all over the streets. Turning em into clouds of red mist.

  Ain’t so bad.

  Me and DeVille work in tandem. Clear City Point streets block by block. Athena, Turing and Lovelace secure the buildings. Juliet hangs back. Uses her plasma cannon as artillery. Melts swaths of the parasite parades. We murder the fucklumps in our way. Till we get to L Street.

  Plissken says, “Hold the line. The new walls are coming in now.”

  I chance a look behind me.

  Thirty-foot tall walls are coming in from the east—and they’re walking under their own goddamn power.

  They scuttle along on dozens of metal legs. Black with yellow warning stripes. Straight-line centipedes. Thin side facing us. Each one the length of a city block.

  DeVille says, “Hey, we got another walking city. Two miles out.”

  Plissken says, “Yes. Worcester. It’s right on time.”

  “Which is why you brought us out.”

  “Precisely. We didn’t build those warframes for fun. My other concern is, obviously, the wall of flesh making its way east.”

  I sniff. “You don’t much faith in Caleb’s assertion that he’s ‘working on it?’“

  Plissken bobs in the air. “I prefer certainties.”

  DeVille tilts her head. “Always up for a challenge.” She slings the shotgun. Pulls the bullpup Slugger. “Big Daddy?”

  I prime the blocky Bolter. The barrel splits from the business end to the upper receiver. Creates a magnetic channel to throw the four-foot long carbon steel rods from the magazine. I activate the dual mini-nuke power plants in the stock. “What’s the effective range on this railgun?”

  More like railfun, am I right?!

  Plissken says, “Three miles. But keep in mind that it’s a kinetic weapon. Damage and effectiveness diminish with distance.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” I light a cigarette. “Clyde, can you bring Worcester up on screen? Designation: Dicktown-W.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A blue rectangle appears over the walking city in the distance.

  I squint. Clyde magnifies my vision. Worcester ain’t as tall as Newark, hundred-fifty feet maybe, but it’s fatter than White Plains. Wider. Four square blocks. This big conical hermit crab of a parasite. Got eight tentacles to keep it lumbering forward. Mouths that ring its perimeter suck and chew on air. I see the flesh-flowers blossom on top of the buildings. Malformed eyes blink and stare. The tendrils that line its streets wiggle in the air. The pale white things like antibodies that patrol to melt and dissolve interlopers.

  Killing this bastard from range would be a helluva lot better than crawling through its insides again.

  I turn to DeVille. “Wanna help me greet the new neighbor?”

  She racks the handle on the rifle. Chambers a round. Nods.

  I tell Athena, “Hold the line here with Turing and Lovelace.”

  “You got it, dad.” She sends a high-explosive grenade into a group of Keefs. They vaporize in a cloud of pink mist. “Bring that motherfucker to its knees.”

  Turing and Lovelace salute me. Both  on their face panels.

  What a lovely group of children. And so polite!

  Me and DeVille close the gap to the undead city in a minute. Mush and kick more infected. Get ourselves inside a mile from the lumbering titan.

  DeVille says, “What does your warframe sound like?”

  “The voice? Vincent Price. Reminds me of Halloween. Yours?”

  “Juliette Lewis circa Natural Born Killers.”

  “Fits, at least.”

  The undead city croons. Sings like a whale. Its tentacle legs hammer the rusted tracks of the MBTA Cabot Yard maintenance facility.

  We climb the hill to the top of Thomas Park. Stand next to the wrecked monument built to honor whoever or whatever. Doesn’t matter now. Gives us higher ground.

  Dicktown-W pauses in the slight valley of the train yard.

  No way it can’t see us. Or see movement, anyway.

  I take a knee. Take a drag off my cigarette. Ignore the Keefs pawing and breaking their teeth against my armor. Ignore the stilt-walkers that ram me and end up exploding their own stupid heads. I shoulder the Bolter. Zoom in. Watch one of the toothy mouths on the underside open.

  A tongue wiggles out. Tastes the air.

  I say, “Brain’s at the center of that cocksucker. I mean dead center. Under all the buildings and muscle and blood and blah blah. Real headache.”

  Ooh! Pun? Pun!

  Ehhh...

  DeVille spends a second targeting. Pulls the trigger. Her rifle barks. Three-round burst. The 40cm shells soar. Punch hard into the flesh of walking Worcester. Blood explodes in geysers.

  Dozens of squirming white antibodies slither around the bullet holes. Shove themselves into the bloody mess. Use their bodies to seal the wounds.

  DeVille says, “Looks nice, but there’s no penetration.”

  Teehehe.

  I line up a shot on that goddamn wagging tongue. Say, “Yeah, I’ve got it.” Send a supercharged carbon steel rod screaming toward the walking city. It’s an electric blue bolt. It slams into the tongue. The wiggling meat pops into the air. Lands on the ground in a dripping mess.

  I’m disappointed for a heartbeat.

  Worried the Bolter ain’t worth shit.

  Then there’s a burst of blue out the other side of Dicktown-W. A garbage truck of gore flies out with it. A wonderful red river.

  Worcester howls. Screams.

  Good.

  No end to the varieties of skullfucking in your life.

  DeVille kicks at the ground. Scatters the broken bodies of a dozen zombies. Says, “There you go, cowboy. Hit it again.”

  I puff my American Spirit. Roll my eyes. “Oh, you mean I oughtta keep shooting? Till that goddamn abomination’s dead? Nah. I was gonna roll around on the ground for a while. See what happens.”

  “I’m gonna let that slide since we’re in giant death machines.”

  “You’re too kind, my dear.”

  I line up another shot. Hammer the city again. The carbon rod blows through a massive tentacle. Lops it off. Keeps going. Bulldozes a hole big enough for a dump truck to dive through.

  I send another.

  Another.

  The city shudders. Wobbles on its wretched tentacles. It lets out a final howl. A pained yowl. Before crashing to the ground. The fucker lays still.

  I stand. Breathe smoke. Keep the railgun trained. Head toward the titanic corpse of Worcester.

&nb
sp; DeVille makes a noise. Starts to ask a question. Realizes she already knows the answer.

  Where am I going? What am I doing?

  I mean, sure, legit questions.

  Except she knows me.

  And she knows the parasite can’t be trusted.

  Last time we took one this size down, my friend had to suicide bomb it.

  I walk. Smash the infected in my way. I grip a handful of Keefs. Squeeze and squeeze. Turning em into chunky peanut butter feels good.

  Useless, but good.

  I march until its eyes are fifty feet away. So I can see em up close.

  The carcass of the city lies on along the rail tracks. Some broken up. Cable ties and steel pierce the monster. A rusty pincushion.

  They roll in their rotten sockets. Not quite dead. The one closest focuses on me. There’s a stupid, unthinking anger there. Dunno if it recognizes me like the other hermit parasite city did.

  Don’t care.

  I fire another carbon rod through.

  Up close, the damage is far more ridiculous. Wonderfully so.

  The bolt tears open a massive tunnel. Bigger than a goddamn dump truck. Fluids flush out the exit wound. The buildings on the creature’s back crumble with the impact wave. Break apart. Brick and glass and concrete tumble to the ground.

  Pale things scramble to deal with the trauma.

  DeVille obliterates em with her rifle. The 40cm shells explode em. Splatter their acidic insides against the gory walls of the city.

  I watch the flesh bleed. The pus dribble. “Still need to burn this thing. Cook it till there’s nothing left.” I sling the railgun.

  DeVille rests her rifle on her shoulder. Cocks her hips. “Pretty sure Plissken’s got us covered.”

  Lovelace appears on my radar. She’s behind us. Moving fast. She jumps between us. Slides down the embankment. Hefts a bigass gun with two large tanks attached. Her face panel 

  I nod to her. Finish my cigarette. “Torch it.”

  Lovelace lets fly with a long tongue of liquid flame. Fires rains down on the immobilized city. She struts around the titanic monster. Bathes the whole damn thing in hot hell.

  Worcester’s too torn up to thrash. But it moans. Cries. Fills the afternoon air with its sad whale song while it burns.