Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5)

by William Vitka

  The flesh crackles. Hisses. Pops.

  I see the pale things squirm in the fire.

  Big monster barbeque.

  Lovelace motions for us to follow her.

  We trod back to Plissken. His new mechanical walls bury their insectoid legs in the ground. Whir as they straighten themselves. Settle in. Lock themselves together.

  I stretch my arms. Clyde’s arms. Crack my neck.

  Even though the warframe has its own musculature, piloting the machine is fuckin work. It takes its toll. Makes me sweat.

  Athena and Turing stand in front of the one wall section that hasn’t been raised. They exterminate infected that shamble too close. Explode stilt-walkers that bark and charge the new barrier.

  Athena’s voice comes over the radio. “Nice job, daddy.” She drops an empty pulse rifle mag. Slams another home. “You and DeVille make a good team.” She pauses. I wonder if she’s smiling under her helmet.

  Plissken says, “Indeed. An excellent job. We’ve more than doubled our territory in a single afternoon. I’ll bring in a team of workers to raze the buildings and we can go from there. More importantly, we’ve shown that the warframes can tackle even the largest parasite forms. I’ll accelerate construction on several more. Enough for the rest of the emergent.”

  Me and DeVille step behind the new wall. Watch as the final section locks itself with the rest to create the new frontline.

  I say, “DeVille’s still on my team though, right? You’re not gonna...decommission her warframe for one of the emergent or something.”

  Plissken puffs his thrusters. “Why the hell would I decommission her warframe? She’s an emergent. I’ve had small drones scouring the camp to scan for humans with potential gifts.”

  Least-shocking reveal ever. At least the shiny, blinking, squeaking metal baseball outside Manny’s makes sense now.

  Well I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know?

  Deduction skills learned in kindergarten?

  I grimace. “Oh, I totally knew that. I was just, uh...”

  DeVille says, “I didn’t know.”

  Plissken says, “You survived by yourself for years at an abandoned helicopter plant while managing to mate your dead daughter’s brain to a powered suit of armor—which you built yourself—and you didn’t think there was anything special about it?”

  DeVille shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t think about it.”

  “You’re better with machines than most machines are.”

  “I need a drink.”

  I say, “Sounds good to me. Athena, you old enough yet for a beer?”

  Athena removes her helmet. Raises an eyebrow. “That joke is getting old.”

  15. Let the Good Times Roll...Off a Cliff

  We’ve been at Palmer’s Pub for an hour. Drinking. Bullshitting. Pistols on our thighs. Our backs to the main entrance tunnel. We ignore the Spartans coming and going. The robots and farmers moving their shit.

  We did our jobs today. I’m not gonna gawk at others trying to do theirs.

  Orange strands of dusk coat the fort.

  Athena chugs some beer. Wipes her mouth. “It’s weird, y’know?”

  I light a cigarette. “Lotta that going around.” I inhale. “Which part?”

  “I’m less than sixty days old. Your blood turned me into this. And now I’m not that much ‘younger’ than you. And grandma Catarina and grandpa Jack are the same age as you. Uncle Caleb is...like a little younger than you, too.”

  I shrug. “Shit gets all fucky when your family hops around the spacetime continuum, monkey.”

  Athena nods to DeVille. “What about you? This stuff doesn’t make your head spin?”

  DeVille frowns. Stares into her beer. “I’m not sure yet.” Her eyes bounce from mine to Athena’s. “If we’re emergent, how many others are there? Does that mean we’re all related?”

  I shake my head. “Only in a real distant way, I think. We’ve still got human genes. The Hroza genes just give us an injection of kickass.”

  Athena says, “As for how many other emergent there are, I don’t know. There’s me, daddy, you, Caleb, Jack, and Catarina. I haven’t met any others.”

  DeVille says, “So where the hell are they? Having fuckin tea somewhere?”

  I do a shot of whiskey. Follow it with beer. Say, “Only reason the three of us are sitting here together is cuz we knew each other already.” I wave my hand at the massive apartment blocks that surround us. “Catarina told me there might be five other contenders here—in the midst of all this. Not exactly a shock that we haven’t run into em.”

  “All right. Fair point. It’d still be nice if someone made introductions.”

  Athena chuckles. “We aren’t the friendliest family in town.”

  DeVille does a shot. “Also a fair point.”

  I look to Athena. “Speaking of friendly, who’s this asshole you shacked up with?”

  Athena squirms on her stool. Brushes strands of blonde hair behind her ears. “I didn’t say I shacked up with anyone.”

  “Sorry, that’s my polite way of asking who you let screw you.”

  DeVille’s eyes go wide. “That’s not really any of our business.”

  “The hell it ain’t.” I breathe smoke. “Athena, you’re my daughter. And you grew up way too goddamn fast. Literally. But I’m still your dad.”

  Athena offers me a death stare. “Don’t pull that shit. Yes. You saved me. But you took care of me for, what, a week? Then you shipped me off with Jack and Catarina—”

  “So that you’d be safe.”

  “I spent more time with Plissken and Juliet and Turing and Lovelace than anyone else. None of you get to invite yourselves into my life, all right? Dad?”

  I take a deep breath. Remind myself that I said basically the same thing to Jack and Catarina.

  I rub my forehead. “All right.” I sigh. “You’re right.” Offer Athena a weak smile. “He nice, at least? Treat you well?”

  Athena snorts. “Remember what we did to those cultists? How do you think an abusive boyfriend would turn out?”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Someone shouts in the entrance tunnel. Sounds like an argument. Could be drunks. Jackasses who wanna duke it out over whatever. Lame.

  But, hey, live entertainment.

  The three of us rotate on our stools. Watch the tunnel. Drink our beer while two Spartans in full armor yell over the prone form of a refugee wrapped in brown rags.

  The Spartan on the left says, “What the hell are you doing now?”

  The right Spartan says, “Hey, buddy, you gotta keep moving.”

  The refugee cries. “I need help.”

  “We know. That’s all you’ve been saying.”

  This whiny refugee says into the stone floor, “I need help.”

  Athena shouts to the Spartans, “What’s the problem?”

  The Spartan on the left takes a step away from the refugee. Turns toward us. “This asshole showed up on a boat thirty minutes ago near the southern causeway. Keeps saying he needs help, but now he’s having a fuckin tantrum.”

  The refugee screams. “I need help!” He kicks his legs. Pounds the ground.

  Something about this stinks.

  No shit.

  I slam another shot. Polish off my beer. Pull Athena back a step. Shout to the Spartans. “Keep his ass outside. Move him outta here and we’ll have medics check on him. Okay? If he throws another tantrum, put a bullet in his head. We can’t risk the fort.”

  DeVille eyes me. “What’re you thinking?”

  “Dunno...”

  “Just feels fucked?”

  “Just feels fucked.” I tap Athena. “Do the Spartans have flamethrowers? Some kinda portable incinerators? Lovelace was carrying a big one before to burn up the remains of a walking ci
ty.”

  Athena furrows her brow. “Flamethrowers aren’t standard issue. Not effective enough against the infected we usually deal with. I should be able to rustle a couple up. Why?”

  “Cuz I’ve seen this movie before. Get the flamethrowers, then—”

  The Spartans reach down to haul away the refugee.

  The ragged man yelps as they grip him under his arms. He throws his head back. Face and blonde hair bathed in the harsh blue of the tunnel’s fluorescent lights. His blue eyes lock onto mine. “I. Need...help.” The refugee grins.

  I draw my Colt. Fire. Put a bullet in the motherfucker’s forehead.

  The gunshot makes the survivors in the courtyard snap to attention.

  The Spartans jump in surprise. Release the ragged sonuvabitch.

  Problem is: The weird guy’s body doesn’t drop.

  He stays upright. On his tiptoes. A ballerina.

  The ragged man’s face bubbles. Splits open. Right down the center from the bullet hole. The cartilage of the nose falls away. Flaps of skin flutter. The bloody skull underneath clicks its teeth together. Its bright eyes glisten.

  DeVille throws her hands out at any survivors who get too close. Blocks their path. “Stay back. We don’t know what the fuck we’re dealing with yet.”

  Athena commands the Spartans. “Shoot the goddamn thing!”

  The right Spartan shrinks away. The Spartan on the left raises his pulse rifle. Gets a burst off before red tendrils explode from the ragged thing’s hands and wrap themselves around his helmet. Twist it. Unlock it. Fling it away.

  The poor Spartan shrieks.

  His voice is cut off when the tendrils worm their way into his mouth. Break his jaw with their bulk. He convulses. Vomit gushes up between the infected threads thrusting their way into his gut. His eyes roll back in his head.

  Someone in the gathering crowd screams. This whole fiasco probably ain’t doing much for the population’s resolve or faith in the camp.

  At least nobody’s fuckin filming this shit with their phone.

  The remaining Spartan runs into the courtyard.

  Coward.

  Sorta reasonable though...

  Athena opens fire. Peppers the face and body of the wretched ragged thing with 9mm rounds from her Beretta.

  Fuckin useless.

  The ragged thing pushes more of itself into the Spartan’s throat. The power armor bulges. Like something’s trying to break out of it.

  Cops move in to push people back. Robots and humans.

  Jack pushes his own way through em. Bulky flamethrower tanks on his back. Another in his arms. He hands it off to me. “Saw the video feed. Knew it was a good idea to keep this old shit around.”

  I heft the straps. Tighten em so they’re snug. Lock the belt. Ignite the pilot light.

  Me and Jack march forward. Plissken hovers with us.

  Spartans appear at the far end of the tunnel.

  The monster’s sandwiched in between. About halfway down.

  Jack puts up a hand. Tells the enclave’s warriors, “Hold position.”

  The gagging Spartan’s power armor cracks. Just a little. Tendrils squeeze through the seams. But the armor doesn’t completely break down.

  The ragged thing pulls itself from the Spartan’s throat. Looks to me. Moans. “I neeed helllp.” Rags tumble from its torso. The flesh across its ribcage stretches. Tears. Its chest opens. Cracked bones there like teeth. “I neeed helllp.”

  It rushes us.

  We torch it.

  The parasite flails its arms. Screeches. A living firework. The ear-piercing noises it makes start to sound like they’re being sped up and up and up. Till the bastard collapses in a fiery heap that mewls.

  Jack points. Tells Plissken and the cops, “You let that cook for a while.”

  I step into the tunnel. Passed the burning ragged thing. Creep closer to the shuddering creature that used to be a Spartan halfway through. Only thing keeping him from exploding and going nuts is the power armor—the parasite can’t break through it.

  Hooray for American robotic engineering. Built Plissken tough!

  His jaw’s trapped in a permanent scream. Mouth agape. His eyes follow me. His throat gurgles. Bubbles. His tongue slithers out. Licks around.

  Detaches. Hits the ground. Splat.

  It squeals. Squirms.

  Grows a dozen legs.

  Tries to make a break for it.

  I watch it scurry on the ground. Say, “Nope.” Set it on fire.

  It moans with a tiny voice.

  Jack says, “Okay...The parasite’s gone full John Carpenter.”

  I feel like that shoulda been my line. “We spent all this time building bigger weapons to kill bigger versions of the infected, then they turn around and fuck us in the ass without the courtesy of a reacharound.”

  “That’s what they do, man. They adapt. Now they’re mimicking us.”

  Mimics. Catchy!

  A claw springs from the throat of the mimic. Tears through the larynx. Embeds itself in the ceiling of the tunnel. Thick ropes of gore and blood cling to it.

  The neck and head it’s still attached to shake. Rip.

  Fuckin thing’s still trying to get away.

  Me and Jack light it up. Watch it burn.

  The mimic howls. Chars. Fluids inside it hiss as they splash against the heated metal of the power armor.

  I storm outta the tunnel. Get right in the face of the Spartan who left his partner to die. The pussy coward who couldn’t even be bothered to lift his pulse rifle. Just ran.

  He backs away from me. Hands up. Nameplate reads: RABINOWITZ.

  I grab his helmet. Twist it off his head.

  A kid in his late twenties is underneath.

  Rabinowitz says, “Wait, I can—”

  I punch him in the face. Crack his nose under my knuckles.

  He falls on his ass.

  I straddle him. Slap him stupid. Twice. Three times. I point to the fiery abomination in the tunnel. “That’s your fault. That is your. Fuckin. Fault.” I slap him again. “Do your fuckin job.”

  I hope this sonuvabitch suck-starts a 12-gauge.

  Rabinowitz pants. Sniffs blood back into his nose. “I’m sorr—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The—” He shakes his head. “He seemed human. I...Nothing like that happened with the others.”

  I sneer. Grab him around the throat. “What others.”

  “The other two people from the boat.”

  16. You Gotta Be Fuckin Kidding

  Klaxons blare.

  I wait for instructions from Caleb. Wait for his cold, rational voice to squawk over the camp’s loudspeakers and tell us...anything.

  But then, what the fuck’s he gonna say? What’s the right course of action here? How do you contain this quickly?

  People are gonna die and there’s no way to stop it.

  I say to Plissken, “Think fast, bud.”

  The bot scans the smoking remains of the mimics. Says, “There has to be something unique in its cellular structure. Something to differentiate it from the other infected.”

  I’m worried about this fresh bullshit where headshots don’t work anymore.

  We’re real far from the relative logic of Zombieland now.

  Rabinowitz stands near us. Ashamed.

  Which’s precisely how he should be.

  Jack says, “We’ll have to figure out why this one showed itself in the tunnel at some other point. For now—” he lights a cigarette “—we gotta track down those other two.”

  DeVille injects herself into the conversation. “All refugees go through medical, right? Registration? I mean, shit, I had to.”

  “Yeah. Security office is the first stop. Everyone passes through there.”

  I grab Rabinowitz by the collar
of his power armor. “You wanna help unfuck this situation a little? Tell us where you took the others from the boat. Names. Description. Anything.”

  He takes a deep breath. Thinks for a second. “A man and a woman. Late thirties. White. Blonde hair. We escorted them through the courtyard.”

  Plissken shines a hologram on the ground. “These two.” He replays a ten second video of Rabinowitz and his dead partner walking the missing refugees. They’re both the same height. Same complexion. Wearing brown rags.

  DeVille says, “They look like twins. The Aryan All-stars. So we track down people who fit the description.”

  Athena says, “Hey.” She flashes her blue eyes. Runs her fingers through her blonde hair.

  Plissken says, “We may be beyond that point now, anyway.” Puffs his thrusters. “This new adaptation imitates humans. Which means if the two from the boat infect two others, then those two others will still look normal. Then, theoretically, it will continue to spread unnoticed. Until there’s nothing but the mimics.”

  Jack smokes. “Come on. We gotta move.” He marches toward the security office.

  Survivors give us a wide berth.

  Not wise to mess with dudes toting flamethrowers.

  DeVille stays in lockstep with Plissken. Says to the former drone, “You mean if that thing had had more time with the Spartan—”

  Plissken says, “Yes. The Spartan-thing would have continued along as though nothing happened, gone home to its family, infected them, and so on.”

  “Trojan fuckin parasites.”

  Jack snaps his fingers at Plissken. “I want the drones up. Combat-ready. I want aerial surveillance. I wanna know where everyone is.” He barks at Rabinowitz. “Who the fuck was watching the mimic while you were escorting the other two?”

  The Spartan says, “Adams and Dyson, sir.”

  Jack tells Plissken, “Get em isolated.”

  Plissken’s silent.

  I know he’s figuring shit out. Issuing orders to his army of robots. Sifting through the data on the mimics. Looking for some way to identify this new adaptation without getting any more people killed.

  We duck under low-hanging lights in the thoroughfare. Our boots clomp clomp clomp on the concrete. When anyone asks what’s going on, Jack shouts, “The fort is on lockdown. Stay where you are.”