Live, From the End of the World

by William Vitka

  Nine letters!

  I chuckle to myself. “But there’s no one alive to read it!”

  Helene says, “Poppa Bear?”

  I wave her off. “Nothing, Momma Bear.”

  This is no place to raise a child.

  I think about putting the revolver against Helene’s forehead and pulling the trigger. Think about parting her sweet lips with steel and painting the walls with her warmth. Think about putting her out of whatever misery this place has left to throw at us.

  It might be better that way.

  It will be better that way.

  For all of us.

  Chapter 19:

  Despair

  Ben blows his brains out.

  Five seconds after I consider euthanizing Helene, his Glock cracks. Five seconds after I contemplate aborting Helene’s pregnancy with a bullet, a jet spray of blood from Ben’s head paints Plissken a glistening red.

  Hard not to see it coming.

  But I still didn’t do anything to stop it.

  You’re not very good at that.

  The engineer’s body slumps to the floor. Leaks. He tumbles like a rag doll. His head spurts blood and brain. His digestive system spurts piss and shit.

  Neither Helene nor I move. We just stare—too tired to do anything and too certain that Ben made a wise career move.

  Suicide seems like a perfectly rational reaction to this irrational situation.

  Plissken’s lights flash on. He shoots into the air. “Your barricade is failing.”

  I lead Helene to the barricade. Gotta keep her close.

  The top half of a stilt-walker was snakes its way through the clumsily situated desks and bookshelves. It obliterates its arms to make the trek—they’re broken down to flailing pegs. I put a bullet through its skull.

  Daylight pours into the stairwell. Paints innumerable shadows on the pile. Countless spindly arms thrown up on the walls from the fiends below.

  Helene shouts: “How many, Plissken?”

  The little bookbot flutters over to us from the fourth floor. He takes his place at Helene’s shoulder. “Three-hundred-fifty to four-hundred, stirred up by the bombing. There are more inbound.”

  The barricade jumps. Shudders. I hear the song of the stilt-walkers. I hear the moan of the undead throwing themselves tirelessly against the chairs and tables like mad, flesh-hungry Wile E. Coyotes.

  I say, “Why are they so interested in us?”

  Plissken snorts. “Why wouldn’t they be interested?”

  More squirm through the cracks. They cut themselves and leave hunks of dead tissue on the sharp edges of makeshift obstacles.

  I’ve seriously underestimated their resolve.

  Keith Richards crossbred with Wile E. Coyote.

  Fuck me.

  Helene squeezes my hand so hard it hurts.

  I shout to Plissken. “Burn it. Light it up. Cook this fuckin place.”

  One of Plissken’s sensor lights blinks. He’s confused.

  I know he processed the request.

  It just makes no sense to him.

  I aim my Colt at the nearest squirming murder machine as it worms its way through the wood. Command: “Run your engines hot, use your thruster, and ignite this goddamn mess.” I explode the zombie’s head. “Now.”

  I want a parasite bonfire.

  Plissken dips in the air. Almost a shrug. He torches the wood. With a flash, the pile bursts into flames. Toxic air and milky white smoke fill the stairwell. A moment later comes the stench of barbequing skin and hair.

  Helene and I run back to the fourth floor. Plissken tails us. In the lab, I jump over Sean’s body. Nearly lose my footing in the massive puddle of his blood.

  I laugh.

  Helene doesn’t.

  We stuff our bags. Steal what might be useful.

  Helene says, “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  I take her bag to make sure she doesn’t have to carry too much weight.

  I think about the baby she isn’t even aware of.

  I say, “Roof. If we can’t hop to another building, we’ll look for a fire escape.” The strap of her heavy satchel slides over my wounded back. I feel renewed pain storm across my skin.

  I hold out my hand—palm up—toward Helene.

  She shakes her head: No.

  “I need another pill. One, at least. If we’re gonna make it.”

  It ain’t the pills, pal.

  Helene grimaces. She digs into her jacket pocket. Brings out a blue-tinted plastic bag. A dozen spansules rattle around inside. She hands me one.

  I chuck it down my throat. Feel the familiar, welcome chill enter my brain. I heft our bug-out bags and jog up the stairs. I grunt. “Plissken, torch Sean and Ben’s bodies. Sterilize that room.”

  I wonder where Schaffer is.

  I keep going.

  The undead corpses below shriek and moan and burn.

  Helene holds her pistol ready.

  When we get to the roof, I pause at the emergency exit handle. It’s entirely possible that there are parasites outside. Even up here. They’ve managed to fill every nook and cranny of the city.

  It’s also possible that I’m a complete fuckin moron and the roof’s not an escape—just another way to kill ourselves.

  I throw the door open.

  The morning sun’s strong. I cover my dilated pupils and shoulder the shotgun. Stare down the length of the barrel. Wait for something to jump at me. A parasite. Maybe a stilt-walker. One of our angry Sub Specie Deus. Maybe just a head with legs or a fuckin cracked-out D-grade celebrity squealing that I’ve been on camera the whole damn time and oh man isn’t this fuckin funny.

  That’s right, Johnny! He risked it all: The job, the money, the girl and his sanity. But, as it happens in life, there are winners and losers. He isn’t a winner, but he’s shown moxie, guts, gusto, courage and just damn great enthusiasm. He isn’t a winner, but nobody walks away empty-handed. What have we got for him, Johnny?

  My brain isn’t working very well anymore. The ampakine’s doing its part, but I’ve been awake and running on all cylinders for too long. I won’t last like this.

  Plissken zips over to the edge of the building. Lets out long whistle. “Welp... ‘more’ infected may not have been terribly accurate.”

  At nineteen stories up, we have a good view of the surrounding area. The Empire State Building looms over us. Its enormity gives it the impression of immortality.

  The sky above hints that a beautiful day waits just around the bend. Thick streaks of blue and colors from the Maxfield Parrish palette lurk behind the grey.

  The view of the city below hints at something else.

  Through the thinning mist, Thirty-Fourth Street boils. Thousands of ill-defined and blurry parasites churn over one another. Stilt-walkers—some enormous and some small—stride almost gallantly through the mass of Keefs. Some sing. More moan.

  I glance around the roof. There’s no fire exit.

  No emergency ladder to get us down.

  Nineteen stories up, asshole. Why would there be? You don’t climb nineteen stories.

  I head to the far side of the building, the one facing south, and toward Thirty-Third Street. There are a few shorter buildings below us. One within ten stories. We can’t jump, but...

  I say, “Plissken, how much weight can you haul?”

  The library drone says, “I weigh one hundred and fifty-seven pounds. My max carry weight is two hundred fifty pounds on top of that. Stabby was keen on having me carry carts of books around the library.”

  “Perfect. We don’t need to fly. We just need a slow descent.”

  I smile at Helene.

  She smiles back. Already aware of what I had in mind.

  Can’t go at the s
ame time, but we’ll glide down from roof to roof. Stones skipping in air. Hit the street where the parasites are the thinnest. Keep moving until we find a place we can defend. Thirty-Third Street, and even Fifth Avenue between Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth, isn’t too bad.

  It’s all the bastards heading south from Times Square that could turn into a problem.

  And lo, the Plissken-glide plan seems only marginally suicidal. It thus wins by default over our previous plan of waiting to die on top of the Cornell building.

  Plissken sounds an alarm. “Parasites coming fast. We should move.”

  I hand Helene the lighter of the two bags. She secures it over her shoulder. Grabs my face. Squeezes my cheeks. Makes me pucker. Our lips met. Her nose presses into mine and squishes the mashed cartilage. I wanna scream out in pain, but I don’t. I inhale her kiss.

  It could be Goodbye.

  You don’t waste Goodbye kisses.

  Helene grips the little handle on Plissken’s undercarriage. She and bot float off of the edge of the building to the roof below. The little NYPL drone keeps his thrusters at a minimum to avoid burning Helene.

  Thoughtful, for a robot.

  Ten quiet stories down.

  Helene lands with a huff. Pats Plissken on the side.

  I wave to em.

  Smoke cascades from the windows on the lower floors of the Cornell building. The fire we started is eating the place away. Hopefully it’s cooking the parasites as well.

  I scan the horizon of the city around me. Smoke blackens the cursed sun. There are countless fires untended by the undead FDNY. Each one pukes dark smoke into the air. Leaves skyscrapers to become skeletal fingers itching upward.

  The emergency door behind me bursts open. The first charred flesh fiend of the mob trips on her way out and lands hard on her face. She drags herself forward. Head down. Then picks herself up. She leaves a high percentage of her smoking face on the rough roof. I chunkify her brain with a .45 slug.

  I scream to Plissken. “Now would be a good time to be here!” I point at my boots.

  I whirl to face the door. For the first time I can remember, I load fresh cartridges into the warm cylinder of my machine.

  Four legs of a stilt-walker rotate out from the stairwell. Part of it’s on fire. Barks and moans fill my ears. I strafe along the edge of the roof so I can keep moving, but also face em head-on.

  I fire. Let my mind guide the gun.

  Blood from the stairwell dribbles onto the roof as each bullet finds its mark.

  I holster the Colt. Heft the shotgun. Chamber a round. Fire and pump and fire and fill the air with enough buckshot that I can almost see a haze of pellets. Enough buckshot that my supply of shells is totally depleted in moments.

  Plissken nudges me from the side. I toss the empty shotgun away. Grab a handle on the little droid.

  We hover down.

  I just killed twenty parasite people. A good fuckin lot. But as I float to Helene, I see through the windows that untold more are on their way up after us.

  Helene fires into the Cornell building. The dead heads of a hundred infected monsters scurry up to open windows. Flames lick at the walls behind em.

  A whole bunch of the parasites reaching out to us from inside fall out. They land on their heads. Smash themselves into lumpy bits. Others cripple themselves and crawl with ferocious flesh-rending intent.

  Helene welcomes em all down with 9mm rounds.

  I drop. Hit top of the shorter building we’re gliding to. My ankle protests in pain. The wound in my back tears.

  Fuck it.

  Helene.

  On top of the Cornell building, the legs of stilt-walkers fumble and stretch. They and the other members of the parasite parade look down at us. They negotiate the best route. Instead of displaying any cognitive skills, they tumble over the side and belly flop.

  I shout to Helene. “One more roof down, then we hit the street.”

  Helene nods and smiles just a little.

  She and Plissken walk to the side. Hover down. I watch em and their intended landing zone. Seems clear.

  The roof I wait on is becoming a swamp of entrails and blood. All the parasites are jumping down. None seem to realize they can just retrace their steps, get to a closer floor, and be better off.

  Nope.

  It’s just jump splat, jump splat, stumble splat.

  One large stilt-walker hangs its legs over the Cornell building and slides. Its front appendages wave as it tries to find more footing. The eyes in its skinless skull stare. After a moment, it goes careening over the edge. When the spindly monster slams into the ground near me, its stilt-legs shatter. One of its rear limbs actually curls around and stabs up into the thing’s own abdomen. It struggles to move, but only succeeds in spinning itself in a circle like a gore-covered Curly from the Three Stooges.

  Whoop, whoop, whoop.

  I giggle. Feel an odd urge to talk to my palm.

  Helene and Plissken touch down on the street below me. She pats our bot on his side again and he jets up back up.

  Just a few more floors to the street for me, then a lot of running.

  No problem.

  One more skip. One more glide.

  Thirty-Third Street is clear around Helene. Clear-ish, anyway. There are only a dozen shamblers and they’re spread out enough to be easily dodged.

  Our pet droid puffs his thrusters next to me. I tuck my revolver into my holster. Grab his undercarriage. I step off the roof edge.

  Plissken’s engines work to fight gravity.

  Behind me, all thuds and splats.

  I watch more suicidal parasites as the asphalt approaches.

  Ain’t till I look to Helene that I hear it.

  Our swan song.

  The cry of a steamrolling stilt-walker. Its ululating howl rises and drops and cuts through the din of moans and grunting from the stumbling undead.

  Helene readies herself.

  The stilt-walker tears around the corner. Braces itself against a building. Scrambles forward in long, loping gallops.

  Helene opens fire.

  I jump from ten feet to hit the street and don’t register the pain of something snapping in my feet. Warm blood trickles down my back. Makes my shirt cling to me.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m on the ground.

  And Momma Bear’s so close.

  Helene pulls the trigger as the monstrously tall parasite bellows again. Eyes bulge from its unblinking skull. Flaps of flesh hang low from its jaw. Tendrils of tissue wriggle like tentacles.

  Bang. Bang. Howl.

  I snatch up Helene’s hand. We run. Away, away, away. She fires and twists to keep her feet moving.

  My revolver barks at the stumbling cannibal corpses milling around us. I try to clear our path.

  She has to get that thing’s head.

  Bang bang, bang, bang, bang.

  Silence.

  We barrel on.

  Something snares me. My grip’s so tight on Helene’s hand that I lose my footing and pinwheel onto the pavement in the fall. I cough. My Colt goes skittering away. Blood and something gooey erupt from my mouth. More warmth trickles from my back.

  Helene’s hand is still tightly locked in mine.

  But she’s moving backward.

  No.

  She’s being pulled backward.

  I turn my head.

  The stilt-walker sings its song.

  A spindly bone arm jiggles in Helene’s abdomen.

  It’s impaled her from behind. The sharp white tip pierces her and exits just under the rib cage.

  She coughs. Moans.

  Her tears are mixed with blood and sweat.

  She doesn’t blink. She frowns. She cries. Voiceless. She tries to scream.

  The stilt-walker raises her up.
>
  My Colt is too far away.

  The stilt-walker lurches. It sinks its teeth into her shoulder.

  I shriek. “No, you can’t have her. You can’t fuckin have her.”

  Adrenaline erupts in me. I heft my crowbar. There’s no ice in my head this time. There’s heat and rage. Fire. The end of Helene’s life. Hate. The abortion of Baby Bear. Despair. The annihilation of a future.

  I smash the stilt-walker’s lower leg joint with the crowbar. Fracture it on my mad rampage. The tall thing trembles for a moment. Helene slides forward. I jump and take hold of another joint. With my left hand I cling to the dirty, bloody parasite. With my right hand, I hammer the walker’s emaciated body. The hook end of my tool impales the creature. Fetid fluid flows from the ragged puncture holes.

  Helene falls forward off of the monster’s leg.

  Plissken rushes to her side. Scans her.

  I tear at the walker’s ribcage while it screams and tries to bite me. The joint I cling to pops from its socket. Me and the parasite fumble to the ground. I jump on top of it as its limbs flail. I bring the crowbar down on its head. I turn its cranium into ground beef. I cry and wail until all I’m pounding is bloody pavement.

  Then I’m having a heart attack. At least, it feels that way. Shit, I might be. My chest is tight. Parts of me are numb. I can’t see through the torrent of tears that fill my eyes. I blink hard. Rub my face. I focus my vision. Then slouch off the creature’s corpse and stare at Helene.

  Plissken doesn’t say anything after he scans her.

  There is no Goodbye.

  No words to see her off.

  No hand to hold while she fades.

  Nothing.

  I sling our bags over my shoulder and pilfer more pills from her pocket. Still can’t figure out if it was better or worse that she didn’t know about the baby.

  My baby. Our baby. Baby Bear.

  It might be better.

  Probably is.

  Who fuckin knows.

  Glass and shards of bone crunch under my feet as I walk to collect my revolver. I open the cylinder. Pull a bullet out and put the tip of the .45 slug in my mouth. I chew it slightly and suck the odd metallic taste as a makeshift American Spirit.

  I close the cylinder. Gentle.