A Man and His Robot

by William Vitka

  Plissken says, “One side of the Hroza are the Earth-kin. The others are from space. Well, they left and this is their return. The space Hroza went psychotic. They wanted to take over the planet.”

  I puff my cigarette. “This is like science fiction cheese. Family of ancient monsters where half are nuts and come back from space all fucked up and wanna take over.”

  “You live in science fiction cheese. Pay attention.”

  I watch. The battle grows. This big monster throwdown in the streets.

  The camera shifts. Focuses on three small figures. Small, human figures.

  They’re all young. One maybe twelve. A boy. Another, a girl. A teenager. The third is another boy, same age as the girl. I’d say seventeen.

  And fuck me.

  Fuck. Me.

  They’re fighting Keefs. They’re fighting Stilt-walkers.

  Fifty years? More? These kids were fighting infected before I was born. Which means I didn’t do it. It means the infection predates me.

  I didn’t do it.

  I do a little fist pump for myself.

  A chunk of my brain chirps: Slow down, bud. You still did it. You still reintroduced the parasite into the population. You let that politician out. You let the infection out. All you’ve done is find a possible origin. A thread.

  It means nothing now. Look around you.

  Remember: You couldn’t save her. And you couldn’t save your friends. And it’s not looking so good for you either.

  I punch the side of my head. Once. Twice. Enough to feel like someone else is pounding on my temple.

  Plissken turns to me. Bot knows I’m in a slow decline.

  I shake my head. Take a drag from my cigarette. Look back at the newscast.

  The kids. They kill the infected. The girl uses some crazy-lookin piece of construction equipment. The teenage boy uses, I dunno, a big fuckin revolver. He smokes the whole time. So maybe I like the guy a little bit.

  Then, man. Then they’re goddamn riding on the back of some Hroza. Cowboys.

  There’s something on the Verrazano Bridge. A dark squid-lobster-spider. It’s bigger than the others. Big Momma. Has a cocoon. Or a nest. Turns the whole bridge into some amalgamate of flesh and concrete and metal.

  I think back to some of the unsuccessful infected forms. Shit I saw in what feels like a past life. Back when the plague started. The ones that took parts of the environment and tried to turn themselves into new things at the behest of the parasite.

  The three kids ride on. Toward the Big Momma on the bridge.

  Voices on the video in the background say things like: Goddamn. You see that? Who’s fightin em? Kids? Buncha teenagers are killin all the monsters. How are they doin that?

  Plissken says, “The Hroza at the center. The one with the small boy on his back. That’s the one they call Three.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s the only creature that survived.”

  I rub my face. “Don’t spoil the end of the movie.”

  The teenagers slide off their monsters. They move up. Work like soldiers.

  I scratch my face. Wonder if me and my Momma Bear could’ve done that.

  She’s dead. Shut up. Stop.

  The boy and Three charge forward. They pin the Big Momma creature. The other two Hroza fall. Tendrils from Big Momma’s cocoon punch their sides apart.

  Three holds her back as the little boy climbs into her head.

  Nothing happens for a couple minutes.

  The teenagers on the bridge run around. I see flashes of gunfire.

  Big Momma convulses. Her hold on the bridge weakens. A literal flood of bile and organs explodes from her skull-face and bony mouth.

  The young boy goes spilling out. The teenage boy catches him. Embraces him. Kisses him. There are cheers and screams of joy from off-camera.

  I say, “They’re brothers. Those brothers and the girl. They did it.”

  How old are they now? Geriatric?

  And where are they?

  Plissken says nothing.

  I watch.

  The three kids gesture to Three. I guess they’re talking. Don’t see much movement. Then the last Hroza dives over the side of the bridge. He’s gone.

  I watch the bubbles.

  They go north.

  I say, “Stop the holovid.” I grab a liter of Jameson. Spin off the top. Take a drink. “I’ve seen this. I’ve had nightmares about it.” I cough. “When I got shot by those nutty religious assholes. I saw it. Saw myself being digested. I saw those great tentacles. The Hroza tentacles curling around a bridge.

  “The George Washington Bridge.

  “Three ain’t in Brooklyn. Three’s been hibernating under Manhattan.”

  Plissken says, “What are you planning? You called this ‘science fiction cheese.’”

  “The ‘science fiction cheese’ says: Go north.” I heft the Jameson up. Green glass catches some of the light from Plissken. It shines like an emerald. “We’re heading to Washington Heights.”

  Moans and cries from the infected flit through the air.

  I tell myself: Yes. We must follow the cheese.

  7. Get the Kids. We’re Going Camping. It’ll Be Fun!

  I’m not in good shape. But I’m more fit than I ever was before. Possible cancer, liver fatigue and inevitable heart failure notwithstanding. I really have no idea why I’m still upright.

  Running for your life for years cuz some new form of nightmare wants to make you dinner will do wonders to trim the fat from your body.

  My MOLLE rucksack sags against my back. Shit’s heavy.

  The good thing about having Plissken is that I don’t need a lot of other stuff. Like communications gear. Computer. Maps. Entertainment.

  I got food. Water. Select assortment of tools. Crowbar. Sleeping bag. Smokes. Booze. Pills. Fuckton of ammo. The Colt is strapped to my thigh. My suppressed Ruger .308 NYPD sniper rifle (I know suppressors don’t really “silence” a gun, so spare me, but any decrease in sound works to my advantage) is slung over my shoulder. I wonder when it was last fired by its former owner.

  Probably in a desperate attempt to fend off the infected before you liberated it from his cold, dead hands during a scavenging raid.

  I’ve rigged Plissken up with an underslung cargo compartment. He’s got extras of everything.

  We’re gonna go camping in hell.

  The first step is leaving the Empire State Building.

  I don’t really wanna do it. Not now that I’m standing in the lobby. Behind the barricades that kept the place’s gorgeous art deco design out of the reach of the apocalypse. Peering at those horrible, cracked streets where mutants run. And eat. And shit. And fuck.

  Do they fuck? Never seen that. Eight-legged freaks going at it doggy-style …

  Infected-style?

  Plissken nudges me.

  I say, “All right, all right.” Start to pull the barricade apart. “Wanna help?”

  The robot puffs his thrusters and torches through the metal welds we put on all the doors.

  I say, “When we’re outside, reseal the barricade. No reason to give the infected another place to hide.” This as I lift a heavy metal bar we fitted onto one of the doors to stop it from swiveling open.

  I don’t want any humans getting in, either.

  I don’t want the survivor camps knowing the place is up for rent.

  If I need to come back, I don’t wanna deal with any squatters.

  I look to Plissken. Say: “In case it’s never uttered again? Thank you.”

  Plissken keeps working.

  * * *

  It’s red outside. Cold.

  The sick, angry sun casts morning rays.

  I step onto Fifth Avenue. It stinks like it always did.

  Well, no
. Not like it always did.

  Up there with being able to take a shit like in the Old Days? Being able to breathe without smelling rot. Death. Carrion. Fires. Charred remains. Backed-up sewers.

  There’s no more sanitation.

  Plissken figures—his numbers ain’t so accurate now that a lotta the satellites are outta whack—that ninety-three percent of the world’s population is dead. Or undead.

  That’s a lot of bodies. Near ten billion.

  Twelve million people used to walk these streets alone.

  Now it’s me.

  I lift the Ruger rifle. Tuck it against my shoulder. Peer through the gun’s Leupold scope. Tell Plissken, “Scan for anything.” I look north, up Fifth Ave. Ain’t planning on sniping anything. Just wanna see what’s ahead of me. Better to stay hidden. Away from the Keefs.

  I hate being out here.

  Plissken says, “Movement. Two blocks to the north.”

  “Human?”

  “Guess, idiot.”

  “Hey, fuck you. I’m trying to be professional.” I look through the scope. “Wait... It’s not a giant vagina again, is it?”

  “I cannot tell those particulars from radar. The infected ahead of us seems to be less massive than...ugh. It seems to be less massive than the ‘giant vagina.’”

  I wonder if Plissken is turning into an English butler.

  I rush up to the corner. Fifth and Thirty-Fourth. Hide behind the husk of a taxi. There’s one of the ubiquitous Duane Reade stores next to me. This one kept me fed for a month.

  And drunk.

  Plissken says, “It’s heading in our direction.”

  I prop the rifle against the cab’s scorched driver-side door. A shape pokes through the rubble up near a Starfucks. Squat thing. Kinda chunky. But long.

  In a blink it’s gone from view. Hidden behind more crap humanity left behind.

  I move along the cab’s curves to the back door. The skeleton of someone I never met is in the way of the gun barrel. Maybe a mom or dad or who cares. I bash it to dust. Cuz I need to watch where the monster is going.

  The bones won’t mind.

  I see the shape slink around the cars and the buildings. I say, “Dogipede.” Which is exactly what it sounds like. A bunch of mutts melded together. Legs all over the place. Heads all over the place. Mouths that growl and snap. Teeth that flash and rend.

  This’s what the parasite does. It changes things. Makes them better designed to do different things. This is a scavenger. You can’t sneak up on it with all those rolling sets of eyes. It’s got defenses all the way around.

  And headshots ain’t so simple.

  Cuz you have to kill every head.

  I say, “Any chance we can avoid it? Dogipedes can be a bitch to deal with.”

  “Was that a pun?”

  I think for a second. Lie. “Yes.”

  “Chances of avoiding the creature are slim. It’s still heading this way.”

  The buildings around us are all tall, but maybe the bot can fly me up to the roof. “What about putting me on top of—”

  “You plus equipment plus whatever horrible things you managed to stick inside my storage compartment exceeds my carry-weight.”

  “So the hard way, then.” I give up on stealth. Drop my bag at the corner. No real reason to worry about it getting stolen nowadays. I walk to the center of Fifth Ave. Mimic Indiana Jones looking down on the Nazis and that French jackass carrying the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders. Shout: “Hellooo.”

  Plissken says, “It’s one block away.”

  I scream. A fleshy living klaxon. “Come on, doggy. Got a present for you.”

  I can hear it panting. Heavy paws on the asphalt.

  A lot of heavy paws.

  I see it. Between Thirty-Fourth and Thirty-Fifth. Damned thing makes no biological sense. Five dogs long. A head with two sets of jaws in the front. Twelve legs with nails clicking and clacking as it slinks atop the hood of a car and stares. At me. It has one tail sticking straight up. Five snouts along its sides growl and foam. Its bony ribcages heave.

  I try to think of something witty to say but can’t.

  I shoot it in the head.

  A geyser of gore explodes through the dogipede’s first skull. The eyes pop out. The jaws go slack. Its toothy maw slams against the hood of the car. The front of the dogipede hits metal with a thud. The rest of the creature takes over. Starts pushing the body in my direction. Snapping and howling.

  If there’s still even one head left, the thing keeps fighting. This thing has five more.

  I line up another doggy brain and pull the trigger. A second wagging tongue goes flying from its head-home with a burst of blood.

  Four heads to go.

  The dogipede leaps. Charges. Drags its lolling dead split-head along the asphalt. Bits of fur and skin slough off.

  I sling the Ruger. Pull my Colt revolver. Juke at the last second and dodge a set of snapping teeth. I jump over the dogipede’s rear. Yell to Plissken: “Distract this bitch, would you?” I fire off a round and take out a back head. Fire another round and shatter the bones in its ass with a bullet.

  The monster tumbles.

  Plissken puffs around the dogipede. Gets close enough so that the mouths have something to go for. Lets em think they have a chance at biting before torching a canine cranium with his thrusters.

  I kinda wanna high-five him. Except he has no real hands.

  Two stupid heads left at the center of a long torso. And the beast ain’t doing so well anyway. Thrashing around, carrying literal dead weight.

  The dogipede’s chasing its own tail.

  I burst into laughter. Can’t help myself.

  Plissken turns to me. I know the bot’s wondering if I should be on anti-psychotics. He’s suggested it before.

  I wave him off. Cough. “It’s the little things, y’know?” I put a bullet in the snapping face staring at me. It pops. I holster the revolver. Pull out my crowbar.

  The dogipede drags itself toward me. More pathetic than threatening. At least to someone like me. A furry horseshoe shape with one more mouth that needs silencing.

  It gets about three feet away. I plant my boot heel against its side. Watch its dozen knobby legs try and fail to push it closer. Closer so it can embed those incisors in me and spread the parasite.

  It tries to bite my leg. I kick its face away.

  Even if it did manage to bite me, it wouldn’t do much. The pressure might hurt. But I’ve got a nice suit of skin-tight carbon nanotube mesh under my fine apocalyptic fashion. Another gift from dead NYPD soldiers.

  “Bad dog.” I jam the crowbar in its mouth. Watch as the dogipede gnaws down on the titanium tool. Chips of tooth pop out.

  I lean in. Stare into its eyes. They’re a little milky. But still sharp. Still angry. I say, “You’re just pure instinct, aren’t you? Don’t know when to stop.” I bite my lip. Suck on it for a second. “What about the parasite in your brain? Can they all hear me up there? Splashing around your skull like a sea of insanity. Billions of little screaming voices.”

  Those canine eyes glare at me. But it ain’t Lassie. Not anymore.

  I wait till the mutt bites down on the crowbar again. Yank the end out so it shatters most of the teeth. Bring the hooked end of the crowbar down on its skull again and again and again and again till the dogipede whimpers and howls. Shakes and shits itself.

  The crowbar comes away gory.

  I saunter over to Plissken. Hold the tool in the hot blue jets of his thrusters so the contaminated crap turns a sterile, seared black.

  I hang the crowbar on my belt. Dig a hand into my breast pocket and extract an American Spirit cigarette. Pop the smoke in my mouth. Light it.

  The nicotine tastes good.

  I sip some whiskey. “That was satisfying.” Take another drag from
the cigarette. Another pull from the bottle. Say to Plissken. “North looks clear now?”

  “Scanning.” Pause. “Yes. Small horde of Keefs near New York Public Library.”

  “Zombies are fun to kill. And, hey, NYPL is your home turf.”

  * * *

  “You said ‘small.’”

  Plissken says, “I also used the word ‘horde.’”

  I hide behind the corner of some fuckaroo fashion store at Fortieth. There’s thirty or forty Keefs milling around the front of the New York Public Library.

  See? Reading is dead!

  Shut up.

  Plissken goes: “You said that out loud”

  “Shit.” I readjust my rucksack. “Which part?”

  “The bad reading pun.”

  I grunt. Line up a shot on the skull of a Keef about twenty yards away through the scope of the Ruger. It’s very tempting to pull the trigger.

  But is it smart? They’ll all hear the blast.

  I could cut over to Sixth Ave. Gotta head west anyway at some point. Toward the Hudson River. But I’d really like to get above Midtown before I do that. Population density hasn’t changed that much in terms of percentage.

  The tourists are always out in full force in certain areas.

  Fuckin tourists.

  I sigh. Pull my crowbar. Say to Plissken, “I need you to do The Dance.”

  “I will draw them toward the library while you sneak up the block. I have become a very, very good dancer.”

  “You’re an awesome fuckin dancer, bud. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  Plissken starts The Dance Of Death. He zips over my head. Thrusters at full blast. The bot turns his external speakers to the max. Starts to taunt the undead with a bad Irish accent. He sings:

  Come all you warriors and renowned nobles

  Give ear unto my warlike theme…

  I hiss. “Too serious.” Think for a second. “They’re zombies. Do a Walmart jingle or something, man. Also, burn their heads.”