A Man and His Robot

by William Vitka

  * * *

  The ampakine pill settles in my mouth. I chase it with whiskey and canned coffee from Bobo’s little nightmare dungeon. The drugs keep me going. Focus me. Give me energy while I tear ass through Fort Washington Park.

  Plissken hovers over the passenger seat of the truck. Looks out the window while I drive. My robot doggy.

  There were supplies in the truck. Snacks. Water. Caffeine. A shotgun.

  Only thing I was interested in were the propane and helium tanks.

  I bring the truck to a halt at the edge of the Hudson. Hop out. Roll up the loading bay door and there he is.

  Bobo.

  Fucker looks like a flesh balloon now cuz I got myself an idea: Duct tape his mouth and nose. Like he probably did to those kids. Shut off all avenues of escape for any gasses. Then run the lines of propane and helium straight up his ass.

  Plissken says, “You’re certainly creative.”

  “I try.”

  We push the truck to get it moving. It picks up speed down the bank to the Hudson. Splashes into the water. Thuds up against the floating carpet of bloated infected. Knocks em outta the way.

  I hold the cloth of a Molotov cocktail under Plissken’s thrusters till it lights.

  Here’s the windup—

  And the pitch.

  The liquor bottle soars into the back of the truck. Breaks right on top of Bobo. Rains fire down on the rapist.

  I say, “Let’s enjoy this moment together.” Light a cigarette.

  Plissken bobs.

  I shoulder the Ruger .308. Keep the butt tight against my shoulder. Through the scope, Bobo’s a jiggly gummy bear from hell. His skin is splitting. Cooking a little. When he goes up, man, he’s really gonna go up. So will those propane and helium tanks.

  But I’m not a patient man. So I shoot first.

  The rifle’s .308 round hits Bobo on the side of his belly. There’s a tremendous fart noise. The gasses rush to escape. They catch in the fire. Fwoosh! The truck shudders. The metal groans. Kaboom. The helium tank explodes. Which Kabooms the propane tank. Which Kabooms the truck’s gas tank.

  Water flash-fries. Turns to steam. A little bomb goes off about a hundred feet from me. The explosion and the concussion send giblets flying. Bones and bits of bodies.

  Bobo’s stupid piece of shit red honking nose hits the ground by my boots. On fire.

  I grind it into the pavement. “That should get the Hroza’s attention.”

  Plissken says, “I can tell you that it did.”

  “Radar?” A headache grows in the back of my brain.

  “It just appeared on my scanners. Truly massive. Amazing. Though, if I had genitals and pants, I would consider peeing them.”

  “This Hroza’s a big boy.”

  The explosion got the attention of more than just the ancient titan. A horde of Keefs and stilt-walkers appear at the ridge leading to the Hudson. Thirty or so. The stilt-walkers stretch their legs. These elongated human shapes walking on all fours. They’re speedy nightmares.

  Plissken says, “Are we going to run?”

  I say, “Where? Into the fuckin water?”

  “We could head along the shore line. Perhaps take refuge in—”

  Three stilt-walker heads pop with three shots from my revolver. “I got a murderboner. Just wanna kill these pukes. Gimme eyes in the sky, Plissken. I need to know what else is coming.”

  I let a Keef get in close so I can smash its head apart with the crowbar. Another stumbles in behind him and he eats a .45 slug. Back of his head punched out. Then there’s another and another shambling monster.

  That’s the thing about Keefs. They’re cake to deal with one-on-one. But you’re never dealing with em one-on-one. It’s easy to get overwhelmed.

  I’ve always been a fan of brute strength.

  I club undead heads left and right. Beat em down till the crowbar is slick with brains and goo and I can see little bits of bright white bone stuck to the hooked end of it the same why you notice a bit of eggshell in your omelet.

  Pant pant pant.

  Plissken says something I can’t hear. There’s an intense goddamn pain in my side. I go sprawling. Look up from the ground in time to catch the jaw of a stilt-walker with my crowbar. Which’s awesome. Except one of its spear arms is digging into my side. Keeping me down.

  I shout for my robot. “I’m pinned. Burn its brain. Burn its rotten brain.”

  Plissken settles over the stilt-walker’s fleshless head. Turns up his thrusters. The mad four-legged human’s skull chars.

  Plissken says, “Flesh-tower inbound.”

  Oh, good. A flesh-tower. Perfect timing.

  You’ll notice our names for mosta these critters are flesh-[something]. The weirder ones anyway. That’s cuz they involve weird things done to human skin.

  We mulled calling this bastard a “behemoth” for a while. Except we kept hearing scattered reports of things bigger than the flesh-tower. And flesh-towers are twenty feet tall.

  Also we ain’t all that creative.

  I’m stuck on the ground. Leaking from my side from one of the stilt-walker’s fuckin spear arms. Went right through the goddamn carbon. No bueno.

  The stilt-walker’s head sizzles. Snap crackle pops from Plissken’s thrusters.

  Happens in a flash.

  I jump to my feet. Turn. Take out two more shambling Keefs.

  Then the flesh-tower arrives to the party.

  Twenty feet of walking meat. Meat that would love to eat me and add me to the collection. Thematically, not all that different from the flesh-reef.

  Except this thing’s bipedal. Strong. Mostly man-shaped, except the head, which’s just a hole with teeth sitting on top of the neck. It’s lined with faces. Eyes. Mouths everywhere. Some squirming Lovecraftian horror.

  You can’t break a flesh-tower’s arms cuz they’re made of thousands of bones. Ditto the ribs and legs and even the sunken skull seems to have layer after layer. A Russian nesting doll of terror. Plissken scanned one once. Not only does the monster take humans’ mass and flesh, it takes their bones. Reassembles em to make its core stronger.

  How many licks does it take to get to the center of a flesh-tower?

  One, two... Too many for a guy without any high explosives.

  Running seems like a fantastic idea.

  But where?

  I’ve got four seconds to make up my mind. Maybe.

  If these cocksuckers had arrived just a bit later. Or if I’d saved one of the propane tanks...

  Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda, bud.

  The Hudson River boils behind me. Bubble bubble bubble. It becomes a roiling whirlpool. Violent.

  I turn sideways. Try to keep my eyes on both the flesh-tower and the suddenly insane river. Cuz suck-me-Sally, what is going on here?

  Plissken says, “Incoming.”

  “What, huh? What’s incoming?!”

  A shape explodes from the water. Huge. Seems to be from Godzilla’s batshit insane zip code. The shape soars over me. Drenches me with polluted water from the Hudson. A dead finger bounces off my shoulder.

  For once, I’m too shocked to say anything.

  The Hroza.

  A hundred feet long. Maybe more. Eight big legs on a dark body. With tentacles running down its side. The skull head is human. Human eyes. No nose. But a beard of wriggling feelers attached to an ape-like jaw.

  The Hroza lands in front of the flesh-tower. The infected behemoth’s dwarfed by the sheer fuckin mass of the ancient titan.

  Plissken says, “Meet the one they call Three.”

  I’m terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought.

  Three bellows. Roars.

  My ears, they’re gonna melt.

  But, hey, headache’s gone.

  The flesh-tower halts. Sizes up
this Big New Enemy. Seems to realize the kraken might be a problem.

  Tentacles on the Hroza’s side lash out. One grabs the flesh-tower’s left arm. Then the right. Same with the legs. One curls around the beefy beast’s meaty torso.

  The whole time, the flesh-tower moans. Mewls. The talons on its big hands try to get at Three. Try to break free of the ancient titan’s grip.

  Squirm. Moan.

  Squirm squirm.

  The Hroza destroys the flesh-tower. Pop go the arms. Pop go the legs. Three hurls em so far I’m pretty sure they land in the Bronx. He takes the flesh-tower torso. Slams it into the ground. Pounds it and pounds it and pounds it till the big bad infected is jelly.

  Three shakes. Whips his tentacles to get the infected goop off. Drags em along the grass in the park to get em clean. He turns to face me. Lowers his enormous head. His weird eyeballs—one red and one blue like old 3D glasses—focus on me. He says: “Hello, human. It is about time.”

  I shift my weight from one leg to the other. “Yeah. Hi.” Then, “Wait, what?”

  One of Three’s tentacles loops around me. He hefts me and my rucksack. Opens his mouth.

  I don’t like this at all. “Quit it, dickcheese. What’re you doing?” I struggle against the tentacle. As you can imagine, it doesn’t have much effect. As in: None. And I figure shooting him ain’t such a good idea.

  But it’s worth a shot, right?

  Haha. Shot. Get it?

  I slam the barrel of the revolver against Three’s mottled skin. Right into the meat of the tentacle holding me. I pull the trigger. Hroza blood splashes my face. Gets in my mouth.

  Three grunts. Angry. He screams in my face: “Do not do that.”

  He tosses me in his mouth.

  * * *

  I admit it. Doesn’t make much sense for him to save me then kill me. So why panic? As the Good Book says: Don’t panic.

  I’m referring to The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, of course.

  But what do I know? Coulda been, Three was just waiting to taste me. I might be a delicacy. Ever consider that? Rare human sushi.

  Man, his mouth smells like shit.

  I sit on his giant monster tongue. I tape up the hole in my side. Slather medigel from my pack and wrap it with gauze. I hope his saliva won’t start to digest me. Or Plissken.

  My robot flew in here of his own accord.

  Idiot.

  * * *

  Three plucks me from his mouth. Plants me on the ground. We’re in some vast cavern. A hollow under Manhattan. At one end is the diving pool. I guess it leads back into the Hudson.

  It’s dark but not pitch-black. The walls’re lined with bioluminescent moss. Trippy green and yellow neon lichen.

  I say to Three, “What’s this? Your burrow?”

  Three says, “Yes. We are protected here. No children of the infection can reach us.”

  “I don’t like kids either.”

  You might’ve liked your own.

  I say, “How far down?”

  Plissken says, “The cave system is five-hundred and thirty feet below the streets of the city.”

  Three nods. “The metal creature is correct.”

  I cross my arms. “Great. Awesome. We gotta talk.”

  “Indeed. You and I must converse about what happens next.”

  I shrug off my MOLLE pack and all the gear—except my revolver. I set it on the ground. Pull a cigarette from my jacket. Light it. “That sounds a bit like a threat.”

  “It is no threat, momfucker.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  Three sighs. “I have always had difficulty with the more colorful aspects of your language.” His legs curl up underneath him. He lowers himself to rest. Reminds me of a dog. A massive dog somehow repulsive and regal at the same time.

  A lotta things remind me of dogs.

  Plissken floats over to the huge beast. “Would you mind if I scanned your biological readings? It’s for science. I want to do some science.”

  Three waves a tentacle dismissively. “If you wish.”

  Like he’s bored of us already.

  Me, I just watched the equivalent of a Japanese monster movie. Then I rode into a cave under the city via giant fuckoff ancient titan mouth. Being bored right now would be the same thing as dead.

  I say, “Why did you save me?”

  Three counters with: “Why did you come looking for me?”

  “Cuz I think you’ve got a role to play in the infection. I saw recordings of the attack on Emergence Day. You and your big buddies in a Brooklyn battle royale. You know that was my old neighborhood, Bay Ridge.”

  “I am aware. It is also where your parents are from.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t...” I try to remember. Where were my parents from?

  He said it’s where your parents are from, dummy.

  My first inclination is to tell him he’s an idiot. Fulla shit. My foster folks were from rural Pennsylvania. That’s what half my brain remembers. The other half thinks: Wait a minute...

  But it’s in a fog. Hard to see.

  My headache comes back. I sit on the dusty floor of the cavern. Smoke my cigarette. Reach into my pack for some jerky and water. “I saw news reports.” I rub my forehead. “I saw those goddamn infected back there during the fight. Keefs and stilt-walkers.”

  Three says, “Keefs?”

  I’m tired of explaining the joke. But I do: Keith Richards. Rolling Stones guitarist. Hard to kill. Did most of the Earth’s supply of drugs. Sometimes called “Keef” as a nickname. Thus.

  The titan tilts his head. “Ah. I see you are working hard to be clever.”

  Plissken chuckles.

  I glare at my bot. “Laugh it up, tin can.”

  I never thought ancient beings would be so goddamn smug.

  One of Plissken’s alarms goes off. A high-pitched klaxon that bounces off the cave walls. He says, “Oh shit.”

  I jump to my feet. Colt already in hand. “Infected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit, man. Where?”

  “Right in front of you.”

  I look to the Hroza.

  Three waves a tentacle.

  I aim my Colt. “Explain.”

  Three grunts. He lets his massive head rest on the cave ground. That bored thing again. “I do not answer to you, human. I answer to nothing and no one. I am the last of a great race. And I do not need this shit from a violent little monkey like you.”

  I arch my eyebrows. Look to Plissken.

  The bot dips in the air. His version of a shrug.

  I holster the Colt. Try a different way: “All right.” I hold up my hands. “Can you—” I hate this “—please—” ugh “—help me here?”

  The Hroza eyeballs me. He lifts his head. “What your metal friend found when he scanned me is correct, but not wholly accurate. Yes. I carry the parasite. All of my kin do. We are immune to its ill-effects, though. Whoever shares our genes is immune as well. It is what allows us to survive when others do not. A proper symbiosis grants the carrier certain gifts—gifts if the carrier shares our genes. If the carrier does not share our genes, then the parasite runs rampant. What should be symbiosis becomes detrimental. Deadly. Psychosis. Mutations.”

  I slump to the ground. “No fuckin kidding.” I think about all the shamblers. Stilt-walkers. Flesh-reefs. Flesh-towers. All the whacko variants. Even the ones that tried to being inorganic material into the evolution mix. “You’re the root of the infection. Why couldn’t you just stay in your goddamn hole?”

  Three says, “Our emergence was necessary to save the planet from the others.”

  “You planted the seeds for destroying the planet in saving it.”

  Three shoots me an impatient look. “The humans who defeated my kin carry the parasite as well.
They would not have won without it, in fact. The genes, coupled with the parasite, gave them the abilities needed to survive. Mutation can be a beautiful thing.”

  I blink. “You tore the arms off a monster that was a direct result of the parasite and the mutations. You and your family fucked the world.” I think about my Momma Bear. My friends. The people I watched being slaughtered. Devoured.

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

  Madness lies down that road.

  Well, I’m sorta already there, ain’t I?

  Three says, “We could not predict what would happen. We can sense things. Many things. But we are not fortune tellers.” He regards me for a second. “And yet, you are still here, are you not?”

  I stand. Flick my cigarette. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Three shrugs.

  I get a real bad feeling in my stomach. “Plissken. Get the hell over here.”

  The bot obeys. He hovers next to me.

  I tell him: “Scan me.”

  Plissken’s alarm goes off a second later.

  9. Road Trip

  I should kill myself. Just do it.

  I’m a carrier. Fuck. The parasite’s been inside me... Inside me for how long? When? I was never bitten...

  Idiot. How long have you been running around with open wounds? Hm? Since that day the skullfucker got out and attacked your photographer. That’s how long. Years.

  How could you possibly have thought you weren’t infected?

  Just being alive beats the averages.

  I need someone to abuse. So I scream at Plissken. “Why didn’t you tell me? How’d this shit get by you? I’m gonna find a can opener and go to town on your hull.”

  Plissken says, “The only time I scanned you on a cellular level was at the Cornell Labs. Before she—” The bot catches himself. Doesn’t wanna hurt me or piss me off more “—before we took refuge at the Empire State Building. And before we even identified the parasite. Otherwise, I have only ever done basic medical readings to ensure that nothing other than your suicidal nature kills you. It is not as though you showed any external signs of infection.”

  Blood rushes in my ears. “I need to hurt something.” I plop back down. Light another cigarette. Dig into my pack for whiskey. “There you are.” I mouth the bottle. Chug burning amber alcohol. “Let’s murder brain cells.”