A Man and His Robot

by William Vitka

  No. Gotta experiment later with something less lethal.

  She opens her vest. Keeps the knife on me. Keeps grinding on me. She grabs at tits with her free hand. Twists her nipples. Rides against my pants and my hard cock under the fabric.

  I keep the guns up. Try to tell myself not to like it.

  She reaches behind her. Pulls another, smaller knife. Cuts a line along her inseam. Guess she’d rather ruin her pants than take the blade away from my throat.

  She tears a hole at the crotch. I can see in.

  No underwear.

  Hoo boy.

  I hope being a carrier protects me from STDs.

  Plissken says, “She’s sterile. She can’t have children.”

  That gets Miss Crazy’s attention. “Quiet, robot. I will carry the chosen one’s child. A scion for this world. A new savior.”

  Plissken bobs in the air. “You have been drinking the water here, no? Too much. I can read your radiation levels. Perhaps that’s why you went mad. It’s irrelevant, however. The fact remains: You cannot bear children. Your eggs are warped. Malformed. And your uterus is barren. Caused either by the radiation or some previous ailment I’m not privy to.”

  She points the knife at Plissken. Opens her mouth to say something.

  Plissken blows her arm apart with his plasma cannon. Strips of skin and bone fly. The knife skitters away. A second shot takes her head off. It slams against the door of the shed. Already kinda cooked from the heat of the gun.

  Her body falls backward.

  I kick her away before her corpse can rid itself of more bodily fluids. “That was a helluva cockblock.” But I ain’t upset when I think about the situation.

  Stabby stabby cutty throaty.

  Plissken says, “I have my moments.”

  I open the door. Toss Miss Crazy’s head as far as I can into the water. Don’t want the indigenous life munching on her too close to me.

  The body’s a little trickier. So Plissken stashes his load of supplies and carries her out to the tracks. Then torches Miss Crazy’s remains.

  We pick a different shed.

  Hunker down in there.

  I curl up again. The sleeping bag’s still warm.

  To be honest, after being away from em so long, I dunno if I even like humans anymore.

  I say to Plissken: “Still, I like the thought of being ‘The Chosen One.’”

  Plissken says: “I cannot imagine a more terrifying idea.”

  11. When In Beautiful Newark, Be Sure to Visit the Skull Bridge Of Horrors

  Daylight hits. We hump the train tracks again. Two-Eighty’s on our right. Decrepit industrial warehouses and mills on our left. I see Newark in the distance.

  To my shock, it ain’t burning.

  I punt some litter off the rails. I’m tempted to hum a tune: Stand By Me.

  We pass over Harrison. Quiet. Cuz we can see a few of those “small” hordes of Keefs roaming in the city’s suburbs. Forty or so per horde. Where there’s hordes of Keefs, there’s stilt-walkers. Maybe worse.

  But it’s almost nice to see the shambling bastards. Reminds me of home.

  The Passaic River’s between us and Newark.

  I hold position behind some shrubs next to the tracks and drop.

  Plissken goes ahead to check the condition of the bridges. Both the rails we’re on and the asphalt of 280 on our right. Far as I know, the 280 bridge doesn’t have a name. Ain’t big enough to. Just four short lanes. But it can be raised and lowered for ships to pass underneath.

  I shoulder the Ruger rifle. Peer through the scope at the railway bridge. Looks intact. And clear. Which is great goddamn news.

  Interstate 280 over the Passaic...not so much.

  The bridge is blocked on both sides by car wrecks. The Newark side’s got a big semi turned over to keep people from getting in. And the whole structure’s covered in little white orbs. Ribbons, too. Party streamers? I mean covered. Every nook. Every cranny of steel is decorated.

  Least, it looks that way. Till I realize it’s actually covered in skulls and entrails.

  Infected ain’t known for their sense of décor. Safe to assume survivors did this. Also safe to assume they’re crazypants. Maybe tribals protecting their turf. Maybe more Great Ray worshippers.

  None of this shit’s good.

  Plissken comes back. Says he wasn’t spotted. Says, “There are twelve humans at the center of the bridge. They appear to be on lookout. A security detail. It suggests that there is an enclave inside the city.”

  “Did the humans look, uh—” I wiggle my fingers near my head. Insane?

  “Oh, they appear to be quite psychotic.”

  “Joy.”

  “They also have a tank.”

  “Operational?”

  “Yes. Inside a makeshift garage at the other end of the bridge. Very capable of exploding drunk heroes such as yourself.”

  “Okay.” I think about sniping as many of the bastards as I can. Making a run for the tank. Blasting my way outta the city.

  Plissken puffs his thrusters. “There is something else. Given my initial readings, I believe that the city of Newark itself may be infected.”

  “Every city’s infected now.”

  “No, I mean literally the city. The parasite appears to be in the infrastructure. The metal and the concrete.”

  “How?”

  I think back. Remember some of the things in the subway. My dead friends pointing to corpses after I’d awoken from the gunshot wound. Creatures adding scraps of sharp steel to themselves... Crap.

  Plissken says, “I cannot answer that. I need to study the symbiosis. There is, however, organic material in most building materials. Technically, anyway. Though it would necessitate the parasite being able to infect on a deeper level. I haven’t worked out the angles, as you might say.”

  “Let’s put that on the back burner for now. I want that tank. Any ideas?”

  Plissken dips in the direction of my rifle. “Rooty tooty point and shooty.”

  I secure Old Glory around my neck. “‘Merica.” Roadie-run forward along the tracks. Hunched down in a crouch. We push ourselves ahead, farther into the land of the United States like the hard cock of vengeance.

  Uh... What...

  Just go with it.

  I get a better view of the bridge. The center of it. I see the twelve assholes Plissken’s talking about. They tote shotguns and a few rifles. Semi-auto. Nothing too exotic.

  I wanna laugh.

  Twelve guys. These savages. Tribals. Whatever. They’re dressed like used car salesmen. No crazy leather bondage gear. No spikes coming outta their shoulders. Wearing probably the same shit they’ve always worn their whole white-bread business-school lives.

  But they’re armed. And they decorated a bridge with skulls and entrails. And I want their tank.

  So fuck em anyway.

  Morality is flexible. Far as I’m concerned, my mission’s more important than their lives.

  I line up a shot. Seventy yards. Some dickwad with a pump shotgun dressed like he’s going to a board meeting except the sleeves of his sports jacket are cut off.

  Very apocalypse chic.

  I put a little pressure on the trigger.

  Then stop.

  Guys on the bridge start yelling. At each other. Then at something I can’t see. Then they gather around in a half circle.

  There’s movement on the Newark side.

  I hear someone crying. A woman.

  I say, “Ah shit.”

  This lady. She’s pregnant. Skinny little blonde thing with a great big belly and swollen breasts under a dirty sun dress. Another woman drags her toward the men. The second lady’s in a grey power suit. Power Suit Gal’s got a weird grin on her face.

  The pregnant woman shouts: “No
more. Please. The baby... The baby.”

  Dawns on me that maybe I don’t wanna get into this. The pregnant lady ain’t part of their tribe. That’s obvious. And these Men’s Wearhouse motherfuckers, they’re making a point. Punishment for the interloper.

  I could slip in at night. Be all sneaky-like. Slit their throats. Avoid a big firefight.

  What if it was Her down there? What if it was your Momma Bear?Your Momma Bear carrying your baby?What would you want someone else to do?

  Don’t mean I gotta take a bullet to the face for her.

  You’re the good guy here, right?

  Power Suit Gal throws the blonde against one of the struts on the bridge. Her forehead bangs against it with a nasty clang. The blonde cries out in pain.

  The crazies in suits have a good mean laugh.

  They tie the blonde’s hands together in front of her. So her rear’s facing em.

  Power Suit Gal flips up the back of the blonde’s sun dress. Pulls down the pregnant woman’s underwear. Nods approvingly to the men.

  They get their dicks out.

  You’re gonna do something, right?

  Guy with the cutoff sleeves slings his shotgun. He pumps his fists. The Men’s Wearhouse nutters all bro out for a second. Frat boys getting stoked.

  Power Suit Gal whoops it up. A fuckin cheerleader.

  Or, y’know, she’s just One Of The Guys.

  I’m trying to figure out if the blonde’s a baby-mule... Miss Crazy in the Meadowlands couldn’t breed. Maybe none of em can out here.

  So you’re gonna do something... Right?

  Cutoff Bro strokes himself. Waddles toward the pregnant woman. His slacks down at his ankles. The others encourage him with grunts and claps.

  I say, “Yeah, this shit’s not happening.”

  The Ruger cracks.

  Cutoff Bro’s crotch explodes. His cock flies off to some unknown part of the bridge.

  Plissken takes position above me. I can hear his plasma cannon charge.

  The other suit psychos stop. In shock. Confusion all over their faces.

  The blonde. She can see me. Tears in her blue eyes through the Ruger scope.

  She smiles in its crosshairs.

  I don’t like it. At all. Cuz I don’t want her thinking she knows me or owes me. Cuz I don’t need any more baggage. All I want’s to get the tank and get out.

  I scan to the left and right. Send a .308 round through one of the other would-be rapists. His leg. Musta hit the femoral artery cuz, man, it’s a gusher. He takes a spill. Grabs at his wound. Not that it helps. Blood’s spraying all over.

  The ten others ignore him. I see em take up firing positions.

  Power Suit Gal scampers off toward the Newark side. I can’t be bothered to care about her yet. She ain’t armed. Ain’t trying to put holes in me.

  One of the shotgunners unloads. Buckshot kicks up a cloud of dirt in front of me.

  I don’t move. I send another bullet downrange. Right into a shotgunner jaw. I like seeing the pink mist. The bone fragments. The teeth flying outta his head. Gives me a murderboner.

  Plissken hauls ass toward the bridge. He goes up and over. Then around so he can get at their backs.

  A Men’s Wearhouse psycho peeks his head over the guard rail.

  I say, “Hellooooo.”

  My Ruger thunders. A black dot appears in his forehead. The back of his skull explodes.

  Eight left. Plus Power Suit Gal. But they’re a little smarter now. Not showing their bodies. Staying in cover. I wonder if Plissken can flush em out.

  Then I hear screams. More than one voice. A chorus of yells.

  There’s a flash of lightning on the bridge.

  Plissken’s plasma cannon.

  Four bastards tumble out in the open. One missing most of his left side. His body there looking like he took an ill-advised dip in lava. He drops.

  The others run. Not sure if they should be working on me or the metal devil that just ripped their savage lives apart.

  Plissken tears across the bridge. I don’t bother shooting cuz it’s a spectacle through the Leupold rifle sight.

  The bot’s got his saws out. The blades chew on human meat. He hits one guy at the center of his back. Plissken uses a claw arm to hold on to the guy. Then drives his saws through the guy’s shoulders till they pop out his chest with an explosion of steaming blood.

  I watch my little metal murder machine.

  We all got monsters.

  Mine just happens to be fuckin awesome.

  Plissken goes for their legs. Maybe he thinks it’s funny, watching em crawl around like worms. Hell, I think it’s funny. These rotten bastards. Let em squirm.

  Only takes Plissken a couple minutes to finish off the Men’s Wearhouse fuckers on the bridge. They become limbs and gore and thrashing torsos splashed across the asphalt.

  The bot dips toward me. C’mon over.

  Blonde’s still staring at me.

  I shout to Plissken, “Cut’er loose. Tell’er to be on her way.”

  Just get rid of her. Get her outta here. Ain’t here to make friends.

  I sling the Ruger. Backtrack a little. Find some stairs that’ll lead me down to street level so I can climb back up to the bridge.

  Takes me ten minutes. Maybe a bit more. I try to avoid the Keefs on the ground.

  I pull my revolver. Just in case there’s some leftover crazy we didn’t see sneaking around. There ain’t, but I keep the gun out anyway.

  Goddamn blonde’s loose. She’s talking to Plissken. Like they’re buddies.

  I hear her laugh. It pisses me off.

  I say to her, “Where’re you headed?”

  Her with these big puppy eyes. “I don’t know. They kidnapped me... It feels like a long time ago. Kept me in a cargo container along the river. No sunlight. I don’t know how many days passed.”

  “Sorry to hear. Where are your people? Can they come get you?” Me saying this cuz I feel I gotta, otherwise I’m a worse asshole.

  Up close, she looks maybe twenty-one. Meaning, she woulda been eleven or so when the outbreak fucked the planet.

  She says, “North of here. Rockland County? In New York. We had taken over a school. Clarkstown High School South. It was... It was nice. I mean. You know. As nice as it could be. I thought we had it worked out. We turned classrooms into housing for families. The gym held crops. It all worked well until—”

  “Raiders, yeah. I figured that out already.”

  Plissken says, “The woman told me she was kidnapped by a raider party. Two dozen men. A few women. They needed ‘breeders.’ It seems like many of the females here have gone sterile.”

  I point to the blonde’s belly. “But she ain’t.”

  “Clearly.”

  Okay, great.This ain’t my fuckin problem.

  I tell the blonde: “Any way to contact your people?” Keep trying to make that point. Your people. On account of she ain’t one of mine.

  She says, “I don’t think any of them are left.” Her eyes light up. “Wait. There are more girls down there.” She points into Newark. “You have to help them.”

  I look down the length of the bridge. There’s the tank. Tucked into the makeshift garage Plissken mentioned. I want it. Bad. I wanna hear its treads rolling over the corpses of my enemies. Wanna fire that giant turret and blow up infected in droves.

  I wanna to get to Boston. Find that radio station.

  I say to the blonde, “I ain’t going into the city.”

  She glares at me.

  Pretty sure I just became a bad guy.

  She says, “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  How the hell’s this my responsibility?

  She says, “You can’t turn your back on us. The women—some of them are just
girls. They’ve survived all the nightmares this world offers. Now they’re being held as fucking sex slaves by their own kind. Girls being gang raped. Day after day.” She rubs her belly. “It doesn’t even stop when you get pregnant.”

  Some romantic part of my mind imagines me saving her. Getting her and all the others together. Putting em in the tank. Rolling off into the sunset.

  Since I’d be a savior and all.

  But they wouldn’t fit. Not in a tank.

  And you know what people are? People are problems. Walking. Talking. Eating. Shitting. Pissing problems.

  And now you’re justifying it.

  I look like I’m running a fuckin charity here?

  I say, “Lady, this ain’t my fight.”

  She furrows her brow. Stares at me. So angry I think she might pop a vein. “You son of a bitch. You’re a bastard. An awful bastard. You walk away, you’re no better than these psychos.”

  “Back off. I have shit I need to do. But, hey, you’re welcome for the rescue.”

  “Rescue? So what, so me and my baby can die a different way?”

  “You’re not coming with me, and I’m not going into the city.” I walk toward the tank.

  She waddles after me. “But the people. You have to help other people.”

  I turn to her. “This shit’s a solo operation, lady. These pricks?” I point to the bodies of the suit psychos. “There’s ‘people.’ People are problems. Violent insanity in a skin sack.”

  “What about him?” She points to Plissken.

  “Plissken ain’t people.”

  She stops. Sniffles. Starts to cry.

  I would too, for the record.

  I grab my hair. Stare at the sky.

  What if it was her carrying your baby...

  Still ain’t coming with me.

  But...

  I don’t know if it’s for her or for me. If I’m trying to absolve myself of being an utter jackass.

  I hug her. Let her weep into my chest. The blonde’s tears fall against my armor like rain.

  I give her Old Glory to dry her eyes. Say, “I’ll have Plissken scan nearby radio frequencies for friendlies, all right? But when they get here... I’m gonna have to go. Other survivors don’t like me much.”