A Man and His Robot

by William Vitka

  She chuckles. A little. Wipes her nose. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Well, it’s not my charming personality—I’m infected.” I let go of her. “They’d always suspected me, which is weird. But I thought it was crap.” I snap my fingers. “That there’s some irony.”

  She pushes me away. Says, “Oh, my God.” She covers her belly instinctively. “Stay away, please. Please. The baby.” Blind terror on her face.

  Cuz of me.

  I say, “Doesn’t work that way. It’s not like a cold or the flu. Relax.”

  I’d have to fuck you and chew on your neck.

  I hold out my hand. “I promise. We’ll find some friendlies and get you on your way.”

  She takes my hand. Unsure at first. Then she grabs me tight. “And what about the other girls?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out.”

  Grab the tank. Roll through Newark. Kill a whole lot of raider rapists. Could be fun. Or just get the fuck out. Let another group of survivors handle the situation.

  I say, “First things first, we gotta get you outta here. Plissken—”

  The bot shouts: “Movement.”

  “Where?”

  There’s a gunshot.

  The side of the blonde’s head explodes.

  Her blood splashes against me and the flag. I roll for cover. Tuck myself against a barrier.

  Doesn’t take a genius to determine Power Suit Gal’s got herself a gun. Fuckin bitch. Sounds like a .30-06.

  I watch the blonde’s head ooze.

  The blonde’s eyes are open. Not quite dead yet. One of her hands still over the baby bump on her stomach.

  I can’t think of anything to say to her.

  So I scream. “You asshole. You cocksucking asshole. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Knowing that the bullet was probably supposed to hit me.

  Me being the big threat to this little psycho raider camp now.

  It’s a nice little microcosm of humanity. We just like fucking and killing each other.

  Plissken moves to take Power Suit Gal out.

  I tell him to stop. “I want her.”

  I stand. I know where the bitch’s gotta be cuz of where the blonde got hit.

  I walk.

  A bullet tags my right side. Not a direct hit. Just a glancing blow. The carbon mesh body armor keeps the bullet from ripping a piece of me off.

  Still hurts. But I’m too pissed to do anything except focus on the kill. My vision’s red. Just red. Like a lens fell over it.

  I saw the flash. I know where she’s hiding.

  To the side of the makeshift garage. High up on some cargo crates.

  I take a shot to the shoulder. A good one. Woulda put me outta commission if I wasn’t going all fuckin Wolverine. And the armor does its job again. Dissipates the energy across a wider area.

  Mmmm. There she is.

  I fire the Colt. Miss on purpose to get Power Suit Gal to duck. Chunks of wood splinter off near her face.

  Power Suit Gal drops. Runs around behind cover.

  But there’s only a couple places she can go. Left or right.

  She goes right.

  I listen for her. Stalk her.

  To fuck with her.

  Because fuck her.

  That sounds familiar.

  I pop out in front of her.

  I say: “Where you going?”

  She slips. Falls at my feet. Fires a shot at me. Unaimed. Just outta surprise. Nearly gets me in the neck. Rips a big hole in Old Glory instead.

  I smile at her. Nod. “C’mere. We got some shit to discuss.”

  Dude, you’re getting creepy.

  I grab for her. Miss.

  She bounces up. Knocks me across the face with the butt of the rifle.

  I shake my head. Snarl at her.

  She catches a glance at my eyes. And I guess there’s something there she really doesn’t like. Cuz it stops her for a second. Then she’s looking scared.

  I take the opportunity to slug her in the goddamn face. My gloved knuckles crunch her nose. The blow knocks her back to the ground. She holds her face, screeching. Blood puddles around her.

  Part of me wonders if I feel proud for knocking the shit out of a woman.

  Another part of me says: You remember what she was doing thirty seconds ago? She ain’t no woman. She a monster.

  I say, “You like encouraging rapists? You like shooting young pregnant woman in the head?” I grab Power Suit Gal’s hair. Notice her nametag: MARIEL. Drag her behind me.

  She howls. Kicks her feet. Tries to dig her nails into my wrists.

  The carbon armor keeps her from doing any damage.

  I say, “Where’re your people? Where’re the other girls being held?”

  Power Suit Gal’s hair tears between my fingers.

  I lose my grip. Got a hold of nothing but clumps.

  Power Suit Gal is up in a flash. She runs back toward the tank.

  I say: “Plissken.”

  The bot fires a plasma bolt at her feet. Cooks off her right ankle.

  Power Suit Gal tumbles forward. Lands awkward against a metal crate with one of her hands bent the wrong direction.

  She learns to behave.

  Dude, you’re real close here...

  I drag Power Suit Gal. Over to the blonde’s lifeless body. Sit her there so she can stare at what’s she’s done. I tie her hands. Half expecting a fight. But shattering bones and nuking one of her feet seems to’ve taken it out of her.

  I say, “Where are your people? Where are the other women being held?”

  All she does is stare at the ashen stump on her leg.

  Plissken says, “You need to cut it out of her. You have to be fast.”

  I say, “I’m not gonna torture her.”

  “Not the psycho, you fool. The baby. The baby.”

  “You gotta be fuckin kidding.”

  “I am reading life signs. Very low, but the baby is alive. It needs oxygen. Now.”

  I shoot Power Suit Gal a look. She stares at where her foot used to be. Like maybe it’ll grow back if she concentrates enough.

  I walk over to the blonde’s body. Straddle her. Say to Plissken: “You’re gonna need to talk me through this, man.”

  Plissken says, “It won’t be as bad as you might think.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t need to worry about keeping the mother alive.”

  I bite my lip. Rub my forehead.

  I pull out my Ka-Bar. Military-grade combat knife. Maybe not as precise as a scalpel or a laser, but it’s gonna have to do. “What am I doing here, Plissken?”

  The baby. The baby. The baby.

  I do what the bot says.

  Flip the blonde’s bloody sundress up. Expose her midsection. Slide the Ka-Bar into the flesh right above her panty line.

  I cut left to right. Slice little by little to spread the wound. Skin. Fat. Streams of blood pour out over my gloves. I yank the blonde’s abdominal muscles apart.

  Plissken tells me I gotta get through the uterus. Get into it.

  Fast.

  I wanna joke that I’ve been trying since I was thirteen, but the words never leave my mouth.

  I rip the blonde’s skin. Use the knife to punch a hole through the uterine wall so I can tear the blonde apart.

  And holy fuck there’s this baby’s goddamn motherfuckin head. Blue. Covered in mucous. Flecks of spit, blood, and piss and shit.

  The baby’s breathing.

  Crying.

  She. She’s breathing. She’s crying.

  I cut the umbilical cord. Untie Old Glory from my neck. Wrap the girl with the flag.

  If Momma Bear was still around, she wouldn’t believe this. You with a kid.


  I look into the baby’s screeching face. Say, “Happy Birthday. It’s all downhill from here.”

  But to be honest, I’m sorta impressed with myself. I think about it too long, I could get all emotional and shit.

  I snap my fingers at psycho Power Suit Gal. Get her attention. I bring the baby close to her. Say, “Despite all your vile bullshit, this girl wanted to be born. She’s a living ‘Fuck You’ to you and your kind.”

  Power Suit Gal eyeballs me. Then the baby.

  Then she spits.

  At the baby.

  So I blow Power Suit Gal’s head open with a .45 slug.

  Baby in one arm. Colt revolver in the other.

  I realize we’re gonna have to get the baby some ear plugs.

  12. Tanks for the Memories

  The tank is cramped. And it smells kinda funny.

  Like canned farts.

  But it’s safe.

  Plissken tells me it’s a USC—some experimental machine that wasn’t even supposed to see regular action. Except the world ended and shit went fucky. So they had to try it out.

  My bot rattles off a list of features. Sounds like he’s describing the virtues of a new girlfriend, not a war machine.

  Frankly, there’s nothing wrong with that. I think the guy’s excited to interface with something other than a drunk antihero.

  Plissken says, “The M1A7XP3 is fusion-powered. It can also withstand an indirect nuclear blast. There’s a mine launcher in the back.” He puffs his thrusters. “One remote machine gun on top. Two manually operated machine guns, left and right side. The main cannon—I think you’ll like this—is a triple barrel design. Barrel A fires a 260mm all-purpose round. Barrel B fires a magnetically-accelerated lance that penetrates soft targets. Barrel C is the real prize here. It is a phased plasma cannon! You won’t need to worry about destroying the creatures’ brains when this will vaporize everything in a hundred-foot radius.” Plissken bobs. “Vaporizes everything but us, obviously.”

  Plissken makes a noise akin to Squeee!

  Aww.

  My thrilled little killbot.

  I say, “That’s nice, dear. What kinda crew does one of these usually need?”

  “Six trained.”

  “Then we’re a bit short, dude.”

  “I can handle it.”

  I rub some dirt off the baby’s cheek. “Bet you can.” The baby needs a bath. Medicine. Food.

  Needs a name too.

  Hard not to do the obvious. Name the baby after her. But that might create some kinda weird Oedipal thing. So no. For now, she’s just Rugrat.

  I’ll think of something when my brain’s not toast.

  I hear Plissken titter.

  I say, “What’s going on?”

  Plissken says, “This tank is female.” Wires and cables stretch from his metal body. Plug into various ports along the command console.

  Fuckin hell.

  Plissken says, “And she is a flirtatious one.”

  Ughhhhhhhh.

  I say, “Use protection, bud. Male to female ports and all that. Dunno where she’s been.”

  Plissken says, “Her name is Juliet.” All protective now.

  “Relax, Romeo.” I leave Rugrat to check out the munitions racks.

  They’re pretty well-stocked.

  Six assault rifles I don’t immediately recognize. Loads of ammo. Light body armor. Food rations. Blankets.

  Dawns on me that the tank really shouldn’t be this well-stocked. Unless the psychos didn’t know what they had. Or unless the psychos were getting ready to head out on a raid. Which probably means...

  I say to Plissken: “Scan the radio frequencies. See if you can track down the rest of the raiders.”

  He says, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  I should’ve seen this coming.

  Plissken turns on the external microphone and camera feeds. I see a mob of angry Men’s Wearhouse creeps heading my direction from Newark proper. Well-dressed rapists.

  Oh boy.

  I pop out the crew hatch on top of the tank.

  Guy in front of the Newark welcome committee’s wearing a pristine suit. Navy blue. Matching blue tie. With a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket to offset, and accentuate, the colors.

  Good interview getup.

  I nod appreciatively. Wonder if Leader Guy’s some fart-sniffer from the Rutgers business school nearby.

  He looks in his mid-forties. Good shape. Shouts to me: “I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing, but I want my vehicle back. Now.”

  Mmm, that educated tone of voice.

  I glance at Plissken. Shrug. Grab the mic from the commander’s station under me. Talk into it dramatically: “Uh... Wait... Wait, dude, lemme think... Uhhhhh... Ehhhhh.... No.”

  lol

  Leader Guy makes a confused face. Guess nobody’s ever said No to him.

  He says, “That’s a joke, isn’t it? There are two dozen of us and one of you. The last time we checked, it takes a six-man crew, at minimum, to run that tank. Unless you have a qualified driver, you’re going nowhere. Fast.”

  I laugh. “Dude...” I light a cigarette. “Oh, shit dude.” I point at Leader Guy. “You’re so right! I am such a stupid cocksucking idiot not-woman-raper!”

  Ayyy lmao

  Plissken swivels the tank’s big tri-cannon.

  He rotates the barrels so the rail gun sits on top.

  Leader Guy changes his tune. Says, “Perhaps we can negotiate.”

  “Ehhhhh.” I rest my chin in my hands. Adorable. A Hallmark card. “What’ve you got that I need?”

  Leader Guy spreads his hands. “Ammunition. Caches of weapons. Food. Water.” He smirks. “And I’ve got women. A whole harem. I could give you a few. Lovely girls. Name your age.”

  This motherfucker.

  I tell the guy: “Hang on.” Say to Plissken: “You locate the women?”

  Plissken says, “Of course.”

  “Good.” I say into the mic: “Well, I’ve considered your offer.”

  Leader Guy says, “Excellent. And?”

  Leader Guy’s dick area disappears in a red mist. The tank’s rail gun lance obliterates it. Leader Guy’s torso wobbles in the air for a heartbeat. Till gravity catches up. Then it tumbles. Dripping ropey intestines.

  You ask me why I been shooting these guys in the dick?

  No idea.

  Symbolism?

  Go with symbolism.

  Then there’s all this business about “penetrating” the rapists and...

  Holy fuck, shut up you mental social justice warrior.

  Teehee.

  I remotely rake the tank’s .50 caliber upper machine gun across the ranks of the raiders. The gun blows off arms. Legs. A couple heads.

  Plissken makes the excellent assumption that I don’t want any of these shitheads alive. He fires the plasma cannon. The tank bucks. Superheated matter jumps from the barrel. Same stuff that’s in our sun. Ionized. Looks like a wad of blue sperm.

  The tank sprays the rapist raiders with cumdeath.

  The plasma hits. Explodes all over.

  Hmmm...

  Fuckers lose limbs in the burning hell of the plasma bath. It’s so hot they don’t have time to melt. They just pop. The liquid inside em boils. Expands too fast for the skin.

  It’s disgusting and beautiful.

  Whole area’s littered with skin suits covering cracked bones.

  Plissken says, “It’ll take some time for the tank to recharge. For Juliet to recharge. Until then, we are relegated to more standard munitions.”

  Oh, Plissken. You goddamn shit.

  Rugrat’s still crying.

  First twenty minutes of her life’s been nothing but bloodshed. Noisy, ugly bloodshed.
And it ain’t gonna change any time soon.

  I look through the food rations in the tank. Hope there’s some soft food I can mash up. Maybe milk. Or even one of those fuckin old-people drinks.

  Baby needs liquids and nutrients.

  Plissken says, “She needs to be inoculated.”

  I say, “Yeah, she needs food too.”

  “The inoculation is more important. An infection, any infection, would be disastrous. Likely life-threatening.”

  “Okay, so? We will soon as we can. Roll through a hospital or something.”

  “That was always the importance of breast feeding. It passed much of the mother’s immunities and defenses on to her spawn.”

  I say, “You’re telling me shit I already know. And I ain’t lactating right now.”

  A sigh escapes from Plissken. He detaches himself from the tank. Juliet. Whatever. He floats over to me. Says, “Hold out your arm.”

  I squint at him. “I don’t wanna.”

  “Roll up the carbon mesh suit. Hold out your arm.”

  “Dude, no. What’s the idea? Tell me.”

  “You’re acting like a child.”

  I grimace. “No... You are... A butt... Shit, whatever.” I do it.

  Plissken jabs a needle into me. Fills it halfway with my juicy, juicy blood. Sucks it. About a test tube’s worth. Jerk.

  I say, “Careful with that. It’s hundred-proof. Finely-aged. Dracula ever bit me, he’d get alcohol poisoning.”

  Plissken ignores me. He floats over to Rugrat. Lifts Old Glory up just enough to expose the baby’s fat thigh. Wham-bam. He injects her in a blink.

  I say, “So that’s as good as mother’s milk?”

  Plissken floats over Rugrat. He doesn’t say shit for a minute. Just watches her. Admires her. “She will never need another antibiotic. She probably won’t need anything from you ever again.” He turns to me. “She’s immune to even all the horrors you’ve put your body through, because your body adapted. And your blood carries the gift of your betters.

  “Do you understand what Three was telling you back in his burrow? Do you understand the full breadth and scope of it?”

  Stupid tin can’s sounding more like Three all the time. “I can’t be turned into a monster. Physical wounds heal crazy fast. My parents were superpeople.” I bow.