A Man and His Robot

by William Vitka

  There were three cribs in the manager’s office. Now I know where the babies went: Melded together here. Their bodies flow into one another. They share torsos. The flesh of their bellies overlap. Six pudgy legs dangle below. A trio of nubby dicks between the legs. Three cherubic faces leer above everything.

  They cry out at me. Sound just like tots who want their mother’s tit.

  I’m real sick of babies right now.

  I switch to full auto. Open fire. Short bursts of bullets. Go for the tendrils that keep it in the rafters. The Mercury rounds tear the limbs apart.

  The hellbaby screeches. Those creepy infant noises.

  It drops. Falls behind big shelves in the warehouse. Lands somewhere I can’t see. Which’s just great. Nothing I enjoy better than playing hide & seek with a tartarean spider-tot in a creepy grocery store that was apparently the scene of a toddler slaughter.

  I listen for it. The tentacles make wet thuds. The spindly legs make clicks and clacks. There’s a weird cacophony of animal noises.

  It’s trying to get behind me.

  I move forward. Turn a corner.

  And here’s hellbaby’s kitchen.

  Twenty little bodies wrapped up. Children. Bound in semi-translucent, slightly red ropes. Twenty open mouths. Most of em on their knees. How it looks: They’re begging. Maybe praying. Hoping against the odds some deity that doesn’t exist is gonna save em from their three younger cohorts who’re saving em as snacks for later.

  Six are dried husks.

  Delightful!

  Hellbaby coos.

  I scan for it. “C’mere Hellbaby. Got something for you.”

  I level the rifle at the heads of the mummified children. Line up the closest one.

  Bang.

  It pops like a balloon. All liquid inside. No bones left.

  Part of a retainer goes flying.

  That explains the piles. Some kind of acid that only dissolves organic tissue. So... Just like a spider. Except a mutant baby. We’re gonna burn this place to the ground.

  Hellbaby cries out from the darkness.

  Bastard knows I’m destroying its food.

  I’m glad I managed to piss it off.

  Just had to shoot some kids in the head to do it.

  It comes fast. Between the shelves. Propels itself at me with the combination of spindly legs and tentacles. The strange chubby baby bodies jiggle at its center.

  Now is a perfectly reasonable time to go bananas. Hold down the trigger. Rock out with my cock out. But I don’t.

  I keep the bursts going. Short. Controlled. I send a trio of Mercury rounds into the center baby head. Two catch the top of its skull. Split it down the center. Blow infected infant brains up in a spray. Its eyes roll back. The dead head wobbles around. Bounces like it’s nodding cuz of how fast the whole monster body’s going.

  Tentacles and legs attached to that vile little center shithead go slack. Just like with the dogipede.

  The hellbaby slows down a little. Loses some coordination.

  He leaps.

  I drop. Fire another burst up into the tangled tornado of psychotic limbs.

  Hellbaby cries. Careens over me. Smashes into the concrete wall of the store warehouse. Falls in a heap. Thrashes.

  I hear little bones break.

  Hellbaby gets up again. Three of the dangling baby legs wobble around at weird angles. Creepy cooing freak ain’t going so fast now.

  I say, “Bad baby!” Chuckle to myself. Put two bursts into the baby on the right.

  Most of the little guy explodes. Legs drop off. His chest gets hollowed out by the bullets. There’s a little red concave stain with sharp ribs pointing out.

  The right side of hellbaby seizes up. He totters. Slams to the ground.

  Babydick on the left still wants at me.

  They always do.

  But all he can manage is to spin himself in circles like some bloody version of Curly from The Three Stooges—or Zoidberg from Futurama, if you’re more into cartoons like I am.

  It’s kinda pathetic.

  And the crying. The incessant crying.

  I blow his last itty-bitty nightmare head off.

  Then I put holes in the rest of the liquefied, mummified kids.

  Gas. Kerosene. I need something flammable. No way I’m leaving this place standing. Not all this. These children...

  Getting sentimental are we? You did just waste three babies. With gusto!

  Takes some poking around, but I find the BIG SUMMER BLOWOUT section. Then the BBQ/GRILLING area. Next to the inflatable inner tubes and the kitschy plastic flamingoes.

  Propane tanks. Lighter fluid.

  That’ll do.

  I drag three tanks out. Tie em together with electrical tape. Douse em in lighter fluid. Set some big cans of lighter fluid on top just in case. That should make a big boom and spread the fire around.

  Wonderful.

  I ain’t going back through the daycare horror show. So I figure I’ll exit out the back. There’s a big metal emergency door next to the loading docks and their metal shutters.

  I stand next to it. Target the tanks. Let fly with four rounds.

  The first propane tank goes. Boom. Its metal fragments tears into the other two. Boom boom. The tracers in the Mercury bullets ignite the gas. Then the lighter fluid catches. And there’s a tornado of flames engulfing the whole warehouse.

  I smirk. Happy with myself. Kick open the emergency door.

  “Ah, fuck.”

  Keefs. A shitload of Keefs. Right outside. I’m practically in their arms. Dozens of infected eyes stare at me. They glisten in the dark. Reflect the light of the fire behind me.

  Loading dock here’s just packed with em.

  Noise from the fight with hellbaby must’ve brought em here. They’re soaking. Wet from the waters of the Hackensack River that runs behind the store. Bastards crossed over here to mount an attack like some undead George Washingtons.

  They lurch for me. All these parasitic hands after my flesh.

  I empty the rest of the Hellion’s mag into their faces. Drop four. But they’re so close using an assault rifle ain’t the best option.

  I sling the Hellion over my shoulder. Pull my Ka-Bar. Grab the closest one. Some young dude with a lotta piercings in a hoodie who was probably oh-so-hip in life. I shove my hands into his mouth. He tries to bite down. But I wrench his jaw open. Farther. Farther. Till his mandible snaps away from the rest of his head.

  His tongue wags in the air.

  I drive my knife through his soft palate. Farther. Up into his brain.

  He stops.

  The other Keefs don’t. They’re on me. Crazed carnivores clamber over one another. They get me to the ground. Gnash their teeth. There’s a dozen yanking on me. They pull me in different directions. My right arm pops from its socket. Both my ankles go the wrong directions.

  That was always the thing about zombies in movies. The numbers. One. Two. Three. Hell, maybe even five. You could deal with em. They’re no stronger than we are. And definitely dumber.

  A few dozen? Walking right into em?

  That’s when they’re scary.

  I kick. Throw punches. Just try to keep their mouths away from my face. The carbon mesh should be able to protect the rest of me. But I can feel em biting. My arms. My legs.

  It hurts.

  Some chick. Brunette. Maybe used to be a nice housewife. She snaps at my neck. I hear her teeth click together. Snap snap. Click click.

  I pull the Colt Automatic from my left holster. Put the barrel in her mouth.

  She bites down again. Her canines pop out.

  I send a bullet through her brain. Push her double-dead weight off me. Free the Colt from her face. Knock a few more teeth loose doing that.

  Pain. So much pain. My visi
on goes red. I fire up into the circle of Keefs attacking me. Still on my back. The .45 slugs rip up their heads. Blow out fat chunks of brain and bone.

  I’m in a shower of gore. It coats my face. Gets in my mouth.

  I drop the Colt’s empty mag. Load a fresh one. Empty that into the rest.

  Fourteen down...

  I scream.

  One of em is through the carbon mesh. I scream again. And again. This nasty fat bastard in a torn tank top. He’s got part of my calf in his mouth. A piece of my fuckin body. He’s chewing it.

  He makes a weird face. Like I taste bad.

  I lurch forward. Hit him so hard with the Colt his eye socket breaks and his eyeball escapes. It dangles there. Back and forth. The pendulum in a clock.

  I pounce on him. Fuck the pain in my leg.

  He falls back.

  I bash his face until the Colt cracks through his forehead and I’m mashing wet brains.

  That’s probably enough...

  I finish off the asshole Keefs I can see. Left ain’t my good gun hand. But it still works. Unlike my right, which’s tingly and kinda fucked up on account of my bones ain’t fuckin attached properly in the shoulder.

  I sure say “fuck” a lot.

  You sure don’t “fuck a lot”—heyooo!

  Standing. Standing’s a problem. My ankles are well-fucked. I test the weight, get my legs straight. Fall almost on my face. Whole time my calf’s pissing blood with a quickness.

  I punch the ground. Angry at my own stupidity. Cuz this is my fault.

  I ain’t going down like this.

  I ain’t asking for help.

  Red fades from my eyes. Mostly. But it keeps the pain at bay. I stand again. Force myself to. One foot in front of the other. Sprains and fractures be damned.

  I walk. Slow. Halting. Around the store’s loading lot toward the front.

  Rugrat needs me. I hope Plissken and his family need me.

  Hope.

  That’s a weird word. One I always thought meant “delusional.”

  You’re getting soft, old man.

  I stagger. My ankles and my shoulder don’t want to do anything at all. I approach the tank.

  Plissken’s there. Hovering above. He stares. Lovelace and Turing wait on Momma Juliet’s treads right below. Lovelace is:  and so’s Turing. All four robots have their turrets turned to me.

  I wave. Limp like a drunk. Get to Juliet’s side.

  It’s very hard not to scream. Go nuts. Kill something.

  But there’s Rugrat. Layin on Momma Tank’s rear. Guess Plissken brought her and her blanket up.

  The baby stares at me. She frowns.

  No.

  Not at me. Past me.

  I turn.

  A stilt-walker comes around the side of the building. Barks. Charges across the parking lot.

  I raise the Colt. Take aim.

  The stilt-walker’s smiling skull face explodes. Its body slumps. Skids along the asphalt to a stop.

  Awesome.

  Except I didn’t shoot.

  Plissken and I look to each other.

  Lovelace goes: 

  Turing goes: 

  Juliet goes... Who goddamn knows. She’s a tank.

  But as soon as the stilt-walker drops, Rugrat brings her hands together. Smiles.

  Huh. Well now.

  I reach up. Run my hand along Rugrat’s head. Say, “You are one interesting baby.” Then slam my shoulder against Juliet’s hinder. Once. Scream. Twice. Scream. Till my right shoulder pops back in place.

  Plissken says, “Your blood is—”

  “My blood is fuckin awesome. But fuck Hackensack.

  “Also, we need to design new armor.”

  15. Oh, Good, a Cult. Yay Religion!

  Plissken says, “The child can apparently blow heads up, if you are to be believed.”

  “Yeah, it’s sweet,” I say. “Rugrat the Baby Jedi.”

  All this while I’m on my knees inside the tank wiping crap from her asshole and tiny vagina. Being a parent is gross. Human beings are gross.

  At least my leg stopped bleeding.

  That wonderful healing ability.

  If you’re waiting for some kinda awesome Wolverine-y scene where my body regenerates, that ain’t gonna happen. It’s slow. Only way I can tell is the pain dissolves and the itching starts. I actually stuck my damn finger in the hole in my calf by accident. Then promptly threw up a little in my mouth.

  I toss Rugrat’s dirty dressings and my bloodied gauze wrap out the top of the tank. Snuggle her butt into the new a diaper. Toss some powder on her. Tape her up. Say, “Voila. Now you’re ready to take on the world.”

  Plissken says, “Telekinesis does not exist. You’re aware of that, I trust?”

  I say, “I know that wackos and crackpots’ve been trying to prove it does for hundreds of years. Government even had a program. Cuz destroying the enemy with your mind would make a helluva weapon against the Russians.”

  I cradle Rugrat. Give her the first real meal of her life: Formula in a bottle warmed by Plissken’s thrusters.

  If burps and spittle are any indication, she loves the shit.

  Plissken says, “The American government failed, though. No conclusive or convincing evidence was found to prove the existence of such a mental power within humans.”

  I nod to Rugrat. “Well, we got a baby that can blow up bad guy heads. You just saw it. That not enough for you?”

  “I just think it’s unreasonably optimistic.”

  * * *

  We take the Garden State Parkway north. Rumble along in the dark.

  Idea is to get take Interstate 287. Hook east. Cross the New NY Bridge—which hasn’t been bombed into nothingness. Skirt along the coast. Connect with I-95. Hit Boston.

  But I gotta sleep. Gotta let my broken body repair.

  And I’m tired of staring at all the destruction.

  Literally bored.

  I look at the map. Tell Plissken to get us as far north as Nyack. Close to the New NY Bridge. I smoke a cigarette out the top hatch. Pour myself some whiskey. Curl up next to Rugrat. Check the earplugs I stuffed in her head.

  She’s asleep already.

  I listen to Juliet’s machine gun turrets rattle off rounds at targets I can’t see.

  * * *

  Plissken says they let me sleep eight hours. Took care of Rugrat. Changed her diaper with the new little arms Turing built himself.

  I say, “Your little baby bots are pretty good.”

  Plissken bobs.

  I stretch. Give Rugrat a once-over. She seems fine. Happy. I kiss her forehead. Don’t even think about it. Just seems like the thing to do.

  She smiles. Kicks her legs.

  I play with her toes until she giggles. “You’re disgustingly cute.”

  I pop the top hatch. Shield my eyes against the daylight. Smoke my cigarette. Take a sip of booze from the bottle.

  Now where are we?

  Nyack. On the thruway. 287/87. Eight lanes of it that carve through a mountain. It overlooks a giant concrete obscenity called the Palisades Center. A mall sunk into a valley here. This shit, man, holy hell. It’s an insult to architecture. A big long industrial toilet. Buncha grey squares slammed into one another with parking lots attached. Ugly. Gaudy.

  The parking lot’s packed with dead cars. No bodies that I can see. There are craters where explosives went off. Either the vehicles going boom or bombs. Who knows. Who cares.

  Seems to’ve been set up as a bunker. Maybe a place to have a last stand. Except that didn’t work out.

  Common theme nowadays.

  There’s a section of the front that’s all glass. Goes up three tall stories. Signs say STAPLES and OLD NAVY. And three big metal P’s used to be attached
to it, but they’re on the ground now.

  Haha. Pee pee pee.

  The windows’re all shattered. The frames bent inward.

  Some big mama jama must’ve come through.

  I mutter. “All the more reason not to stick around.” I duck into the tank. Trade my whiskey for a can of caffeine. Smoke another stogie. “Okay. Bridge time.”

  The thruway’s covered with wrecks. Debris. Just like everywhere else.

  As I said: The destruction gets boring after a while.

  Juliet rolls over all of it.

  I dig this tank stuff, I gotta say. I even like the babies. Lovelace and Turing are up with poppa Plissken in the front. Modifying themselves more, probably. Cannibalizing parts of Juliet she doesn’t need.

  Like, there’s a seat missing up there. It’s just gone. I think that’s what Turing made arms out of.

  I sit in the back with Rugrat. A blanket under my butt. My armor consists only of the boxer-briefs I have on. I shovel food into my mouth. Snazzy Meals Ready to Eat that’re way goddamn better than the shit I consumed on the roof of the Empire State Building. They’ve got bitchin little flameless heaters, too. Just add water. Huzzah. Hot meal.

  You got any idea how long it’s been since I ate something not warmed by Plissken’s ass?

  This MRE says it’s Tuna Noodle Medley and it... It mostly tastes like it’s supposed to. I ain’t gonna complain.

  Plissken says, “Watch the holoscreens. We have company.”

  I crawl over to the command cubby. Draw the screens up together.

  Yep. Company. Just before the entrance to the bridge.

  Six people in green jumpsuits and light body armor. Machetes on their hips in holsters. Rifles in their hands.

  Dude with a shaved head stands in the lead.

  All of em have the same mark on their foreheads: That triangle with the tail. Same as Miss Crazy had in the shack at the Meadowlands. Oh goody.

  The Ray Cult.

  I wonder if they followed me. Or if they’re just so spread out it’s impossible not to run into em.

  New gods and their devotees seem just like the old ones. Obnoxious and dangerous and rapey and all over the damn place.

  But these idiots gotta know the tank can turn em all to paste with one shot, right? They can’t be that stupid. Can’t be thinking they’re gonna take me out—or get their hands on Juliet. Unless they’re more clever than I realize. And what’re the chances of that?