I’m, like, the cleverest guy.
I say, “Plissken, scan the ground ahead. Look for traps. Make sure it’s structurally sound. We don’t wanna roll into a pit.”
Plissken says, “Ground ahead is fine. In fact, even the bridge is sound enough for travel.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s the New NY Bridge. Built to replace the old Tappan Zee ages ago. Used by all the working class folks in the suburbs since they couldn’t afford living in NYCZ anymore. So what’re these assholes thinking?”
“Perhaps they’re friendly.”
“When’s that ever been the case?”
“Precisely never.”
Even that kid you killed in Manhattan. He tried to take your head off.
Humans being such a good species and all.
Shaved Head Guy and his goons stop about fifty feet in front of Juliet. He says, “I want to speak with the Chosen One.”
I grumble to myself, “This crap again.”
Plissken says, “You’re the most popular boy in school.”
“Eat fuck.” I talk into the commander’s microphone. Talk to the Ray Cult idiots through Juliet’s external speakers: “What is it with you bastards? I ain’t bothering you. But I got a place to be. In case you didn’t realize, I’ll kill everything in my way.”
Shaved Head Guy says, “I should have guessed that any Chosen One who would murder a woman intending to bear his child would be crude.”
For a moment my brain breaks. I think he’s talking about Momma Bear. I almost lurch outta the commander’s cubby. Go for my Colts. Storm outside and skullfuck the whole bunch of em with the .45 barrels.
But he’s talking about Miss Crazy. The one who attacked me.
I pop the hatch. Stand so I can see him. Shout: “Dude, she tried to rape me.”
“You say ‘rape.’ I believe she was attempting to preserve an important bloodline.”
I think about Newark. That nightmare scene. Say, “Sounds familiar.” That answers another question as well. They did follow me. No way they could know about Miss Crazy otherwise. Hooray! “Okay, I’m important. Great. I think so too. Now what the fuck do you want?”
Shaved Head says, “We want the same thing we wanted before.”
“My dick?”
Shaved Head rolls his eyes. “Your blood. You have a gift. One you’re squandering on little robots and alcohol and cigarettes. But the Great Ray respected you, in spite of all of that.”
“Your god swam under me and left me alone cuz he didn’t see me, goofball. He’s an idiot. And you’re an idiot. Good luck with this though. I’m in a goddamn tank.”
Shaved Head shoots me a…rapey smile? It’s a smile I don’t like. It’s creepy. He knows something. And he wants me to know he knows something I don’t know.
lolwut
He pulls a little black thing from his pocket.
Shaved Head says, “I was an engineer before the old ways were halted by the New Gods. Your reliance on technology will be your downfall. You mock us for our beliefs, but you don’t even know what our beliefs are. What we’re doing is saving the human race. And we need your blood for that. You are the Chosen One. Whether you are ready to accept that responsibility or not.”
I scratch my face. Then my balls. “All right. I’ll bite. What the shit is it that you believe that I should appreciate?” I light a cigarette.
Shaved Head shrugs his shoulders. “The infected must be respected.” He crosses his arms.
I laugh. “Nope, fuck you. Plissken, plasma these fools—”
Shaved Head presses a button on his black thingamajig. Gives me that creepy smile again.
The tank shuts down. Juliet’s turrets slump. Dip.
I tap her sides next to the hatch. Say, “Juliet, sweetheart, keep it together. I need you here. I’m sorry for slapping your ass or whatever.”
Plissken hovers next to me.
I scream at him: “Why didn’t you see that on the scans?”
He bobs. “I cannot see it even now. It appears as nothing more than a small black rectangle on my sensors. It is a targeted Electro Magnetic Pulse device he’s triggering. We can recover if—”
Plissken’s lights go out. His thrusters stop. He drops. Hits the ground so hard it dents his undercarriage.
Whole thing freaks me right the fuck out.
Plissken’s the one constant in my life.
My one friend. My family.
These pricks just put him on the ground.
Those fuckers. Kill them. Kill! Them! Now!
My vision goes red. I bare my teeth at the cultists. “That was a huge mistake.”
I dip inside the tank. There’s the Hellion. My Colt Government issue. My Colt revolver...
Rugrat.
I sweep her up in my arms. Nuzzle my nose against hers till she giggles. Say, “You’re my little biological weapon today, baby.”
Lovelace and Turing spin around us. Both on their screens. I tell the baby tanks, “It’s gonna be all right.”
I hope I’m not lying.
I bring Rugrat out the top hatch. Hold her in front of me.
The cultists back off a bit.
Really super unsure of the sudden new weirdness.
I shout. Full of piss and vinegar. “This baby can explode heads. She’s telekinetic. And she is not fond of fuckers. Do it, Rugrat. Blow up their brains.” I jiggle her.
And then!
Nothing happens.
I turn Rugrat around. Wiggle her in the air. Point her face back at the cultists. Tell her as nicely as I can: “They want to harvest me, Rugrat. Please erupt their faces.”
She coos. Squints a little.
And then!
Nothing happens.
I bring her back inside the tank. Tuck her into her bed. Rub my hand along her face. “Maybe it ain’t your day, baby.”
I look to Lovelace and Turing. Say: “You look after her until I get back. That’s your mission.” I think about Plissken on the ground outside. Get pissed again. “I’ll take care of everything.”
The baby tanks roll up to Rugrat. They seem loyal to humans. At least small ones. And I wonder if Plissken didn’t lie just a little bit about how much of himself he put in them.
If Plissken’s dead I’ll murder every person we meet from here to Boston.
And why are you going to Boston, anyway? Because you heard a song?
Because I heard a live broadcast.
But that means there’re people there. And you just said you’d murder everyone from here to Boston.
I scream. Slam my head against the weapons locker.
That voice. I need to shut that voice up.
Ready to blow your own head off?
Rugrat cries.
“I’m sorry.” I say it without thinking about it. “I’m sorry.” To a fuckin baby and two baby tanks. I slam my head against the locker again. My eyebrow splits. Blood trickles down my face.
Rugrat won’t stop crying.
I bite my lip. “Fuck it.”
The pain helps.
I jump out the top of the tank. A psychopath. A sociopath. A murderer. A savior who can’t save anyone. Old Glory flaps in the air behind me. Still tied to Juliet’s rear antennae.
The cultists watch. Not sure what to do. Not even Shaved Head.
I bring a bottle whiskey up to my lips. Take a big pull. Light a cigarette. Smoke. Smoke. Pull. Smoke. Pull. I say, “Here’s your Chosen One, bitchholes. Bleeding. Insane. Drinking. Smoking. And in his underpants.” No guns. No carbon mesh. I’m naked except the boxer-briefs keeping my cock cozy.
Shaved Head says, “You don’t even deserve the blood you carry in your veins.” He grimaces. “All you do is fill yourself with poison. You should be ashamed.”
I laugh. “What’re you? Fuckin Mormons
?”
I throw the bottle of whiskey at their feet. Run along Juliet’s armor. Jump. Feral.
I was never an athletic guy. Never even really comfy in my own skin. Always kinda hesitant to take off my shirt in front of someone.
But I don’t give a shit right now.
I hit the ground. My ankles let me know they’re still pissed about the other day.
The cultists shoulder their weapons. Hunting rifles. Look like .223 caliber.
Getting hit without the carbon would suck.
I juke. Close the gap between us. Jog left. Snatch the neck of the broken whiskey bottle off the ground. Punch it into the neck of the nearest cultist. His throat turns into a spigot. A jet of hemoglobin. It covers my hands with sticky blood. My face. My body. All that red under pressure.
His carcass falls into my arms. I use him as a meat shield while bullets plop his flesh. Grab the machete from its holster on his side. Scream at the five remaining assholes: “Oh, you’re fucked now.”
I chop the head from the body I’m holding. Hurl it at the other cultists. Watch em recoil in disgust. Use that distraction to rush up on the next closest fuckstick. I swing the machete down. Into his neck. Pull the blade out. Tear away half his throat in the process.
The four other cultists realize maybe guns ain’t working so well.
They circle me. Machetes out.
No idea if I should take em all at once. But I feel like I can.
So I do.
The body of the cultist I just de-throated thumps down beside me. A few weak gurgles escape his lips.
I wear all the sticky red as a suit. “I’ll bathe in your blood and you’ll never get mine.” I point the giant knife around. Charge a cultist who’s a little farther away from the others. A little more isolated.
He swings his blade at me. I knock it aside with my own. Punch him in the face. Stab him through the mouth so hard the machete pops out the back of his head.
Then I got a problem.
I can’t free the machete.
The cutting edge is stuck between some vertebrae.
I pick up a good-sized chunk of broken asphalt. Hurl it at Shaved Head. He ducks. Too late. It cuts across his skull. Splits the top of his head like the seam opening on a baseball. Blood rushes out. He falls to his knees. Tries to stem the flood with his hands.
The last two cultists go for me at the same time. Their swings are wild. Wide. More like being chased by a thresher than machete-wielding opponents.
Threshers are still goddamn dangerous though.
My left arm takes a glancing blow. Not deep, but it leaks. And it pisses me off.
I go to throw a swing. Feel burning along my back. There’s another one. More lacerations. Red stripes appear along my body. Crimson lightning bolts.
My right pinky’s not there anymore. Neither’s my right ring finger.
I run. Get clear. Gotta get away from the knives. Recover. Then I can come back at em.
Except in reality I’m staggering. Stumbling.
An alert goes off in my brain. Flashing: Your left Achilles tendon has been cut. You’re bleeding from a dozen deep wounds. Your feet are shredded cuz of all the crap you’re running on. These psychos want your DNA so bad, they can just mop it off the ground once they’ve murdered you.
I turn. Hunch over. Put my hands on my knees. Pant. I look up and see the two underling cultists coming at me.
Shaved Head is behind em. Guess his headache went away.
I straighten up. Grin with gore-covered lips. “That all you pussies got?” I am a Kilkenny Cat. I throw my hands out. What’s left of em. “Come on. Pure American asshole. Hundred proof.”
The two cult goons and Shaved Head smile. Their machetes up. Murder in their eyes. Greed.
How they even know what your blood can do? How long’ve they been watching you?
Then the two goons’ faces explode.
Shaved Head stops in his tracks. Gets splashed with the red and dirty mayonnaise-colored brains of his buddies.
I look to the tank. Expect to see Rugrat up there on Juliet’s treads. Like she willed herself through the hatch. But there’s no sign of the baby.
Interesting.
Shaved Head and I lock eyes.
I’m still grinning.
I point at him. Pain be damned. I take off.
Panic takes over Shaved Head’s face. Same kinda look a startled antelope gets when the cheetah makes itself known.
Shaved Head runs.
I scream. Unintelligible nonsense.
Shaved Head makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder. Not where he’s going. He stumbles on the rim of a tire. Tumbles. Faceplants in the asphalt.
I jump on him. Put my knee on his chest. Jam my fingers into the wound on his skull. Tug at the skin flaps around the bone.
He squirms. Squeals. Sobs. Says, “You kill me. Go ahead. We won’t stop. We’ll find you again. The New Gods will find you. We won’t let you squander what runs through your veins. You have my word as one of the New Apostles.”
I slap him. “Your word? Your word?”
“It’s the Gods’ word.”
I pry his jaws apart. Wriggle my fingers between his teeth. I dig my nails into his tongue. I pull. Listen to the weird wet noises that bubble up from Shaved Head’s throat. I tear out his tongue. That thick muscle. Some of the fucker’s esophagus comes with it. Strands of guts. “None of those words gonna come outta you anymore.”
This guy. Just like all the Holy Rollers on a mission from before.
The gods change but the people never do.
And there’s more of em.
Pretty sure my heart’s gonna burst. Too much stress. Too much drinking.
I drop the tongue. It splortches.
Shaved Head’s open mouth is a wading pool of red with little air bubbles. A gory wishing well. I could dump a pocket-full of change in his face and never see it again.
A voice. From over my shoulder: “You, my boy, are a piece of work.”
And then there’s a guy leaning on Juliet. Like he’s cool. Motherfucker. Cigarette between his lips. Cowboy hat on his head. Jeans. Biker boots. Revolver on his thigh. Plate carrier and combat vest over a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He’s about my age.
I say, “Who the fuck’re you?” Ready to rip his head off.
He says, “Relax.” Walks toward me. “If I was gonna kill you—”
“Yeah, you’d’ve done it already. I get the role-play Clint Eastwood tough guy thing you’re doing. Answer the question.”
I glance at the revolver on his hip. “Nice piece.” Me standing there. Blood so thick it’s hard to move. My boxer briefs, shit, it’s like my dick’s wrapped in Play-Doh. “Peacemaker?”
Cowboy smirks. Offers me a cigarette. An American Spirit, dark blue pack. “Figure you’ll want one of these, given your little combat op here.”
I say, “That’s my brand. Nobody smokes these.” I catch myself. Arch my eyebrows. “Well, I mean, there’s nobody alive to smoke em anymore.”
He pops the stogie between my lips. Lights it for me.
It’s the greatest cigarette I’ve ever had in my life.
I say, “You know the way to my heart.”
“Whiskey?” He’s got a flask. Lot like the one I used to have.
He doesn’t want to kill you. He’s giving you smokes and booze. New best friend!
I point to the headless corpses of the cult goons. The ones with heads gone splodey. “You do that?”
He takes a pull from his cigarette. Stifles a laugh under his hat. “Sure. I shot those guys with a Peacemaker and you didn’t hear a thing. I mean, yeah—I could have. But silent isn’t really my style. I’m a gunslinger, boy. I go after someone, you’re gonna know.”
I take a drag fr
om my smoke. A pull from his flask. “So who then?” Still hoping Rugrat’s got some magic juice in her.
Cowboy points to a figure strutting down from a hill to the right of 87.
I say, “Dude must be a hell of a shot.”
Cowboy says, “Well, ‘dude’ might be pushing it a bit.”
The figure gets closer. I see a helmet with a full seal. A tinted visor.
I see hips. Real, full hips. Hispanic hips. In some kinda tight camouflage armor that moves with her. There’s a rifle over her shoulder. One I don’t recognize. From the size, it could be a .50 cal. Big momma. The strap from the gun’s settled between the mystery lady’s full breasts. Makes it hard not to think about those perfect, bouncing...
Mystery lady takes her helmet off. Got grey eyes set in a beautiful Hispanic face. Olive skin. Dark hair.
She smiles at me. Proud of herself.
She’s got the right to be proud.
Holy shit, I’m in love.
Cowboy says, “She’s an excellent sniper. Took out the jackasses here. As well as that stilt-walker at the supermarket.” He looks me over. Squints at the boner growing in my boxers. “Son, don’t get too eager.
“That’s Catarina.
“Your mom.”
I pass out.
16. Family Reunion
I wake up thinking: Shit. I wanna have sex with my mom.
Might as well just cut my dick off and bury it in the gravel.
I hear: “Snap out of it, Oedipus.” Cowboy talking.
I’m inside Juliet. Wrapped in gauze. A bloody mummy.
Mom/Catarina has Rugrat in her lap. They’re playing. Both giggle. Coo.
Rugrat.
Guess she’s no head-burster. Shame about that.
Cowboy’s on his haunches next to me. An unlit cigarette between his lips. He fingers a Hellion rifle. Says, “I like this gun. My name’s Jack, by the way. You can call me ‘dad.’”
I gulp. “Dad.” I say, “Help yourself to one. There’s a few in the back.”
“Thanks. I figured, but you know what they say: Don’t reach into a man’s fridge.”
A Man and His Robot Page 13