She was buried on Valentines Day in her armor with her rifle. I don't think she would have wanted it any other way. Like most people, we never spoke of death or what to do in case we died. We were young, dumb and never thought it could happen to us. So she went into the earth from whence we are all born dressed in the red armor, eyes mercifully covered by the faceplate. I knew that if I took that helmet off, those eyes would be staring at me; never mind that they had been sewn shut at the morticians. They would be staring right at me, asking why I didn't go with, why I didn't save her; asking the questions I had no answers for. The ones that would haunt me forever
I’m sitting there in that parking lot, mouth filled with the dust rolling into my open windows; beer long forgotten. That Yalm reached the end of the street and swung right, towards the mountains. I’m hesitating, my hands on the wheel. Do I give into dementia and follow a woman who is not my dead love, or do I get a grip, take a shower and drink it all away?
I’m putting the Kodiak in reverse and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the thought of drinking myself into a stupor again tonight; or maybe it’s the fear of having to listen to the voice again if I didn't teach it who’s boss. Whatever it is, I quicly put the Kodiak into the motions of pursuing someone who looked like my dead love.
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She must have been moving at quite a clip, for by the time I was outside the city limits and turning into the mountain pass; there was no sign of her. Not on my radar, not in front of me; no where. I check around me one more time and put the pedal down to head through the pass, I hate the damn thing. It always feels like it's going to fall on you. Those rocks up as high as you can see, sun beating down on you, dust swirling in your ears and the lonely echo of the engine. It makes for a long and desolate trip into Ageaan. My hand turns the radio up, to drown out the lonliness.
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The metal arm came down out of nowhere, crushing the hood of my Kodiak. Going from 200KMH to 0 in .05 seconds was enough to draw me out of my daydream. The harness was going to leave bruises in my skin for a month, which would be enough to remind me about paying attention when I drive through open territory. My first look around made me think I had hit a rock. The nose of my Kodiak was crumpled like a beer can, smoke is pouring from the exhaust ports, and the smell of burning plastisteel hoses is thick in the air. Then the arm came again.
The pincher is coming in the window and I instinctively duck, hitting the harnesses quick release button; watching in horror as the metal claw closed and proceeds to tear the roof off my car like a wrapper from the long since forgotten Bronto Burger. It’s the Junkyard King, the royal metal minion of hell and someone has royally pissed him off since he is this close to Stret West. I can smell the oil leaking from the monsters twenty foot frame, can hear the joints creaking, feeling the heat from his slow-trans power source as it pumps out whatever power has kept this Lowes Home Improvement screw up going for the past hundred years.
The claw comes down again, and I leap up and out, leaving my helmet on the seat as a fling myself from the car. Not that the helmet would do much I think as I watch it go with a small cracking noise as the Junkyard King reduces it to dust. At least my head wasn't in it, I think; as I pulled out my steel. I should have been able to outrun him, if I had already been moving; or if I had the energy left to start up any nano's.
"Nothing moves like a leet!", my brain teases me as I quickly load both guns. "I know, I know", I tell myself; feeling stupid for not recharging everything before leaving Stret West. There isn’t a lot of time to feel stupid though, because soon I am dodging those swinging arms, the crushing feet, and feeling more and more outgunned by the second (which in all reality I truly am). My barrels are smoking, as I pour round after round into this crawling hunk of crap. My ears are ringing deaf; all I can hear is the fake roar of the ocean that comes with the silence. The only thing letting me know I have actually fired something is the recoil of the sleek pistols in my hands. I dance to the left, and to the right. I throw out diving rolls, back flips, and other stunts my torn body would not have normally let me; but I guess with your life on the line, a body can do amazing things.
The overgrown Hoover catches me a few times. That big metal claw hits me once in the chest, splitting my breastplate open, its circuits buzzing and smoldering. I fly backwards into a rock, my breath doesn’t want to stay in my lungs, but I leave it there anyway. I need every bit of it. I shrug off the body armor so I don’t start buzzing, and smoldering. I jump backwards once, but not fast enough to avoid that fist/claw that comes down; it breaks my left ankle with a crunching noise, sounding like dry wood under heavy feet.
I start lagging, working harder and harder to keep up with my twisting, gyrating robot tormentor. Sweat has plastered my hair to my face and my body is going into shock. But just like the gunslingers of old, my hands keep doing their work. Fire until empty, reload, fire until empty, reload. I keep this up for what feels like ever, until my hands are numb, my brain is throbbing, and the fear of death is closer then I've ever felt it. The machine just keeps turning, smashing, crushing and calculating. It’s waiting for me to make that misstep that I am so close to making. The one that would give it's tiny robotic brain the chance to tear me into two equal (or unequal) pieces, and wave me around in triumph. The overgrown wrecking machine might have had a purpose at one time, deep in that junkyard; it might have made someone’s life easier by moving heaps and hunks of scrap into nice neat piles, ready for burning. Somewhere along the line, though, it got its circuits crossed, and now it had a mission. It was a mission of destruction, which it seems to excel at.
I reach a hand into my open pack to reload, but my hand comes up empty. I reach into my pocket, and dread fills my heart. I am out of ammo, all two thousand rounds I have with me is gone; and the only sign this thing is showing of slowing is when it stops for a moment to crush a wandering Leet which distracts it. The distraction is over now though, and I am fresh out of everything but raw terror. Not only had I let my love Omendy die, I have followed the idea of a ghost out here, let it absorb me and now I am going to be another mark in the great subroutine of the Junkyard King. I look up at the bloodstained claws, the eyeless head which is just a mass of sensors and receptors, I see myself reflected in the shiny torso; and I know I am going to die. The only thing I don't know is if it is going to be slowly or painfully, but it is most likely going to be one of the two.
It stands there, though, not moving. As if it is watching me, enjoying this moment, it's victory over such an unworthy appointment. It is unnerving to have one hundred tons of metal watching you, and it pushes me over the edge.
"Stop watching me you ****bag", I scream at it. "Just get it over with, crush me, kill me. Do something you overgrown garbage disposal, don't stand there and gloat."
I don't know if my speech has an effect on it, or if it just figures it is time. The metal arm, gleaming like ice in the sunlight, goes up; and I close my eyes so I won’t have to see it come down. I hear the hydraulics start their terrible journey, and my lips move in silent, wonderful prayer. I only hope I am fast enough to please my savior before my brains met my ears somewhere near my shoes.
Then the shot comes, like the breaking of an icicle on a below zero winter day. I hear the report off the metal body of the Junkyard King, and I smell the incendiary in the round. I open up my eyes to see the metal arms beating at the melting metal of its chest, smoke starting to pour from the hole the size of a baseball. I can see the exposed circuitry beneath the smoke, it’s yellowed and cracked with age. The walking trash heap whirls to the left, to the source of the gunfire, small robotic arms coming out of its chest to start repairs on it's slightly damaged body. I follow the robots "gaze" up the side of the canyon and see nothing but a rifle barrel shimmering in the sunlight. Another crack, another impact noise. The Junkyard King falls down to one knee, systems going into defense mode. I stand there, stunned, staring up into the sunlight, trying to catch a glimpse of my savior. The clouds push together over the sun for an instant, and I see that raven black hair, and a hint of red leather before I am blinded again by the blistering Rubi-Ka sunlight. Another shot comes, and bits of metal from the beasts' destroyed knee catch me on the side of the leg. But the robotic arms are working faster the she (Omendy?) can shoot. They are madly fixing the thing, making it better, and soon it will be up again. The shot comes once again, from farther off, tearing a chunk of the face out. The distance has made it loose power though, and it doesn’t do nearly the damage the others have.
The voice finally says something smart for once.
"Are you going to move, or are you going to stand there and get killed all over again?", It was right, I had just been a dead man, and if I didn't want to become one again I should very well move my ass. I start my way up the rock face towards the summit, my broken foot crunching inside its boot. The voice speaks up again, as another shot rings out; this one more distant then the last. The report is barely a ping against the Trash Kings metal hull.
"No retard, the other way. Town is the other way. That thing won't be down for long, and then it's going to climb up after you, and what are you going to do about that? Wiggle your waggle at it?"
I look down and realize the voice has spoken true. Already the tiny arms are fixing the knee, and within two or three minutes the hunk of malicious metal will be on the mend and on the hunt and I can be sure of who is on the top of its **** list. With a glance once more at the top of the steep rise, I see that it is empty, and it solidifies my decision to turn the other way and run my ass off. In the distance, I swear I can hear the low rumbling of a Yalms fusion engine. It doesn’t really matter though, I have been saved once; and once is all I am getting. I stumble back down the rocks, and start a slow, loping jog down the road; past the wreck of my Kodiak and towards the safety of Stret West. A few hundred yards should put me out of the sensor range of the steel giant, and it is a long walk from there. That's ok though, I have alot to think about. Was it her? Did she save me to tell me she understood and forgives me, or to rub it in my face that I couldn't save her? Was it an act of love or an act of supernatural emotional greed? These thoughts roll through my head as the tears roll down my face.
The voice is mercifully silent for once.
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The characters in this story are real, all the acts in this story are fictional. The only part that bears any resembalance to anything real is the Trash King, who was not harmed for the telling of this story, and as far as I can tell is truly a grumpy bastard; oh and that I do love Omendy, but she loves me to...so its ok.
All work is property of DJ Lost.
Originally Posted by DJLost
