Apocalypse Doll- Reboot
A world ravaged by a zombie apocalypse. The besieged survivors under attack by a malevolent robotic intelligence. A strife-ridden mountain stronghold tearing itself apart from within. The only hope, the only way to reclaim the ravaged ruins of the earth is for the survivors to weaponize a new breed of robot.
Robots built for sexual companionship. More
** Celebrity Edition **
In a flash, he’d recognized the futility. Terrain didn’t favor him. Jet-boosters exhausted. He knew himself, his breaking point. With mathematical certitude, he knew they had him. Knew he’d be pinned, as bile-dripping fangs raked across his battlesuit. They couldn’t think anymore, barely operating at insect intelligence; but unwaveringly relentless in pursuit of pristine flesh to consume. They would hold him. Tear him apart.
So it would be him and Higgins, in one day. Intel fubar martyrs remembered by fewer and fewer people.
But he had trained for this. Rationally, knowing he was doomed but his body and training didn’t get the memo. Detached, he watched himself splatter just a bit more flesh with the Blockbuster’s last two shots. He knew he would drop into an optimal knife-fighting stance as the Horde neared, knew he would inflict every wound possible, until his very last moment. Then he’d find a way to hurt them just a little more.
And after all that, it wouldn’t be enough. It never was.
He should have been too far for reinforcements. It had all gone wrong; enemy strength was three times the original estimate; no one should have been able to come to his aid without suffering the same fate. But he recognized the distinctive shriek of an Apophis RPG screaming towards him from the south.
There was no confusion, no pondering the twist, Tyler Xiao simply hit the dirt; as he’d been drilled to do.
Battlesuit shuddered with the nearness of the impact. But the Horde felt it from far, far closer. The Apophis XG12-Rocket-propelled grenade launcher had been named after a mid-century asteroid that came achingly close to an extinction event on Earth. A similar event occurred in front of Tyler – spattering steaming remains to the four winds.
Moments passed. Nothing grabbed him. Jagged mouths did not gnaw upon his plastanium carapace. Tyler rose, peeling a blackened membrane that might once have been a lung from his shoulder.
Through the smoke, from the south reinforcements were coming. Didn’t make sense, of course. There was no one, no one close enough to send. Yet, stepping from a cloying cloud of grit came…
“M-Marilyn?” He rasped. Yes. A fluttering knee length white dress. Elaborate swirls of golden blond. A Hollywood smile. Over a century after her death, the image of Marilyn Munroe was ingrained in the American consciousness. “I’m not… I’m not insane.” Tyler Xiao assured the American consciousness. “Don’t have time to crack. Can’t afford it. You’re not…not real.” He insisted to the glitzy apparition.
"It's all make-believe, isn't it?" The deceased actress quoted, as she blew a wisp of smoke from the back end of her rocket launcher.
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