Made in DNA

Cheatin’ Hearts

The bike growled across the open countryside toward the distant shambling horde. Her fat, nanospiked tires gripping the ground like a great cat, hungry to close the distance. The thick, sexy curves of her mean machinery radiated power and purpose as she did two-fifty across grass, gravel and graveyards alike. Within her chassis, huddled against the thousand-year fusion drive, lasers, missiles, and self-replicating nanoslugs wiggled, eager to be free of her belly so as to wreak havoc. She was a big girl with enough killpower to decimate a small city, and the animal sentience to revel in the glory of it.

Draped over her, his forearms buried within, rode her man, bold and seasoned by the deathscapes of five nations. Half machine himself, he proudly offered his services in the name of The Grand Scheme.

Hired by the orbital conglomerates the murderous pair were paid for every mutant they ground into the terra firma. Through the deathjiggy of his guns and the growl of her machinery, mutant hordes have been repurposed into fertilizer. Upon those bones the new civilizations of Earth will rise.

Sensors chirped excitedly, reporting their find of the Targets of Opportunity that were the pair’s bread and butter – the pitiful remnants of an intelligent age gone mad. Monstrous radioactive mutants surviving off each other and the unfortunate pockets of humanity scraping out desperate existences in the hellish landscape.

The rabbit-deathhead’s holo on the front of his jet black helmet grinned, mimicking its owner. “Soften them up with some mini-missile mayhem, my love.” He wiggled his fingers to unlock the systems and let her animal instinct seek and satisfy itself. Pencil-thin missiles rocketed skyward moments later, arching in angelic beauty and coming down in a rain of blossoming death.

From across the tortured landscape, a hideous cough-screech challenge, wet and angry, gurgled from deep in the throats of the tortured. Man-machine and nightmare-gnash clashed in a crunch of limbs and tech. Scores of boney, malformed hands, the size of human torsos, raked across the pair as they plowed through the middle of the large group. Acidic gobs of greenish black goo shot from faceholes, angrily burning with napalm-intensity across the distance between them. Poisoned projectiles machine-gunned from inverted nipples upon swollen breasts with the faces of the ill-born, peppering his armored backside as man-machine screamed by.

But the hellspawned could not touch the wheeled death otherwise. With each pass, their numbers dwindled as he ripped their malodourous guts from their bellies with cruel custom tire blades, and pulverized their brain matter as he brought his wheelied, heavy front tire down atop them, in a crunch of bulbous gristle brainpans, jutting lower jaws and pus-filled kyphosis. Their mindless flailing figures popped and flopped, a burden no more to themselves or the Earth’s orbiting masters.

Dismounting his lover, he removed his helmet, ran his hand over her body and patted her ass. “Good girl. Beautiful work, my sweet,” he praised. “The artist in you is just waiting to be released. A couple more groups like this and I’ll purchase that creative mod for you, as promised.”

Her console trilled approval.

The ravaged landscape was an obscenity against the burned-ochre dusk. Night brought the sting of

Time unmolested in the open lands of this ruined Earth could counted in minutes, yet they ignored the ever-present danger of the mutants and camped atop a large outcropping of flat rock as if that somehow would allow them to become unseen.

He cooed to her and she purred in heat, her whole chassis vibrating with the anticipation of meat. He stroked her from front fork to rear brakepad, taking time to seek out those spots deep within her frame where the heat bit, eliciting trills and growls.

Stepping behind her, he bisected the bulky armor of his crotch to reveal a thick, solid chuck of machine-threaded meat. Sparkplug-modelled interface nodes piercing his nuts gave anchor to branched conductive threads that raced out from the base of his thick member in a metal skein.

Punching in his personal code at a backend numeric panel, he popped her fuckport. The heated aroma of her sex engulfed him in a heady aroma of fusion reaction. Taking his stiffened cock in hand, he used the tip to tease her fleshy vulvaport until a thick, rich blue gel began oozed forth from her. Rubbing himself in it, he plunged into her warm, eager depths with a satisfying click-moan. Her vaginal onaholesheath was vat-grown crossbreed of human and horse with a touch of spider silk for strength, and velvet for feel.

Socketed within her chassis, lust and lube gripped the lovers, pulling them together as into the intricate deathsex pact that only battle-comrades understood. She revved her engine, sending a million minute vibrations through groin and spine, converters beneath his flesh transforming them into a constant data stream of pleasure that looped back to her.

Brought to satisfaction, she trill-moaned, the aural embodiment of her deepest feelings and connection to this man. Hot gel gushed from her cavity, covering his groin and spilling down his legs. With his own decisive, jaw-grinding grunt, he pressed himself as deep as he could, releasing hot, white jizz.

Exhausted, he lay down to enjoy the heat of the rock underneath him and bask in the afterglow of sex unconcerned with monsters; the bike would wake him if danger approached.

Far above the Kármán line, the conglomerates, in their five-mile-high orbital havens watched, waited and wagered on their agents of destruction. From their hyperbolic sleep chambers, they hung, arms crossed over their naked forms like alien mummies. Extra-tellurian vultures, relics of another time, too greedy to die with dignity, waiting to feed off the corpse of the world they had watched destroy itself without extending a helping hand. They would return to the surface one day but only after they were certain to ensure they would be its masters first.


The next morning was a whirl of wheel, a blur of landscape and a stir of death.

They ripped across the mutated lands with their hideously disfigured remnants of biological warfare, pinballing the genetic aberrations against the once proud urban structures and landmarks of civilization. The gore and viscera painted the crushed cities red along with the hollers of man and bike. Pus-filled bodies exploded in tandem to crashing 18th-century wargrooves shared across her Bluetooth connection to his shoulder loudspeakers.

Mutants ten feet tall swung great clubs of long-forgotten tech, their mangy cattle-wombats chasing him over great swaths of rolling earth, snapping at his legs, their piggybacked children vomiting death. Intestine streamers decorated park playsets, braindogs skitter-zigged when they should have scatter-zagged on too-slick tentacles, their final contribution to a future world nicely splurched across sidewalk pavement. Skull bones and death tones. A symphony of death.

Eight continuous days of viscera showers and once more they were under the blue skies. The current sector was a treasure trove of opportunity. The open lands and small, scattered settlements offered both haven and smorgasbord for their hedonist reverie.

With a whoop of excitement, man and machine headed into a large frontier town, its walls and gates, while once formidable, would be little more than a wry joke against the corrosive voracity of any mutant horde that decided to pick up a light snack before meandering back out into the wastelands.

Within the desperate entertainment district he pulled along the rickety, weather-worn sign. Whole Whore Holes. Plain and simple. A smile on his face and a rub of his palms together. This had been a long day in coming, and now he was going to be just as long and coming.

Not once in three nights or four days did he leave the comfort of the bed or the girls he’d hired. Food, drink and all the willing poontang that could be found in town was bought, brought and wrought in the name of pleasure. Rumors spread that the Venusian girl from Limlis Ranch had been brought in when all the other girls had passed out or begged off in favor of rest.

And through it all – through the rain and heat, the dust and radiation storms, she waited, parked a story below his window; witness to the wetness of whole whore holes.


He took a deep, satisfied breath. The air stank of its usual apocalyptic grunge, but his mood was high, and his loins were numb from pleasure.

“Morning, baby doll,” running his hand over her body before mounting. Slipping his arms into her front chassis, he glided his fingers over the controls buried within. At his command, her engine revved wild and hard, the deep rumble coursing through his body like blood. In less than the time it takes to piss, the pitiful visage of civilization disappeared behind them like so much dust.

An hour later, across the great expanse of a bubbling lake of gunk, they found a sweet target. A skyscraper beast on squat, tree-trunk legs shook the earth, scooping up great swaths of the landscape – dirt, fauna, flora and all – indiscriminately shoving the mix into its piggy maw.

Below it, a parade of mutants caravanned in its shadow. These horrors danced in the between its legs, feasting on the scraps that dropped from its anal orifice. Oblivious to the ruckus circus beneath its feet, the humugoid would inadvertently squash a few under its tremendous weight, or scoop a careless few up with the dirt. And that which it could not digest, it would vomit up the bulk of partially-digested mash in a spray – shaking and turning its eyeless bulk to and fro, redistributing it.

A carnival of life. Oblivious to death closing in.

Rounding a bubbling lake, the bike picked up speed on a straight-shot of ground that would blast rider and machine through the massive horde at 250 kph. A feral fire lighted the rider’s eyes as he dropped the face shield of his helmet and hugged his honey love as close as possible, rubbing his thickening cock against her frame in the excitement.

Deploying her Gatling side lasers at an upward angle, he decided to zip through the crowd of monsters beneath, and let the behemoth crush the survivors under its weight when it fell to the lasers.

He pushed the machine forward, hitting an outcrop of angled rock that sent them shooting in any upwards arc for an unobstructed shot at the monster’s underside.

“Target her belly. When we bring her down like a gutted pig, it’ll rain credits from heaven!”

But something was not right. The bike began to list mid-air. And then a sinking feeling built in his gut as he watched her control panel lights dim. “Baby?”

Frantically he worked every control and combination of commands therein, but she wasn’t responding. Something was very wrong.

Clipping her front tire on one of the behemoth’s forelegs, they spun wildly for several rotations midair, and met the ground in a skidding, gravelly crunch that crushed his right leg.

The behemoth did not take notice. But the mob did. An uneasy moment of mutual recognition passed between the hunter and hunted. It wavered, and then shifted as the moment of discovery became a rush of warped flesh and bone.

“Fuck! Baby! Get us outta here!”

The bike was silent.

He tried to pull free of her, but could not. His arms were trapped deep within her; his right leg pinned beneath her.

“Baby! Baby…!”

The grotesque horde used brute force over many hours to crack open his armor like the shell of a live lobster. Bit by bit, they tore off pieces and shoved their faceholes onto exposed flesh to gnaw off a hunk; or sting him with a necrotizing venom they then slurped up. Mouthful by mouthful, they gobbled up every bit of meaty morsel until he was no more than bones and fragments of cybernetics, with which they adorned themselves and picked their teeth.

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