Grind

Every morning was the same, a rough hack of dirty smoke, a stinging swig of cheap bourbon and the cool metal of the Smith and Wesson indenting the soft skin of his jawline. After a few seconds Robert would get his shit together, run a comb through his coarse hair and go back to work.

…

Dorsnag jumped from the low flying helicopter and onto the expanse of broken glass that was once called Death Valley. The white boy followed him, hardy enough junk implanted in his little body to be a real soldier, landing clumsily upon the glass ocean and sending out ripples like the dirty veins in his blue eyes. A relatively large former human hit the kid before he could even raise his gun, flinging up bone and shrapnel into the bloodied sky.

…

Robert dropped his pale forehead against the sticky keyboard. The pattern was repeating and he could do nothing about it. Where was this all coming from?

…

Blood had coagulated within his gears. He was surrounded by bodies. Every friendly within a hundred miles was dead. After a few seconds Dorsnag would get his shit together, run some chemical cleaner through his grimy circuitry and go back to work.