I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton

by Edward P. Cardillo

  Murati ran forward and tried to trigger the digi-lock. To his surprise it worked. There was a tone and the lock engaged.

  “Circle the floor, lock all the doors!” commanded Bushaj. The group fanned out and secured all of the doors. When they finished, they all stood back from their respective doors and waited.

  The zombies pounded on the doors, but it didn’t pose much of a threat. They were safe…for the moment.

  “Everyone, spread out and find a staircase leading to the offices upstairs!” shouted Bushaj.

  “This wasn’t much of a trap,” said Murati looking around the floor.

  “That’s what worries me,” said Bushaj. His mini-com chimed. He picked it up. “Come in, Camaj.”

  “That strange signature is leaving the building.”

  Bushaj shot a confused look at Murati.

  “What?” he shouted into his mini-com.

  “Bushaj, Kafka has left the building.”

  “Coward,” hissed Murati. “He keeps us in here while he slips away.”

  There was a chime over the PA system and a mechanized woman’s voice came on.

  Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…

  “What is that?” asked Murati looking up at the ceiling.

  “It’s a countdown,” said Bushaj. After a heartbeat, his eyes widened in terrible realization. “He corralled us into this place. Activating the locks to the doors triggered the countdown.”

  Fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…

  Bushaj grabbed his mini-com. “Camaj, come in!”

  Eleven..ten…

  The zombies pounded on the doors.

  “This is Camaj.”

  “Camaj, you need to get us out of here! We’re trapped.”

  Seven…six…five…

  “I’m coming in.”

  Murati put a hand on Bushaj’s shoulder. “It’s already too late, my brother.”

  Three…two…

  Bushaj and Murati clasped hands in a soul shake, like they were going to arm wrestle, the handshake of brothers-in-arms.

  One…

  Bushaj and Murati closed their eyes, bracing themselves for the blast…

  …but none came.

  Bushaj opened one eye and looked around. Then he opened both. Murati opened his eyes. “Thank Allah.”

  The PA system crackled on.

  Now you didn’t think I was actually going to blow up my headquarters, did you?

  “He’s toying with us,” said Bushaj out loud, looking around the factory floor.

  “What now?” asked Murati, annoyed by the farce at their expense.

  Oh, no. I have something more…interesting planned for you all. I left you a couple of playmates while I dispense with your snipers.

  “That is impossible,” said Murati. “Our scans only picked up one life form.”

  It was nice knowing you all, brief as it may have been, but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Ta ta.

  Murati looked at Bushaj, who only shrugged.

  “We have to warn Camaj and…”

  Before Bushaj could finish his sentence, they heard the ground shake, as if from a heavy footstep. There were the sounds of gears turning and hydraulics’ working.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Murati, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t know,” said Bushaj, gripping his assault rifle. “Be ready!” he shouted to his men.

  There was another heavy footstep, followed by two more coming from another part of the factory floor. It sounded like heavy metal on concrete. There was the whining of motors and gears echoing off the walls of the defunct factory floor.

  “Holy shit!” someone shouted.

  There was a hiss and the churning of motors, and one of the men screamed as blood spattered in the air off to the left behind a conveyor belt.

  “Bushaj, what is going on?”

  Bushaj pointed to his right. “You take the right. Flank it. I’ll come in head on.”

  Murati nodded and slipped down the right side of the factory floor.

  There were screams of terror, gunfire, and some more heavy thumping. Bushaj saw blood spray and body parts tossed up in the air like a salad just ahead of him, behind some heavy machinery.

  He quickened his pace and vaulted a small conveyor belt as he trained his rifle ahead of him.

  There were more screams to his far left and the whirring of motors and gears. More gunfire erupted, but it didn’t last long.

  Bushaj wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his hand trembling over his forehead. He looked to the right for Murati, and he caught a glimpse of him creeping along the far wall.

  Murati stopped dead in his tracks, raising his rifle up high. Whatever he was aiming at was obscured from Bushaj’s view by some equipment, but it must have towered over him.

  “Murati!” he called out, but Murati never took his eyes off what he was looking at.

  There were more mechanical sounds and two heavy footsteps. Murati yelled out and opened fire in frantic bursts. There were quick swipes of metal, flashes of quicksilver, and Murati crumpled to the floor in pieces.

  Bushaj cursed under his breath as he began to back away, but he had the odd feeling that he was being watched. He turned to his left and saw a hulking mech standing there, heaving like a large predator, separated from him only by a conveyor belt.

  It was a bramble of wires and pistons, shards of metal and sharp blades. Atop its neck, if that was what you would call it, sat a makeshift head housing a large monitor.

  On the large monitor was a face, one that Bushaj did not recognize. It was a horrible face, and it glared down at him, curling its lip in feral hatred.

  Bushaj raised his rifle and opened fire as it roared at him, flashing blades and spinning buzz saws from everywhere on its body.

  It rushed him, slicing through the conveyor belt array as if it was made of butter, and Bushaj turned and ran. He heard stomping coming from behind him as the mech picked up speed in pursuit.

  Bushaj meandered through the floor machinery, doing his best to lose the mechanical monstrosity chasing him, but whatever it couldn’t circumvent it merely smashed through like it was crushing empty beer cans.

  Bushaj just had to make it to one of the doors.

  Camaj had just exited the front door of the building next door and was closing the distance to the factory. He pulled open the side door and slipped inside, pushing into a corridor and making haste towards the factory floor.

  He turned a corner and ran into the area just outside the factory floor when he saw dozens of zombies pressed up against the door, looking in through the window.

  His boots squeaked on the floor as he skidded to a stop before crashing into them. The sound caused a few of them to turn around, and Camaj nearly gasped when he saw their decayed faces, eyes frenzied with hunger for flesh.

  They began to reach for him, snarling and hissing. Camaj turned around, feeling grasping fingers on his back, and began to run back in the direction that he came, the shuffling of his pursuers echoing in the corridor behind him.

  As he passed a door, it opened, and he felt his head pulled back by his hair. There was a quick flash of pain, and he felt his throat open up like someone pulled a zipper.

  He was released and he dropped to the floor, clutching his throat as he bled out crimson all over the dust-covered ground.

  Kafka stood over him like a nightmare, licking the blood off his large hunting knife. Camaj stared up in horror, unable to respond except for some gurgling and blowing bubbles of blood out of the open wound in his throat.

  The zombies closed in on him as he lay there on the dirty floor, his life slipping slowly away from him but not fast enough. The first of the zombie onslaught got down on their knees and began to bite into his flesh while he was still alive.

  Bushaj made it to one of the doors, running into it with his body. He looked out the window and saw a horde of zombies looking right back at him.

  He looked back over his shoulder and saw two mechs, one with th
e female face on its monitor and one with an older man’s face, gaining on him, twirling blades and sporting sharp metallic fins.

  If it was a choice between facing these things or the zombies outside, Bushaj was going to take his chances with the zombies. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mini-com to disengage the lock on the door, but it wouldn’t disengage.

  “Shit.”

  The two hulking mechs bounded towards him. He turned and raised his rifle, taking aim at the monitors that appeared to serve as heads. He fired, but they raised their arms and deflected the bullets with their metallic fins.

  The one with the older man’s face on the monitor stepped forward first, twisted, and swiveled its limbs, dicing Bushaj’s rifle and his arms with its numerous sharp edges.

  Bushaj looked down at his stumps in horror, his face covered in blood, his mouth open wide in terror, but no sound escaping.

  The horrid face of the older man on the monitor looked down at his prey and hissed as the mech with the female face joined them.

  There was a nonverbal, guttural understanding that passed between them, and the mech with the man’s face stepped aside. The one with the female’s face leaned in so that her monitor was level with Bushaj’s face.

  Her screen began to flicker to a staccato rhythm, and Bushaj had a brief moment of recognition before he went slack, staring blankly into the monitor. When the mech backed away from him, Bushaj was nothing more than an armless zombie.

  The two mechs parted and allowed him to stumble between them. Marina Kojic looked on through her monitor like a mother animal watching its young take its first steps, grunting her approval. Barry Birdsall looked on through his monitor and let out a tinny, digital gwarp of a laugh.

  Marco saw a door open through his sniper scope, and Bushaj stumbled out into the daylight, tripping over his own feet and falling down in the dust, spurting blood everywhere from the two stumps he now had for arms.

  Marco gasped at the sight and frantically scanned the area. There was no movement anywhere. He waited a bit, watching Bushaj flounder around, armless in the dirt, until he decided he could stand there and watch no longer.

  He shouldered his rifle and left the rooftop. A moment later, he swung the door open to his building and trained his rifle, sweeping the area. Satisfied that there was no movement, he cautiously stepped outside and began to walk over to his fallen comrade.

  As he got closer, he noticed that Bushaj was making grunting and growling sounds as he rolled around in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.

  “Bushaj.”

  No answer.

  “Bushaj, what happened?”

  Bushaj stopped rolling around and lay still, making strange rasping sounds, like a wild animal.

  Marco inched over to Bushaj, training his rifle on the opposite building, and he reached down to grab his fallen comrade in the dust.

  Bushaj craned his neck up and bit Marco on his hand. Marco cursed out loud and jerked his hand away, now training his gun on Bushaj. The dust began to settle and Marco began to see that his comrade was no longer himself.

  Bushaj began to push forward in the dirt with his legs, snapping his jaws at Marco. Marco put his friend’s head in the crosshairs and pulled the trigger.

  As the echoes of the shot bounced off the side of the building, Bushaj lay face down in the dirt with his brains blown out of his head.

  Marco backed away, looking at the nasty bite on his hand, and let himself back into his building. He stationed himself by the window and trained his rifle on the building opposite, his mind racing, thinking of what to do next.

  He decided to exit the abandoned building out the other side and make his way back to his car. His bite was stinging him terribly, and he felt like he was burning up.

  He threw his rifle into the back seat and slid into the driver’s seat. He started the car, praising Allah for sparing his life, when he saw a tall, dark figure standing in the middle of the road holding a machine gun.

  He put the car in gear and began to make a hasty three-point turn. The figure just looked on as Marco put the car in gear and sped away in the opposite direction.

  Marco got away with his life, barely. He would go back to the safe house…or even try to make contact with another cell. They would…take him in. He would…lay low…for a while. He…he would…h…

  Kafka watched as the car swerved and careened into a parked car. He casually walked up to the car, his machine gun pointed down at the ground, and the sniper in the car was clawing at the glass and growling at him. He glared at Kafka with dead white eyes. Kafka smiled back at him.

  “Welcome to the family.”

  ***

  Needles, California

  The Next Day

  09:03 HRS

  They had been taking turns driving for hours in their little hatchback, and they needed to stop for gas. Kojic wanted an SUV, but Peter insisted on a small car for fuel economy. Time was of the essence, and a smaller car meant fewer stops.

  Kojic and Ehsan had been mostly silent on their trek across Interstate 40, which was fine by Peter. Any conversation was awkward and brief, and truthfully, the whole arrangement made Peter uncomfortable, but he knew it was a necessary evil.

  He had made it clear hours ago in one of their brief exchanges that this alliance was temporary, and in no way made them friends.

  “I don’t like this one bit, but I think we all agree it’s necessary. We can’t kill my brother as individuals,” said Peter, “but together…”

  “Yes, don’t worry. You don’t have to invite me to dinner or let me fuck your sister,” said Ehsan.

  “I don’t have a sister,” said Peter, “but if I did, I’d punch you in the mouth.”

  Kojic shot Ehsan a dirty look in his vanity mirror and Ehsan, taking the hint, sat back in the backseat and looked out the window.

  “Let’s save our anger for Kafka,” advised Kojic. “We cannot turn on each other.”

  “I just want you to know that this doesn’t make us friends,” pressed Peter. “I don’t want any misunderstandings. When this is all over, you are still terrorists.”

  “You are assuming that we will survive to play out the aftermath,” said Kojic coolly. He wasn’t going to let Peter goad him into an argument. “You’ve made your point. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  Peter wasn’t sure what was going to happen if they actually beat Carl. Would they immediately turn on each other? And what about their battle with Carl? Will these two just help each other while Carl makes minced meat out of Peter?

  There were so many uncomfortable possibilities and the fragile alliance created enough tension to choke a grizzly bear. Peter hoped that they would remember their main objective and save the hostilities for the after party.

  He pulled into a gas station off the highway that had a small diner and gift shop called the Covered Wagon. Quaint. Peter pulled up to the pump and put the car in park, turning off the ignition with his mini-com. It was able to access the car’s computer, thanks to Tronika.

  “I’ll run in and get us some snacks and drinks,” said Peter. “Why doesn’t one of you make yourself useful and pump the gas?”

  Kojic looked back at Ehsan, who huffed in protest, but when Peter got out of the car, Ehsan pushed the driver seat forward and got out to pump the gas. Peter waved his mini-com over the pump sensor to provide payment, and then he walked into the diner.

  It was an old cliché, the tawdry roadside diner in the middle of nowhere. There were outdated jukeboxes at every booth with the numbers worn off the buttons. One had an out of order sign printed in all caps on a yellowed scrap of paper taped to the glass front, obscuring what Peter was sure was a very outdated catalogue.

  He saddled up to the counter and took a seat right next to the payment kiosk on a rickety stool attached to the floor. It squeaked as he sat down, metal grating on metal.

  “May I help you?” asked a waitress without bothering to muster up any modicum of en
thusiasm.

  “Three coffees and egg and cheese sandwiches please…on rolls.”

  The waitress entered it into her palm organizer, turned, and left without saying anything else. Peter looked around the diner. The clientele looked almost as dingy as the diner itself did.

  There were groups of what looked to be couples at the booths holding hands and laughing, some tourists and some locals, as well as truckers and cab drivers at the counter. They all looked road-weary and grateful to replenish themselves in this simple oasis.

  There was a young boy sitting next to his mother and across from his father in the booth closest to the front entrance. He had to have been around five years old, in Peter’s estimation. He was drawing on the paper place mat with a broken green crayon taken from a worn plastic souvenir cup. The cup was filled with pieces of crayons, provided by the manager no doubt.

  Peter allowed himself a smile, a small luxury in difficult times, and turned his head to the left, peering into the gift shop. It was filled with all kinds of bric-a-brac and California state paraphernalia.

  He found it odd that all of these patrons sat here in this establishment living their lives, blissfully unaware of the secret war that was being waged in the shadows beyond their awareness.

  However, when Peter saw the little boy coloring quietly as his mom and dad talked about their trip, their jobs, whatever, he realized that this was exactly what he was fighting for. He was amused by the fact that he was throwing himself, once again, into the breach to fight secretly for those who would know nothing of their danger or what he was doing for them.

  Just like Tijuana and Xcaret.

  Peter felt his mini-com vibrate on his hip and was absent-mindedly about to grab it from its holster, when all of the cell phones in the diner appeared to go off. Peter had an ominous feeling.

  The 50-inch flat screen television above the counter began to flicker, the lines and static playing out that dreaded, familiar rhythm.

  As Peter looked up, he saw that almost everyone in the diner had been transformed into the undead…everyone except the waitresses and the kid. They didn’t have cell phones or mini-coms, and they weren’t looking at the television. There were a few patrons who focused on their meals and didn’t look at their phones or the television.