I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising

by Edward P. Cardillo

  “You, what’s happening to you, the undead drones, RGT—it’s all connected.”

  “Connected? How?”

  “Carl, the government plans to use RGT to spy on its citizenry as part of the Second Patriot Act.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “Through television and computer screens, using the screens as the interface, like a touch screen. Only they will tap into your retinal nerve pathways. Like the way they are watching your father.”

  “My father? What are you talking about?”

  “His television is one of the pilot applications. It’s been part of how they’ve been keeping tabs on you. You haven’t said anything sensitive to him, I hope.”

  It dawned on Carl. That weird sensation he felt when he burned himself with the grill. It was coming from his father’s television in the living room, not the microwave.

  “Shit, I have to go.” Carl turned around and unlatched the door, flinging it open.

  “Wait, Carl. It’s not safe—” Then he was gone.

  He stalked back across the bar to where Peter was seated. The girls weren’t there. “Carl, back so soon?”

  “Pete, we’ve got to get home.”

  “Home? Why? What happened in there?”

  “Pete, Dad’s in danger.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” said Carl as he produced his mini-com and quickly toggled through cab companies. He selected the company they used to get to Frisky’s and then selected Return Trip.

  “Hey, asshole.”

  Carl turned around. It was one of the cowboys that were vying for Yvette’s attention earlier…and his whole posse.

  “We were just leaving,” Carl said and tried to walk past the group. The cowboy put his hand on Carl’s shoulder, preventing his exit.

  “Here we go,” Peter said, standing up from his bar stool.

  “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” Carl asked as cordially as possible, given the situation.

  “You are,” said the cowboy.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, let me explain it to you. You don’t just come waltzing in and get between a cowboy and his girl.”

  “She wasn’t exactly your girl, partner, but you can have her.”

  “Well, you see, it’s not just me. My friends were hoping to get with her friends, and you can imagine their disappointment.”

  “They really weren’t that interesting,” Peter chimed in. “I couldn’t wait to get rid of them. We did you guys a favor, believe me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, dipshit,” said the cowboy without breaking eye contact with Carl.

  “I didn’t mean to crash your rodeo,” Carl reassured. “You have my deepest apology. We are leaving, and you can have all the rest of the ladies in this place to yourselves. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

  “Absolutely,” said Pete staring down the cowboy insulter.

  The cowboy looked around at his friends, each one bigger than the next. Five of them in total, a regular Stetson commercial. “That just isn’t good enough.” He began to crack his knuckles.

  Carl saw Yvette saunter up behind the group. “Don’t waste your time with that boy,” she said, “he couldn’t even get it up. I want to dance with a real cowboy.” She grabbed the cowboy’s arm and gently tugged it in the direction of the dance floor, looking at him imploringly.

  The cowboy shrugged her hand off his arm. “When I’m done with limp dick over here.”

  Carl looked at Peter. “I guess he wants to dance with us, then.”

  “I reckon you might be right,” Peter answered.

  Peter took advantage of the cowboy’s distraction with Yvette, and he threw the first punch at one of the posse. Another stepped in and punched Peter in the face.

  The cowboy, startled but ready, grabbed Carl by the throat. Carl head-butted the man and grabbed his wrists and squeezed. The massive man yelped in pain and let go of Carl’s throat. Carl shoved him back and then front kicked the man so hard that he went flying back into a waitress, sending her drinks flying.

  Another of the posse rushed Carl, swinging wildly, but Carl dodged him, sending him off balance. He then grabbed the man and threw him into another who was coming at him, sending them both crashing into a table with patrons.

  The patrons stood up in outrage and rushed Carl. Peter was ducking and throwing punches, handling his two cowboys just fine. Carl stood his ground as the two patrons cursed him out. The cowboy came rushing back, this time with a rather large fold-up knife. He shoved his way past the cursing patrons and tried to stick Carl.

  Carl was too fast. He dodged the lunge and smashed the cowboy in the face. Nose bloody, the man dropped to his knees and held his face and newly dislocated teeth while screaming.

  One of the posse broke a stool over Carl’s back, sending him flying against the bar. Peter punched a cowboy in the throat and then shoved him into the one that hit Carl.

  “We gotta get outa here,” he shouted at Carl.

  “Out the front door,” Carl shouted back looking at his vibrating mini-com. “Cab’s here.”

  Peter ran for the front door. Carl body punched a cowboy as he ran past and flipped over the back of another who was trying to tackle him.

  Carl looked momentarily over his shoulder for Yvette, but she wasn’t anywhere to be found. What he saw made him do a double take. Across the dance floor, he thought he saw…himself. Or a man that looked an awful lot like him. He was grinning wickedly at Carl.

  A man bumped into him and, when he looked again, his doppelgänger had vanished in the crowd. He saw his brother disappear out the front door. He followed suit and made his exit as the bouncers came running over to the melee. One grabbed his wrist, but Carl turned it and flipped him in one deft motion.

  “Sorry,” Carl called back and he ran out the front door.

  Peter was already in the cab. “C’mon, Carl!”

  Carl jumped in. “Let’s go,” he shouted to the driver, who wasted no time and pulled away as five bloodied cowboys ran out the front door of the bar waving bruised fists in the air.

  “Next time,” Peter said panting, “you pick your own girl.”

  ***

  As the cab pulled up to the house, Peter and Carl saw government vehicles parked all over their father’s front lawn, the twirling lights reflecting off of the front of the house. Neighbors were out on their front porches looking on in disapproval. There goes the neighborhood.

  Carl jumped out of the cab as Peter swiped his mini-com in payment. Men in suits were taking his father away in cuffs—FBI.

  “Now wait just a minute,” Carl hollered at the suits. They halted and drew their guns.

  “Stand down, Sergeant,” an agent ordered him.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Peter demanded.

  The agent walked up to them holding out his badge. “Agent Holliswood, FBI. We’re taking your father into protective custody, Captain.”

  “Protective custody…to protect him from what?” Carl asked.

  “It appears your identity, Sergeant Birdsall, has been compromised.”

  Peter looked at Carl. Yvette.

  “Really,” Carl spat, “and this wouldn’t have anything to do with the RGT installed into my father’s television.”

  Holliswood gestured for the other suits to place Barry into one of the cars. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sergeant.”

  “What’s RGT, Carl?” Peter asked.

  “Pete, this was what Yvette was telling me about. What Fiona used on me. They’ve been spying on us through Dad’s television set.”

  “Is this true?” Peter asked Holliswood. He remembered the cable man and wondered if it was just a coincidence.

  “I’d take care of your brother, Captain. He seems a bit paranoid.”

  “You can’t take him,” Carl declared. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “Stand down, Sergeant Birdsall,” Holliswood warned.

>   “Where are you taking him?” Peter asked.

  “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be protective custody, Captain,” stated Holliswood coolly.

  “If he’s in protective custody, then why is he handcuffed?” Carl asked.

  “I’m getting Colonel Betancourt on the horn,” Peter announced, pulling out his mini-com. He stepped to the side to make the call.

  “You can’t do this,” Carl shouted.

  “We can and are,” Holliswood answered. “Take your brother’s lead and stand down. Your father will be just fine.”

  “Who is he being protected from? Did anyone make any threats?”

  “I suggest you return to base and question your superiors. I am afraid I can’t tell you anything else.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

  Holliswood got into his car and pulled away. The other cars followed. Just like that, the circus on their front lawn packed up and left, only leaving tire grooves in his father’s grass as evidence that anything had transpired. The block was quiet again.

  “Colonel Betancourt is ordering us to return back to base immediately,” Peter told Carl.

  “None of this makes sense, Pete. If they were spying on me, why would they take Dad away? We need to go back to Frisky’s and find Yvette.”

  “Wait a minute, Carl. The reason why they took Dad was because you told him too damned much. They must’ve sensed it with that…”

  “RGT,” Carl finished Peter’s thought. “That’s illegal, Pete.”

  “Not under the Second Patriot Act,” Peter said. “And forget about this Yvette.”

  “We have to go back, Pete. How did she know?”

  “Yes, exactly. That’s the question Carl. How did she know? She must be some kind of spy.”

  “Which is why we have to find her.”

  “Which is why we need to leave her alone,” advised Peter urgently. “And besides, we just got thrown out of Frisky’s. We can’t go back.”

  “No one threw us out, Pete. We walked out on our own. And we didn’t start it.”

  “We can’t go back, Carl. Those cowboys might still be there. If they see us again, they’ll kill us this time.”

  “They were thrown out too. I’m sure they’re long gone by now.”

  A cab pulled up.

  “Goddammit, Carl. You called another cab.”

  “I’m going with or without you, Pete. This Yvette knows what’s going on and, friend or foe, I need to find her. If she’s right, the government’s up to something…”

  “Did it ever occur to you that she may be the one up to something?”

  “Or,” Carl continued, “she may know who is threatening Dad.”

  “Carl, maybe she’s the one threatening Dad. And if she knows who you are, then chances are she’s not the only one. You’re in danger. We need to return to base.”

  “With or without you, Pete.”

  “Dammit, Carl...”

  Carl looked into Peter’s eyes and got into the cab.

  “Carl, I’m your commanding officer. WE HAVE TO HEAD BACK TO BASE.”

  Carl closed the door and the cab pulled away.

  Peter stood there dumbfounded. He knew he had to return to base, but his brother was headed back towards the bar and probably into trouble. He had no idea where they were taking his father. Carl had been right about the RGT being implanted in their father’s television set. Everything was happening all at once and none of it made any sense.

  Chapter 9

  Carl’s mind was racing. How long had the government been using RGT surveillance on his father? Where were they taking him? Why wasn’t Peter doing anything about it?

  He was hoping to get some answers from Yvette. Within fifteen minutes, he was back at Frisky’s. He paid the cab driver and rushed through the front door.

  “Hey, we don’t want any more trouble,” shouted the bartender, clearly unhappy to see Carl again so soon. The bouncer was approaching him quickly from the right.

  “I’m not going to cause any trouble. Is that woman still here? The brunette? Her name was Yvette.”

  The bouncer grabbed him firmly by the shoulder and began to push him out. “You heard the man. You have to leave.”

  Carl spun around, throwing the bouncer off balance, and quickly crossed the dance floor looking around the bar for Yvette. The nervous patrons parted as he approached.

  “I’m calling the police,” the bartender announced, snatching up his mini-com.

  Carl thought of identifying himself as a soldier, but after the show he put on he was afraid someone would put two and two together as to who he was. Then his problems would double.

  He stalked to the ladies room, the bouncer only steps behind him, and flung the door open. There was no one in there. The bouncer slipped behind him and put him in a sleeper hold. Carl felt his oxygen slowly being cut off as the bouncer’s pulse raced and his grip tightened like a python.

  Carl had enough, and he had no time to screw around with this goon. He put his right foot behind the bouncer’s right foot and lurched backward. The bouncer tripped over Carl’s foot and released his grip as he began to fall off balance. Carl accented his move with a solid shove that sent the large man sliding onto the dance floor.

  Carl stalked back across the dance floor, past the bouncer who laid there stunned on his back, and began to make his way towards the door.

  The bartender reached below the bar and pulled a shotgun, aiming it at Carl. “Hold it right there.”

  Carl kept walking until he hit the cool night air. Dammit. Yvette was nowhere to be found, and he needed some answers. Maybe Peter was right and he should just return to base. He and Peter could appeal to Colonel Betancourt for their father’s release.

  He pulled out his mini-com and called for another cab. Unfortunately, the wait time for an available cab was a half an hour. Blueberry Hill was a one-horse town, and there were only two local cab companies.

  So Carl began to hoof it back to his father’s house. He dialed Peter.

  “Carl?”

  “Yeah, Pete, she wasn’t there.”

  “I told you as much. Where are you now?”

  “There are no cabs, so I’m walking back.”

  “We gotta return to base. We can talk to Colonel Betancourt.”

  “That’s what I figured. We can—”

  There was a loud thump, and Carl felt like his soul had been yanked out of his body. He felt himself hit the ground and slide across blacktop taking some skin off his arms.

  “Carl…Carl? What happened?”

  Pain shot through his body as he heard doors open and slam shut and then a howl of triumph.

  “Well, lookie here,” said a familiar voice, “it’s that little shit from the bar, all by his lonesome.” It was the cowboy and his posse. “You don’t look so tough now, do you?”

  Carl looked around for his mini-com. It was knocked out of his hand from the impact of the rusted blue pickup truck. Jesus, was everything in this town a cliché?

  “Throw him in the back of the truck,” the cowboy ordered, “he’s going for a little ride.”

  Carl felt strong hands reach under his armpits and pull him up. He was half carried, half dragged to the back of the pickup, lifted up, and tossed into the back. Two of the posse hopped in the back with him. He heard the doors open and close again and the truck began to move.

  He slipped in and out of consciousness, the sound of tires on pavement, the pistons of the engine, the rhythm of the heartbeats of the two men with him, and the other three in the cabin forming an odd harmony.

  After some time, the truck came to a stop, the doors opened and closed again, and the tailgate clanged open. They dragged his sorry carcass out of the truck bed and onto the dirt.

  Carl looked around in the dark and saw silhouettes jutting up out of the ground. “Look, guys, I’m a soldier. U.S. army.” He had nothing to lose at this point. He was in deep shit.

  �
��Shut up, soldier boy.”

  “C’mon guys. You made your point. What are you going to do?”

  “Hey, man. What if he is army? Maybe we should check his ID.”

  “Check him,” said the cowboy.

  Carl felt hands rummaging in his shirt.

  “He’s got dog tags, Bart.”

  “I can get those anywhere,” said Bart the cowboy. Check his wallet.

  More hands rummaged in his pockets. He felt his wallet being pulled out.

  “He’s got an army ID card.”

  Bart took the card. “So you’re a soldier boy after all. Hey, boys. Sarge thinks he’s better than us townies. Don’t you, boy?”

  Carl couldn’t believe it. He survived a category four hurricane, rogue zombie drones, traitors, cartels, terrorists, and now these shit kickers were going to clean his clock good.

  “Hold him up.”

  Carl was hoisted up to a half standing position. Pain shot through his back and his legs were wobbly. Bart punched him hard in the stomach. Carl doubled over gasping for air, but the two men holding him pulled him back up. Bart punched him again.

  “You don’t just waltz in on another cowboy’s rodeo, Sarge. Where’s your friend? Is he army too?”

  “He’s a captain,” Carl gasped.

  There were sarcastic ooh’s from the group.

  “A captain? Wow. Fancy. You boys must think we’re just a bunch of hayseeds.”

  “Now what would give anyone that impression?” Carl asked sarcastically, coughing up what felt like a lung.

  Bart punched him in the face. Pain now radiated across his jaw.

  “He’s not so tough now,” chimed in one of the posse.

  “Well, to be fair, you did hit me with your truck.”

  “Still a wise ass,” Bart said. “You won’t be crackin’ jokes after I mess you up.”

  This was who Carl was fighting to protect, risking life and limb. These were the noble citizenry of their great democracy. Carl tasted copper in his mouth and was disgusted with the world.

  There wasn’t any honor anymore. The degenerates were reproducing faster than decent folks were. Townies like this spent their welfare money pickling themselves silly while living off the taxpayers’ dime, and do you think they watched the news? Do you think they knew that the army was fighting terrorists and cartels across the world, keeping the borders safe so that they can cash their government checks to go out drinking?