All they noticed was that their prey was thinning in numbers, an apparent realization that seemed to cause them to double their efforts.
“You next, Lieutenant,” Barnes said.
“No, you first,” Peter insisted.
Barnes wanted to argue, but the truth of the matter was that he was scared out of his mind and was relieved at Peter’s insistence that he go first. Who was he to question a commanding officer?
Peter laced his fingers together, palms up, and gave the massive Barnes a boost up. Barnes peeked into the shaft. He didn’t see anyone. He looked down at Peter.
“What about you?”
“I’m right behind you.”
“But how are you…”
“I’m right behind you,” Peter said, voice steady, tone insistent. “Get going. I have to wait until you get far enough away.”
Barnes nodded his understanding rather emphatically and pulled himself into the shaft.
Peter knew he wasn’t going to make it.
The ID were beginning to topple the glass wall entirely and push through the door. For once, he figured he wouldn’t be the last one left. He saw that Carl made it up and out, and his little brother would have to work with the other men to survive the rest of the way.
Since Tijuana, Peter was resolved that he was going to die in action. It was the only decent way to go. To rejoin his old squad. To be with his friend, Apone. To silence his guilt.
Although he was tempted to take his own life on a few occasions, he knew fate would provide the proper venue for his ticket out of this world if he only waited.
No more nightmares. No more blame. Just peace.
Several ID made it fully into the room and began to close in on Peter. But just because he counted on dying, didn’t mean that he had to go quietly. Oh, he planned to fight to the bitter end, exacting what hateful vengeance he had left on the drones right in front of him.
He picked up his metal bar and pounded it into the floor in front of him. “All right, you dead heads. Let’s dance.”
The few closest to him were more than happy to oblige, and he began swinging like Babe Ruth with a curious smile on his face.
Carl saw a grate in the floor of the shaft. He crawled his way over to it and peeked down.
The room below was dark and apparently empty. He saw the top feeders of what must have been copy machines. A long countertop wrapped around an area with printers and fax machines. It looked like the inside of the Business Center.
Carl decided to push the grate down. It fell and clanged on the countertop below. He waited for any kind of movement. After a few minutes of silence, he flicked on his shoulder light. Satisfied that the room was empty, he decided he would drop inside.
He lowered the upper half of his body down through the open grate and hung upside down bent at the waist. As the blood rushed to his head, he took stock of his surroundings.
He grabbed the edge of the opening and flipped slowly, controlling his movements, as he slid his lower body out and assumed a chin-up position.
His fingers gave way under the weight and the clumsy angle, and he fell, landing on the counter on his butt. It wasn’t the most graceful of entrances, but it had to do.
He slid behind the counter for cover as he scanned the room for anything he could use. One-by-one the others would be coming and they’d regroup. Pete would have some kind of plan.
He heard shuffling from somewhere behind him, and he reeled around to see an ID stumbling around behind a large plastic ornamental tree.
Carl switched off his shoulder light, ducked behind the counter, and held his breath as he listened. He didn’t think the ID saw him, but he couldn’t be sure. He mustered up the courage to venture a look.
He slowly peeked above the countertop, and the ID had apparently won its wrestling match with the plastic tree. Free, it was wandering in Carl’s direction. The ID was sniffling and wheezing, and Carl wondered if it had picked up on his scent.
Fortunately, Carl was enclosed in the work area by the counter. But as he traced the perimeter with his eyes, he saw an opening in the counter. If this ID made it around the counter, it would most likely find it, and in turn Carl.
Carl scanned the countertop. There were staplers, two computers, and a paper cutter…the paper cutter. He crawled over as silently as he could to the paper cutter. The wheezing seemed to follow him around.
He reached up and began to unscrew the hinge from which the large blade and wooden handle jutted out. It was one of those industrial strength paper cutters that could chop through a good batch of paper if the proper amount of force was applied.
As he loosened the screw it squeaked softly, and the ID seemed to grunt in response. Carl stopped, straining his ears. After a few heartbeats, the ID resumed its shuffling.
Carl removed the screw and reached up with both hands, cradling the large blade. He gently slid the blade off, making a small noise as metal scraped on metal at the joint.
The shuffling and gurgling was now past him and moving in the direction of the opening in the countertop. Carl crawled over towards the opening, dragging the large blade silently on the carpet beside him.
He got to his feet, but in a hunched position, and grabbed the blade’s handle in his right hand. He waited, as the shuffling grew nearer. He prepared himself. His strike would have to be quick and accurate. He probably had only one shot to cleave this bastard’s head open before it grabbed him.
The ID padded in front of the opening, and it looked like it was going to keep on going by. But it suddenly stopped, sniffing the air and wheezing like a set of old bagpipes.
Carl braced himself, hoping it would continue past. He would then run up behind the ID and strike his blow.
However, the ID looked in the gap and then down at Carl with those white eyes. The man looked like he must have been young, sturdy, and even handsome in his heyday.
Carl stood up and brought the blade back behind his head with both hands as the ID growled at him like a bobcat. Before it could reach out for him, Carl brought the blade down on its head.
But something went wrong. The ID staggered backward, losing its balance for a moment, but other than that, appeared undamaged.
Carl looked in his hands and saw that in his nervous haste, he brought down the dull end on the fiend’s head. Cursing his carelessness, Carl spun the blade handle and leapt forward bringing the sharp end down on its skull.
The ID fell to the floor in a prone position, flailing about but still quite undead. Carl lined the blade up, drew it back over his head, and brought it down on the back of its neck. The blade sliced through half of its neck, and it flopped around on the floor at Carl’s feet like a
flounder on the deck of a boat. Carl put his foot on its head to keep it still, and he brought the blade down two more times, severing the head from its body.
It lay there still as Carl caught his breath. He wheeled around as he heard a crash behind him, raising the blade above his head again.
Smithe stood up and rubbed his head sheepishly.
“Jesus, Smithe. What took you so long?”
Smithe looked down at the decapitated ID at Carl’s feet. “Kick ass, Birdsall.”
“Did Pete make it out?”
“I don’t know. Someone’s not too far behind me, but I’m not sure who.” Smithe looked around. “So this is the Business Center. Nice. I have to have my next business conference here.”
“The ID in the gym are going to figure out that their meal vamoosed, and they’ll be searching for us. We don’t have much time,” Carl said with urgency.
“There’s nowhere for us to go,” Smithe said, “We can’t go outside. It’s too dangerous.”
“How many you figure we got in the gym?”
Smithe looked like he was doing quick calculations in his head. “Several, I’d say. Maybe a dozen.”
“Shit, there’s more than several coming for us. We can’t keep running around the Business Wing killing a few at a time. We need to find a way to
take them out in bunches.”
Munger poked his head through the vent. “Hey, guys.”
He lowered himself down a little more gracefully than Smithe. He hit the countertop on his side and then swung himself over to the outside of the work area. He looked down at the decapitated ID.
“Christ.”
“Birdsall’s handiwork,” Smithe announced proudly.
“Nice job, Birdsall,” said Munger, obviously impressed. “Any others?”
“Yeah, but we saved ‘em for you, Munger,” Smithe said sarcastically.
“Screw you, Smithe.”
“Good one. I think the ID have wittier comebacks,” Smithe taunted.
Carl was walking around the Business Center while the other two were exchanging sophomoric insults. He peeked out the glass doors. The room in front of the convention center was empty…for the moment.
He reached out and tugged on the door handle. It opened a little. Carl closed it and looked down. There was a small bolt. He pushed it down with his foot, driving it home and locking the doors.
There was another crash behind them.
“GODDAMMIT.”
It was Barnes. The mountain of a man had come crashing down behind the countertop. Smithe and Munger rushed around to the opening in the countertop.
Carl ran over. He heard Barnes gasping in pain. “You all right?”
Barnes tried to get up, but he winced in pain and fell back down. “I think my leg’s broke.”
“Great,” Munger said, “now we have to drag his huge ass around while we run from the ID.”
Munger was right. Barnes was a large man, an asset in hand-to-hand combat with the ID. However, with a broken leg, he became their biggest liability.
“Did Pete make it into the shaft?” Carl asked, hopeful.
Munger and Smithe helped Barnes up, who was balancing on his good leg. “I don’t know. I told him to go first, but he insisted I go.”
That was Peter. The hero. Everyone’s big brother. Carl began to pace back and forth. Barnes sensed his anxiety.
“Your brother’s a tough bastard, kid. I’m sure he made it.” But Barnes’ sentiment offered Carl no comfort.
“Birdsall was just saying that picking the ID off one-by-one won’t work. We need to find a way to kill lots of them at once,” Smithe said.
“He’s right,” said Barnes, “There’s too many of them for this cat-and-mouse bullshit.”
“What are we going to do? Kill them with paper clips and staples?” Munger remarked.
Carl was lost in his own thoughts.
“What are you thinking, kid?” Barnes asked.
“The steakhouse.”
“What about the steakhouse?”
“Check it out. Birdsall’s hungry,” joked Smithe.
“There are steaks. Lots of meat.”
“Yeah, so? What do you have in mind?” Barnes asked.
“We can put it all out in one pile. It would attract the ID. They’d smell it.”
“But that would just buy us some time,” said Munger.
“No, it would get them in one place,” Barnes corrected. “But then what?”
“We blow the steakhouse,” Carl said gravely.
“How,” Munger began.
“The gas still works,” Barnes said. “The power’s out, but I bet the gas still works.”
“But wouldn’t the government have turned off the gas with the power?” Smithe reminded.
“The Lieutenant said it wasn’t the government that cut the power, remember? It was Lorenzo.” Barnes said.
Peter. Carl was wondering what was taking him so long. He continued explaining his plan.
“The government would only cut the gas in the event of an earthquake. We fill the restaurant with gas, get as many of those ID in there as we can, and we blow it up.”
“But the fire,” Barnes said, “we wouldn’t be able to control the fire. We have a convention center filled with hundreds of tourists down the hall.”
“We grab as many fire extinguishers as we can, and we wait outside. We spray any fire that tries to make it down the hall.”
“I don’t know, kid. It’s awful chancy. Things can get messy.”
“Barnes, if we don’t do something, those tourists are as good as dead anyway, and you know it.”
Barnes looked down at his feet, weighing the options. Smithe and Munger were Indians, not Chiefs. Barnes was the oldest, and the closest thing to a leader without Peter. They looked at Barnes for his approval.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“But what about Pete? We have to wait for him,” Carl interrupted.
Barnes, Smithe, and Munger all exchanged nervous glances.
“I don’t think he’s coming, kid.”
Carl did not believe what he was hearing. “What are you talking about? He’ll be here any minute.”
“He would’ve been here by now,” Smithe said, the humor in his voice replaced with sympathy. “It didn’t take us that long to get here.”
Dammit. Carl didn’t want to believe it, but he knew they were probably right. But there was no time for panic or grief.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Help me up,” Barnes said. Smithe and Munger each put an arm around their shoulders and hoisted him up.
Carl ran behind the counter, looking for something.
“What are you doing?” Smithe asked.
Carl grabbed a marker and a piece of paper.
“He’s leaving the Lieutenant a note,” Barnes explained. Smithe shook his head but said nothing.
After Carl scribbled on the paper, he taped it to the countertop just below the airshaft.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
They made their way to the steakhouse without incident. The ID from the gym had apparently not made it back around yet. Night had fallen, and everything was dark. They walked by the illumination of their shoulder lights.
As they entered through the broken glass doors, they heard the wind roaring through the broken doors to the outside on the far end of the restaurant.
“Crap,” Carl said, “that’s going to make it difficult for gas to build up in here.”
“We’re going to have to do the best we can,” Barnes said. “The kitchen.”
They entered the kitchen, and Carl opened up a large stainless steel refrigerator. “There’s a ton of meat in here. And there are three other fridges. Plenty of bait. Help me haul it out there.”
Smithe and Munger leaned Barnes up against a stainless steel counter and joined Carl by the refrigerator. They began to load themselves up with meat. They hauled the meat out into the middle of the restaurant and began to make a pile in the middle of the floor.
After dropping a load, Carl stood there surveying the room. “Keep going, guys. I have an idea.”
Smithe shrugged at Munger, and they went back into the kitchen to load up with more meat.
Carl began to move tables. He dragged them around the pile and tipped them over, forming a perimeter but leaving a wide opening facing the doors to the hallway.
Smithe and Munger came back out loaded up with beef. They dropped their loads onto the growing pile.
“That’s not going to keep them in,” said Munger in reference to the semi-circle of tables turned sideways.
“They’re not a barrier. They’re more like blinders,” Carl explained.
“Guys, come in here,” they heard Barnes call from the kitchen. They came running in and found him by the stove.
“What’s up?” Carl asked.
Barnes turned the knob on the stove. There was no hiss of escaping gas. “No gas, boys.”
“Shit!” said Smithe.
“The government must’ve cut power and gas anyway,” Barnes said.
“Well, there goes that plan,” said Munger. “What are we going to do now? We have a pile of bait out there but no trap.”
Carl started looking around the kitchen.
“What are you looking for now?” demanded Smithe with
more than a little impatience in his tone.
“A-ha,” said Carl, “here it is.”
He reached up, grabbed a red lever on a pipe, and pulled it. “The master switch. They must’ve pulled it before closing the restaurant.”
He pointed to Barnes, who turned the knob on the stove again. He heard the faint hiss of the gas.
“We’re in business, kid. Nice work.”
“What about the ignition?” Munger asked.
Carl went back out to the dining room and grabbed a few candles off the tables. He put them on a table next to the circle with the pile of meat. “Somebody find me some matches.”
Munger ran back into the kitchen. Barnes was already holding a book of matches. He grabbed the matches from Barnes and ran back out, but he almost tripped over himself.
He didn’t see Carl or Smithe anywhere, but there were three ID already hobbling in. He covered his shoulder light with his right hand and backed behind a tiled pillar, praying they didn’t see him.
When he peeked around the pillar, he saw that they were heading straight for the pile of meat. He looked around, and he saw Carl peeking over the top of one of the tables, his body concealed by the tablecloth.
Carl silently pointed to the next table, and Munger saw Smithe peeking over that table. They were both only a row over from the table with the candles.
Munger knew he had to get the matches over to Carl somehow so he could light the candles. Then, somehow, they had to leave undetected before the gas filled the dining room and reached the lit candles.
Munger held up the matches. Carl nodded and motioned for him to get the matches over there. The three ID descended on the meat and, crouching like cavemen, began to rip at the beef with their teeth.
Munger considered crawling on his belly around the outside of the enclosed portion of the circle where the three ID fed. But it was a long way across, and if they caught him in such a compromising position unarmed, he was toast.
He grabbed a cloth napkin off a nearby table and an empty glass. He put the book of matches in the glass and wrapped it in the napkin. He figured the glass would provide the weight for it to be thrown far, and the cloth napkin would muffle the sound of its landing…in theory.
But he didn’t have anything to keep the napkin around the glass. If he threw it as it was, the napkin would fall off and the glass would shatter on the hard tiled floor.
I Am Automaton Page 20
