He grabbed the edge of a tablecloth and cut a long ribbon with his knife. He then cut a second one. He put his knife back in its sheath and began to tie the napkin around the glass by crisscrossing the ribbons like a Christmas present.
Just then, two more ID staggered into the steakhouse sniffing the air and grunting. They too saw the meat just lying there like it fell from the heavens, and so they too walked over to the pile.
Munger waited until they descended upon the meat pile, and then he showed Carl the glass. Carl gave a thumbs up.
Munger used to play baseball in high school, so he knew how to throw. He gauged the distance between him and Carl and how hard he would have to throw.
Then he wound up and tossed the napkin-wrapped glass over-handed in a nice arc over the feeding ID. It landed on a table near Carl and rolled off and onto the floor. There was a muffled thud, and one ID looked up like a meerkat, but he quickly returned to his feast.
Munger breathed a sigh of relief and crept low behind the tables back to the kitchen.
“What’s going on out there?” Barnes asked, sensing something was amiss.
“We already have a few guests. I tossed the matches over to Birdsall. We gotta get out of here.”
“Here.” Barnes handed him a rather large chef’s meat cleaver.
Munger took it. Barnes grabbed one for him and put his arm around Munger. They nodded to each other and began their three-legged walk to the kitchen door. Thankfully, it had one of those diamond-shaped windows. They peered into the dining room.
Several more ID were entering the restaurant. By the table with the candles, they saw Carl crouching.
“Wait, kid. Let them pass,” Barnes said to himself.
Carl, as if he heard Barnes, waited patiently behind the table as the new guests shuffled on past to join the others.
“Good,” Barnes muttered with relief. If the kid got himself in a jam, he was in no condition to help.
Carl must’ve struck a match behind the table, because when he raised his hand the match he was holding was already lit. It glowed eerily in the dark dining room.
He quickly lit the wicks of the candles and blew out the match. But a few of the ID had taken notice of the light.
They straightened up and looked in the direction of the light, sniffing the air like decrepit bloodhounds. Munger saw Carl and Smithe moving in the shadows around the periphery of the room as a couple of the alerted ID stood and walked over to the candles.
Shit, Munger thought. If they messed with the candles, the plan wouldn’t work. So he left Barnes and stepped into the dining room, took his shoulder light off his suit, and tossed it towards the doors to the outside. He then grabbed a glass off a table and lobbed it in the same direction.
When the glass shattered on the tile by the detached shoulder light, the two ID and a couple of others took notice and began to move in the direction of the light and sound, ignoring the candles for the moment.
At this point, the smell of gas was growing more palpable, and it was time for them to make their exit. Carl and Smithe were on their own. Munger propped the kitchen door open with a chair to allow the gas into the dining room. Then, he helped Barnes walk in the dark as they too kept to the periphery.
Munger nearly jumped out of his skin as someone grabbed him by the arm in the darkness.
“Munger.”
It was Carl.
“We have to exit the other way,” he whispered. “There’s more ID in the hallway. They’re going to be piling in here in a moment.”
“But I just threw my shoulder light and a glass in the other direction to get them away from the candles,” Munger whispered back.
“There’s only a few. We’ll have to take ‘em out,” said Barnes.
“With what?” Carl asked.
“With these.” Barnes held up his meat cleaver. Carl uncovered his shoulder light with his right hand enough to see it glinting in the light. Then he covered it up again.
“Okay. That’ll have to work.”
“But the hurricane. Is it safe?” Smithe asked concerned.
“It’s safer than in here. There’ll be dozens of ID, and this place is going to blow. I’ll take my chances with the hurricane,” explained Carl.
“But what about the fire extinguishers and controlling the fire?”
“No time. We have to move and hope for the best.”
So they crept back the other way. Carl and Smithe walked in front with their hands titrating out trace amounts of illumination from their shoulder lights. They each held a meat cleaver. Munger and Barnes trailed behind.
Carl remembered his combat training. He flanked an ID groping for them in the dark and struck it in the head with his baton. It dropped to the floor.
Smithe took care of another one, and the third was wandering back toward the meat pile. They regrouped and made their way to the broken doors to the exterior. The winds were howling and debris flew by.
“Okay,” Carl said, “if I remember the map correctly, there should be a swimming pool and two buildings across from here. We make it across as quickly as possible, and we get to one of the buildings.”
They all nodded. The room was beginning to reek of gas. They heard more shuffling and grunting as more ID entered the steakhouse, and the sounds of ravenous chewing and slurping was enough to turn the strongest stomach.
It was time to go.
Chapter 15
Carl, Smithe, Munger, and Barnes burst out into the storm and they were immediately assailed with debris. Carl and Smithe ran ahead, being tossed to and fro like rag dolls in the wind. As they jumped from spot to spot in the powerful gusts, they looked like astronauts walking on the surface of the moon.
Munger walked with Barnes, the weight of the massive man helping to steady their course, but the winds had their way with them as well. It was dark, there was very little visibility, and before he knew it, Munger was being pulled down by Barnes. He suddenly felt cold and wet, and he was choking on water.
They had been blown into the swimming pool, and apparently into the deep end. Barnes was flailing his arms and grabbing onto Munger so tight that Munger wasn’t able to get his head above water.
Munger pulled and pulled, and finally wrenched himself free. He gasped as he breached the surface, and he reached down, grabbed Barnes around his tree trunk of a neck and pulled his head above water.
Barnes choked as he struggled to keep his head above water. Munger paddled over to the shallow end dragging Barnes with him. He pulled them both against the wall of the pool, and they waited there catching their breath for God knows what.
As Carl neared the building on the right, he was blown right into it. Before he knew it, he was thrown onto a ground floor balcony on his back, his boot breaking the glass sliding door as he landed.
Smithe was blown somewhere off course and out of sight. Carl got up, kicked the glass out of the frame, and stumbled into the hotel room landing face first onto a queen size bed.
Palm leaves and dirt were blowing into the room as Carl hoisted himself off the bed and walked into the bathroom. He stepped into the shower stall and sat down hard on the wooden bench. He tried to clear his head as the wind roared and detritus blew into the room.
He wondered if the others had made it to safety when he heard a loud explosion that shook the entire bathroom. It was the steakhouse. It actually blew. Carl only hoped that the explosion took out more than a few of the marauding ID.
The water in the pool thrashed about in the storm when Munger heard the boom. The whole pool shook with the force of the blast. Carl’s plan worked.
He thought he heard Barnes say something, but his ears were ringing from the explosion, and the dull roar of the storm blocked everything else out.
A great ball of flame rose into the air followed by a vast cloud of black smoke. Underneath, the restaurant was on fire, but it did not seem to be spreading to the rest of the Business Center. Little movement was in the wreckage, and what little there was c
eased within minutes.
Munger saw movement outside the building, however. Stranded ID were being blown about in the wind outside. He pulled Barnes closer to him and waited, shivering in the pool. He didn’t want to move and be caught by any ID that would be blown into them.
Carl sat in the shower stall contemplating his next move when he heard footsteps in the hall outside his room. Carl strained his ears, and he thought they were growing closer.
He got up, knife in hand, and stepped into the room in front of the door. He put his eye to the peephole and saw a shadowy figure walking slowly down the hall.
He braced himself, raising the large knife above his head and putting his hand on the doorknob. The footsteps slowed by his room, and the figure stopped in front of the door. It was waiting, listening.
Suddenly the doorknob began to move. Carl tightened his grip on it and yanked the door open as the dark figure fell through the doorway and landed on the floor in front of him.
Carl began to bring his knife down.
“WAIT.”
But it was too late. Carl brought down the knife on Smithe, missing his head as Smithe turned over, but burying it deep in his neck.
“Aaaaaaah! Shit!”
Smithe was writhing around on the floor squirting blood everywhere. He was screaming and grunting in pain.
Carl threw down the knife and knelt over his comrade. “I-I thought you were one of them.”
Smithe was rocking back and forth on the floor ranting hysterically. “I-I heard the…wind…I…figured you…made it in…through this room.”
“Jesus, Smithe. I’m so sorry!”
Carl got up and threw the comforter off the bed. He pulled off the sheets and began cutting strips. He went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and placed it over Smithe’s wound. He then began to wrap his neck in the strips of sheet.
“Christ, I’m not a medic. I’m doing the best I can.”
Smithe was losing a lot of blood. Carl wrapped the wound as tightly as he could. The blood soaked through quickly, and the more pressure Carl applied, the quicker Smithe seemed to bleed out. In frustration, Carl threw his back against the wall behind him and slid down to the ground.
He put his hands to his face and stifled the overwhelming urge to scream. He choked it down in violent, tearless sobbing that shook his body like convulsions.
He didn’t know what to do. He wished his big brother was there to guide him. He wished Barnes was there to guide him. Hell, he would’ve even settled for Jorge, the hotel manager, at the moment.
But he was all alone.
As the night passed, the winds grew calmer and the night quieter. He held Smithe in his arms, but Smithe was cold and still.
The eye of the storm was approaching, a brief respite. There had been no further incident since he struck Smithe. When things quieted down, he figured he’d go outside and check things out.
It was 00:10 when all grew silent. He awoke with a start, unaware that he had succumbed to sleep, sitting in a pool of Smithe’s blood. The room smelled of copper.
He slowly rose to his feet, every part of his body aching terribly. His head was pounding as if he was experiencing a vicious hangover.
He picked up his knife, wincing as he bent over, and wiped Smithe’s blood off on his face. He smeared the blood on each of his cheeks like war paint.
He didn’t know what made him do it. All he could say was that, at the time, it was the only thing that made sense when one’s mind teetered on the brink of madness from extreme exhaustion and psychological trauma. He was going to war with the ID, and he wanted Smithe with him. Blood begot blood.
He left Smithe’s body on the cool tile floor and opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway and stretched his neck, rolling his weary head around on his shoulders.
He heard the echo of footsteps down the hall, but they were not the footsteps of a human, nor the shuffling gait of an ID. They were small footsteps ending in clicking against the tile. They were clawed footsteps.
A slinky form materialized at the end of the dark hallway. It stopped for the moment, appraising him in the darkness, sizing him up in the context of the long corridor.
Carl remembered that the hotel grounds bordered a wildlife preserve. This was wild life. It let out a low, menacing growl, and it slinked closer down the hallway.
Carl, drained from adrenaline exhaustion and at this point completely unconcerned with his safety, turned to face his new adversary.
The creature drew close, paused, whipping its tail around behind it in darting motions…and then it leapt at Carl. He let it take him, sending them both crashing down to the hard floor.
He quickly rolled over on top of it and slit its throat with his knife, spilling its hot blood on the cool tile. The fight was over in minutes.
Carl stood up triumphantly over his kill. The feeling was primal, and gave him a perverse rush through his mind and body. He no longer thought. He was animal. He was a deadly automaton, clinically detached and unfeeling. His sole purpose was to kill.
He walked back into the room, stepped over Smithe’s body as if it wasn’t even there, and stepped through the sliding screen doors. He hopped over the balcony and tasted the cool night air on his tongue. The grounds were silent. He walked up to the swimming pool in the moonlight that passed through the hurricane’s eye, casting its pale light on the devastation all around him.
He looked down at the pool and saw Munger and Barnes floating on the surface of the water, faces down. They were no longer with him, casualties claimed by the violent frenzy.
Carl stood alone, the only survivor, and gazed dispassionately as several harried flamingoes dashed past him away from some unknown horror. They sidestepped him in their flight, the monochromatic moonlight dulling their wild pink.
That’s when he saw them.
A dozen ID were ambling in the silence of the pale moonlight in his direction. Calm and steady, he withdrew his knife from his leg sheath and gripped his baton.
He looked around and saw a replica of a Mayan temple not too far away. It was the sort of thing that hotel guests and tourists posed and took pictures on.
He waited for the ID to get near. They saw him and picked up on his scent, his sanguine war paint wafting in the air. It grabbed their attention like a dinner bell.
When they came within fifty feet, he smiled a depraved come hither and turned, walking toward the replica of the Mayan temple.
They pursued in earnest, as he knew they would. When he reached the temple, he began to climb the steps. He made it to the top and gazed down as the ID reached the bottom and began their clumsy but unremitting ascent.
That’s right. Come and work for your food.
There was a barrier of clouds in the near distance, the inner wall of the storm’s eye, lined with numerous little lightning storms. The air was electric as the wind began to pick up.
Carl began to step down toward his predators, now his prey, and he began to stab and smash away at their heads, necks, and backs. He stuck and moved, kicking down bodies of ID, some silenced and some who would make their way back up for more.
He worked his way from step to step and around the temple, herding them into a spiral. He worked his way down the spiral stabbing and crushing heads.
He moved like lightning, and the drones could not keep up. They tripped on the steps and over themselves as the warrior automaton put them to shame with his single purpose.
After a half an hour there were no more drones moving, but a dozen motionless bodies strewn all over the steps of the mock temple.
Carl stood on its zenith, triumphant and looking for more adversaries, but there were none left. He had won, and the storm was regrouping, gathering its strength for one last hurrah before leaving the area.
Carl casually stepped back down the temple, passed the pool, and re-entered his building. He stepped into the room where Smithe’s body lay in rest, and he lay wearily down on the bed. He closed his eyes and let the thundering roar
of the storm lullaby him into deep slumber.
Chapter 16
Carl was woken by a paramedic who was questioning him in Spanish. He sat up on the bed, his body still aching, but less so. The man was taking his vitals.
Carl let him finish. Then he pushed the man aside and got to his feet. There were Mexican military in the room. He looked out the broken sliding glass doors.
The storm had ended, but the resort was a wasteland of torn thatched roofing, broken tile, and smashed furniture strewn all over the grounds. Strange animals from the zoo next door wandered around disoriented.
“Do any of you speak English?” Carl asked rather authoritatively. He did have authority. He was the last surviving member of his platoon and was now acting lieutenant by process of elimination. The army called it field promotion.
One of the soldiers gestured for Carl to follow him. They walked out of the room, down the hallway, and out of the building.
Carl’s escort was armed, but none of them trained their weapons on him. Peter always said they were working in conjunction with the Mexican military.
They arrived at a closed tent in the middle of the grounds. There were soldiers and relief workers everywhere. Carl saw them helping the tourists out of the Convention Center.
The lead soldier gestured for Carl to enter the tent. Carl nodded and passed through the slit. Inside there was a man sitting down at a folding table covered with papers. There were two other men poring over the papers and talking on Mini-com Field Phones.
“Please, have a seat,” the man told him in a heavy accent.
Carl sat in a folding chair in front of the folding table.
“I am Colonel Rojas of the Mexican Army,” the man continued. “And you are…”
Carl was about to say Private Birdsall, but he corrected himself. “I am Lieutenant Carl Birdsall of the United States Army.”
“United States. I did not recognize the uniform.”
I Am Automaton Page 21
