“Carl, whatever is coming, we can fight it together. We’ve done it before. We can do it again.” Barry looked at Kafka with hope at Peter’s words. He just wanted everyone to get along. They were the only family he had left.
“There’s no fighting this, Pete. When they arrive in numbers, there will be no defense. It will be a war of attrition. Whoever will survive the first wave will eventually be turned. They won’t stop until the human race is eradicated or converted.”
“And what about OIL?” asked Peter. “They’re okay with all of this?”
“They are used to the notion of global jihad. The scale just got bigger.”
“Now they have to submit to a violent power, who believes in their own superiority, or face death,” said Peter. “Ironic.”
“You might say the whole situation possesses a certain poetic justice,” said Kafka waving his clawed hand in the air loftily as he spoke.
Peter leaned forward in the booth. “You of all people should understand the importance of not submitting. Our mother was taken from us by people like this. It’s why you enlisted to begin with.”
“And those very people will be consumed or converted by the next dominant race,” answered Kafka. “They will pay for their actions.”
“So that’s your big plan for revenge. Sell out the entire planet? What about those sworn to bring terrorists to justice?”
“Oh, you mean like the ones who put a kill chip in my head and then tried to use it on the remote possibility that I’d be dangerous? The terrorists, the generals, the politicians, they all have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re all human.”
Peter sat back in exasperation. “So that’s that then? You’ve written off the entire human race?”
“Look at us, Pete. Half the planet is at war, poverty is widespread. We were supposed to be the greatest superpower in the world. The United States of America. Almost a third of our population is unemployed, the rest underemployed, we have a government that no longer functions, the air is becoming toxic—not from pollution but from unchecked levels of pollen. We are in a decline. We have been for quite some time. We are the dinosaurs, and the meteor is about to strike the earth.”
“You keep saying ‘us,’ Carl. You haven’t fully committed to the aliens.”
Kafka’s heartbeat quickened almost imperceptibly. “Pipe dreams, Pete. You are desperate to find humanity in me yet. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“What happens if your aliens succeed in their invasion? What happens to you after you’ve served your purpose?”
“I will hold a prominent position in a new world order. For shit’s sake, Pete, I dropped out of college because Dad could no longer afford it. The army threw me out.
“These ‘aliens’ have been trying to take route in our culture for ages, planting technology to aid their cause. Hell, they are us. Humanity has been too stupid and superstitious to develop the gifts. Thanks to me, they will finally gain a foothold on our civilization. It’ll be nice to be something important.”
“I had no idea the mighty Kafka had such a fragile ego. These aliens must be a real high maintenance bunch.”
“They’re not so bad. How do you think the damn pyramids were built? When there was a figure like me selected to lead, he was buried alive as part of superstition. They hold the key to untold technology. They are so much more advanced. RGT is only the beginning. We’ve only but scratched the surface.”
“And the price of admission is conversion.”
“It’s worth the cost, believe me.”
“Believe you…how can I? Look at you. You said so yourself that everyone’s going to become mindless zombies. How is that worth the price? What, because you have an elevated position it makes it all okay?”
Karl sucked his teeth. “You make me sound like some communist who starves his people so he can live well. This is evolution.”
“Somehow I don’t think Darwin would agree. It feels more like colonization.”
“Pete, you can’t resist your doppelgänger forever.”
“I’ve done a good job of it so far. Don’t jinx me.”
“You will join us, Pete. You’ll see it’s the only way. The alternative is…unpalatable.”
“Maybe you should listen to him, Pete,” pleaded Barry. “The world is a scary place. I don’t know if I want to see nature take its course. Maybe it’s better this way.”
“Well, I’m not ready to give up on this planet just yet,” said Peter defiantly. “It’s a screwed up world, but it’s our world. It’s our responsibility to fix it, not hand it over to a hostile power. Jesus, I remember when our biggest problems were radical Muslims and anarchists. We never handed the world over to them.”
“This is better,” insisted Kafka.
“Really? Because it sounds like the same rhetoric to me. Jihad is jihad.”
Kafka sat back in his seat and put his palms flat on the table. “Did it ever occur to you that this is nature taking its course?”
“Part of evolution.”
“Look at me, Pete. I’m stronger, faster, and smarter.”
“You were always smarter.”
“You’ve got to be feeling it, too. You have to be.”
Peter was feeling it, and it felt good. However, thanks to the antidote serum that Betancourt administered to him, he knew he was never going to be as strong or as fast as Carl was. Besides, Carl’s offer of power was more frightening than enticing.
“Remember the drones in Xcaret, Carl? Remember how they ate everyone alive? Is that what you want to align yourself with?”
Kafka smiled in resignation. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.”
Peter suddenly looked around the room. He felt a change in the ambient rhythms, an overall quickening.
“Speaking of which, you notice how the barmaid never came back over?”
Chapter 8
“They are about to make their move,” stated Kafka coolly.
“Who is?” asked Peter.
“Your old army buddies.”
“Shouldn’t you run?” asked Barry panicked.
“No need. They will hand me my means of escape.”
Peter and Barry didn’t have time to ponder Kafka’s cryptic statement. The staff of Frisky’s began to swing into action.
They came from every corner of the bar with assault rifles trained on Kafka. The patrons who were indeed patrons were escorted off to the other side of the bar.
Betancourt came out of a room behind the bar with Lt. Farrow holding some kind of machine. “I want the civilians escorted out of the bar immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the soldiers and made it happen.
Betancourt strode up to the booth. Peter and Barry had their hands up. He addressed Kafka. “How did you plan on getting out of here?”
“Nice to see you, too, Colonel Betancourt.”
“What is your exit strategy?”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t play games with me, Kafka. We all know you just wouldn’t waltz into a public place and leave yourself exposed.”
“Maybe I’m hiding in plain sight,” Kafka taunted.
“Exit strategy,” Betancourt insisted. “What is it?”
Kafka snickered. “I’m going to walk out of here on my own two legs, and you’re going to help me.”
“No more games, Kafka. If you won’t tell us, then we’ll extract it out of you.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Peter didn’t like any of this. It was all too easy, and he saw Betancourt was struggling with that fact, too.
“Colonel…”
“Stay out of this, sir,” Betancourt replied, addressing Peter as a civilian. “We’ll have you out of this soon.”
Sir? This son of a bitch just waltzed into a trap, and when Peter was trying to alert him to the fact, he’s treated like a civilian?
Peter realized that this wasn’t just about a family
reunion. Kafka had the army thinking they were using Peter as bait, but in reality, Kafka had used Peter as bait.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked Kafka.
“Cleaning house,” replied Kafka.
Betancourt gestured for Lt. Farrow to bring over the apparatus he was holding. Farrow held what looked like a tiara in one hand and some kind of a computer tower in the other.
“So, I see now the army has a portable RGT apparatus,” Kafka said to Betancourt. Then to Peter, “They are going to extract my memories to ascertain what my strategy is.”
“If you move a muscle, I’ll blow your brains all over the wall,” threatened Betancourt.
“Kill him,” insisted Peter. “Do it now.”
Kafka grinned defiantly. “He can’t, Pete. He has orders to bring me in alive.”
“Let your brother and father go,” ordered Betancourt.
Kafka put out his hands, palms facing upward. “I was never holding them, Colonel.”
Betancourt nodded and Peter slid out of the booth. Kafka slid out and stood up in one swift motion allowing Barry to slide out. The soldiers inched in, targeting Kafka’s head with their assault rifles.
“Easy,” said Betancourt to Kafka. “Nice and easy.”
Kafka shrugged sheepishly as Peter and Barry backed away across the dance floor.
“Go ahead,” said Betancourt to Farrow, who stepped forward.
“Put this on,” said Farrow nervously handing Kafka the tiara.
“But of course, Lieutenant,” said Kafka, blinking all four eyes sincerely, as he placed the tiara on his oily head.
Betancourt nodded and Farrow began to turn dials and switches on the tower.
“Come with me,” Kafka beckoned across the bar to Peter. “This may be your last chance. Dad’s blood will be on your hands.”
“Shit,” whispered Peter to Barry. “He’s up to something, but I don’t know what.”
“Why don’t they just give him a chance to explain everything?” whispered Barry desperately, eyes wide watching his youngest son across the bar.
Peter shook his head. His father was lost. Something was about to happen, but for the life of him Peter didn’t know what.
Lights turned on and the tower began to hum as Kafka’s expression went blank. The televisions over the bar began to flicker in some kind of strange pattern of static. Cell phones chimed outside the bar in tune with the multi-taskers on each of the soldiers. After a brief moment, Peter felt the heart beats of the bar patrons outside disappear.
That was when the screaming began.
One soldier in the back looked at the flickering televisions over the bar and froze, mesmerized at the screen.
“Hold your positions,” Betancourt commanded.
Farrow looked down at his chiming multi-tasker hanging from his belt.
“What is it?” asked a soldier in the back standing next to the one who was in a trance.
The mesmerized soldier looked up with milky eyes and snarled at the other soldier, as his eyes went wide.
“Jesus!”
Betancourt whirled around in time to see the newly undead soldier tearing flesh out of the other soldier’s neck with his teeth and the undead patrons from outside flooding into the bar.
Peter grabbed his father by the arm and tried to pull him further into the bar, but Barry didn’t move. He stood there, mesmerized by the televisions.
“Dad, we have to go...Dad?”
Peter let go as his father turned and lunged for him, snapping his jaws like a turtle. Peter shoved him away, but Barry came at him again. Peter restrained him by the wrists, holding him away at arm’s length as Barry savagely snapped at him.
“Jesus, Dad,” was all he could manage. He sidestepped his father, letting him fall forward under his own momentum. Barry hit the dance floor face first, and Peter stepped away, horrified.
“Don’t look at the televisions,” shouted Betancourt, but he was too late. He had already lost his men to the televisions or the sudden zombie ambush.
Farrow looked like he almost glanced at the televisions, but he turned his head away. Peter looked. At first he saw a pattern of lines and static, but after a moment he saw eyes looking out at him…into him.
Memories that didn’t belong to him began to flood his consciousness again. The peculiar thing was it didn’t feel like the memories were intrusions. They felt like they were already a part of him and were being unearthed.
“Farrow,” said Betancourt pointing to Kafka, “cover him. The rest of you fire at will!”
Farrow drew his sidearm and trained it on Kafka, his hand trembling.
Another patron rounded the group and came at Peter, but Peter front kicked him, sending him flying backward into two undead girls.
Kafka’s zombies were making quick work of the unturned soldiers. This was not the Infantry Drone Program. None of these soldiers had any experience with the undead and didn’t even know what they were dealing with. To them, these were civilians who for some reason became aggressive.
Their lack of experience and ignorance caused them to be easily overrun, firing wildly into the crowd and only landing the occasional head shot by accident.
Peter kicked a zombie in the face and snatched up an assault rifle from a fallen man. “Aim for their heads! Head shots only!” He began popping the melons of the nearest undead patrons.
But it was too late. Most of Betancourt’s unit was dead, and those that weren’t were being ravenously eaten alive on the floor of the bar.
Peter ran over to Betancourt, who trained his gun on him.
“We have to get out of here!” Peter shouted at Betancourt over the screams.
Betancourt whirled around to look at Kafka only to find Farrow on the floor. Kafka was choking another soldier.
“Forget about Kafka!” shouted Peter. “We have to go!”
Farrow got up and stumbled toward the back entrance. Peter laid down some cover fire across the bar as Betancourt ran, but Kafka caught him by the arm in a fierce grip.
He pulled him close. “And where do you think you’re going, Colonel?”
Peter turned and fired into Kafka’s chest and neck, sending him flying backwards into the booth. Kafka held onto Betancourt, taking him with him.
Betancourt reached down for the knife in his boot. Peter saw this and continued to lay down cover fire taking down the now reanimating soldiers.
Betancourt stabbed Kafka in his right wrist, the knife burying itself in the wooden table. Kafka hissed at him as he turned the knife, causing him to release his grip.
Betancourt stood, pulled his side arm, and shot Kafka repeatedly in the face. Farrow was holding the rear entrance door open. “Come on! Come on!”
Peter grabbed Betancourt by the arm and pulled him towards the back door. All three men spilled out of the bar into the summer night air.
“Do you have a car?” Peter asked Betancourt.
“Right there,” said Betancourt pointing at a sedan.
They ran toward the car when Peter felt a quickening in the distance followed by gunfire whizzing past them. Lt. Farrow went down.
Peter saw the flashes of a muzzle in the dark. There was a man by a white van firing at them. Peter grabbed Farrow as Betancourt laid down cover fire. He dragged Farrow and they all took cover next to the dumpster out back as the mystery man began to make Swiss cheese out of their ride.
“Farrow’s bleeding badly,” said Peter frantically.
“A copter is coming for extraction,” said Betancourt. “Any minute now. We never planned on taking Kafka out by car.”
A few zombies stumbled out the back door and into the gunfire. One took a headshot and dropped to the ground. The other two followed the sounds of the nearest guns around the dumpster.
They reached out for Peter and Farrow, snarling. A young girl in her early twenties, dressed in a short skirt and tight halter-top with wild eyes, almost bit Peter on the arm, but he whirled around and shot it in the face point blank. It d
ropped to the ground in front of Farrow.
The second one, an older male in his early thirties, stumbled over the now inert body of the girl, landing on top of Farrow. It grabbed Peter’s leg and tried to sink teeth in. Peter’s weapon jammed, so he rammed the barrel down into its mouth and it bit down.
“I don’t think that air support is coming,” he said to Betancourt.
“It should have been here,” said Betancourt between bursts of gunfire.
Suddenly, they heard the Black Hawk approaching. It saw the gunman by the van and began to lay down cover fire, hurling bolts of light through the darkness.
“The cavalry’s here,” shouted Betancourt.
The helicopter slowly approached the rear of the building, tracking Betancourt’s mini-com multi-tasker. Right behind it there was a small, fast-moving shadow streaking across the night sky and closing in fast.
“What’s that?” asked Peter.
The small craft fired off a hellfire missile that collided with the Black Hawk, blowing it right out of the sky in a bright ball of orange fire.
“I-I don’t understand,” gasped Betancourt, flabbergasted.
Peter grabbed his shoulder. “We can’t stay here. If the zombies don’t get us, Kafka will.”
“I don’t think Kafka’s going anywhere. I shot him point blank in the face several times.”
“Hurt, but not dead,” said Peter. “I can feel him. We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“We’re pinned. What do you have in mind?”
“Cover me and keep the zombies off of Farrow,” shouted Peter. “I’ll take that gunman out. Try not to hit the van. We’re going to take it.”
Betancourt nodded and shot at and around the gunman in the distance, trying not to damage the white van.
Farooq cursed himself for only lighting up one of the soldiers trying to escape. He hoped it was the Betancourt that was Kafka’s target tonight. He had the other two pinned behind a dumpster.
He saw zombies spill out the back of the bar. He hoped that if he could keep them pinned long enough, the zombies or Kafka would finish them off.
He saw one of the soldiers move from behind the dumpster. Maybe it wasn’t a soldier, but he moved fast. He zigzagged back and forth in a blur, gradually making his way up the hill towards Farooq’s position while the other soldier was laying down cover fire.
I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 16