I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising

by Edward P. Cardillo

“Carl, you’re right,” Peter said. “I can’t always be there for you. You have to stand on your own two feet and make choices, but you have to do what’s right.”

  “It’s too late,” Kafka lamented. “There’s no going home. I’ve murdered Fiona and Nolan and those women in the city.”

  Peter was halted by what he heard. “Nolan?”

  “I blew the computer room when he and his team were inside.”

  Peter’s face hardened. “It’s time to make a choice right now, Carl.”

  Barry saw Peter’s sudden resolve and begged Carl. “Please, son. There’s still time to make it right.”

  “No,” answered Kafka. “For the first time in my life, I have a purpose. I was made to do this, and the world will be forever changed by my actions.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Peter.

  Kafka pushed Barry aside. “It’s settled. Dad, go inside.”

  Barry looked horrified. “Carl, surely you don’t—”

  “Inside,” Kafka insisted.

  “Listen to him,” Peter urged.

  Barry looked at them both, realizing that this was the last time he was going to see both of them together. He knew one of them was not walking away from this.

  “Yvette, take my father out of here,” Kafka instructed.

  She nodded and gently guided him away and out of the church.

  “So this is it,” said Peter.

  The glass shattered. The doppelgänger was coming in.

  “I guess so,” said Kafka. “I will try to make it quick, brother.”

  “Let’s dance.”

  Peter rolled on the floor to one of the operative’s bodies and snatched up a gun as Kafka leapt in the air. Peter rolled away in time as he felt Kafka’s heel graze his cheek and slam into the tile.

  He took aim and fired, but Kafka moved ever so slightly in different directions, dodging the bullets by millimeters. Kafka delivered a swift kick, sending Peter sliding across the floor and slamming into the wooden vestment cabinet.

  Peter struggled to get up and moved his head to the right just in time as Kafka buried his fist into the cabinet door, punching all the way through.

  Peter spun away towards the RGT apparatus as Kafka pulled off the cabinet door in an attempt to free his arm. Peter took the opportunity to grab another gun from another of the slain operatives.

  He fired into the wooden cabinet door. Kafka’s view was impeded by the door, and he didn’t see Peter coming. As Peter emptied his gun, several of the shots hit Kafka in his body and arm.

  Peter felt a blow to his head from behind and his gun went flying across the room. He turned in time to see Yvette’s fist make contact with his face, sending him flying backward.

  Kafka pulled off the cabinet door and flung it to the ground. He was hunched over and holding his side. Those shots took something out of him.

  “Two against one, eh?” Peter said. “Glad to see you guys are playing fair.”

  Yvette saw that Kafka was injured, and fury exploded in her soul. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  She ran at Peter, but he dodged a foot stomp and kicked her legs out from under her. She hit the tile floor hard and was momentarily stunned.

  As Peter stood up, Kafka came running at him. They made contact and broke down the door to the church. They rolled around by the altar, alternating the top position. Kafka pushed Peter off, sending him sliding into the wooden pews.

  “Your girlfriend’s quite the catch,” said Peter standing up and brushing himself off. He looked up at the skeletons smiling down at him.

  Kafka was up on his feet in one deft move. Shit. He was still fast. “She’s out of your league, Pete. Just like Fiona. Doesn’t that just burn your ass?”

  Peter looked behind Kafka, his eyes widening. “Oh hell.”

  Yvette came running out of the sacristy with a submachine gun and open fired. Peter ran down the side of the church using the black-and-white striped columns as cover. Shards of the columns flew off and bullets whizzed through the gaps missing Peter by the skin of his teeth.

  Kafka, something taken out of him, flew down the center aisle slower than he normally would have, which allowed Peter just enough time to reach the front doors first.

  The only problem was that they were locked from the inside. Kafka flew at him with full force. Peter stepped aside in time for Kafka to fly through the doors, tearing them right off their hinges.

  Peter ran through the opening and into the street as bullets shot past his ears. He jumped over Kafka lying stunned on the ground, and narrowly avoided crashing into a storefront in the red and yellow striped building across the street.

  He ran up the dim street in the cool winter air, the sight of the striped houses making him dizzy. As he ran, he heard the roar of a motorcycle engine come from around the side of the church behind him.

  Damn, that bitch was persistent.

  He ran past closed outdoor restaurants with little tables and multi-colored umbrellas bearing the brand names of Italian beers and liquors. Yvette was closing the gap quickly.

  Peter ducked down an alleyway and up the backs of houses. He passed under an arch as he heard the motorcycle tear around the corner and up the hill after him.

  Bullets hit the ground at his feet and flew past him as he ran in zig zags, which made him harder to hit but allowed her to catch up quicker as he was covering ground more slowly.

  Just as she was practically at his back, he jumped left into a doorway and she soared right on past him. He jumped out and ran in the other direction as he heard her take her hand off the throttle and apply the hand breaks. It was too narrow for her to turn around easily.

  He bolted back down the alleyway and turned left in between two houses. As he re-entered the street he was previously on, he noticed a shadow dancing above his head in the waning moonlight. It was Kafka jumping from rooftop to rooftop, tracking Peter like a predator of the sky.

  Instead of running back down the street, Peter ran across it and into another alleyway on the other side. That bastard would have to leap across the street to follow. Given his injuries, that would seem unlikely, thus buying Peter another few seconds.

  He ran up another steep alleyway as he heard the growl of the motorcycle somewhere behind him, searching for him. Suddenly, a great shadow leapt in front of him, and Kafka hit the ground. He knelt where he landed for a moment, the exertion and the fall having taken something out of him.

  Peter ducked between another couple of peach and pink colored buildings and re-emerged out onto the main street in front of a wine artisan shop. He looked up the street and saw Yvette perched on her motorcycle. Unfortunately, she noticed him, too, and began careening down the sloped main boulevard right at him.

  The streets were largely empty, save for a few locals taking in some crisp early morning air. Peter ran to the side by an outdoor café. The place was vacant, locked up, and the umbrellas closed.

  He reached over a wrought iron railing and snatched up an umbrella, pointing the tip at the oncoming Yvette like a joust. She saw the point coming at her but couldn’t stop her own momentum. She tried to take aim at Peter with her submachine gun, but it was too late.

  The point of the umbrella crunched into her chest cavity, knocking her off the motorcycle and sending Peter and the motorcycle flying into the café, crashing into the tables and chairs.

  Peter opened his eyes. He was caught in the opening in between the seat and backrest of a chair, his right arm radiating pain as he tried to hoist himself up. It was broken. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a gash on his hairline.

  He rolled over, taking some chairs stuck together with him. He agonizingly shimmied his way loose and slowly got to his feet. He saw lights turning on and faces appearing in windows.

  He stepped out of the café and saw the body of Yvette lying on the uneven stone, blood running out of the right side of her mouth, her eyes wide open with shock, the last emotion that ran through her…before the umbrella did.

&nbs
p; Peter took her submachine gun and walked down the street, his body aching and paining from all directions. He saw a smart car parked on the side of the road in a little nook next to a staircase leading up to an apartment.

  He preferred a Mack truck, but this would do. He smashed the window with the stock of the submachine gun and opened the door from inside. He slid into the seat and closed the door gently.

  If he was going to beat Carl, it wouldn’t be mano-a-mano. He would need help and, unfortunately, this little shitbox was the only thing on hand. He pulled out the wires under the steering column and severed them with a shard of broken glass. He stripped the ends and began to hotwire the car with his good hand.

  He heard a shrill screech, like an enraged banshee, in the distance behind him. Carl had found Yvette. Poor bastard. He tried so hard to meet a woman. When he finally did, Peter had to go and kill her. He felt awful. But in his defense, she was trying to kill him.

  Soon Carl would be coming for him and, if he wasn’t pissed off before, he was going to go nuclear now. The poor kid had gone crazy with all that talk of perfect beings and invasion.

  He peeked above the dashboard and saw Carl’s lithe shadowy form and four red eyes stalk down the hill past him. Peter reached down and crossed the wires. The engine turned over and he twisted the exposed tips together.

  He put the car in gear and crept out of his spot slowly. He couldn’t see in the waning darkness, a reverse twilight, so he turned on the headlights totally prepared to gun it.

  There was no one there down the stretch of the street. Where did he—

  Suddenly Kafka descended on the little car, his long limbs stretching over it like a spider overwhelming a morsel. Peter floored it and sent the car bowling down the street as fast as it would go.

  Kafka was reaching into the broken window and grabbing at Peter, unfazed by his forearm being sliced by shards of broken glass. Peter was leaning inward avoiding the swiping hand.

  Peter saw around Kafka’s hideous form that the jetty was approaching fast. He sped past rows of multi-colored boats on either side of the road and onto the narrow cement jetty. Kafka looked behind him to see the sea rushing at him.

  For a moment, the little car’s engine gunned as it popped up on the lip, smashed through the top of the cement barrier, and flipped over the rocks on the other side. Peter and Kafka were weightless for a brief moment. The front of the car slammed the water so hard that the jagged glass on the broken car window severed Kafka’s right arm, causing it to land in Peter’s lap.

  Peter was slammed forward against the steering wheel, knocking the wind out of him. The windshield spider-webbed around the impact of Kafka’s face. Water rushed into the little car as it sank into the water.

  Peter got his bearings, grabbed the submachine gun, and drifted out of his seat and to the surface of the water. The car sank, taking Kafka with it, but the water wasn’t that deep. Peter hoped he was pinned under the weight of the car.

  He climbed up the rocks to the top of the jetty where the cement barrier was smashed to pieces. He lay prone catching his breath as the sun rose over Monterosso, chasing out the monochromatic night and bathing the many colors of the town in golden light.

  Peter heard splashing behind him and he turned around to see his mother climbing up the jetty one-handed. She looked up at him imploringly, the sight of her rendering Peter speechless.

  She reached out for him, and he so badly wanted to take her hand. Then he reminded himself that she was gone. Peter grabbed the submachine gun and fired into his brother. Kafka was hit over and over, sliding down a little each time, but he kept coming.

  Kafka grabbed Peter’s right ankle tight and looked up at him. Peter wasn’t able to classify the expression on his brother’s face—hatred, betrayal, shame. It was horrible and made Peter’s stomach turn. Kafka let go of Peter, and Peter delivered a boot to his face sending him rolling down and into the water.

  After Kafka disappeared under the surface, Peter waited for some time, but his brother never returned.

  Chapter 16

  The Next Day

  14:07 HRS

  Peter sat in the debriefing room at Fort Bliss with his arm in a cast. As it ended up, he had also dislocated his shoulder from the impact of the joust with Yvette and was recovering from a mild concussion.

  “So what you’re telling me is that this Kafka was your brother, Carl?” asked General Ramses.

  “Yes, sir. It was.”

  “I suppose that’s why he broke your father out of Guantanamo Bay.”

  “What about my father, sir?”

  “He’s free to go,” said Ramses dismissively. “Let’s talk about the RGT.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The report…your report states that you were the one who smashed it.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s correct. That was the apparatus they led us to believe was lost with Captain Fiona London.”

  “I see. And this Simon Belmont…he was the mastermind behind all of this?”

  “Carl appeared to have worked out the finer points of their plan, sir. But, yes, Belmont was a high ranking member of OIL.”

  “Were there any others, Captain?”

  “The girl, from what I could tell, was important but not one of the top ranking members.”

  “And this was the girl that made contact with your brother at the bar.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Your brother took credit for the deaths of those civilians at Siena and Lieutenant Kettle and his team.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You saw his body slip into the water?”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “You are aware, Captain, that his body was never recovered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you said he wasn’t wearing his protective helmet when you saw him slide into the water.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Did you have any indication why he did any of this?”

  Peter hesitated for a moment. “With all due respect, sir, you did order his termination.”

  Ramses looked flustered. Betancourt sat there stoic as ever. “I’m not sure how that necessitates treason, Captain,” said Ramses with no small degree of irritation.

  “I guess he’d rather have lived a traitor than die an instrument of corruption.”

  “I’m not sure what you are referring to, son.”

  “It says in Captain Birdsall’s report,” interjected Betancourt, “that Belmont and his brother both claimed that OIL had some involvement with our military. If this is true, its implications are profound.”

  “Poppycock,” said Ramses flippantly. “OIL propaganda designed to confuse and disillusion.”

  “The RGT program is implicated,” stated Betancourt. “I don’t suppose Congress would like to look into this matter further. It might affect their deliberation on the passage of the Second Patriot Act.”

  Ramses was glaring at Betancourt. “Will you excuse us, Captain Birdsall?”

  “Yes, sir.” Peter looked uneasily at Colonel Betancourt, who nodded. Peter rose, saluted both men, replaced his headgear, and stepped out of the room. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall.

  Minutes passed slowly and, after a half an hour, the door finally opened. Ramses stormed out and stalked down the hall back to his office. Betancourt stepped out of the room.

  “Sir.”

  “Captain.”

  “What happened in there?”

  Betancourt gave a sly grin. “The General reminded me about the danger of vicious rumors and the deleterious effect it would have on morale and our programs.”

  “And what do you say, Colonel?”

  “Me thinks he doth protest too much.”

  Peter smiled.

  “We’re going to issue a press release that the Automaton went rogue and you killed him, which in fact, you did,” said Betancourt.

  “Hey, why let the truth get in the way of a good story,” said Peter, resigned t
o the fact that you can’t fight city hall. “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, you, Captain, have been promoted to Major.” Betancourt gauged Peter’s reaction. He was disappointed but not surprised. “This is a promotion. I thought you might have reacted differently.”

  “I just killed my own brother. Many good soldiers died in uncovering this plot.”

  Betancourt frowned. “And you think this promotion was meant to keep you quiet, and you’re wondering if you’re fighting for the right side.”

  “I know OIL is not the right side, sir. But I’m not sure that the army’s involvement in RGT is right.”

  “You are a soldier. It’s not your place to question,” reminded Betancourt.

  “But I’m a Major now.”

  “Well, Major Birdsall, unless you reach the rank of general, you cannot yet question General Ramses’ intentions. First, Major Lewis and the Navajas cartel, and now this. You keep uncovering plots like this and one day I’ll be taking orders from you.” Betancourt cleared his throat. “And speaking of your brother, I’ve been given the order to broadcast the frequency that activates your brother’s kill chip via satellite.”

  “Leave nothing to chance,” Peter said.

  “Yes, Major.”

  “Permission to flip the switch myself, Colonel.”

  “It’s actually a button. This isn’t the electric chair in some backwards Texas prison, Major. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I want to see this through.”

  Betancourt considered Peter’s request for a moment. “Granted.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Follow me to the satellite relay station. Lieutenant Farrow is waiting for us.”

  “Lead the way, sir.”

  Peter followed Betancourt to the relay station. Lieutenant Farrow was standing behind a switchboard overseeing the communications officers.

  Farrow saluted Peter. “Captain.”

  “He’s actually a major now,” said Betancourt.

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Farrow.” Farrow looked confounded.

  “I requested to give the order personally,” said Peter.

  Farrow looked at Betancourt for reassurance. “He said he wanted to see it through personally,” said Betancourt.