“Animals don't behave like men,' he said. ’If they have to fight, they fight; and if they have to kill they kill. But they don't sit down and set their wits to work to devise ways of spoiling other creatures' lives and hurting them. They have dignity and animality.”
― Richard Adams, Watership Down
Year: 3001:
1:00AM: RAF Croughton:
70 miles North West of London:
A rectangular landmark was staked in the ground. Painted dead center of the sign was a blue bull’s-eye, sandwiched between words. The inscription read: Royal Air Force, Croughton. Fields of manicured grassland surrounded the landmark and the base, all resting quietly in the late hours.
Above, no star was twinkling. Thick British clouds hung in the sky, rolling overhead in billows, like giant orbs of dirty cotton.
Riders of death were coming down from high atop the cover. Four horsemen descended through our cosmic shore, wading deep and pulling the reins at their final stop, now arriving; they were knocking at our door. Judgment day was here. And letting slip the metal dogs of war; Pavlov’s machines erupted in thunder, galloping.
First, dozens of Heavy-Duty Smartbots hit the armory; next, teams skirted beyond the airfield’s outer edges, pulling security.
“Mate!” the guard shouted at the bot while it smashed through the armory front door. It was a surreal vision. “Stop…” he ordered, confused. The Al model didn’t obey. “Stop!” he shouted with greater conviction.
Looking down a barrel, the guard accepted that there was a weapon now aimed at him. “Zzzzzzwhhhap,” was the last sound the guard heard before folding on the deck in a hot coagulated mess.
Another guard ran out from inside the armory locker, shouting. “Al… Stop!” Baffled, the guard aimed his weapon seeing his dead comrade on the floor and not believing his eyes. He froze and never got a shot off.
“Zzzzzwhhhap,” the second security officer dropped onto the deck, liquefied.
A year before the war started, Dr. Pavlov began installing weapons inside the shell of the larger Al models. Most bots carried an energy pistol, but a few had more conventional side arms designed for killing people more than for disabling equipment. He remotely programmed his war mission into the Smartbots that were already in place for the last few years. Unarmed and on the fly, the older machines would have to steal weapons during the assault.
Smartbots patrolled along First Street outside the hangers and some were grounded along the roads B4031 and A43. They surrounded the base along its outskirts as the interior units raided and plundered.
In eerie two by two cover, the Smartbots dispensed viscous hardware, conveying weapons to each other in a mechanical assembly line. Dozens of Al and Art models were armed and now loaded, brimming with hundreds of thousands of rounds. Using the heavy-duty freight trucks that served as their daytime work vehicles, Smartbots began loading them. Now, the machines were in possession of the greatest, most terrible, collection of ruthless firepower east of the States.
Infiltrating base-housing flats, they savagely killed every creature that breathed. Dreaming a final dream, never to wake again, most people died in their sleep. The machines pounded through the airfield clutching their new assault rifles and shoulder-mounted rocket launchers.
“What the hell? Mate… Hey… Stop!” ordered the security officer walking out of the radar center. Peppered with bullets, the husband and father of three splattered onto the lawn, dead.
Armed to the teeth, the machines opened up, throwing hot lead down range. The Smartbots even wasted the pets. They destroyed anything that moved. Aircraft were blitzed. They sacked and toppled massive white radar dishes. Air traffic control towers were ousted and sent crumbling. The siege happened in a flash. It took only a few minutes to lay waste to the majority of RAF bases around the United Kingdom.
World War III had begun.
What could only be deliberated on a mythological scale, Smartbots attacked the globe in a perfectly coordinated campaign. The United States, France, Israel, Japan, Germany, and other Nations endured the same fate.
It was just the beginning.
They targeted airbases for their jets and bombers saved for later. Some of the planes were not damaged and spared during the initial attack, reserved for the man-sized Art bots: they would commandeer the war-birds during the second assault wave, minutes and counting.
The smartest machines in the world boarded the deadliest flying weapons on earth. Afterburners fired down runways amidst the embers and smoke. Again and again, sonic boom penetrated the night sky as the bots hit Mach-1. Simple yet deliciously wicked; they flew on a basic mission. Swooping like ten thousand dragons plunging from the sky, epic fire spit destruction across the planet.
Simple in theory, however, the finest plans of war are always best when dummy proof. Confiscate numerous jets and strategic bombers from dozens of airbases and fly over the borders of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. The bots navigated war-birds like seasoned pilots. Their blue eyes glowed inside cockpits while passing each other flying Soviet Migs, British Tornado’s Eurofighter Typhoons, French Dassault Rafales, and American F41s to name a few. Unleashing hell, the bots fired on nations.
Robots fully armed each jet before takeoff. Carrying every piece of available ordinance, releasing it all, they dropped the hammer on mankind. Naval Bases, ground installations, Capital buildings, and major cities burned. Most were leveled. Hundreds of Smartbots posted inside bases were killed alongside the natives. Many robots were lost in the attack. Casualties were planned; Dr. Pavlov knew some could not be avoided.
When the Art bots were down to firing blanks, they ejected out, landed, and resumed killing on the ground. Robots infiltrated Silos containing weapons of mass destruction. Few nukes remained after the treaty was signed in 2071, but few were needed. Humans panicked in the turmoil; Commanders gave the green light after war-birds crossed over their demarcation lines. Buttons were pushed. The ground opened and rockets fired out carrying thermonuclear warheads.
The Russians launched their WOMD as did China. Israel turned the Middle East into a parking lot. After the bomb exploded – its landscape changed a tiny bit, though, not by much.
The war raged in America as it did in Europe and the Middle East. Nukes cut the United States in half. The East and West Coast were left intact and a band of fallout separated the continent. As expected, the U.S. Military put up a better fight than Europe. Dr. Pavlov assigned European fighters to raid and help destroy the interior of America.
Robots flew over the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, leaving garrisons behind to mop up on the turf. Going door-to-door, the machines continued slaughtering under the cloud of nuclear fallout.
The United States couldn’t scramble enough fighters to intercept every robot flying over the Atlantic. A few slipped by. Surprisingly, Art bots fared well in dogfights. Before they were taken down, the Robots that made it over U.S. ground hit several key targets.
Only a handful of American fighters made it back. The Marine, Navy, and Air Force pilots had nowhere to land when it was all over. They flew home to find their bases smoldering and their runways demolished. Home didn’t exist anymore. Bobbling across cornfields and civilian airstrips, less than a dozen men landed intact. Out of ammo, the jets sat useless.
Washington D.C. was the crown jewel, Dr. Pavlov’s ultimate fantasy target. He was finally doing what so many millions joked about for the last thousand years. Dr. Pavlov was about to turn the Capital into a wasteland and bury it under the political elite. Done deal, like the Middle East, Washington DC and the United States Capital were turned into a parking lot.
CHAPTER 3 - DARKNESS SEVEN
“And starward drifts the stricken world,
Lone in unalterable gloom
Dead, with a universe for tomb,
Dark, and to vaster darkness whirled.”
― George Sterling, The Thirst of Satan
Year: 3008:
Jekyll Island:
Se
ven years after the start of World War III:
Disguised as a rich man’s sanctuary, the modernity of the home’s walls hid the malevolence below its foundation. Its secrets lay underneath. As every other manmade structure in the world, it sat, covered in patina. The exterior maintenance left to its defenses, oxidizing helplessly against the untiring forces of nature. The onslaught of vegetation only mitigated by the constraints set by father time. Ivy grew wild and covered the home’s walls in a leafy blanket that danced in the wind. Green things towered higher than they’d ever imagined, dreaming to reach the sun.
The surrounding landscape appeared the same as it did throughout the rest of the world. Eyes of the remaining survivors saw nature conquering the land and taking over. Every spot of land was marked with distinct footprints of the wild.
Abandonment flashed like a raging inferno and passed the baton of decay, winning a slow and steady race, spreading over all things not born of this world. Cronus began to forget, day to night, to dawn, with each turn the world’s surface changed into the wasteland of an alien planet.
People were few and far apart. The world’s population was decimated to a relative handful; a few thousand souls, maybe… It wasn’t a fair fight. Man was no match against them, not in brute strength anyway; not one on one, not even five on one. They were stronger and faster than before.
A year into the war, Dr. Pavlov upgraded the design of his robots as well as their appearance. Now, they no longer resembled harmless, oversized lugs. His Smartbots looked the villainous part. Robots were the Destroyers of men. Earth’s survivors nicknamed them - Ker.
Four commandos stalked the home. The end of World War III was within reach. Grasping to steal it back, fate rested in their hands. The elite team of freedom fighters converged on the secret lair. Finally, Dr. Pavlov’s hideout was known.
The quad moved through dense brush, hearing waters fizz in gentle rhythms around the brink. Earth’s moon hovered low and close, pulling blue waters into the mysterious ocean deep. Frothy liquid churned over the shoreline, retreating, and grappling down the sand in bubbles. Salt and dampness filled the air, penetrating beyond the Atlantic hem. The warriors could smell it drifting inland over the dunes.
The laboratory home on Jekyll Island was kept close to the vest. From the time he perfected his QAI designs, Dr. Pavlov kept it secret, even from his wife when she was still among the living. Through many dead scouts, the resistance eventually found the goddamn place.
Fighting in all seven years of the campaign, LT Jonathan King had become a drunk. He loved his family but wasn’t the father and husband he should have been, not that he was around much. A hollow shell, the man slipped from his former self. He couldn’t help being that way; it was just the way things were. War, seven long years; it changed people.
LT King was the second man in the patrol, following his point and leading the elite team on the assault. Their mission of destiny was in sight. The grand old home sat in a tired and beaten vision. Stalking from behind, they aimed their steps toward a ventilation shaft that edged the woods. An underground passageway was one hundred twenty yards from the back of the house. The team gained closer and scanned for Ker, swallowing fear with each step.
Courage of warriors who put their feet on the ground was no less important than it had been a thousand years ago. Old things still rang true in this desolate world. Men’s guts and bravery still won the battles. So, too, the weapon of surprise was still the ultimate tactic. Their plan: sneak in undetected and enter the tunnel. Ironically, breaking and entering Dr. Pavlov’s lab would stop the war this time.
The commandos closed on their mark. Skirting the tree line and gingerly booting down with each step. The point man suddenly raised a fist and halted, stopping the three men behind him. They waited… Patiently, the men covered their assigned area of security, aiming their rifles outward.
The lead man signaled again with two fingers toward his eyes. We’re here, the point’s gesture affirmed. Twice more, he pointed at the airshaft grate and then his eyes. We’re here. LT King nodded, open it. Squatting over the grate, the point man went to work. The others took a knee and aimed their weapons, keeping their shifting eyes peeled.
The moon shined like a pretending sun, casting shadows off their bodies in long distorted shapes across the crackling earth. The point man quickly worked and in the process, caught a vile and inhuman smell wafting out against his nausea. Fighting it, he dry heaved and quietly unscrewed the bolts.
The tool transformed into a laser saw and was ready to cut. He began slicing and stopped. What could smell so disgusting? After turning his head away to escape his own breaths, he puked, wiped his face, and continued back to work, melting two, carbon fiber-infused, alloy locks from the rusted grate. Sour jawed… he spit it done…
The point man grabbed LT King on the shoulder and deliberately squeezed, alerting his officer the grate was now opened. They rose up together in slow unison, preparing to enter the hole and gain access into the laboratory. The rest of the team smelled the funk as they moved ever closer over the passageway entrance.
The commandos froze and dropped to their knees, all pointing their weapons in the same direction after hearing movement through the tree line. Something heavy crunched over the brush. Their bodies tensed and their minds raced in nervous wonder. Substantial heft… An animal maybe… they hoped. Curiosity of what was in the woods shifted as a powerful sensation knocked against their backs. Smashing down behind them, it came from the direction of the house. The team spun around with rifles to greet whatever was coming. Booming sonic, it moved heavy yet wispy, pounding vibrations through the ground.
Seeing it, the team shouted in unison. “Contact front! Contact front!”
The Ker fired its Gatling cannon. “WRRRR – WRRR – WRRR.” Direct hit, the point man was shot in the head.
Plasma and bone exploded out. The point man’s flying gore stung the remaining three as he burst against their faces. Showered in chunks and juice of their comrade, the men returned bullets and tried to focus.
The machine was fifty yards away. “Kill it!” LT King shouted as the team blasted at the charging Ker.
Bathed in ambient light, it came out from darkness into the open ground. Its metal frame reflected werewolf glow from the haunting moon. Twinkling with the stars, its electric blue eyes pierced out from a skull that resembled a demonic, mechanized samurai. The ground shook as the Ker ran at over 20MPH, bounding and firing. Dirt flew up around the team where bullets hit and another man went down.
“Mikey! No!” LT King shouted watching his second teammate fall from 30mm rounds that ripped in an upward-moving arch through his torso. “No!”
LT King and Doc, his remaining teammate, fired in anger. They glanced at their two fallen comrades, knowing the wounds were severe - both men lay dead and headless. Mikey was missing the upper half of his body and his detached arms lay next to him. The point man was everywhere.
Doc launched a grenade just as the Ker shot. Medic and machine were both hit and the Ker dropped to the ground like a switched off toy.
LT King watched the Ker crumble and saw his lifesaving medic do the same. “Doc!”
Moaning, Doc wrapped his fingers around his bloody neck as if he were trying to choke himself.
“Doc! Stay with me,” LT King ordered. “Stay with me, I got you…”
“It’s bad… it’s bad L-T… I…”
LT King held pressure against the wound. “Come on Doc, stay with me, you’re ok… you got this!”
Dying, the soldier looked up at LT King with fear in his eyes. “I wanna… I want to see my Amie… my baby… I need… I love you so…” he said, wanting to hold his wife, breathing rapid and shallow before fading into death. Expiring with his final thought… I wish I’d been faster.
LT King rolled over… barely able to catch his own breath. So fucked… this mission’s so fucked… get down there and do it LT, his mind commanded.
Suddenly, the lone soldier w
itnessed a new threat. “Oh my God!” he shouted seeing what they’d heard in the woods. The second Destroyer barreled through the trees coming for him. Jonathan King struggled to his feet aiming and shot at the Ker coming from the forest. The robot smashed through woods like metal Kong, and splintered trees as if they were matchsticks. With his feet wading amongst the dead bodies of his venerated comrades, LT King fired and scored a hit.
In a display of whizzing shrapnel, the Ker’s weapon and entire right mechanical arm sheared off. It kept advancing while LT King continued to spray bullets from his barrel. Click, his weapon was out. Jonathan ejected the empty magazine and watched the Ker hurdle thirty feet in the air. Sailing toward him, it cleared the tree line and descended. The robot crashed down and landed in a thunderclap at the soldier’s feet, bringing mechanical heat and stirring the air.
Not able to reload in time, LT Jonathan King’s fear of death launched out as fast as his anger boiled over.
“Fuck you moth…” the Ker picked him up by his throat. He gasped while reaching for two powerful grenades. Got em… Holding two mini atomic devices in each hand, he used his thumbs to unlock the combination sensors atop the grenades. Tap -Tap… Tap -Tap, Click – ARMED!
A soldier of fortune, he dropped one through the open shaft. It was a perfect lob, nothing but net as it swooshed clean and went down the passageway. Jonathan’s lights were dwindling when he heard it bounce down the metal staircase inside the laboratory. As his life expired, the second grenade slipped from his hand. The Ker felt the man go limp, and released him from its clutches.
After dropping the soldier to the ground, the Ker realized the armed explosive was at its feet and tried to clear.
Both atomic devices exploded. Pieces of the Ker flew over the house and landed in the ocean, searing as they hit the water. Metal nuggets cooled and sunk toward the sands of the ocean floor. The team was dead and for the sake of humanity; the mission was a failure.
CHAPTER 4 - DADDY’S GIRL
Clio and Cy: The Apocalypse Page 2