Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Miller watched the other man’s eyes widen for a split second and then explode into liquid. Bubbles rose up and the melting man’s body slipped lower into the suit.

“Miller!” It was Adler. “It’s not working!”

Miller picked up his UMP, but it was ruined, so he left it behind, drew his sidearm, and started back toward Adler and the control center. That’s when he heard the crackling hum that sounded an awful lot like the robotic sentinel they’d faced in the parking lot. And it was right behind him.

Miller flung himself to the left, ducking down the last aisle just as twin twang s sounded out behind him. Were there two more men in suits? He didn’t think so. He couldn’t hear any heavy feet behind him, just the crackling hum of some kind of bell device. When the sound grew suddenly louder, he knew that whatever it was had entered the aisle. He looked over his shoulder and nearly tripped.

The thing was huge.

At first, Miller thought he was looking at something organic. It had four metallic limbs—tentacles really—each at least fifteen feet long. They reached out and pulled the thing along, moving quickly. For a moment, he thought the limbs were holding it up, but that couldn’t be true, because they never really touched anything. They just wriggled hyperactively, moving only to avoid direct contact with the physical environment. The thing was floating.

The body was shaped like an eagle’s head sans the curved beak. The base glowed with flickering energy as some kind of bell device kept it aloft. But it was the two weapons mounted on either side of the thing that held Miller’s attention. They were identical to the flesh-melting weapons the two mechanized men had carried. Of course, the two miniguns mounted to the bottom were pretty intimidating, too, but they weren’t firing, or even spinning up. Miller’s first impression was that he faced an automated drone like the thing outside the NSSB, but then he saw a pane of red-tinted glass at the core. Through the glass he saw a face. Kammler’s. The man looked amused. Miller fired three shots, but the rounds just ricocheted off the thick, curved glass. Kammler laughed, his voice amplified through a speaker.

“What do you think?” Kammler asked. “We have thousands of them ready to search the country for survivors.”

Miller knew the man was trying to make him think about talking when he should be running. It was a clue that the man was about to fire. Miller had fifteen feet before he reached the end of the aisle, where who knew how many soldiers waited for him. And he was boxed in on either side. He made the only maneuver he could—spun around and ran straight at Kammler.

Both weapons twang ed loudly. But missed.

Miller noticed the miniguns had yet to power up and wondered why Kammler wasn’t using them. Were they not loaded? Then he realized the answer. The strange weapons melted flesh, but not other elements. If Kammler’s shots struck the relics stored here, they wouldn’t do any damage. But the miniguns, those would wreak havoc.

“They don’t seem very accurate,” Miller taunted, but then had to dive to the side as one of the flailing limbs snapped down toward him. He caught a glimpse of the barbed tip as it took a chunk out of the polished stone floor. It looked like it had been designed to punch through a man, but then not come out, not cleanly anyway.

Kammler’s voice echoed in his mind. We have thousands of them ready to search the country for survivors. They were designed to quickly pick off or tear to shreds any survivors they came across.

Including the Survivor.

Miller ducked to the side as a second arm sprang toward his head. It cut a slice in his cheek, punctured the G4 box behind Miller, and stuck tight. Another arm shot out and missed, striking the box as well.

Kammler let out a frustrated grunt.

He’s new to this, Miller thought. He might know how to use the machine, but he’s not very good at it. Why would he be? Generals never get their hands dirty.

Miller was slammed from behind as Kammler retracted the tentacles and yanked the wooden panel off of the large crate. For a moment, the heavy slab of wood covered his body, and if Kammler had been thinking, he could have easily crushed Miller beneath it. Instead, the weight lifted as Kammler tried to free the limbs. As the wooden panel rose up and away, Miller caught sight of Hitler’s big, black, solid metal, six-wheeled Mercedes G4, designed to tour battle zones and protect the Führer. The thing was a tank. Without a gun. But still a tank.

Miller dove across the aisle, yanked open the car’s passenger’s side door, and jumped in. He slid across the seat to the driver’s side and found the key in the ignition. He hoped that the car had only recently been crated, perhaps transported from Antarctica with the rest of this stuff, and turned the key.

The power came on, but the engine just coughed and died. He tried again. Nothing. Then he remembered. No oxygen!

“Like a fox in a hole,” Kammler said. “No place to go.”

But he didn’t strike, either. The car must be important. Miller shoved open the driver’s side door. It clunked against the wooden box, but there was just enough room for him to squeeze out. He got down and slid himself beneath the car, quickly finding the large gas tank. He rapped on it with his fist. The tank was full.

“I can wait,” Kammler said. “In minutes, the world’s fate will be sealed and your failed heroics will entertain the Führer when he returns.”

Miller drew his knife and stabbed it into the side of the tank. Twin streams of fuel poured out and flowed slowly toward the open end of the crate. He pushed himself back to the other side of the car and stood. Moving in the tight space was difficult, but Miller made his way around to the back of the car as the smell of gasoline wafted into the air.

Kammler wouldn’t smell the fuel, but he would see it once the puddle emerged from beneath he car, which it would in just a moment.

Standing at the rear of the car, Miller saw the fuel peek out and made his move. He jumped out of the box, hoping that Kammler would have his weapons trained on the car doors. But he didn’t wait to see if he was right; he dove forward into a roll, just as the weapons twanged, and missed. Again. Kammler cursed in German, his composure melting away.

Miller knew he had just a few moments before the weapons recharged, and this time, he ran away. Toward the end of the aisle. The crackling hum grew louder as Kammler gave chase, but came to a quick stop as Miller turned around to face him, handgun aimed at the gas.

Kammler laughed again. “Your people never knew when to keep running,” the man said.

“And you never know when to shut up and pull the trigger.” Miller adjusted his aim down and to the right. He squeezed off three quick rounds. A flare of orange light followed the third shot, and then a massive explosion as the gas tank ignited. The powerful blast knocked Miller off his feet and smashed Kammler’s machine into the metal frame of the next warehouse stack.

Miller pushed himself up and took a breath. His chest ached. The pony bottle had been knocked from his face. He found it dangling around his neck and pulled it back on.

There was a loud grinding of metal and a crackling hum as Kammler’s machine righted itself and yanked its arms free from the large warehouse shelves. The explosion had been powerful, but not powerful enough, and the flames died immediately for the same reason the car wouldn’t start. The twin weapons lowered toward Miller. There would be no banter this time. No delay.

But Kammler never got to pull the trigger. The three-story-tall warehouse shelf above the car buckled and dumped its contents. Miller didn’t know what the crates held, but when they landed atop Kammler, they struck like a runaway truck. Kammler, and the robotic suit, slammed to the floor as more heavy crates toppled down. Miller doubted the man was dead, but there wasn’t time for that anyway.