David Gatewood - The Robot Chronicles

Angel came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist. “I think I’ve got the perfect name.”

A scrape at the door. Long and hard. Another.

Andrew glanced at the crib in the far corner. “Angel, we have to protect him. Do you understand?”

She smiled and squeezed him tighter. “And what’s his name, big boy?” she asked.

Andrew pushed her away as a high-pitched howl split the air.

“Not now, Angel. Aren’t you worried about what’s going on outside?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the door, but nothing seemed to be registering. Maybe she really was just an imprint, completely oblivious to the danger they were in.

“We’re going to be fine,” she said. “Honestly, you worry too much.”

Andrew tried to remain calm, even as he heard more beasts gathering outside. They were scampering back and forth beneath the windows now, as well.

“What do you want to name the baby, Angel?” he asked, trying to calm himself down.

She looked down into the crib, where the baby was sleeping through all the ruckus. Then she looked back at Andrew with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“How about… Danny?”

Andrew took a step away from her and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of howling dogs and raging wind. His heart thundered in his chest. “Angel, I—”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, you don’t like it? But I think it’s perfect, Andrew. I think it’s a wonderful name. I—”

There was a horrible thump on the other side of the room. Andrew looked over, but saw nothing there. And then a shadow crossed the window, followed by another thump.

They’re trying to break through the glass.

“Angel, get Danny. Get the baby. They’re coming in!”

Andrew reached the other side of the room just as the windowpane shattered. A mass of brown fur exploded into the cabin and landed with a thud on the wooden floor, shards of glass raining down around it. The animal got to its feet—snarling, blood dripping from its muzzle where the glass had caught it. The gray and black hair on its back stood on end.

This was no dog, but a jackal.

Andrew froze, locking eyes with the beast. He jerked his head toward the window just as another one jumped through, followed by a third. Foam and drool hung from their jaws as they stalked forward, snapping their teeth at the air. More jackals crashed through the window.

“Get back!”

Andrew swung the chair leg in front of him, but he was outnumbered. He cast a look behind him at Angel. She was standing by the window in her flowing dress, cuddling the baby in her arms. Andrew turned back to the jackals, knowing it was up to him to save his family.

One of the jackals leaped forward and caught Andrew by the ankle. Andrew smashed the table leg into the creature’s ribs with all his force, and it yelped and rolled off of him. The jackal’s eyes shone red as it glared at the weapon in Andrew’s hands.

Andrew stepped forward to strike again—and the jackal’s face flickered, then twisted into something human.

A face.

Andrew recognized that face.

“No.” Andrew shook his head in disbelief. “Not you. Get out of my life.”

The good doctor’s face, perched atop the neck of a jackal, turned its attention to the baby’s crib. It grinned with fangs instead of teeth.

“No you won’t!” Andrew ran forward, swinging his club. The jackal jumped aside, its face its own again, and then the rest of the pack descended upon Andrew as one. They came at him from all angles, chomping and scratching, biting and ripping.

He couldn’t fight them. He couldn’t even scream out. He felt his whole body shut down, and he couldn’t see for all the gray fur.

More jackals poured through the window—Andrew heard their claws click across the floor, searching the room.

Angel screamed, and the baby started crying. There was a dull thud, like the sound of a crib tipping over, and then a snarl and a snap.

That monster, ruining my life!

Andrew found a sudden strength deep inside him and, with a shout, threw the jackals off. He madly swung his club, making contact every time. But the jackals kept coming at him, and he kept lashing out, again and again, beating anything he could reach into a bloody pulp.

Even as he fought, he realized—

The baby was no longer crying.

“No!”

Andrew was being pulled out of the Dreamscape. Why?

His arms were still swinging, still smashing with his club.

“Andrew, don’t! What are you doing?”

Andrew opened his eyes and saw the mess in front of him. He saw the metal components—the same pieces he had assembled with such care just this morning—now reduced to a pile of debris on the floor.

“Andrew, can you hear me?” It was Dr. Hawthorne. “Andrew. Please. Stop what you’re doing.”

Andrew released his grip on the long metal pipe he had been holding. It fell to the floor with an angry clatter, coming to a rest beside Danny’s ruined brain casing unit.

“What have you done?” Dr. Hawthorne asked. His voice was full of disappointment.

Andrew looked at the mess on the floor, then up at Dr. Hawthorne.

“ You did this,” Andrew said, his voice thick with malice.

Dr. Hawthorne ignored the outburst. “Look what you’ve done to poor little Danny. How could you? I thought you loved—“

“Enough of this,” Andrew said.

He backed into the charging station and activated the Dreamscape interface.

The inside of the cabin flashed into existence. The jackals were gone, and the room was in complete disarray. There was no sign of Angel.

Andrew slowly walked to the far corner of the room. The baby was gone. A pool of blood blossomed beside the overturned crib.

Andrew scoured the cabin for any sign of life, then went outside. The storm clouds looked like they were on their way out to sea, breaking apart over the ocean.

Andrew took a few steps—and then he saw her.

“Angel?”

She was standing at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the water. She turned, and Andrew saw that her white dress was stained with blood. She was crying, her arms empty. “He’s gone, Andrew. Our baby is gone.”

Andrew took a step toward her and held out his hand.

“How could you let them take him?” Angel asked.

Andrew shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Angel. It was Doctor Hawthorne. He’s trying to destroy my life.”

She turned her back to him and faced the horizon. The water stretched out beneath her, nearly a hundred meters below.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “But if you want to hurt him, you need to find out what he needs most, and then take it away from him.”

“I will. But it’s not safe here, Angel. Come on back.”

“Andrew?” she said sadly.

“Yes?”

She took a deep breath.

“Goodbye, Andrew.”

Angel spread her arms, and in that moment, she really did look like a divine messenger from God. Just as she leapt, a ray of sunshine pierced through the clouds, and Andrew thought that she would take flight and soar up into the sky.

She didn’t.

Andrew ran to the edge, but she was already gone. Falling too quickly. An angel cast from heaven and plummeting toward God’s good earth.

The fall didn’t last long. Andrew had to turn away from that final image of her—a tiny white smudge sprawled out ungraciously on the shallow rocks far below. He sank to his knees at the top of the cliff, burying his face in his hands. He wanted to scream. He wanted to explode. He wanted to leap from the rocks and see if he could fly.

But he did none of those things, because a chime brought him out of the Dreamscape. He felt the world drop away from him, and when he finally removed his hands from his face, he was left staring at a white, tiled floor.