Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

With all my might, I slam the back of the doll’s head against the edge of the toy box. It makes a loud thunk. Then, as I lean in to see if I’ve broken her, the doll scissors its arms down. The web of my thumbs are caught in the doll’s soft armpits and the hard metal underneath pinches me horribly. I shriek at the top of my lungs and drop Buttercup into the toy box.

The lights in the little house outside my window flick on. I hear a door open and close.

When I look down, I see that the glow inside the toy box has gone dead black. It’s dark now, but I know the box is full of nightmares. I can hear the mechanical grinding sounds as the toys climb around in there, squirming over each other to get at me. I see a struggling confusion of dinosaur tails wagging, hands grasping, legs scratching.

Just before I slam shut the lid, I hear that cold little baby doll voice speak to me from the blackness. “Nobody will believe you, Mathilda,” it says. “Mommy won’t believe you.”

Smack. The lid closes.

Now the pain and fear fully hit me. I start bawling at the top of my lungs. I can’t make myself stop. The lid of the toy box rattles as the action figures and Dino-bots and baby dolls shove against it. Nolan is calling my name, but I can’t respond.

There is something I must do. Somehow, through the haze of tears and snot and hiccups, I stay focused on this one important task: stacking things from my room on top of the toy box.

I mustn’t let the toys escape.

I’m dragging Nolan’s little art table toward the toy box when the bedroom lights flick on. I blink at the sudden brightness and feel strong hands clamp around my arms. The toys have come for me.

I scream again, for my life.

Mrs. Dorian pulls me close and hugs me tight, until I stop fighting. She’s in her nightgown and smells like lotion.

“Oh, Mathilda, what are you up to?” She squats down and faces me, wiping my nose with the sleeve of her nightgown. “What’s the matter with you, girl? Screaming like a banshee.”

Crying hard, I try to tell her what happened, but all I can say is the word “toys,” again and again.

“Mrs. Dorian?” asks Nolan.

My little brother is out of his bed, standing there in his pj’s. I notice that he has a Dino-bot under one arm. Still crying, I slap it out of his hands and onto the floor. Nolan gapes at me. I kick the toy under the bed before Mrs. Dorian can grab me again.

She holds me at arm’s length and looks at me hard, her face lined with worry. She turns my hands over and frowns.

“Why, your little thumbs are bleeding.”

I turn around to look at the toy box. It is silent and still now.

Then Mrs. Dorian scoops me up in her arms. Nolan grabs hold of her nightgown with one chubby hand. Before we walk out the door, she takes one last look around the bedroom.

She eyes the toy box, barely visible underneath a pile of objects: coloring books, a chair, a wastebasket, shoes, clothes, stuffed animals, and pillows.

“What’s in the box, Mathilda?” she asks.

“B-b-bad toys,” I stutter. “They want to hurt Nolan.”

I watch a wave of goose bumps rise, sweeping across Mrs. Dorian’s broad forearms like water droplets beading up on the shower curtain.

Mrs. Dorian is afraid. I can feel it. I can see it. The fear that is in her eyes at that moment plants itself inside my forehead. This worm of fear will live there from now on. No matter where I go or what happens or how much I grow up, this fear will stay with me. It will keep me safe. It will keep me sane.

I bury my face in Mrs. Dorian’s shoulder and she whisks my brother and me out of the room and down the long dark hallway. The three of us stop just outside the bathroom door. Mrs. Dorian pushes the hair out of my eyes. She gently pulls my thumb out of my mouth.

Over her shoulder, I can see a strip of light spilling from the bedroom doorway. I’m pretty sure all the toys are trapped in the toy box. I piled a lot of stuff on top of it. I think we’re safe for now.

“What’s that you’re saying, Mathilda?” asks Mrs. Dorian. “What are you repeating, girl?”

I turn my tear-streaked face and look directly into Mrs. Dorian’s round, scared eyes. In my strongest voice I say the words, “Robot defense act.”

And then I say them again. And again. And again. I know I mustn’t forget these words. I mustn’t get them wrong. For Nolan’s sake, I must remember these words perfectly. Soon, I’m going to have to tell Mommy what happened. And she is going to have to believe me.

When Laura Perez returned home from Washington, D.C., young Mathilda told her the story of what had happened. Congresswoman Perez chose to believe her daughter.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

These air traffic control communications occurred over the course of seven minutes. The fate of more than four hundred people—as well as two men who would become distinguished soldiers in the New War—was determined in seconds by a single woman: Denver air traffic controller Mary Fitcher. Note that italicized passages were not transmitted over the radio but collected from microphones inside the Denver air traffic control tower.

00:00:00

DENVER

United 42 heavy, this is Denver Approach. Say heading.

+00:00:02

UNITED

Uh, sorry, we’re turning back on course. United 42 heavy.

+00:00:05

DENVER

Roger.

+00:01:02

DENVER

United 42 heavy, turn left immediately. Heading 360. You’ve got traffic at twelve o’clock. Fourteen miles. Same altitude. It’s an American heavy 777.

+00:01:11

UNITED

Denver Approach. United 42 heavy. Unable, uh, unable to control my heading or altitude. Unable to disconnect the autopilot. Declaring an emergency. Squawking 7700. (static)

+00:01:14

DENVER

American 1497 heavy. This is Denver Approach. Climb immediately to fourteen thousand feet. You have traffic at your nine o’clock. Fifteen miles. A United heavy 777.

+00:01:18

AMERICAN

American 1497, roger. Traffic in sight. Climbing to fourteen thousand.

+00:01:21

DENVER

United 42 heavy. Understand you are unable to control your heading and altitude. Your traffic is now thirteen miles. Same altitude. Heavy 777.

+00:01:30

UNITED

…makes no sense. (inaudible) …can’t.

+00:01:34

DENVER

United 42 heavy. Say fuel on board. Say souls on board.

(long moment of static)

+00:02:11

UNITED

Approach. United 42 heavy. We have two hours thirty minutes fuel on board and two hundred forty-one souls on board.

+00:02:43

DENVER

American 1497. Traffic at your nine o’clock. Twelve miles. Same altitude. United 777.

+00:02:58

UNITED

United 42 heavy. Traffic is in sight. He doesn’t appear to be climbing. Get that plane out of our way, will ya?

+00:03:02

DENVER

American 1497. Have you started that climb yet?

+00:03:04

AMERICAN

American 1497 heavy. Uh, we’re declaring an emergency. Uh. We’re unable to control altitude. Unable to control heading. (inaudible) Unable to disconnect autopilot.

+00:03:08

DENVER

American 1497. Understand loss of control. Say fuel. Say souls on board.

+00:03:12

AMERICAN