Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

After a couple minutes, I catch a flash out of the corner of my eye. It’s the mobile sentry gun, cruising over a rough path in the middle of the graveyard, swinging its rifle head back and forth. Sunlight glints from the low-slung optics module bulging from the top of the gun. The bowed legs tremble over the bumpy earth, but the rifle barrel is motionless as a barn owl.

I dive behind a tombstone and lie flat on my belly. Jabar has also found cover, a few feet away. He motions to me with one finger, brown eyes urgent beneath dust-frosted eyebrows.

Following his gaze, I see a partially dug grave. It was going to be a nice resting place for some Afghani—a brand-new steel cage rests partially over it. Whoever was working on this got the hell out of here fast, without bolting down the cage.

Keeping still, I crane my neck to look around. The mobile sentry gun is nowhere to be seen. Faintly, I hear the lawn mower thup-thup-thup of a low-flying drone. It sounds like a death sentence. Somewhere out there, the sentry gun is scanning row after row of tombstones for humanlike silhouettes or some trace movement.

Inching forward, I crawl until I reach the open grave. Jabar already lies inside, his face striped with shadows from the slatted bars of the steel cage. Holding my hurt arm, I roll inside.

Me and Jabar lie there next to each other on our backs in the half-dug grave, trying to wait out the sentries. The ground is frozen. The gravelly dirt feels harder than the floor of my cement cell. I can sense the warmth seeping away from my body.

“It’s okay, Jabar,” I whisper. “The drones are following standard operating procedure. Looking for squirters. People running away. There should be a twenty-minute scan-and-hold routine, max.”

Jabar wrinkles his brow at me.

“I already know this.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

We huddle together, teeth chattering.

“Hey,” says Jabar.

“Yeah?”

“Are you really an American soldier?”

“Course. Why else would I be on base?”

“I never saw one. Not in person.”

“Seriously?”

Jabar shrugs.

“We only see the metal ones,” he says. “When the avtomata attacked, we joined. Now, my friends are dead. So are yours, I feel.”

“Where do we go, Jabar?”

“The caves. My people.”

“Is it safe there?”

“Safe for me. Not safe for you.”

I notice that Jabar holds his pistol tight across his chest. He is young, but I cannot forget that he’s been at this a very long time.

“So,” I say, “am I your prisoner?”

“I think so, yes.”

Looking up through the metal slats, I can see that the blank blue sky is stained with black smoke rising from the green zone. Besides the soldiers in the alley, I haven’t seen another living American since the attack began. I think of all those tanks and drones and sentry guns that must be out there, stalking survivors.

Jabar’s arm feels warm against me, and I remember that I don’t have any clothes or food or weapons. I’m not even sure the U.S. Army would allow me to have a weapon.

“Jabar, my man,” I say. “I can work with that.”

Jabar and Paul Blanton successfully escaped into the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. Within a week, records indicate that the locals began a series of successful raids on Rob positions, as the tribal forces combined their hard-earned survival techniques with Specialist Blanton’s technical expertise.

Within two years, Paul would use this synthesis of tribal survival lore and technical knowledge to make a discovery that would forever change my life, the life of my comrades, and the life of his own father, Lonnie Wayne Blanton.

After the alarming experience with his cell phone, the hacker known as Lurker fled his home and found a safe place to hide. He didn’t make it very far. This account of the onset of Zero Hour in London was pieced together from recorded conversations between Lurker and people who visited his floating base of operations in the early years of the New War.

“Lurker, you going to answer that?”

I look at Arrtrad with disgust. Here he is, a thirty-five-year-old man and he hasn’t a clue. The world is ending. Doomsday is upon us. And Arrtrad, as he calls himself on the chat lines, stands across from me, Adam’s apple bobbing under his weak chin, asking me if I’m going to answer that?

“Do you know what this means, Arrtrad?”

“No, boss. Uh, not really, I mean.”

“Nobody calls this phone, you tosser. Nobody except him. The reason we’ve run. The devil in the machine.”

“You mean, that’s who’s calling?”

Not a doubt in my mind.

“Yeah, it’s Archos. There’s nobody else who’s ever traced this bloody number. My number.”

“Does this mean he’s coming for us?”

I look at the phone, vibrating on our small wooden dinner table. It’s surrounded by a mess of papers and pencils. All my schemes. This phone and me had a lot of fun together in the old days. Pulled a lot of capers. But now it makes me flinch to see it. Keeps me up at night, wondering what’s on the other end of it.

There’s a scream of motors and the table lurches. A pencil rolls away, drops to the floor with a tap.

“Damned speedboats,” says Arrtrad, grabbing the wall for support. Our houseboat sways on the wake. She’s just a little boat, about twelve yards long. Basically a wood-paneled living room floating a yard off the water. For the last couple months, I’ve been sleeping on the bed and Arrtrad on the convertible folding table, with just the potbellied stove to keep us warm.

And watching that phone to keep me busy.

The speedboat whines off farther down the Thames, toward the ocean. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels as if that boat came and went in a panic, fleeing something.

Now I can feel the panic rising in me, too.

“Unmoor us,” I whisper to Arrtrad, wincing as the phone rings again and again.

It won’t stop ringing.

“What?” asks Arrtrad. “We haven’t got much petrol, Lurker. Let’s answer the phone first. See what this is all about.”

I stare at him blankly. He looks back, gulping. I know from experience that there’s nothing in my gray eyes for him to see. No emotion to latch onto. No weakness. It’s the unpredictability that makes him afraid of me.

In a small voice, Arrtrad asks, “Shall I answer it?”

Arrtrad picks up the mobile phone with shaky fingers. Autumn light streams in from the thin-paned windows and his thinning hair floats like a halo on his wrinkled scalp. I can’t allow this weakling to get the upper hand. I’ve got to show my crew who’s boss. Even if it’s a crew of one.

“Give me that,” I mumble, and snatch the phone away. I answer it with one thumb, in a well-practiced motion.

“It’s Lurker,” I growl. “And I’m coming for you, mate—”

I’m interrupted by a recorded message. I hold the phone away from my ear. The tinny computerized female voice is easy to hear over the lapping waves outside.

“Attention, citizen. This is a message from your local emergency alert system. This is not a test. Be advised that due to a chemical spill in central London, all citizens are asked to go inside immediately. Bring your pets with you. Close and lock all doors and windows. Shut off all ventilation systems that circulate air. Please wait for assistance, which will arrive shortly. Note that due to the nature of the accident, unmanned systems may be utilized for your rescue. Until help arrives, please monitor your radio for emergency alert system announcements. Thank you for your cooperation. Beep . Attention, citizen. This is a message—”