Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

“Yeah, right,” I say. I can’t seem to look away from the damaged sand-camouflaged crab lying on the ground. It looks so hard and military, out of place here in this shopping square.

I trot back out of the tunnel and directly into Zero Hour—humankind’s new future. For the first second of my new life, I think that what I’m seeing is a joke. How could it not be?

For some crazy reason, I assume that an artist has filled the shopping pavilion with radio-controlled cars as some kind of art installation. Then I see the red circles around each of the crawling devices. Dozens of scuttle mines are stepping across the pavilion, like slow-motion invaders from another planet.

The people have all run away.

Now, a concussive thump detonates a few blocks away. I hear distant screaming. Police cars. The city emergency outdoor warning sirens begin wailing, growing louder and then softer as they rotate.

A few of the scuttle mines seem startled. They rear back on their hind legs, front legs waving.

I feel a hand on my elbow. Jack’s chiseled face looks up at me from the dark tunnel.

“Something’s wrong, Jack,” I say.

He scans the square with hard blue eyes and makes a decision. Just like that. “The armory. We’ve got to get there and fix this. C’mon,” he says, grabbing my elbow with one hand. In the other hand, I see he still has his gun out.

“What about the crabs?”

Jack leads me across the pavilion, delivering information in short, clipped sentences. “Don’t get into their trigger zones, the red circles.”

We climb up onto a picnic table and away from the scuttle mines, leaping between park benches, the central fountain, and concrete walls. “They sense vibration. Don’t walk with a pattern. Hop instead.”

When we do set foot on the ground, we lunge quickly from one position to the next. As we proceed, Jack’s words string together into concrete ideas that penetrate my stunned confusion. “If you see target-seeking behavior, get away. They will swarm. They aren’t moving that fast, but there’s a lot of them.”

Leaping from obstacle to obstacle, we pick our way across the square. About fifteen minutes in, one of the scuttle mines stops against the front door of a clothing store. I hear the tap of its legs on the glass. A woman in a black dress stands in the middle of the store, watching the crab through the door. The red circle shines through the glass, refracted by a few inches. The woman takes a curious step toward it.

“Lady, no!” I shout.

Boom! The scuttle mine explodes, shattering the front door and throwing the woman backward into the store. The other crabs stop and wave their forelegs for a few seconds. Then, one by one, they continue to crawl across the pavilion.

I touch my face and my fingers come away bloody. “Oh shit, Jack. Am I hurt?”

“It’s from when I hit you before, man. Remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

We move on.

As we reach the edge of the park, the city emergency sirens stop screaming. Now we just hear the wind, the scrabble of metal legs on concrete, and the occasional deadened bang of a distant explosion. It’s getting dark and Boston is only getting colder.

Jack stops and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Cormac, you’re doing great. Now, I need you to run with me. The armory is less than a mile from here. You okay, Big Mac?”

I nod, shivering.

“Outstanding. Running is good. It’ll keep us warm. Follow me close. If you see a scuttle mine or anything else just avoid it. Stay with me. Okay?”

“Okay, Jack.”

“Now, we run.”

Jack scans the alley ahead of us. The scuttle mines are thinning out, but once we’re out of the shopping area, I know there will be room for bigger machines—like cars.

My big brother gives me a reassuring grin, then sprints away. I follow him. I don’t have much of a choice.

The armory is a squat building—a big pile of solid red bricks in the shape of a castle. It’s medieval-looking except for the steel bars covering its narrow windows. The entire front entryway has been blown out from under the entrance arch. Lacquered wooden doors lie shattered in the street next to a twisted bronze plaque with the word historic embossed on it. Other than that, the place is quiet.

As we mount the steps and run under the arch, I look up to see a huge carved eagle staring down at me. The flags on either side of the entrance snap in the wind, tattered and burned by whatever explosion happened here. It occurs to me that we’re headed into danger instead of away from it.

“Jack, wait,” I pant. “This is crazy. What are we doing here?”

“We’re trying to save some people’s lives, Cormac. Those mines escaped from here. We’ve got to make sure nothing else gets out.”

I cock my head at him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “This is my battalion armory. I come here every other weekend. We’ll be fine.”

Jack strides into the cavernous lobby. I follow. The scuttle mines were definitely here. Pockmarks are gouged into the polished floors, and piles of rubble are strewn around. Everything in here is coated with a fine layer of dust. And in the dust are lots of boot prints, along with less recognizable tracks.

Jack’s voice echoes from the vaulted ceilings. “George? You in here? Where are you, buddy?”

Nobody responds.

“There’s nobody here, Jack. We should go.”

“Not without arming ourselves.”

Jack shoves a sagging wrought-iron gate out of the way. Gun drawn, he marches down a dark hallway. Cold wind blows in through the destroyed entrance and raises goose bumps on my neck. The breeze isn’t strong, but it’s enough to push me down the hall after Jack. We go through a metal door. Down some claustrophobic stairs. Into another long hallway.

That’s when I first hear the thumping.

It’s coming from behind metal double doors at the end of the corridor. The pounding comes in random surges, rattling the door on its hinges.

Boom. Boom. Boom .

Jack stops and looks at it for a second, then leads me into a windowless storeroom. Without saying anything, Jack walks behind the counter and starts grabbing stuff from shelves. He throws things onto the counter: socks, boots, pants, shirts, canteens, helmets, gloves, kneepads, earplugs, bandages, thermal underwear, space blankets, rucksacks, ammo belts, and other stuff I don’t even recognize.

“Put on this ACU,” Jack orders, over his shoulder.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Army combat uniform. Put it on. Make sure you’re warm. We might be sleeping outside tonight.”

“What are we doing here, Jack? We should go back to your place and wait for help. Dude, let the police deal with this shit.”

Jack doesn’t pause; he works and talks. “Those things on the street are military grade, Cormac. The police aren’t equipped to deal with military hardware. Besides, did you see any cavalry coming to help while we were on the streets?”

“No, but they must be regrouping or something.”

“Remember flight forty-two? We almost died because of a glitch ? I think this is bigger than Boston. This could be worldwide.”

“Dude, no way. It’s just a matter of time before—”

“Us. Cormac, this is us. We have to deal with this. We have to deal with what’s banging on that door down the hall.”

“No we don’t! Why do you have to do this? Why do you always have to do this ?”

“Because I’m the only one who can.”

“No. It’s because nobody else is dumb enough to go directly toward the danger.”

“It’s my duty. We’re doing it. No more discussion. Now, suit up before I put you in a headlock.”