Robopocalypse

“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.”

Reluctantly, I strip down and climb into the uniform. The clothes are new and stiff. Jack suits up, too. He does it twice as fast as me. At one point, he snaps a belt around my waist and tightens it for me. I feel like a twelve-year-old in a Halloween costume.

Then he presses an M16 rifle into my hands.

“What? Seriously? We’re going to get arrested.”

“Shut up and listen. This is the magazine. Just jam it in there and make sure it curves away from you. This selector is the fire-mode control. I’m setting it to single-round so you don’t blow your clip all at once. Put it to safety when you’re not using the rifle. There’s a handle on top, but never carry it by the handle. It’s not safe. Here’s the bolt. Pull it back to chamber a round. If you have to fire the weapon, hold it with both hands, like this, and look down the sights. Squeeze the trigger slow.”

Now, I’m a kid in a soldier’s Halloween costume armed with a fully loaded M16 battle rifle. I hold it up and point it at the wall. Jack slaps my elbow.

“Keep your elbow down. You’ll catch it on something and it makes you a bigger target. And get your index finger outside the trigger guard unless you’re ready to fire.”

“This is what you do on weekends?”

Jack doesn’t respond. He’s kneeling, shoving things into our rucksacks. I notice a couple of big plastic chunks, like sticks of butter.

“Is that C4?”

“Yeah.”

Jack finishes stuffing the bags. He throws one onto my back. Tightens the straps. Then, he shrugs on his own pack. He slaps his shoulders and stretches out his arms.

My brother looks like a goddamned jungle commando.

“C’mon, Big Mac,” he replies. “Let’s go find out what’s making that racket.”

Rifles ready, we slip down the hall toward the booming sound. Jack stands back, rifle leveled at his shoulder. He nods at me and I crouch in front of the door. I put one gloved hand on the doorknob. With a deep breath, I twist the knob and shove the door open with my shoulder. It hits something, and I shove harder. It flies open and I tumble inside the room on my knees.

Black writhing death stares back at me.

The room is teeming with scuttle mines. They climb up the walls, out of splintered crates, over one another. My opening the door has shoved a pile of them out of the way, but others are already crawling into the opening. I can’t even see the floor for all the creepy crawlies.

A wave of forelegs rises across the room, tasting the air.

“No!” screams Jack. He grabs the back of my jacket and drags me out of the room. He’s quick, but as the door starts to close it gets wedged on a scuttle mine. It’s followed by more. A lot more. They emerge in a torrent into the hallway. Their metal bodies smack the door as we back away.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

“What else is in this armory, Jack?”

“All kinds of shit.”

“How much of it is robots?”

“Plenty of it.”

Jack and I retreat down the hall, watching the crablike explosives as they leisurely flood out of the