I Am Automaton: A Military Science Fiction Novel (14 page)

They would drink eggnog by the Christmas tree, and she would watch him open presents with the same excitement as when he was a small child. His father would be sitting on the couch watching the news, or reading the newspaper.

But he knew this to be only a fantasy, and he secretly chastised himself for letting his mind wander in that direction. It was juvenile.

He took a deep breath and walked into the funeral home. He passed through the mirrored greeting room with its plush couches and plastic plants, soft music playing. It looked as artificial as a made up corpse. He made his way down the hallway past one of the showing rooms until he saw the sign: Birdsall.

He took off his headgear and stepped into the showing room. It was a small room with antiquated wallpaper, more plastic vegetation, and several rows of cushioned chairs. He knew the scene all too well.

There were
aunts, uncles, and cousins, friends (some who he knew, many he didn’t). He walked the gauntlet of relatives exchanging token phrases of condolence.

When he made it to the front of the room, his father broke away from his brothers and threw his arms around Peter. He was crying.

“She’s gone, Peter,” he cried into Peter’s shoulder.

“I know, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

After a long embrace, Peter’s father pulled away and let Carl step in. Carl hugged him.

“Hi, Pete.”

“I’m so sorry, Carl.”

“They gave you some time off?”

Peter nodded. Of course they did. Carl was just making uncomfortable small talk. It’s funny how two boys can grow up together and be so close, yet at a time like this, not know what to say to one another.

Peter walked up to the closed casket and kneeled on the cushion. He closed his eyes so that it would look like he was praying, but words escaped him at the moment. He wondered how he was supposed to pray to a God who allowed the slaughter of so many innocents and took so many people he loved out of his life.

He wanted to cry, but he could not. He felt a kind of clinical detachment creep in, robbing him of his ability to mourn. He cursed himself. Was this what his training afforded him? Callousness so profound that he was unable to cry at his own mother’s funeral?

After what would have seemed like an acceptable amount of prayer time, Peter made the sign of the cross and stood up. He walked back over to Carl and his father, but was intercepted
en route by his mother’s younger sister, Aunt Cecelia.

She was sobbing and hugged him tightly. When she pulled herself
away, she gripped him by the shoulders and forced words through the sobs like someone trying to talk through their teeth while trying not to vomit.

“The army, they’re doing something about this, right?”

There was impatience in her voice, as if she was expecting a particular answer. Peter just looked at her. He didn’t know what to say. She squeezed his shoulders tighter.

“
You
are doing something about it, aren’t you, Peter.” She was telling him, not asking him.

Peter’s father saw the exchange and rushed over to Peter’s aid. He put his arm around Cecilia. “My dear, Peter told me that the authorities are looking into it aggressively as we speak.”

She wiped her nose with a very used tissue and nodded hysterically. “Yes, yes, the authorities. They’re looking into it.”

Peter’s father guided Aunt Cecelia away from Peter, looking over his shoulder at his son. Peter flashed him a look of gratitude.

“You know she’s right, Pete.”

Peter was still looking at his aunt who was nowhere near calming down. “About what, Carl?”

“Someone does have to do something about this?”

Peter now looked at Carl. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean enlisting, Pete.”

Peter could not believe what he was hearing, and
apparently, he showed it in his face, because Carl continued. “I’m tired of sitting at home mooching off my parents and dodging college loans, Pete. I want to do something. I want to help.”

Peter put his arm around Carl and led him out of the showing room. “Let’s not talk about this here, Carl.”

Carl nodded and allowed his brother to lead him out. They stepped into the men’s restroom. It was empty.

Carl walked in first and turned around to face his brother. “Pete, I want to
…”

But Peter grabbed Carl by his suit lapels and pushed him over the sink and into the large vanity mirror so hard that it cracked.

Peter drew so close to Carl’s face that he was dousing him with spittle as he spoke. Carl was so shocked that he just stared at his brother in horror.

“Listen, you little shit. I have lost enough people in my life that I care about. I don’t need you to die too. Dad doesn’t need you to die either. You need to stop thinking about yourself for a change.”

Carl was terrified of his brother, not just by the sudden act of violence, but his eyes. Peter looked like he was trying to burn a hole through Carl’s skull with his glare. In all of the years they grew up together, Carl never saw Peter like this.

“What’s wrong, Pete?” His voice sounded embarrassingly small.

Just then, their cousin Tommy walked into the men’s room, but he stopped short at the sight of Peter in uniform holding Carl up against the cracked mirror. “Wh-what are you guys doing?”

Peter turned his fiery gaze to Tommy. “We’re having a conversation.”

Tommy put his hands up apologetically and backed out of the men’s room.

“You scared Tommy, Pete. Shit, you’re scaring me.”

Peter turned back on his brother, his voice unnatural. “I want to scare you, Carl. You think this is a game.”

“I don’t think it’s a game, Pete. Quite the opposite, I take this very seriously.”

Exasperated, Peter loosened his hold on Carl, and Carl got off the sink. He attempted to straighten his torn lapels in an act of futility.

Their father barged in. He had a worried expression on his face. He looked at the cracked mirror above the sink and then
at his boys.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Carl answered first. “Nothing, Dad. We were just…,” he looked at his brother sardonically, “…having a conversation.”

Their father looked around the bathroom and then at Peter. Peter was looking at his shoes.

“Well…alright. Don’t stay in here all night now.”

Carl smiled. “We won’t, Dad.”

Their father stood there for a moment, wondering if he could leave the two of them alone. Then he left the men’s room.

“Pete, Mom was here in the States and she was killed. What makes you think I’m any safer here? Besides, I’d be helping to protect Dad. He’s all we’ve got left now.”

Peter was still looking down at his shoes. He found it really difficult to look his brother in the eye. He wondered what Carl would say if he found out Peter was not fighting terrorists in the Middle East. He wondered what he’d say if he found out his big brother had been in Mexico fighting the war against the cartels. Now he was playing around with zombies in an airfield. Zombies and pigs. And soon dogs.

Maybe Major Lewis was right. Maybe it was all some big, ridiculous circus, or some kind of demented petting zoo.

Carl put his arm around his big brother. Peter looked up at him and smiled. They walked out together and re-entered the showing room. Their father looked relieved to see them walking in together.

Peter was back in the hangar outside of the Labyrinth with his platoon. They were awaiting the signal for the beginning of the exercise. No live rounds this time—paintballs only.

This meant live “insurgents” attacking them. It also meant less protection against the ID. But their side arms had live ammunition, only for use against rogue ID. Just in case.

This was the first time they were using the shepherd dogs, and Peter was not quite sure it was going to work. It would be a shame for perfectly good shepherd dogs to be eaten by zombies.

Peter signaled to Lorenzo to release the ID. The shipping container was opened, and two dogs were released. This time the flanks of the reverse
Vee gave the oncoming ID a wider berth, and each dog ran alongside of the ID driving them along.

To Peter’s surprise and Lorenzo’s delight
, the dogs appeared to be doing their job. They had the effect of startling the ID, who then staggered after them. The effect was a tighter funnel, which allowed the flanks to focus on their surroundings.

Once again, a soldier at the
narrow mouth of the Vee breached the door and backed away as the dogs led the ID up to the front door. When the mass of ID reached the front door, the dogs quickly veered off in each direction far and quickly enough away from the herd so that their scent was lost. The ID piled into the Labyrinth after the targets waiting in the back.

The two SWEEPERS moved along the sides of the building
, tracking the red indicators on their screens. This time the pigs were separated in the maze, and they were moving through the rooms.

Lockwood wanted to see how the ID would hunt moving targets rather than keeping the pigs stationary. And once those pigs would get a whiff of those ID, boy would they run. Lockwood also had them greased—his own brand of humor that only Lorenzo seemed to get.

Despite multiple field exercises with incremental improvement, Peter felt off his game. But he did his best to get focused, because if he wasn’t, people would get hurt.

As they waited for the ID to neutralize the targets, the reverse
Vee was flanked by would be insurgents. The formation opened fire and was able to neutralize the insurgents without losing a single man.

Peter was starting to feel a little better about the way things were going, but he was a firm believer in Murphy’s Law and did not want to celebrate prematurely.

They heard the terrified squeals of the targets inside the structure. Apparently, the ID were having some time getting hold of them. But within minutes, the squealing turned to desperate shrieks and then silence.

When the blue indicators had been
extinguished, the SWEEPERS signaled to Lorenzo, who then gave Peter the thumbs up.

Peter hit the AI kill switch. “Okay, position the dogs!”

The handler signaled the dogs to wait by the front door, and then Peter cut the Amygdala Inhibitors. The ID sprung to undead life and began to make their way to the front door after the dogs. Sensing this, the dogs began to run up the inside of the reverse Vee funnel.

The ID piled out in predictable fashion. As they shambled down the funnel after the dogs,
a group of insurgents attacked the right flank but was dealt with effectively. But, with their backs turned, a small faction of ID broke off and began to pile up.

“We’ve got humpers!” Lorenzo shouted.

“Dogs!” Peter responded.

The dogs came around and began nipping at the amorous separatists. As a
result, they began to disperse and chase the dogs back into the funnel.

On
the way, one ID grabbed a flank member and, not recognizing him as food thanks to the suit, began to hump the poor bastard.

Lorenzo ordered a couple of nearby soldiers to assist, but Peter sent in the dogs so as not to waste
a single soldier. After all, the poor soldier was in no apparent danger of being eaten, just humped to death.

The dogs were all over the
amorous ID soldier, and sensing the commotion and absence of the dogs’ guidance, the shambling mass of ID began to fall into disarray, coming dangerously close to the soldiers in the flanks of the funnel.

If order was not going to be restored in minutes, they would have to be put down. Major Lewis would not be pleased.

Peter let out a string of obscenities and pressed the AI kill switch, thus ending the exercise. “Goddammit!”

Lorenzo ran up to Peter confused. “Lieutenant, why did you
…”

Peter threw down the AI controller and stomped on it. “
Goddamned humpers! Ruined a perfectly good exercise.”

“But
Lieutenant, we could have…”

Peter put up his hand to silence Lorenzo, and Lorenzo knew better than to continue his line of questioning. There would be plenty of opportunity for discussion during debriefing.

Peter walked up to the humper, which was now standing immobilized, and he pushed the victimized live soldier aside. He then hit the humper in the face with the stock of his shotgun. “Lousy son-of-a-bitch.”

The thoroughly humped soldier stood aside and watched with wide eyes. The humper did not move or register pain.

Lorenzo walked up behind Peter, and the soldier standing aside flashed him a look of concern.

“Freaking moron…
,” Peter continued, insulting the ID.

Peter hit the humper in the gut, doubling it over from the force of the impact rather than pain, and then he brought the stock down on
to the back of its head.