Clio and Cy: The Apocalypse (2 page)

“I don't care that they stole my idea…

I care that they don't have any of their own”

― Nikola Tesla

Year: 3000:

Savannah: GA:

The DOD, CIA, and NSA watched Dr. Pavlov’s every move, or so
they thought. The government grew tired of asking and the President signed the
order to raid Global Autonomics Corporation, Inc. “We’ll take that now sir,
thank you.”

The assigned task force descended. In the name of God and
Country, troops stormed Seth Pavlov’s laboratory in Savannah, GA. Marching
through the lobby and bursting into Dr. Pavlov’s personal office. The task
force wanted inside a secured area that housed the Smartbot’s secrets. Global
Autonomics Corporation, Inc. R&D was on the other side of an armored vault.

“Need you to open that door, Dr. Pavlov,” commanded the task
force leader Colonel Brad Wigington.

“This is private property! You have no right here!” Pavlov
yelled.

Dr. Pavlov’s wife screamed and cursed the soldiers. “Get the
hell out of here you goddamn monkeys!”

The Colonel nodded at two of his men. A soldier grabbed Dr.
Pavlov’s wife from behind as another placed his rifle barrel to her head. “Open
the door Dr. Pavlov… Now!”

“Take that gun off my wife you son of a bitch and get the
hell out of here!”

The Colonel nodded again. The soldier released the bolt and
chambered a round, pressing the rifle harder into her temple. “That’s the last
time I’ll ask nice Dr. Pavlov!”

Scowling at the Colonel, Dr. Pavlov reluctantly punched the
code. “Chhhp,” the secure door popped open, and the soldiers released his wife.

“You fucking bastards! Get the fuck out of here you goddamn
monkeys!” Mrs. Pavlov screamed, like the bat-shit-crazy woman she was. For
once, she was warranted in her lunacy.

A soldier reached out putting his palm on her chest. “Relax
ma’am,” he instructed doing his best to keep her at bay.

“You fucking monkeys! Get the hell out of here!”

“Calm down Mrs. Pavlov!” the Colonel shouted, watching her
flail about like a headless chicken. “Watch her,” he ordered.

The task force moved inside the R&D vault and Dr. Pavlov
followed, as did his wife, hitting soldiers and yelling. “Get the fuck out of
here you goddamn monkeys.”

Uniformed men unplugged computers and rummaged through
everything inside the no longer secure lab. “Simple-minded thieves! You have no
goddamn right to do this,” Dr. Pavlov shouted.

In a rage, Pavlov’s wife picked up a sharp metal instrument
that lay next to a prototype.

“Colonel! Watch ou…”

The Colonel spun around as Mrs. Pavlov barreled for him with
a raised glove, holding the tool like a knife. “Crack! Crack!” The officer shot
her twice in the chest.
Jesus Christ
Colonel… you just shot an old woman…

“No!” Dr. Pavlov screamed and leapt for his fallen wife.
Before he could reach her, two soldiers tackled him as more piled on to
restrain.

A medic jumped to the woman’s body, holding his finger on
her neck, looking up at his officer and shaking his head. “She’s gone sir…
she’s dead.” CPR was useless. Shredding her heart, bullets left a grapefruit
sized exit hole in her back.

Colonel Wigington knew he’d overreacted but it was reflex.
What a cluster fuck,
he thought, looking
down at the scene. “Medic… Go ahead…” he ordered, nodding at Dr. Pavlov
struggling under the pile of men in dark fatigues.

Just to make sure he was following, the medic held up a
prepared syringe so the Colonel could see. “Yes, do it,” the Colonel ordered.
The medic shook his head, knowing how wrong this felt. “Roger that, sir,” he
affirmed.

Dr. Pavlov squirmed and fought with rage. “Old bastard’s
strong,” one of the soldiers barked after being popped in the face by a
momentarily free hand. Seth Pavlov moaned and wept as his strength began to
dissipate.

The Army medic moved in. “Look out… move over…” he
requested. “Don’t want to get stuck with this,” he said holding up a syringe,
squatting between soldiers. He stabbed the scientist’s gluteus muscle.

After plunging the medication deep, he yanked out the
needle, capped it, and then tossed the syringe. The empty plastic ticked across
the laboratory floor and Dr. Pavlov faded unconscious.

“What a goat rope, huh sir?” a soldier professed.

 
“Total,” Colonel
Wigington responded. The doctor was out like a light and his wife was dead
before she hit the floor, now soaked in blood.

“Let’s get to work and get the hell out of here!” the
Colonel ordered.

Like a team of determined IRS agents, the task force
soldiers cleaned out the lab. They took every computer and every drive.
Soldiers confiscated prototypes and every piece of hardware Dr. Seth Pavlov
stored at Global Autonomics Corporation, Inc. They even took the furniture. The
United States Government and its military were now in possession of the
greatest weapon it could ever hope to wield. But they made one fatal mistake in
their haste; among other things, they left the doctor alive.

“Animals don't behave like men,' he said. ’If they have to
fight, they fight; and if they have to kill they kill. But they don't sit down
and set their wits to work to devise ways of spoiling other creatures' lives
and hurting them. They have dignity and animality.”

― Richard Adams, Watership Down

Year: 3001:

1:00AM: RAF Croughton:

70 miles North West of London:

A rectangular landmark was staked in the ground. Painted
dead center of the sign was a blue bull’s-eye, sandwiched between words. The
inscription read:
Royal Air Force,
Croughton.
Fields of manicured grassland surrounded the landmark and the
base, all resting quietly in the late hours.

Above, no star was twinkling. Thick British clouds hung in
the sky, rolling overhead in billows, like giant orbs of dirty cotton.

Riders of death were coming down from high atop the
cover.
 
Four horsemen descended through
our cosmic shore, wading deep and pulling the reins at their final stop, now
arriving; they were knocking at our door. Judgment day was here. And letting
slip the metal dogs of war; Pavlov’s machines erupted in thunder, galloping.

First, dozens of Heavy-Duty Smartbots hit the armory; next,
teams skirted beyond the airfield’s outer edges, pulling security.

“Mate!” the guard shouted at the bot while it smashed
through the armory front door. It was a surreal vision. “Stop…” he ordered,
confused. The Al model didn’t obey. “Stop!” he shouted with greater conviction.

Looking down a barrel, the guard accepted that there was a
weapon now aimed at him. “Zzzzzzwhhhap,” was the last sound the guard heard
before folding on the deck in a hot coagulated mess.

 
Another guard ran out
from inside the armory locker, shouting. “Al… Stop!” Baffled, the guard aimed
his weapon seeing his dead comrade on the floor and not believing his eyes. He
froze and never got a shot off.

“Zzzzzwhhhap,” the second security officer dropped onto the
deck, liquefied.

A year before the war started, Dr. Pavlov began
installing weapons inside the shell of the larger Al
models. Most bots carried an energy pistol, but a few had more conventional
side arms designed for
k
illing people more
than for disabling equipment. He remotely programmed
his
war mission into the Smartbots that were already in place for the last few
years. Unarmed and on the fly, the older machines would have to steal weapons
during the assault.

Smartbots patrolled along First Street outside the hangers
and some were grounded along the roads B4031 and A43. They surrounded the base
along its outskirts as the interior units raided and plundered.

In eerie two by two cover, the Smartbots dispensed viscous
hardware, conveying weapons to each other in a mechanical assembly line. Dozens
of Al and Art models were armed and now loaded, brimming with hundreds of
thousands of rounds. Using the heavy-duty freight trucks that served as their
daytime work vehicles, Smartbots began loading them. Now, the machines were in
possession of the greatest, most terrible, collection of ruthless firepower
east of the States.

Infiltrating base-housing flats, they savagely killed every
creature that breathed. Dreaming a final dream, never to wake again, most
people died in their sleep. The machines pounded through the airfield clutching
their new assault rifles and shoulder-mounted rocket launchers.

“What the hell? Mate… Hey… Stop!” ordered the security
officer walking out of the radar center. Peppered with bullets, the husband and
father of three splattered onto the lawn, dead.

Armed to the teeth, the machines opened up, throwing hot
lead down range. The Smartbots even wasted the pets. They destroyed anything
that moved. Aircraft were blitzed. They sacked and toppled massive white radar
dishes. Air traffic control towers were ousted and sent crumbling. The siege
happened in a flash. It took only a few minutes to lay waste to the majority of
RAF bases around the United Kingdom.

World War III had begun.

What could only be deliberated on a mythological scale,
Smartbots attacked the globe in a perfectly coordinated campaign. The United
States, France, Israel, Japan, Germany, and other Nations endured the same
fate.

It was just the beginning.

They targeted airbases for their jets and bombers saved for
later. Some of the planes were not damaged and spared during the initial
attack, reserved for the man-sized Art bots: they would commandeer the
war-birds during the second assault wave, minutes and counting.

The smartest machines in
the world boarded the deadliest flying weapons on earth. Afterburners fired
down runways amidst the embers and smoke. Again and again, sonic boom
penetrated the night sky as the bots hit Mach-1.
Simple yet deliciously
wicked; they flew on a basic mission. Swooping like ten thousand dragons
plunging from the sky, epic fire spit destruction across the planet.

Simple in theory, however, the finest plans of war are
always best when dummy proof. Confiscate numerous jets and strategic bombers
from dozens of airbases and fly over the borders of Europe, the Middle East,
and Asia. The bots navigated war-birds like seasoned pilots. Their blue eyes
glowed inside cockpits while passing each other flying Soviet Migs, British
Tornado’s Eurofighter Typhoons, French Dassault Rafales, and American F41s to
name a few. Unleashing hell, the bots fired on nations.

Robots fully armed each jet before takeoff. Carrying every
piece of available ordinance, releasing it all, they dropped the hammer on
mankind. Naval Bases, ground installations, Capital buildings, and major cities
burned. Most were leveled. Hundreds of Smartbots posted inside bases were
killed alongside the natives. Many robots were lost in the attack. Casualties
were planned; Dr. Pavlov knew some could not be avoided.

When the Art bots were down to firing blanks, they ejected
out, landed, and resumed killing on the ground. Robots infiltrated Silos
containing weapons of mass destruction. Few nukes remained after the treaty was
signed in 2071, but few were needed. Humans panicked in the turmoil; Commanders
gave the green light after war-birds crossed over their demarcation lines.
Buttons were pushed. The ground opened and rockets fired out carrying
thermonuclear warheads.

The Russians launched their WOMD as did China. Israel turned
the Middle East into a parking lot. After the bomb exploded – its landscape
changed a tiny bit, though, not by much.

The war raged in America as it did in Europe and the Middle
East. Nukes cut the United States in half. The East and West Coast were left
intact and a band of fallout separated the continent. As expected, the U.S.
Military put up a better fight than Europe. Dr. Pavlov assigned European
fighters to raid and help destroy the interior of America.

Robots flew over the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, leaving
garrisons behind to mop up on the turf. Going door-to-door, the machines
continued slaughtering under the cloud of nuclear fallout.

The United States couldn’t scramble enough fighters to
intercept every robot flying over the Atlantic. A few slipped by. Surprisingly,
Art bots fared well in dogfights. Before they were taken down, the Robots that
made it over U.S. ground hit several key targets.

Only a handful of American fighters made it back. The
Marine, Navy, and Air Force pilots had nowhere to land when it was all over.
They flew home to find their bases smoldering and their runways demolished.
Home didn’t exist anymore. Bobbling across cornfields and civilian airstrips,
less than a dozen men landed intact. Out of ammo, the jets sat useless.

Washington D.C. was the crown jewel, Dr. Pavlov’s ultimate
fantasy target. He was finally doing what so many millions joked about for the
last thousand years. Dr. Pavlov was about to turn the Capital into a wasteland
and bury it under the political elite. Done deal, like the Middle East,
Washington DC and the United States Capital were turned into a parking lot.

“And starward drifts the stricken world,

Lone in unalterable gloom

Dead, with a universe for tomb,

Dark, and to vaster darkness whirled.”

― George Sterling, The Thirst of Satan

Year: 3008:

Jekyll Island:

Seven years after the start of World War III:

Disguised as a rich man’s sanctuary, the modernity of the
home’s walls hid the malevolence below its foundation. Its secrets lay
underneath. As every other manmade structure in the world, it sat, covered in
patina. The exterior maintenance left to its defenses, oxidizing helplessly
against the untiring forces of nature. The onslaught of vegetation only mitigated
by the constraints set by father time. Ivy grew wild and covered the home’s
walls in a leafy blanket that danced in the wind. Green things towered higher
than they’d ever imagined, dreaming to reach the sun.

The surrounding landscape appeared the same as it did
throughout the rest of the world. Eyes of the remaining survivors saw nature
conquering the land and taking over. Every spot of land was marked with
distinct footprints of the wild.

Abandonment flashed like a raging inferno and passed the
baton of decay, winning a slow and steady race, spreading over all things not
born of this world. Cronus began to forget, day to night, to dawn, with each
turn the world’s surface changed into the wasteland of an alien planet.

People were few and far apart. The world’s population was
decimated to a relative handful; a few thousand souls, maybe… It wasn’t a fair
fight. Man was no match against them, not in brute strength anyway; not one on
one, not even five on one. They were stronger and faster than before.

A year into the war, Dr. Pavlov upgraded the design of his
robots as well as their appearance. Now, they no longer resembled harmless,
oversized lugs. His Smartbots looked the villainous part. Robots were the
Destroyers of men. Earth’s survivors nicknamed them -
Ker.

Four commandos stalked the home. The end of World War III
was within reach. Grasping to steal it back, fate rested in their hands. The
elite team of freedom fighters converged on the secret lair. Finally, Dr.
Pavlov’s hideout was known.

 
The quad moved
through dense brush, hearing waters fizz in gentle rhythms around the brink.
Earth’s moon hovered low and close, pulling blue waters into the mysterious
ocean deep. Frothy liquid churned over the shoreline, retreating, and grappling
down the sand in bubbles. Salt and dampness filled the air, penetrating beyond
the Atlantic hem. The warriors could smell it drifting inland over the dunes.

The laboratory home on Jekyll Island was kept close to the
vest. From the time he perfected his QAI designs, Dr. Pavlov kept it secret,
even from his wife when she was still among the living. Through many dead
scouts, the resistance eventually found the goddamn place.

Fighting in all seven years of the campaign, LT Jonathan
King had become a drunk. He loved his family but wasn’t the father and husband
he should have been, not that he was around much. A hollow shell, the man
slipped from his former self. He couldn’t help being that way; it was just the
way things were. War, seven long years; it changed people.

LT King was the second man in the patrol, following his
point and leading the elite team on the assault. Their mission of destiny was
in sight. The grand old home sat in a tired and beaten vision.
 
Stalking from behind, they aimed their steps
toward a ventilation shaft that edged the woods. An underground passageway was
one hundred twenty yards from the back of the house.
 
The team gained closer and scanned for Ker,
swallowing fear with each step.

Courage of warriors who put their feet on the ground was no
less important than it had been a thousand years ago. Old things still rang
true in this desolate world. Men’s guts and bravery still won the battles. So,
too, the weapon of surprise was still the ultimate tactic. Their plan: sneak in
undetected and enter the tunnel. Ironically, breaking and entering Dr. Pavlov’s
lab would stop the war this time.

The commandos closed on their mark. Skirting the tree line
and gingerly booting down with each step. The point man suddenly raised a fist
and halted, stopping the three men behind him. They waited… Patiently, the men
covered their assigned area of security, aiming their rifles outward.

The lead man signaled again with two fingers toward his
eyes.
We’re here,
the point’s gesture
affirmed. Twice more, he
pointed
at
the airshaft grate and then his eyes.
We’re
here
. LT King nodded,
open it
.
Squatting over the grate, the point man went to work. The others took a knee
and aimed their weapons, keeping their shifting eyes peeled.

The moon shined like a pretending sun, casting shadows off
their bodies in long distorted shapes across the crackling earth. The point man
quickly worked and in the process, caught a vile and inhuman smell wafting out
against his nausea. Fighting it, he dry heaved and quietly unscrewed the bolts.

 
The tool transformed
into a laser saw and was ready to cut. He began slicing and stopped.
What could smell so disgusting?
After
turning his head away to escape his own breaths, he puked, wiped his face, and
continued back to work, melting two, carbon fiber-infused, alloy locks from the
rusted grate. Sour jawed… he spit it done…

The point man grabbed LT King on the shoulder and
deliberately squeezed, alerting his officer the grate was now opened. They rose
up together in slow unison, preparing to enter the hole and gain access into
the laboratory. The rest of the team smelled the funk as they moved ever closer
over the passageway entrance.

The commandos froze and dropped to their knees, all pointing
their weapons in the same direction after hearing movement through the tree
line. Something heavy crunched over the brush. Their bodies tensed and their
minds raced in nervous wonder. Substantial heft…
An animal maybe…
they hoped. Curiosity of what was in the woods
shifted as a powerful sensation knocked against their backs. Smashing down
behind them, it came from the direction of the house. The team spun around with
rifles to greet whatever was coming. Booming sonic, it moved heavy yet wispy,
pounding vibrations through the ground.

 
Seeing it, the team
shouted in unison. “Contact front! Contact front!”

The Ker fired its Gatling cannon. “WRRRR – WRRR – WRRR.”
Direct hit, the point man was shot in the head.

Plasma and bone exploded out. The point man’s flying gore
stung the remaining three as he burst against their faces. Showered in chunks
and juice of their comrade, the men returned bullets and tried to focus.

The machine was fifty yards away. “Kill it!” LT King shouted
as the team blasted at the charging Ker.

Bathed in ambient light, it came out from darkness into the open
ground. Its metal frame reflected werewolf glow from the haunting moon.
Twinkling with the stars, its electric blue eyes pierced out from a skull that
resembled a demonic, mechanized samurai. The ground shook as the Ker ran at
over 20MPH, bounding and firing. Dirt flew up around the team where bullets hit
and another man went down.

“Mikey! No!” LT King shouted watching his second teammate
fall from 30mm rounds that ripped in an upward-moving arch through his torso.
“No!”

LT King and Doc, his remaining teammate, fired in anger.
They glanced at their two fallen comrades, knowing the wounds were severe -
both men lay dead and headless. Mikey was missing the upper half of his body
and his detached arms lay next to him. The point man was everywhere.

Doc launched a grenade just as the Ker shot. Medic and
machine were both hit and the Ker dropped to the ground like a switched off
toy.

LT King watched the Ker crumble and saw his lifesaving medic
do the same. “Doc!”

Moaning, Doc wrapped his fingers around his bloody neck as
if he were trying to choke himself.

“Doc! Stay with me,” LT King ordered. “Stay with me, I got
you…”

“It’s bad… it’s bad L-T… I…”

LT King held pressure against the wound. “Come on Doc, stay
with me, you’re ok… you got this!”

Dying, the soldier looked up at LT King with fear in his
eyes. “I wanna… I want to see my Amie… my baby… I need… I love you so…” he
said, wanting to hold his wife, breathing rapid and shallow before fading into
death. Expiring with his final thought…
I
wish I’d been faster
.

LT King rolled over… barely able to catch his own breath.
So fucked… this mission’s so fucked… get
down there and do it LT,
his mind commanded
.

Suddenly,
the lone
soldier witnessed a new threat
.
“Oh
my God!” he shouted seeing what they’d heard in the woods. The second Destroyer
barreled through the trees coming for him. Jonathan King struggled to his feet
aiming and shot at the Ker coming from the forest. The robot smashed through
woods like metal Kong, and splintered trees as if they were matchsticks. With
his feet wading amongst the dead bodies of his venerated comrades, LT King
fired and scored a hit.

In a display of whizzing shrapnel, the Ker’s weapon and
entire right mechanical arm sheared off. It kept advancing while LT King
continued to spray bullets from his barrel. Click, his weapon was out. Jonathan
ejected the empty magazine and watched the Ker hurdle thirty feet in the air.
Sailing toward him, it cleared the tree line and descended. The robot crashed
down and landed in a thunderclap at the soldier’s feet, bringing mechanical
heat and stirring the air.

Not able to reload in time, LT Jonathan King’s fear of death
launched out as fast as his anger boiled over.

“Fuck you moth…” the Ker picked him up by his throat. He
gasped while reaching for two powerful grenades.
Got em…
Holding two mini atomic devices in each hand, he used his
thumbs to unlock the combination sensors atop the grenades. Tap -Tap… Tap -Tap,
Click – ARMED!

 
A soldier of fortune,
he dropped one through the open shaft. It was a perfect lob, nothing but net as
it swooshed clean and went down the passageway. Jonathan’s lights were
dwindling when he heard it bounce down the metal staircase inside the
laboratory. As his life expired, the second grenade slipped from his hand. The
Ker felt the man go limp, and released him from its clutches.

After dropping the soldier to the ground, the Ker realized
the armed explosive was at its feet and tried to clear.

Both atomic devices exploded. Pieces of the Ker flew over
the house and landed in the ocean, searing as they hit the water. Metal nuggets
cooled and sunk toward the sands of the ocean floor. The team was dead and for
the sake of humanity; the mission was a failure.