I Am Automaton

I Am Automaton - By Edward P. Cardillo


Part I


Danger and Opportunity


Chapter 1

Tijuana, Mexico

Command Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall and his squad of ten were baking in a beat-up, unmarked van parked on the street. The men were hot, sweaty, and growing antsy.

They were all recovering from the night on pass cut short. They were a tight squad. Their motto was the squad that fights together, raises hell together, and last night they didn’t disappoint.

They were not supposed to deploy today, but apparently, the brass had received some new intelligence that made it imperative that they mobilize.

It was almost time. The sun was beginning to rise and bathe the cesspool of a town in golden light, purging the sins of the night prior.

The only remaining illumination was that of the holo-panels on parked cars flashing ads for Mexican beer and strip clubs. The cars were obsolescent models, the first generation of electric. The United States was already in its third generation.

Soon the streets would be bustling with people. If they were going to maintain a low profile, they had to move now. Peter cleared his throat.

He was consulting his Mini-com Multi-tasker. Only the size of a pack of gum, it projected a screen that was flashing information.

“Alright, listen up. Intel says that some major players in the Navajas gang are staying in the second floor apartment across the street. There are reported to be only three of them, high ranking members, maybe even a capo, so this is going to be a simple smash-and-grab.”

There was backslapping, high-fiving, and a flurry of macho remarks. Peter put his hand up. They listened.

“But keep in mind that our Special Forces were down here not long ago training the Navajas to help the Mexican government in the war on drug cartels. Unfortunately, these Navajas realized that they could make more money using their new training as security for the cartels, and then eventually they became the cartels.

“These are not debutants. They know our tricks, they know our tactics, and they’re sure as shit going to use them against us.”

Corporal Apone was wearing a sly grin.

“Yeah, well, we’ve learned a few things since then. They haven’t tasted army tough yet.”

The other men hooted and hollered in support. They sounded like a football team in the locker room before the championship game.

Peter raised his hand again, half in recognition of Apone’s sentiment, and half to impress upon his men his point.

“While that is true, these Navajas are not to be underestimated. So listen up. We need to cross the street fast while keeping an eye all round us. Squad Vee formation. Once we breach the building through the front, we switch to two fire teams in squad column formation and take the second floor.”

Corporal Apone nodded, and the men grunted in affirmation.

“Remember your training, because it is that very training that will keep you alive. This ain’t amateur hour, and it’s no time for mistakes. Am I clear?”

The men grunted.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Peter’s cheek. He checked his watch. He then extended his hand vertically and pointed in each direction. The men dispersed out of their van, covering each other, and proceeded across the street in Vee formation, Peter leading and Apone bringing up the rear.

There was a light breeze, and a stray paper was blowing down the vacant street. In the distance, a three-legged dog was watching them with lazy interest. But its attention quickly shifted to a dog biscuit ad flashing on the side of the nearest car.

They splashed through the filthy gutter as they approached the front door of the storefront. Peter produced his Mini-com Multi-tasker and activated the lock pick application. He began working on the digital lock quickly, but quietly. It was an outdated algorithm, no challenge. The flanks were scanning the quiet street.

All was still. The prostitutes, criminals, and morally licentious were all sleeping off a wild night of drunken debauchery. The city almost seemed decent in the tranquility of morning.

Peter disarmed the lock with what seemed like a pop, but he realized quickly that digital locks don’t pop.

Two men on the right flank were dropped—Spottiswoode and Bertucci.

“SNIPER,” Apone yelled.

Before Peter could bark a command to switch formation, Allen on the left flank was dropped.

“COLUMN FORMATION.”

The men quickly rearranged into two fire teams, and Peter pushed into the building. He felt something graze his shoulder as he dove into the store.

It was some kind of a general store with aisles and shelves. The store was lit, digital sales and prices were flashing on the walls and above the aisles, creating the effect of a consumerist discotheque.

Men filed past him, and each fire team went down an aisle past rows of antibiotics and various controlled substances that were illegal in the States. His squad was yelling all around him, and there was yelling in Spanish from inside the store.

This was going all wrong. The Navajas knew they were coming. Somehow, the bastards knew, and they were ready for them.

Before he could process the scene before him, his men were being cut down in the store by controlled gunfire. By being corralled into the aisles, the Navajas were able to take them out two at a time.

Peter ran down the aisle behind Apone, and in minutes, Navajas surrounded them on either side of the aisle with carbines. Apparently, they were putting the American weaponry they received to good use.

Peter had to make a snap decision. Fight or surrender?

“Throw your weapons down,” he ordered his men.

Apone looked back at his friend, multi-colored lights reflecting on his face. There was doubt in his expression. But Peter was in command. He placed his M-16 down to the floor slowly and put his hands on his head. The remaining three men followed suit.

One of the Navajas advanced and gestured with the barrel of his carbine for them to kneel. Peter nodded and they complied.

There was yelling in Spanish all around them. Before the situation got too out of hand, Peter figured he’d try to communicate.

“We are United States Army. I am Sergeant…”

The man with the carbine in his face told him to shut up. Peter’s Spanish was not the best, but he understood that much.

Apone looked at him nervously. Privates Wilson, Rodriguez, and Wilcox shifted nervously behind, but they remained silent, awaiting the lead of their sergeant.

The man with the carbine in Peter’s face was speaking rapidly in Spanish to another man, who then gestured for him to stand and come down the aisle.

“Rodriguez, you make anything of that?”

“They want you to go in the back while they watch us. They know we’re US Army.”

The man yelled for Rodriguez to be quiet, and then he gestured aggressively to Peter.

Peter stood slowly, his hands still on his head, sweat trickling down the side of his face, and began to follow the man. When he reached the end of the aisle, the man pointed for him to go into a back room.

Peter didn’t want to go. He was unarmed, and totally at the mercy of these Navajas. He knew what would happen if he went into the back room. Moreover, he knew what was going to happen to his men kneeling in the aisle.

Once again, he was at a decision point. He could try to fight back, but then he would probably lose and his men would surely be executed. Nevertheless, if he complied, they were surely dead…most likely, anyway.

It was a judgment call, and Peter had no time to make it.

Peter turned and began to walk towards the door to the back room. He heard the swish of the man’s clothing and Apone yell his name when he felt a blunt object hit the back of his neck.

He went down hard, his face smashing into the tile floor spilling blood and shards of teeth onto an advertisement for aspirin.

He tasted copper as blood ran over his broken teeth before he blacked out.

***

Peter felt like he was floating in darkness as his head swam. When water splashed into his mouth, he realized that he was literally floating.

He screwed his eyes to clear his vision, and he was apparently in some kind of cave. As he looked forward, he saw the ceiling drop towards the water until the two met in the distance.

Suddenly Peter heard several loud splashes behind him, as if cinder blocks were being dropped into the water. He did not know why, but something inside him very urgently told him to move deeper into the cave, away from the splashes.

He began to wade deeper into the cave, the splashes echoing off the ceiling, and as he did so, his feet left the ground and the ceiling was beginning to drop towards the water.

There was splashing behind him, but not the splashing of things dropping. Concentric ripples made their way towards him and splashed gently against his neck. Someone was in the water with him, and they were now wading towards him.

He swam farther and farther in. He could now see the guano on the ceiling and stalactites. The water was very cold from lack of direct sun exposure.

The splashing grew louder…closer.

He pushed further into the cave until the rock ceiling was practically scraping the top of his head. In his haste, he was now swallowing water.

He closed his eyes and commanded himself to remain calm. His training told him that he had to assess the situation and evaluate his options. Panic was not one of them.

He opened his eyes and saw that there was no room to progress unless he went underwater. He would have to turn and face his pursuers if he was to get out of this cave.

Therefore, he turned in the other direction and found himself gazing into blackness. He couldn’t even see a few feet in front of him.

The splashing stopped. Were his pursuers just treading water in darkness, waiting for his next move?

Hand-to-hand combat in deep water without oxygen was clumsy, but he was ready. Perhaps he would make it through the gauntlet by being evasive and just focusing on getting through rather than engaging.

He felt something bump against his foot.

He looked down into the black water, but he could not see beyond the surface.

He felt it again.

He began to kick his feet and swim forward when a hand wrapped itself tightly around his right ankle and began to pull him down.

Peter struggled against the grip to stay afloat, kicking wildly. A second hand wrapped itself tightly around his other ankle, and he was able to yell as he was being pulled under the water.

He grabbed frantically at his ankles and at the hands holding him, trying to pry them off, but the grip was unnatural.

Other hands began to reach out of the darkness and pull at his clothes and tear at his skin as he sank further into the dark void.

He knew he was going to die.

He looked up towards the receding surface and let out a loud yell as water rushed into his lungs and there was an awful burning in his chest—

***

Peter woke with a start to darkness. He heard voices around him in Spanish. His hands were bound tightly in front of him with rope, and his own breath was hot against his face. He was sitting on hard wood, a chair of some kind.

Suddenly something was pulled from over his face, and light flooded his vision. As his eyes adjusted, he saw men kneeling in a row in front of him facing in the other direction…his men.

There was a cartel member standing between him and his men. He was holding the burlap sack that was just removed from Peter’s head. There were two men with AK-47’s guarding the door, and another to Peter’s right polishing a machete with a dank rag.

Peter looked around and guessed that they were in some kind of a shack. It was close quarters, the walls were made of dilapidated corrugated tin , and through the chinks in the walls and joints, he could see daylight and hear nothing but the breeze.

They were out of the city.

His head was spinning, but he recalled storming the store. He remembered shots being fired from within the store as soon as they breached the front door. He remembered his men being cut down.

The Navajas had gotten the drop on them. There would be no reinforcements. Not in time for what was left of them.

The man with the burlap sack spoke first.

“Well, good morning, senor.”

“My name is Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army…”

“I know who you are, pig.”

The other men chortled.

There were four of Peter’ men left kneeling in front of him. They had their hands on their heads and their legs crossed. They were in a perfect row. This was to be an execution.

“There are others on the way. If any harm comes to my men, you will be hunted to the ends of the earth.”

Peter tried to sound confident and forceful while trying not to choke on the dust flying around the shack.

The man tossed the burlap sack into Peter’s lap. “Senor, you are out in the middle of nowhere, no one knows where you are, and you are all alone.”

“Well, I suggest you run now while you have the chance. Reinforcements are closing in.”

“Oh, we have enough time, you gringo pig.”

He produced a pistol and brandished it behind the captive soldier’s backs. Coward.

“When your reinforcements do show, they will see that it was not wise to interfere.”

He turned, placed his pistol to the back of one soldier’s head and—before Peter could voice any protest—pulled the trigger. Blood and grey matter sprayed the wall of the shack in front of them.

It was Corporal Apone, husband and father of two young girls. Hell of a pool player. Peter’s friend.

“You BASTARD…”

The man smirked and proceeded to stand behind the next man.

“STOP. I won’t tell you anything you want to know. Shooting my men will be useless,” Peter said hurriedly.

All of the Navajas laughed out loud. The man with the pistol spoke.

“Know? I don’t want to know anything from you, Sergeant.”

And he pulled the trigger. Private Wilson. Only child. Practical jokester and squad clown. Just last night he was trying to hit on a pair of rather buxom blonde twins and making a spectacle of failing at it.

Peter felt helpless. He could do nothing to slow this down. The man was going to shoot his squad in the head one-by-one to save time for working on him. Peter knew the machete was reserved for him to send their message.

The man walked up behind the next soldier who was now sobbing so hard that he was shaking violently. It was Private Rodriguez. Husband and father of three. Two boys and one little girl.

Peter didn’t know what to say.

“My name is Command Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army. Be advised that reinforcements are en route…”

“Is that so?” the man mocked, and he blew Rodriguez’s brains out.

The last man, Private Wilcox, must’ve decided that he would rather chance an escape than be shot execution style in the back of the head.

He did not even make it to a standing position. The man with the machete buried it in his neck. Wilcox dropped to the ground and began writhing around and squirting blood all over the walls and dirt.

These savages were using nineteenth century melee weapons, farmers’ tools. It was their reputation, and it was supposed to serve as a deterrent to government, police, and outsiders.

The screams. Peter would never forget those screams that seemed to go on for minutes, his own personal eternity. The machete landed one final blow, silencing them forever.

The man with the machete was wiping the blood off the blade with his rag and grinning wickedly at Peter. Peter now lost his cool. All of his men were gone, and he knew what was coming next.

“I’m going to kill you bastards!” His mouth foamed as he spat his very well meaning but futile threats, “Goddamned sons-of-bitches!”

His captors and would-be executioners laughed. One of the men by the door to the shack cracked it open and peeked out.

“Nada.”

“Well,” gloated the man with the pistol, “it looks like your friends are not coming for you. You’re alone.”

That word was like a dagger in Peter’s heart. It sealed his fate, and any will he had left to survive evaporated in the hot summer air.

No. He had to keep strong. He had to remember his training. It was all he had right now. He attempted to focus on his surroundings.

He noticed some farming tools hanging on the walls, rusted blades hanging all around him. His chair was rickety and in all likelihood could easily be broken. The ground consisted of dry dirt that could create dust when disturbed.

The two men watching the door now came around to either side of Peter. They grabbed him by his shoulders and restrained him, pressing him hard into the seat of his chair. The chair creaked in protest and wobbled under the weight.

The man with the machete was now brandishing it, toying with Peter like a cat toys with a mouse before the kill. He pulled out his own Mini-com unit, toggled the rotator button with a filthy thumb, and pressed play.

The shack was filled with the sounds of loud music. Trumpets blared as a man wailed over them in Spanish. The song was meant to camouflage Peter’s own wailing. In his terror, Peter almost found it comical.

The man put the Mini-com on the dusty floor and walked up to Peter. But Peter remained silent, and he struggled against the grip of his restrainers, testing their strength. He was seated, and they were putting all of their weight on him. There was no way he was shaking loose.

“Well, mi amigo,” jeered the man with the pistol, “you have the honor of being our message to the United States to stay out of our business. Now how about you give me head.”

The other men chuckled at the pun. At least Peter hoped it was just a pun.

Peter did not look at the machete. He kept it in his periphery. He glared at his tormentor, who nodded to the man with the machete.

The two men holding Peter bent him forward in his chair, sticking his neck out. Peter’s pulse was pounding in his ears. His muscles wanted to tense, but he used his will to keep them loose. It was important that he stayed loose.

The man with the machete stepped forward, lining the blade up with Peter’s neck. Peter began to slacken as the man brought the machete over his head.

All of a sudden, Peter lurched upward. The two men restraining him reacted by pushing him down with all of their weight…

And he let them.

The chair broke apart under the force, sending Peter crashing to the ground and his two restrainers falling over him as the third man brought the machete down on them.

The one on Peter’s right had the back of his neck cleaved. The shack was filled with more blood and shrieks.

Peter rolled from underneath the other man, snatching up dry dirt in his hands as he stood, and he threw it in the eyes of the man holding the pistol.

“Matalo!”

Peter, hands still bound, sidestepped a machete strike and double hammer-fisted the attacker, breaking his right clavicle. The Navajas dropped the machete as his right arm became useless.

Peter snatched the machete from the gang member’s limp arm. He turned and slashed at the man with the pistol and then the other man who had restrained him in the chair in a frenzy of self-preservation…

Peter, covered in other men’s blood, caught his breath, as he stood in the red-spattered room full of slain men to the sound of a bad trumpet solo.

Grateful that he was alive and the singer was taking a break, he kneeled in the dirt. He placed the machete in between his knees, blade facing up. He rubbed his bindings back and forth until they were severed.

He stood up, machete in hand, and stumbled to the door of the shack. He peeked outside and saw that he was in one of several tin shacks on the side of a steep dirt hill. At the top was a house.

He had to move, as there would be other Navajas. The music likely served its purpose, and they probably heard nothing. However, once they found their dead compatriots in the shack, they would be looking for him.

He summoned what was left of his strength, and he crept out of the shack. The bright sun stung his eyes, and flies buzzed around his ears.

He made his way down the hill, stumbling to keep his balance, kicking up dust as he went. He tried to run from shack to shack, minimizing his exposure to those that might be watching in the house above.

He was weak, his muscles ached, and he likely had a concussion, but he staggered down the hill. Behind him, he heard men yelling in Spanish.

He made it to street level and began frantically waving his arms for cars to stop, but they only swerved around him. He was nearly run down by a car flashing an advertisement for coffins on its hood holo-panel.

He crossed the road, passing cars be damned, and descended another hill and began to wander towards town.

***

Peter wandered into town, and having put some distance between himself and the Navajas house, he began to slow his pace so as not to draw attention to himself.

En route, he had stripped down to his undershirt. Walking in camouflage pants and a sweat-stained undershirt, he looked like a local…or so he hoped.

He thought he heard a commotion down the block behind him, so he ducked down an alleyway where a prostitute was with a man behind a dumpster.

He shambled past them, his exhaustion catching up with him, and they did not pay him any regard. His head began to pound, his muscles ached terribly, and the alley before him began to spin.

As he collapsed to the ground and leaned against the wall, he fingered his broken teeth. The dumpster now blocked his view to the street and the street’s view of him. He leaned his head back against the wall as he listened to the sounds of the couple struggling next to him.

A young woman, another prostitute, poked her head out through a shabby storm door into the alley and saw Peter lying against the wall. He figured that he must’ve looked awful.

She said something to the other prostitute in Spanish, who gave him a quick look, shrugged, and continued her work. Her customer was now looking uncomfortable at the sight of Peter.

They all heard yelling from the street—Navajas—and the customer pulled himself away from his date and fled the other way down the alley. The abandoned girl, having already accepted payment, only shrugged casually at the premature evacuation.

The one in the doorway yelled something to her. Peter thought he heard the word “Navajas,” but in his condition, he couldn’t be sure.

The other one was arguing with her, huffing in protest, but in the end, both girls hoisted Peter up and threw each of his arms around each of their shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged his sorry carcass into the cathouse.

Peter slipped in and out of consciousness. He remembered being lowered onto a bed. As they undressed him, he saw a pile of used towels huddled in a corner.

When he woke again, he was naked, and the girl who poked her head into the alley was washing him with a wet rag.

He tried to speak, but she put her fingers to her lips and said “Shhh.” He did not argue. He closed his eyes.

He was jolted awake by some kind of commotion in the front of the house. He picked his head up and looked around at the cracked plaster walls painted in a faded yellow. There was a condom advertisement flashing up on the wall next to where he lay. He was alone.

He wanted to call out, but given the commotion, thought better of it.

The girl who was nursing him burst into the room and started telling him something frantic in Spanish. She was holding his Mini-com Multi-tasker in her hands trying to operate it, but she didn’t know how. She wouldn’t—it was army issue.

“Ma’am, what are you doing with my…”

She was muttering to herself in frustration until she finally pressed a button and the payment kiosk by the bed registered with a tone indicating that payment had been made.

She began to take off her clothes. When he tried to say something, she shushed him again. She was young and firm and in her early twenties. He was so confused. Why was she…?

She got onto the bed and mounted him, but she did not move. She only looked anxiously at the doorway, waiting.

They heard two men yelling commands in Spanish, and she began to lower herself over him. He was limp, but he understood what she was doing.

Two men with carbines surged into the room—Navajas. They yelled at her in Spanish, and she sat up and raised her hands compliantly.

The men looked them up and down and looked at Peter. He obviously was not Mexican. With sudden panic, Peter wondered where his clothes were. If they saw the camouflaged pants…

Shit. The Mini-com Multi-tasker. If they saw it, they would know he was no local. He wasn’t paying attention. Where the hell did she put it?

Everything was happening faster than his concussed mind could understand. And they were staring at him suspiciously, sizing him up.

Peter did not know what to do, so he smiled.

The Navajas saw this pathetic gringo under this whore with his broken smile and an ad for a popular erectile dysfunction pill flashing next to them.

He must’ve looked like a real travesty because they snickered. One man called him names and used the words “carajo” and “mariposa” liberally. Satisfied with their derision, they left.

The girl sighed heavily in apparent relief, and looked down at Peter. She smiled and whispered something in Spanish.

Peter picked his head up slowly. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.”

She smiled, looking upon him with pity, and whispered, “Mi nombre Lucita.”

That was her name. It was like music to his weary ears. The name of his savior was Lucita.

Then he suddenly felt very tired. The immediate danger had passed, the adrenaline was waning, and Lucita would look after him.

He was too exhausted to think about what had just happened and that his men were all dead. For the moment, he did not care what was going to happen next, or how he would get back. He succumbed to sweet oblivion, if only for a moment.