I Am Automaton

Chapter 4

Peter tossed and turned that night in his old bed. He was dreaming furiously. Visions of Apone, Marx, Spottiswoode, and the others danced in his head. They stared at him, through him, boring into his soul and exposing his guilt to the light of day. He could not hide from their collective gaze and consequently his own shame.

He awoke in a cold sweat with bitterness on his tongue. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, putting his feet on the floor. His shirt was drenched. He rubbed his eyes thoroughly, as if it might rub out the bad memories.

He looked at the clock—three twenty-two in the morning, only a couple of hours before his alarm. He wiped the tears streaming down his face with his forearm, sniffled, and reached for his duffle bag under his bed. He reached in and pulled out his pistol. He felt it in his hand. It was like an extension of his body. But that was his training.

He placed the cool barrel on his forehead as he fought back sobs. He struggled to keep quiet; he didn’t want to wake his parents or Carl. He rocked back and forth, contemplating the unspeakable as his body convulsed with suppressed sadness. He wanted to scream, but he fought the urge.

He slowly slid the barrel of the gun down his forehead until it reached his mouth. He then slowly opened his mouth wider and slid the barrel in. He was now shaking violently as he sat there in his childhood bedroom with a gun in his mouth poised to pull the trigger.

This was the bedroom where he played with his action figures, read his comic books by flashlight, and fantasized about several girls in his class. Life was so much simpler then. It was filled with such possibility.

However, as potential cannot sustain itself indefinitely with the passage of time, all individuals are forced to make choices. And with each choice made, potential erodes, possibilities are left behind, and one’s life path narrows. Then one must face the life he has chosen for himself and all that goes with it. Nevertheless, at three twenty-two in the morning sitting in his childhood bed, Peter could not stomach the absurdity of his situation and the horrors he had unknowingly chosen for himself.

He yearned to sleep forever, to join his fallen comrades, but they had died an honorable death. What he was about to do was…cowardice.

He slid the pistol out of his mouth and put it gingerly on his end table. He realized that suicide would bring further shame and dishonor on himself.

No, he would report back to Fort Bliss and jump head first into this “ID” Program, whatever the hell it was. He would hunt down every last Navajas until he took his very last breath.

Amused by what he almost did in his parents’ house, he chuckled hysterically to himself as he sobbed in the dark. He placed his pistol back into his duffle bag, lowered his head back onto his pillow, and took advantage of what time he had left before the alarm would sound off.

His parents slept soundly in the next room, completely unaware of how close they were to tragedy. Then again, ignorance is bliss.

***

El Paso Intelligence Center

Biggs Army Airfield, Fort Bliss

Peter was in uniform outside Major Lewis’ door at exactly 08:00 when the door gave its tone and he heard the Major shout, “Enter.”

Peter walked into the room, strolled up to the Major’s desk and saluted. “Lieutenant Peter Birdsall reporting.”

“Be seated, Lieutenant.”

Peter sat.

“Well, as you have likely guessed from your promotion, you have been approved for the ID Program.”

“Yes, sir. Captain London had informed me in person.”

“Yes…” Major Lewis hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to lend gravity to what he was about to say. “What I am about to tell you is highly classified, so classified that most of the army itself does not have clearance to this information. The existence of this program is not common knowledge, and with good reason.”

“I understand, sir.”

“But the significance of this program is profound. If successfully developed, it will change the landscape of the war in the Middle East.”

Now Peter was confused. The Middle East? He thought they were going to be operating in Mexico.

Major Lewis sensed Peter’s confusion. “One of the greatest obstacles to hunting down terrorists has not been their decentralized nature, or the support of a network of disenfranchised countries around the globe, or anything of that sort.”

Peter waited for the correct answer.

“It is the terrain. No matter how many drones we send in, once they retreat to the caves, it’s game over. That’s why we’re still in Afghanistan. It’s a haven for terrorists, but the cave system makes the terrain virtually inaccessible.”

“I understand, sir. The army does not wish to waste lives sending soldiers into the caves.”

“And bombing only affects the surface. But Research and Development has acquired a technology that would allow us to infiltrate the cave system in Afghanistan without needlessly expending lives.”

Peter was fascinated, and he wondered what the technology was, but foremost, he wondered what the Navajas had to do with Afghanistan. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what does this have to do with the Navajas?”

Major Lewis produced his Cybernetic Digital Organizer and called up a file. He then slid it across his desk to Peter. “We have intelligence that the Navajas have moved their operations to Xcaret, Mexico. They apparently find the cenote cave systems to be optimal for hiding their operations from the authorities. We need to achieve maximum penetration of this system of underground caves. You will pilot this new program in Xcaret. If it passes the field test, then we will likely get the green light for Afghanistan.”

“I see. So what is this new technology?”

Major Lewis sat back in his chair and sized Peter up, as if he was gauging Peter’s preparedness for the answer. “The technology is best shown, and then explained.”

Why was the Major being so cryptic?

“Okay, sir.”

The Major paused for another moment and then stood up. “Follow me.”

Peter followed him out of the office and out of the building. They crossed the airfield to a large hangar. They entered through a small door.

Peter recognized the hangar from his training exercises on the base. Inside was a large replica of a building. It was used to train squads to infiltrate buildings and clear rooms. There were a few of these on the base, but this one was particularly vicious because it was set up like a maze, hence its nickname, the Labyrinth.

Major Lewis strode up to a man standing in front of the faux building. The man saluted.

“Lieutenant Birdsall, this is Sergeant Lockwood. He’s in charge of many of the training exercises on base.”

“Yes, I am familiar with Sergeant Lockwood.” As a matter of fact, Peter had participated in some of Sergeant Lockwood’s training exercises.

Major Lewis nodded to Sergeant Lockwood, who then addressed Peter. “Lieutenant, I ask that you step into the building.”

Peter was taken off guard. “I’m sorry. You want me to step inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter was not sure what game they were playing, but he did as instructed. He stepped into the first room of the structure and turned to face Sergeant Lockwood. “So what am I supposed to do now, Sergeant?”

“Make it to the other side.” Then the sergeant closed the door. Peter heard him engage the digi-lock from the other side.

What was the point of this? Was he just supposed to meander through the maze? He was pretty sure he remembered the way. If not, it wouldn’t take much to figure it out in short order.

“Begin,” he heard Sergeant Lockwood yell from the other side of the door.

Peter began to walk through the rooms. It was dark, so he used his Mini-com Multi-tasker as a light source. He strolled from room to room, feeling foolish. Was something supposed to happen? Was this new technology somewhere in the maze?

That’s when he heard it.

Footsteps. But the gait was strange. It was a shuffling, if he was not mistaken. It was coming from one of the adjoining rooms. He crept quietly into the next room, put his back to the wall, and listened. Someone else was definitely in the maze with him, and the mystery guest was zeroing in on his position.

The footsteps sounded like they were somewhere in front of him, so Peter ducked into a side room. He then attempted to circumvent the room that was in front of him, all the while taking great care to be silent. He didn’t want to give away his position.

The strange thing was that as he would cross a room and then stop, then cross another room and stop, the footsteps seemed constant as if his pursuer never stopped.

The effect was unnerving enough that in his attempt at circumvention, he cornered himself into a dead end. However, as he turned to exit the room, he heard the shuffling closing in on him. He cursed his sloppiness.

Peter was able to see a dark silhouette moving towards his room, but the silhouette appeared odd. It looked as if the person was hunched over, and it shambled around like a prisoner shackled at the ankles.

Peter readied himself for who was coming through the door. Would he be shot at? He prepared to make a dash around the figure and through the doorway once it entered.

Peter was not prepared for what wandered into the illumination of his Multi-tasker. In fact, he wondered if the dark was playing tricks on him.

There, by the dim light of his Mutli-tasker, was a man in a black, form-fitting suit. Was this some new kind of uniform? There was something off about his face. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows.

“Okay, so you got me. Did I lose?”

The man did not answer, he only stared at him with the most vacant of expressions. Then he began to shuffle forward.

The gait didn’t sit right with Peter. Why would a soldier shuffle, particularly in a combat situation?

“So what’re you supposed to be?”

The man reached out a hand. Peter took it as a greeting and shook the man’s hand, but the man’s grip was unusually tight, and he began to pull Peter closer.

“Hi, I’m Lieutenant…” But Peter saw the glazed eyes, which now widened in some kind of frenzy. The man gripped Peter by the shoulder with his free hand and pulled him close.

He opened his mouth, and Peter smelt the sickly sweet aroma of putrescence on his breath. Something was wrong. Peter knew this feeling, and he became alarmed.

He struggled to pull himself away from the man, but the man possessed an unnatural strength. He remembered his Aikido and spun out of the man’s grip, causing him to trip over his own limbs and fall to the floor.

Peter backed into a corner. “What the hell’s your problem? This exercise is over.”

But the man was hoisting himself up. When he was kneeling on his left knee, he looked up at Peter and let out a ghastly moan that sent chills up Peter’s spine.

Peter knew at that moment that he had to get away from this soldier. He dashed around the man, barely dodging a swipe of the man’s arm, and he ran out of the room.

He began to navigate the dreaded Labyrinth room-by-room with shuffling and moaning only a couple of rooms behind. As he struggled to remember his training and his past experiences with the Labyrinth, his mind ran wild with terror as to what was pursuing him.

The panic was inexplicable, but found its origin in the most primitive recesses of his mind. There was something definitely wrong with that soldier, and the knowledge that he was pursuing him triggered a potent revulsion and the most basic instinct to survive.

However, the terror was unsettling to the point of distraction, causing Peter to flounder about clumsily in the dark maze. As Peter ran and bumped against walls and found himself going in circles, the constant shuffling gait always right behind him never ceased.

Peter must have reached a room with an exterior wall, as there was a boarded up window. He threw himself at the window, hoping to go through, but the boards were fastened tightly and he ricocheted off and fell to the floor.

The man appeared in the doorway and saw Peter on the floor.

“Soldier, state your name and rank.”

As if in response, the soldier reached out his hand and moaned. It sounded like when a strong breeze is caught by the mouth of a large empty jug. It was not a sound a natural man made with his lungs.

Peter stood up. “This exercise is over, soldier.”

The soldier, ignoring Peter’s declaration, reached out and grappled with Peter again, causing him to drop his Multi-tasker. He heard a crunch as he struggled with the man in the dark. The man must have stepped on it.

“What are you?”

The man only moaned as it opened its mouth. Peter wedged his forearm under its chin as it snapped its jaws at him only inches from his face and clawed at his clothes with his nails.

“Stand down, soldier! That’s a direct order.” He managed to wiggle out of his grip and ran towards what he estimated to be the back of the maze in relative darkness.

The shuffling continued, the moans bearing down on him sending his mind reeling to the brink of madness.

“Let me out! Sergeant Lockwood, this exercise is over!”

He ran frantically through rooms, slamming into walls and clipping his shoulders on sides of doorways, but his adrenaline was pumping and he was feeling no pain.

In his alarm, he must have gotten turned around and ran right into the soldier, who in reaction wrapped his arms around Peter, nearly squeezing the breath out of him.

He was face to face with the soldier, whose white eyes widened. He opened his mouth and hissed loudly at Peter.

“Sergeant…” He struggled, as the man’s grip would not allow him to draw breath, like a boa slowly but surely constricting around its prey. “Get…me…out.”

The man opened its jaws and leaned its head into Peter. Peter closed his eyes and no longer fought blacking out.

Suddenly he was dropped to the floor hard. It was dark, and his vision was blurry. He made out the silhouette of the soldier standing over him, but he did not move.

There was buzzing in Peter’s ears, but as he regained his bearings he began to realize that the buzzing was not coming from within his ears. He stood up rather unsteadily and backed away from the buzzing soldier until his back hit the wall behind him.

Bright lights flashed on, and Peter was able to get a better look at his antagonist. The soldier looked like hell. His face was ragged, the skin pulled tight over his skull like tanned animal skin, and the eyes were severely clouded with cataracts. There was no expression on his face.

Peter heard the tone of digi-locks disengaging, and in a moment, Sergeant Lockwood and Major Lewis stepped into the room.

“What…what is this?” Peter asked to either man, still catching his breath.

Sergeant Lockwood was holding some kind of transmitter. “No worries, Lieutenant Birdsall. He’s quite harmless at the moment.”

“Quite harmless,” Peter parroted acerbically.

Major Lewis put his hand up to Sergeant Lockwood in warning, “Sergeant…”

But he was too late. Peter lunged at Lockwood, punching him square in the jaw with such momentum that they both fell to the ground.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Peter yelled hoarsely into Lockwood’s face, sprinkling it rather generously with spittle.

Major Lewis was pulling Peter off Lockwood. The buzzing soldier just stood there stoically, frozen in time and rather unmoved by the drama.

“Lieutenant Birdsall, stand down.”

Peter backed away from Lockwood, who picked up the transmitter that he had dropped and glared at Peter.

“I can explain everything,” said Major Lewis. “Let’s go to the debriefing room. Sergeant, put the ID away.”

Lockwood nodded and saluted. Major Lewis left the room, and Peter followed giving the now still soldier a last glance on the way out.

He followed Major Lewis into the debriefing room and closed the door behind him rather abruptly. Major Lewis leaned up against the table in the front. “Have a seat, Lieutenant.”

Peter sat. “With all due respect…enough riddles, Major. I want answers.”

“I understand your confusion, son, but it was important that you saw it for yourself. The ‘ID Program’ stands for Insidious Drone Program.”

“Drone? That man looked dead.”

“Undead, actually,” Major Lewis corrected.

“Undead? You mean…zombies, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I suppose you could call them that. In the twentieth century, in the early 1990’s there was a civil war in what was then Rwanda, between the Tutsi and the Hutu.”

“Yes, I remember something about it from Twentieth Century History class.”

“Well, then you may have remembered the genocide perpetuated by the Presidential Guard, the Rwanda armed forces, and extremist militia targeting those who supported the Arusha Accord. Nearly one million Rwandans were killed. That was nearly ten percent of the population.”

“Yes, but the Rwandan Patriotic Front got their revenge, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes, but that’s on oversimplification. In 1992, the production of coffee, their main export, went down, and since most of the land was dedicated to growing coffee, there wasn’t enough food. What resulted was famine and disease.”

Peter was wondering what this had to do with zombies.

Major Lewis continued his explanation. “Even after the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) retook the capital of Kigali, disease was still rampant. In fact, there were reports of civilians becoming sick and turning to cannibalism. Soon RPF soldiers had fallen victim to this mysterious sickness. The Hutu fled to the Congo.

“Later, when the US-backed Alliance of Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Congo-Zaire entered the Congo with the RPF, they encountered what first appeared to be refugees wandering through villages.

“But these refugees were afflicted with the mysterious disease and were devouring everyone in sight. They were unsure if these were agents of the French, who were backing the Hutu. Curious about the phenomenon, the Alliance forces followed them, observing from a distance.

“They observed the afflicted hunting down and cannibalizing Hutu refugees. Thinking that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, they attempted to approach these afflicted individuals with disastrous results.

“So they captured many of the afflicted, killing some in the process out of self-preservation, and they were extracted secretly by US Special Forces. The press blamed the RPF for the slaughter of the Hutu refugees in the Congo, but it was written off as a justified response to the genocide.”

Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Zombies in the Congo? It sounded like the plot of a bad black-and-white movie. “So…that soldier in the Labyrinth, he’s a…”

“Yes.”

That explained the blank expression, putrescent smell, and the man’s constant attempts to try to eat him.

“Lieutenant, I know this must be a great deal for you to digest. But, we’ve found that they make the perfect soldiers, combining unconventional and psychological warfare. They never need to be fed, they don’t dehydrate, they never show fatigue, and in numbers, they can swarm and overwhelm just about any position.”

Peter recalled the footsteps in the maze. “The soldier in the maze was relentless.”

“Yes, and it drove you to panic. That’s the psychological component that we didn’t even anticipate until the field tests.”

“Field tests?”

“Just image your panic if we threw forty, fifty, or even one hundred of these Insidious Drones at you.”

Peter didn’t want to, but he got the point.

“And furthermore, they can be sent into terrain normally inaccessible to live soldiers. Just imagine, finally we can breach the cave systems of Afghanistan. All we’d have to do is pour a few hundred of these bad boys into the caves, and they would just keep wandering through, sniffing out terrorists…”

“And eating them?”

“But no lives of American soldiers would be risked. They are the ultimate drones. And we could apply this not only to caves, but any terrain not easily accessible by traditional means. It even has applications for urban warfare.”

A few hundred? How many of these things did the army have?

“Well, Major, this all sounds good, but where do I come in?”

“Lieutenant Birdsall, we need a platoon of soldiers to funnel them into the buildings, caves, and the like. Like shepherd dogs directing sheep. They won’t think on their own. In fact, they don’t think at all.”

“Like cowboys herding cattle.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well, isn’t that…dangerous? I mean, how are these things controlled?”

Major Lewis pushed himself off the table he was leaning on. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Peter followed Major Lewis back out of the debriefing room. He submitted to a palm print and retinal scan at a heavy door with two armed guards and took Peter into a room that resembled a large freezer. “It’s going to be cold in here, Lieutenant.”

Peter nodded and followed. There was a clear, thick Plexiglas wall with a door built into it. Behind it, there were rows of shackled soldiers like the one in the maze in the same black suits. Major Lewis entered a code, and the door opened.

“This is our containment facility. The temperature is maintained at near freezing temperatures to arrest decomposition to the point where it’s negligible.”

“But what about when they’re in the field, sir?”

Major Lewis pointed to one of the soldiers. “See the black suit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The suit is designed to reduce body temperature to retard decomposition, which is easy since these guys are dead and aren’t generating any body heat. The suit is more of a protection from the surrounding environment.”

Major Lewis paused so that Peter could take it all in. Then he beckoned Peter to follow him out of the room. They exited, and the door sealed behind them.

“I noticed that none of them were moving, sir.”

“Yes. That’s because they each have an Amygdala Inhibitor—or AI—installed in their skulls.”

“Pardon my ignorance, sir, but what is that?”

“Follow me. I’ll introduce you to someone who can explain it.”

They crossed the hall and entered a laboratory. There were long, black-surfaced tables, beakers, microscopes, centrifuges, etc. Major Lewis waved at what was apparently a scientist (hence the white lab coat) and the man walked over.

“Lieutenant Birdsall, this is Dr. Gilbart. He’s an organic chemist working on the project.”

Dr. Gilbart shook Peter’s hand.

“Dr. Gilbart, if you could be so kind, could you explain the ID’s condition and why they need Amygdala Inhibitors?”

He bowed his head graciously. “Of course, Major Lewis.” Then to Peter, “Lieutenant Birdsall, we don’t know the origin of what has been dubbed the Tutsi-Hutu Virus, or THV, but we do know that those afflicted die rapidly from organ failure and re-animate with brain damage.”

“Re…animate.”

“Yes. More precisely, they re-animate with suppressed frontal lobe functioning due to oxygen deprivation and a nasty case of Kluver-Bucy Syndrome.”

Peter’s eyes were apparently starting to glaze over, and the good doctor took this as his cue to explain in simple, layman’s terms.

“Lieutenant, Kluver-Bucy Syndrome was originally only seen in primates with lesions in very specific areas of their amygdala—the center of the brain in responsible for aggression—that would cause them to behave in a hyper-aggressive, hyper-sexual, and hyper-oral manner.”

“I get the hyper-aggressive and hyper-oral—they basically want to eat you…”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“But hyper-sexual?”

Major Lewis jumped in. “Yes, in early field tests they would sometimes resort to humping each other.”

Peter stifled a laugh.

“Yes,” said Major Lewis matter-of-factly, “we, too, initially found it amusing, but it became problematic during training exercises.”

“Hence the Amygdala Inhibitors,” added Dr. Gilbart. “They are set at a low enough level of inhibition to suppress the acting out of sexual urges, and we can turn them up to effectively stop any behavior as a safety mechanism.”

“So that’s what happened to the soldier in the Labyrinth?” Peter asked Major Lewis.

“Yes, we never had any intention of letting the exercise get out of hand. We were monitoring your progress and had our finger on the button at all times.”

“We?”

“Sergeant Lockwood, actually. He’s the one who turned the ID off and effectively saved your life.”

“Remind me to thank him properly,” Peter remarked with obvious sarcasm. He turned to Dr. Gilbart. “So where do all of these zombies come from anyway?”

“Ah-hem, Insidious Drones,” corrected Dr. Gilbart, who looked at Major Lewis nervously.

Major Lewis quickly changed the subject.

“Come with me, Lieutenant Birdsall, I have to show you the equipment you’ll be utilizing.”

Peter was still pondering the brief moment between Dr. Gilbart and Major Lewis when the Major had left the room. Apparently, they did not intend to answer his question.

Dr. Gilbart bowed his head. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. Welcome to the team.” And he turned around and walked back across the lab to continue whatever he had been working on.

Peter left the lab and caught up with Major Lewis, who had been waiting in the hallway. He continued giving the tour. “Let’s go to Engineering. They’ve developed portable MRI’s to help you when you are alone with the ID in the dark to tell the living from the undead.”

They entered another security-locked room where there was a laboratory of another kind.

“Lieutenant Farrow…”

Farrow was at a stainless steel workstation, calibrating some kind of apparatus. When he heard his name, he put down what he was doing, walked over, and saluted the Major.

“Lieutenant Birdsall, this is Lieutenant Farrow. He’s the engineer that supervised the development of MR.UD. Lieutenant Farrow, Lieutenant Birdsall will be leading the platoon of ID wranglers. Could you explain MR.UD to him?”

Farrow smiled enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Birdsall, MR.UD is the Magnetic Resonance Undead Detector. Picture every atom in your body spinning like a top, but each in a different direction. The MR.UD uses a powerful magnet to align all of the atoms in your body so that they all spin in the same direction. Got me so far?”

Science was not Peter’s strong suit, but he got the gist and nodded.

“Good,” Farrow continued. “Well, when I turn the magnet off, all of the atoms return back to their original orientations in space. As this happens, they emit information revealing the location of each atom, in essence painting a picture of you.”

“Got it.”

“Well, one of the measures taken is the time it takes the atoms to snap back to their original orientations—we call it T1. In necrotic tissue, T1 times are longer, meaning it takes necrotic atoms significantly longer to snap back to their original orientation.”

“So, does that mean the picture of a…ID…is going to be different?”

“We’ve calibrated the device to feed information into a monitor. If the T1 readings fall above a preset threshold, indicating an undead individual, the image of that person will appear red.”

Farrow then walked over to a table with what was apparently the MR.UD and pressed a button on a control panel. A heavy metal door retracted into the ceiling, and behind it was yet another room separated by thick Plexiglas.

An ID lurched forward and threw himself against the Plexiglas, smearing blood and saliva on it.

Farrow handed Peter the MR.UD. “Here, point it at the ID and watch the monitor closely.”

Peter did as he was instructed. There was a red image on the small screen.

“The black suit enhances and transmits the T1 reading,” said Farrow.

The ID continued to attack the glass.

“It helps you in the field to tell who is who.”

Peter gingerly handed the MR.UD back to Lieutenant Farrow. “Thank you, Lieutenant Farrow.”

Farrow nodded.

Peter turned to Major Lewis. “I have a question.” He felt as if he was in school again, and the sentiment was not a comfortable one. “How exactly do we wrangle these things?”

“Lieutenant Birdsall, follow me.”

Peter accompanied Major Lewis, this time, to the firing range. Sergeant Lockwood was waiting for them.

Peter felt awkward. He was still pissed off about the exercise in the Labyrinth, but Sergeant Lockwood was the one who got him out in one piece.

Peter addressed Lockwood. “So, I understand that you are the one who was responsible for keeping me alive in the Labyrinth.” That was the closest he could come to an actual apology for punching the man who saved his life.

Lockwood nodded tersely.

“Sergeant Lockwood, “Major Lewis interrupted, “I think it’s time to show the Lieutenant what kind of firepower he’ll be using.”

“Yes, sir.” He walked over to a table and picked up an unusual looking weapon. “This is the future of military weaponry. This is the FLASH electric ignition 12-gauge shotgun.”

He handed it to Peter, who took it and immediately gauged its weight and feel. “This weapon was developed by a private corporation in the United States. Now let me ask you, Lieutenant, what’s the biggest problem with conventional army weaponry?”

Peter looked up from the shotgun. “You mean carbines and AK’s?”

“Yes.”

“Jamming.”

“Exactly. There are an unacceptable percentage of fatalities in combat situations due to jamming, because as you know, the rifles typically used involve moving parts.”

“So how does this one work?”

“Well, let me put it this way. You felt how scary it was to have one of these ID attacking you.”

“Yes,” Peter tried not to look bitter about it.

“Well, imagine if you had fifty or one hundred ID swarming you. In such a scenario, jamming is not an option. This weapon has no moving parts. It utilizes an electrical ignition system. So, when you pull the trigger, a pulse is sent up to ignite the ammunition. Look…”

He took the weapon from Peter and disengaged a tube. “Because there is no need to stack ammunition, it is loaded in tubes where they are spring-loaded back-to-back. As one is ignited and leaves the chamber, the one behind it immediately slides up. No moving parts. No jamming. And you can get off more rounds quickly. It’s semi-automatic, so wasting ammo in a panic is less likely.”

“Wow,” Peter was genuinely impressed, “that’s amazing.”

“Generally, in a swarm scenario you don’t want to panic. You’ll want to make every shot count. You’ll also be equipped with FLASH handguns. Some of your team will have automatic rifles to address flanking by unfriendlies, insurgents, and such.

“The only kill shot with an ID is to the brain, which is why you’ll be using blunt impact munitions rather than scattershot in the shotguns. Scattershot would normally have effective stopping power at close range, but for a live target. Scattershot won’t even slow an ID down. You need to damage the brain.”

Peter was doing his best to process all of the information being presented to him. “So when we’re out in the field guiding these ID towards targets, what’s to stop us from being the targets? You said so yourself, Major, that they do not have any thoughts. How do they know who the bad guys are?”

“Show him the suit,” Major Lewis instructed Lockwood.

Lockwood unfolded and held up a black suit.

“That looks like the suit the ID was wearing in the maze,” Peter reflected.

“It is,” replied Lockwood. “But this one is modified to be worn by a live soldier.” He held out an arm of the suit. “The live soldier’s suit is designed to glow. There are fluorescent lines running up and down the arms and legs to help you see in the dark and identify each other.”

Lockwood then pointed to the shoulder. “As you can see, this is a Corporal’s suit because it has two fluorescent stripes indicating rank.”

Peter reached out to feel the material of the suit. “What’s it made of?”

“A synthetic material designed to keep the soldier cool while masking any heat signature given off.”

“Heat signature? So this is a stealth suit.”

“Exactly. It masks you from detection by the ID, so they’ll ignore you and pursue the designated targets. Terrorists and cartel members will not be wearing these suits.”

“So the ID will only pursue their heat signatures instead of us.”

“Exactly. You’ll be more like furniture to them. Oh, and you’ll appear blue to the MR.UD, yet another way to tell who’s who.”

“So the weapons…”

“Plan B.”

“Yes,” Major Lewis interjected. “The army would appreciate it if the percentage of ID lost to ‘friendly fire’ could be kept to a minimum, given that they are quite expensive and don’t grow on trees.”

“Well, what about the targets? I’m sure they’ll be shooting at your precious ID.”

Major Lewis snickered. “Yes, but they will know next to nothing about the ID. In all probability, they’ll mostly be firing at the body, as it’s the largest target. A few will get lucky with some headshots, but neither terrorists nor Mexican cartel members are known for being marksmen.”

This made sense to Peter so far. “But what about recovery? How do we get them back after the targets have been neutralized?”

“We trigger the Amygdala Inhibitors,” Lockwood said, “to immobilize them temporarily. Then you would mobilize the bait.”

“Bait?”

“Yes, pigs. There being nothing for the ID to pursue or eat, they’d return to pursue the pigs. Plus, one of your engineers will transmit a frequency that tends to attract the ID, to draw them back out.”

“We want to minimize losses of ID, as we don’t want this technology falling into enemy hands,” Major Lewis added. “Not that they would probably know what to do with it. In fact, if they ever did detain any number of ID, they wouldn’t live long enough to realize their folly. Individuals would get bitten and turn, eventually overrunning the enemy before they would figure out what they were dealing with.”

Peter didn’t care for the Major’s snarky attitude or his glib approach to the apparent expendability of live human soldiers in relation to that of the apparently expensive ID.

Lockwood handed Peter the shotgun. “Would you like to give her a try?”

Peter nodded and accepted the shotgun and earmuffs to protect his ears. He placed them on and followed Lockwood to a booth in the shooting range.

Lockwood pressed a button on a control panel, and a cardboard cutout of a man holding a gun popped up. Peter squeezed the trigger, taking off its head.

Lockwood gave him the thumbs up and began to press multiple buttons. Multiple cutouts popped up, and Peter squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, pop, pop, pop.

He was surprised at the rate he could fire off rounds, particularly for a shotgun. Lockwood showed him how to pop out the tube of expended ammo and insert the next.

“This will come in handy in a swarm situation,” Peter said barely hiding the delight in his voice. He was like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Here,” Lockwood handed Peter a pistol and took the shotgun. “Try this.”

Peter received it rather enthusiastically, took aim out at the range, and smirked. “Pull.”

Lockwood pressed some more buttons, and Peter fired rapid rounds into the cutouts. He took off the earmuffs and handed them to Lockwood. “Show me more.”

Lockwood gestured to follow him, and Major Lewis brought up the rear, smiling, rather satisfied with his choice of Lieutenant Birdsall.

Lockwood took him over to a rather elaborate-looking dummy. He handed him a small black cylinder.

Peter flicked his wrist smartly, extending the baton. “It feels so light.”

“But it packs quite a punch,” Lockwood added. “This dummy has a simulated skull with artificial brain matter inside. Go ahead and give it a whack.”

Peter smiled at Major Lewis, raised his right hand above his head, and brought the baton down in a crushing blow, breaching the skull rather easily.

He was sprayed with artificial brain matter. He looked comical, standing there with baton in hand, grinning through what looked like strawberry jam splattered all over his face.

Lockwood continued his instruction. “The retractable batons will be helpful if it were to become necessary to engage in close hand-to-hand combat. Of course, such a scenario should only occur as a last resort. Use of the baton will only be effective when facing one or two ID. If there were three or more, hand-to-hand combat would prove extremely dangerous if not futile.”

“Will we be wearing any protective head gear?” Peter asked.

“In the field, your helmet will be provided with protective goggles,” said Lockwood. “You won’t want to get any of their brain tissue or blood in your eyes. You’ll want to keep your mouth closed as well.”

“Well that’s interesting,” remarked Peter. “What are the rules anyway?”

Major Lewis looked confused. “The rules? What rules?”

“You know, every zombie movie has rules. How you kill them, how to get infected…you know, the rules.”

Lockwood stepped in. “The only way to put them down is with a headshot. Don’t get bitten or get their blood in your mouth, eyes, or any of your orifices. If someone is bitten, the time it takes for them to die is variable, but re-animation occurs within five minutes of time of death.”

He reached back and put the baton back on the table. He picked up a book and handed it to Peter. “The Tactical and Intructional Manual for Wrangling Insidious Drones.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Peter said rhetorically.

“Actually we’re not,” said Lockwood. “It’s incomplete. We were hoping that you could help us finish it, fill in the details, plan for every possible scenario we can anticipate.”

Peter looked up at Lockwood in disbelief.

“Well, Lieutenant, we’ve run some preliminary training exercises, but it’s all still very sloppy. We were hoping you could help us tighten things up to meet the standards for a mission.”

“And I’m sure you have some ideas for the Navajas,” Major Lewis coaxed.

Peter was overwhelmed. This was all so sudden and strange. “I’ll do my best, sir. When do I start?”

“You’ll start tomorrow. First, you’ll meet your platoon, and then you’ll begin rudimentary exercises and eventually training simulations. But for today, I’ve scheduled a session with Captain London.”

Peter’s expression changed, and the enthusiasm faded. He felt his cheeks flush as he recalled the night at Frisky’s and being seen with the brunette bimbo.

Major Lewis sensed his reticence. “Lieutenant Birdsall, it is crucial that you continue your relationship with her during your participation in the program. It is in your best interest and the best interest of your platoon to keep a level head. The long-term psychological effects of working with the ID have not been assessed.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Your appointment is at 15:00.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Peter saluted and returned to the barracks.

***

“So, how was your first day in the ID Program?”

Peter sat in his chair staring at Captain London. It was as if he was just realizing how truly attractive she was, but he was not sure why. She was pretty, blonde, athletic, smart—but he did not know why now.

“It’s all so…overwhelming. I mean, you see stuff like this in the movies, but you’d never think it was real.”

“Or that the army was working with it no less,” she added.

“But it all makes perfect sense,” he said. “They’re just low-maintenance, relentless killing machines that swarm their targets.”

“Speaking of which, do you have any worries about working with them?”

He paused thoughtfully. “When I was a kid, I used to play with scorpions and rattle snakes. I even used to work on a ranch. I would imagine it’s similar.”

“The herding part and the prospect of being bitten by things that can kill you, yes. But did you ever herd cattle into a building to kill someone?”

“No, of course not.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Well, the targets would be cartel or terrorist.”

“What about civilians? What if they got in the way of your ID and the targets?”

“Well, I guess I haven’t thought about that.”

“Peter, in the first decade of this century, Presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama were criticized for their aggressive use of drones in the border of Pakistan—too many civilians killed.”

“But that’s the nature of using drones, isn’t it? Collateral damage.”

“Well, Peter, does the end justify the means?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean how many civilian deaths are acceptable during a mission? A few, several, fifty?”

“I-I don’t know, exactly. I guess the same that was acceptable under Presidents Bush and Obama.”

“But that’s the point, Peter. The military thought they were doing the right thing, that the ‘collateral damage’ was minimal. But the press thought otherwise.”

“But the press is not the first consideration in any of our exercises. Besides, it sounds like we’ll be storming caves. Isn’t that the intended application of the ID? To go where live soldiers cannot normally go. I doubt there’ll be many civilians in the caves.”

“What about the ‘neutralization,’ Peter? Can you handle the targets being eaten alive? Even terrorists?”

Peter hesitated, digesting the question and its implications. “I guess water boarding was once considered excessive prior to 2024. Even with September 11. But there have been so many more terrorist attacks throughout the world, and they’re now providing security for the Mexican cartels to flood our country with drugs.”

“So that warrants the use of ID?”

“Well, doesn’t it?”

“I’m asking you, Peter. My opinion doesn’t matter. I’m only asking these questions…”

“Yes, as an exercise. I know.”

He thought about her question. “We cannot catch these terrorists, and the cartels are almost equally elusive. I guess it would be for the greater good.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know. I would be following orders from men who have given this a lot more thought.”

“So you’re just another blunt instrument? Like an ID?”

“No, of course not.”

“Really? They don’t question orders. They’re just pointed in a direction, and they achieve the objective. Then they’re rounded up and returned to await the next combat scenario.”

Peter was becoming frustrated with her line of questioning. “Yes, but they can’t think.”

“Ah-ha. So there is a difference. You, Peter, can think. I want you to remember that, not just during the training exercises, but when you unleash the ID out on the world that you are supposedly protecting.”

Peter’s brain hurt. It must have been evident by the expression on his face.

“Look, Peter. It is my job to make sure that you keep your head on straight during this whole thing. Working with the ID can be dangerous, not just physically but psychologically. You can lose your humanity after a while. And once you lose yourself, your judgment follows and people can get hurt.”

“Oh, for a minute I thought you actually cared about me.”

“I do, Peter. But remember, these sessions are not just about you.”

He remembered…Apone.

Captain London shifted topics. “So, how’s your scruffy little brother? Does he still want to be all he can be?”

Peter laughed. “It’s quieted down for now. My mother must’ve gotten to him.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. He would’ve made an excellent soldier.”

“My brother? Really? Why’s that?”

“Well, he’s intelligent, brave…”

“Brave?”

“He approached me in a bar and struck up a conversation out of thin air, clumsily but effectively. You just stammered when I approached you.”

Peter was embarrassed. His face felt hot, and he again began to stammer. He never stammered when talking to women. “I-I-I was just surprised to see you there. That’s all.”

“He also seems to feel that he doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

“Well, that’s always been true.”

“He’s looking to belong. With his intellect, I think he’s definitely officer material.”

Peter’s face was so hot, you could’ve fried an egg on it. She definitely triggered his competitive nature, but was he…jealous? And if so, of what?

“Well, if you talk to him, tell him I said hi.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Same time next week?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“See you then. Call me if you need me.”

“Will do.”

Peter was thankful to end the session at that point and did not hesitate to leave Captain London’s office.

***

Peter was lying in his bunk reading the manual that Lockwood had given him. He flipped through the various chapters on hand-to-hand defense, ID battle formations, roundup and cleanup.

This whole thing was so surreal. Apone would’ve shit his pants from laughter if he found out about any of this. Or would he have been horrified?

As a matter of fact, Peter was hit with all of this so quickly, he was not sure about his own feelings. The idea of being around even one of those ID gave him the willies, particularly after his experience with the one in the Labyrinth. He pitied anyone designated as a target.

But he and his men would supposedly be protected. There were the suits, the guns, and the MRI devices. It all seemed to make sense. Plus, the idea of getting those chicken-shit terrorists hiding in those caves made him salivate. He mused that maybe he wasn’t so different from the ID after all.

The Navajas had something wicked coming their way. They were in for a rude awakening, and he would be leading the charge.

Just then the monitor of his communicator was flashing. It was a call from home. He accepted.

His father and mother’s faces popped up on the LED screen.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Pete.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Peter’s father said.

“We talked Carl out of enlisting,” his mother beamed.

“Well, that’s great, Mom.”

“Yes, I’ve managed to get him a job in the mall at the coffee boutique.”

“And he’s okay with that, Dad?”

“No, you know your brother. But maybe if he can prove himself, corporate will notice and he can move up.”

The notion was ridiculous. The job market was flooded with college graduates who couldn’t find work. He would just get lost in the white noise.

“That’s great, Dad. I’m sure he will. He’s smart, smarter than me.”

His father waved a dismissive hand. “We’re very proud of you, son.”

But his mother was frowning, voting against her husband’s remark with her silence.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He heard Carl’s voice in the background.

“Oh, yes,” his father added. “Carl wants to know if Captain London asked about him.”

“What? Dad, I have to go.”

His father nodded his understanding, and Peter heard Carl’s protests in the background as he terminated the call.

He picked the manual back up and read on about dividing platoons into four squads of ten, using two SWEEPERS (field engineers) with portable Magnetic Resonance Imaging (dubbed MR.UD) and coordinating sixty Insidious Drones.

He imagined sixty of those things lumbering around in all directions as his platoon herded them along. Kluver-Bucy, his ass. He had never heard of such a thing. And where did they get sixty zombies from? Were there more? There had to be.

Peter put down the book, his head spinning, and got ready to go to the mess hall. His stomach was rumbling terribly, and as he got up to leave, he wondered if the ID felt hunger the way he did.