Robocalypse Now
(short A.I.-without-A.I. dark comedy) A young man wakes up in a hospital to find everyone dead. Will he kill the mech-monster? Will he rescue the girl? Will he find his pants?
No mistaking it now. When Jerry had first heard the sound—high-pitched and even—he thought it could be either air straining through a vent, an animal of some kind, or a whistle. Its second shriek ruled out the vent since the building had lost power at some point, disabling the thermostat. The third eliminated the animal option because… it just made no sense. They were in a hospital, not some rundown old shoe factory with weeds. That left only the whistle option. Which concerned Jerry far less than the identity of the whistle-blower.
He had to warn them. Something went terribly wrong. When he’d first got to the hospital (an hour ago? a week?), there were doctors and nurses, patients and families. A hospital in other words. The nurse had started the countdown from a hundred and consciousness slipped from Jerry’s eyes before she got to ninety-five. He woke up and found he didn’t have a gaping hole in his chest as expected. That was good. The bone saw was there, not a drop of blood on it. Same for the gauze pads and other instruments on the tray table. All good. Heart surgery’s scary business; kicking that can down the curb sounded great. Yet the surgeon and three support technicians lay in mutilated heaps on the floor around the operating room. Very bad.
Inexplicably—he had then noticed—he was alive and totally unharmed. Once he made sure the killer or killers were gone he stood up and crept across the surgeon’s maimed cadaver (the irony not lost on Jerry). He was groggy from the anesthesia, but he knew a bite wound when he saw it. Right on the neck, all of them, reminding Jerry of how a lioness takes down a zebra and holds it pinned until it stops moving. On nature shows anyway.
“Stops moving"…
He had considered this point as he staggered for the door. Same situation for the others. They fought, they ran, they died. A scalpel with blood lay near one of their hands. They stabbed the creature—whatever it was. “If it bleeds, we can kill it,” he whispered, quoting his favorite Arnold movie Predator.
He moved slowly. He reached for the door handle and gently, so so gently, grasped it. Turned the knob. It didn’t squeak, praise the Lord. Jerry peeped his eyes through a crack, sighting a corridor. A pair of lifeless legs stretched out through a nearby doorway. Jerry’s eyes fell to the tile floor, making out splotches of blood all down the length of the hallway. Lowering his eyes, he saw more splotches right at his feet. Prints. Paw prints. Bear-sized. No… bigger.
What on earth could this be?
He hovered his own bare foot in the air right over the nearest print. It was the same length, but circular. He counted three toes. Odd, but then again, he knew nothing about real untelevised nature. Jerry’s ex-girlfriend called him an “indoor cat”, among other creative things like “pathologically useless.” The most daring “hunt” he’d ever been on was the time he rescued his chapstick from the deep dark depths of the La-Z-Boy. He knew he was dealing with a huge animal with deadly jaws but nothing more.
Wait.
And it didn’t seem to care for him.
Wait…
More ideas came to him. The surgeon wasn’t eaten, his body remained fully intact. The others same. Okay… so the creature kills them, doesn’t kill ME (very very good), and just leaves with neither consuming nor making off with its prey? This wasn’t a freakish polar bear escaped from the zoo, for one. Predatory animals kill because they’re hungry. So it was trained by someone. That’s one thing. And it was selective, leaving the likes of him alive. That’s another.
But why? What was different about Jerry? He was unconscious. Maybe that was it. He wasn’t moving. Living, breathing, yes. But not moving. Yes! It didn’t track vital signs like body heat or heart rate—no, he had those. But he was the only one (maybe in the whole hospital even!) who wasn’t moving an inch. Other bed-ridden patients would at least have squirmed in fear when the attacks began, but not him. That’s why the creature left him alone. Or… since the entire medical staff was Asian… the creature was racist. For or against Irish Catholic Americans, undetermined. But it was one or the other.
He went back into the operating room. The scalpel was too small and evidently ineffective. The bone saw was nice, but needed to be plugged in. There was another blade on the tray table, curved like the sword Leonidas used in that 300 movie. It fit snugly in his palm, destined to be united with him after all—and thankfully not through its sharp point as originally intended.
He returned to the door and peered back out. Stone silence. Wait. What on earth is that… a WHISTLE?! He had to get to whoever it was. Were they insane? No… mental health ward was in another building. But boy, if anyone had a shot, it’d be those guys!
Now, he crept out into the hallway. There—it was coming from the left. Jerry quickened his pace. Were the creatures still in the building? And how many were there? Another left. The whistle grew louder. He was getting closer. Bodies strewed the corridor. He didn’t want to look but he did. One of them was breathing maybe. Negative. Keep moving.
Through those double doors, the lobby. Security guards. Let’s see how they fared. He gently pushed the bar to allow the door to swing open. Just an inch. Yikes. More bad news. The whistle was so close now. Inch by inch he pushed the door open, revealing the massacre. Many creatures working together. Did even one soul escape? Oh no… the exit. An automatic door opened wide. A massive file cabinet blocking the path. Tipped over, papers spilt everywhere. Scuff marks on the floor indicated it was dragged into position.
By the creatures?
No… they couldn’t possibly have that much intelligence. Such scheming animals are unheard of outside Hollywood movies. A.I. certainly knows such strategy, but in simulations. War games for training soldiers. That meant one of two things: either there’s a human co-conspirator, or A.I. found a way to control minds. Murderous remote-controlled polar bears.
Perfect!
Oh no. Another noise. Louder than the whistle and terrifying. A roar. Is that a tiger? Jerry hadn’t been to the zoo in twenty years and hated Cambodian jungle documentaries. But it was like tigers in movies at least. Another roar. Okay… I know that sound. Dinosaurs.
(from the movies anyway)
Where the lobby walkway jogged to the right a shadow appeared on the wall. M’kay. Monstrous. He closed the door all but an inch and watched. The creature stepped into view. You’ve got to be kidding me! Not a bear, not a dinosaur. Not an animal of any kind. A robot beast like something out of a time-traveling blacksmith’s nightmare.
A.I. after all!
Being a writer (“PRETENDING to be one,” his ex oft corrected), Jerry knew about how art imitates life and life imitates art, but this was a new one. Seeing more of the robo-creature, it dawned on him just what the thing was. He used to read a comic about a team of mutant astro-warriors who traveled the galaxy fighting mythic monsters like griffins and centaurs, but all with some wacky twist like the centaurs also had shark heads and fought with bazookas. “Thundercats in Space” people called it, since the leader of the heroes (Ornax the Brave) had the head of a lion. His body was a mashup of a wingless dragon and a porcupine. And now his murderous robo-doppelganger stalked Westend Community Hospital.
Another roar. Okay… he placed the sound immediately now. Still terrifying yet a little funny: it was the T-rex from Jurassic Park, 1993. Not like it… he’d seen the movie over a dozen times… it was exactly it. This giant man-slaying robo-Thundercat had its brain chip loaded up with Jurassic Park sound bytes. So not art imitating life but artificial life imitating art and then BRINGING IT to life!
The whistle again... clearly coming from right past where the robomination stalked. Can it not hear? Also odd: while its roar was unimaginably intense, it prowled without any urgency. Uncanny. Checking for survivors maybe?
Ever so slowly, not making a peep, Jerry let the door close the remaining inch. Then he heard footsteps. Very urgent now. Charging right this way. Oh no!
It’s coming! But how did it hear THAT?!
Jerry turned on his heel and bolted for one of the adjacent rooms. Then he froze. Right there in the hallway, flattened against the wall but in clear view all the same. The door flung open and whacked the wall, the mech-monster having risen onto its hind legs to pull the door with its paws—just like Ornax the Brave on his spaceship!
A.I.’s just copying our works of art…
The thing crashed to the ground on all fours and resumed stalking the hallway at a sentry’s pace. Jerry didn’t close his eyes—careful not to blink, not to breathe. Because it dawned on him that A.I. was a pathetic copycat who’d programmed its deadly robomination’s hunting protocol just like its growl: stolen straight from Jurassic Park. Its visual acuity was based on movement. Nevermind the evidence that’s piled up since ‘93 that dinosaurs were just what ancient people called dragons, and they lived mere thousands not millions of years ago, co-existing entirely with humans, and the source of their visual acuity being based on movement wasn’t any empirical data but rather Steven Spielberg’s boyish imagination.
A.I.’s a shameless plot-thief!
The writer in him fumed at such a hack-job, but reveled just as much. Because knowing the Chronicles of Ornax comics like the back of his hand—spoiler alert!—he knew just how to destroy the thing. But first he had to reach that whistle-blower. Probably someone who figured out same as Jerry that the mech-monster’s programming completely ignored sound cues.
That would mean…
“Hey,” Jerry said in a low voice. The robot kept its course stalking the other way. “Hey!” he screamed, maybe unwisely, certainly uninhibited due to anesthesia residue.
Wise or foolish, he proved his theory correct. The thing’s deaf as a post. Jerry was about to turn and duck into the lobby when he thought better of it. The machine might have motion sensors on all sides. No reason A.I. would limit them to just the eyes.
Unless…
Thus far it seemed A.I. was truly slavish in its rip-off artistry. It could put sensors anywhere and everywhere, but Jerry wagered it wouldn’t. The dinosaurs from the Hollywood source material only saw through their eyes. Ornax the Brave only saw through his eyes. Was Jerry willing to wager his life on this theory rather than simply waiting another minute for the thing to disappear from view?
I’ll show you who’s useless! his wounded ego declared.
“Hey, jackass!” Jerry waved his arms as he called aloud. No indication the robomination sensed him.
Jerry backpedaled towards the double doors, felt behind his back for the push-bar and pressed it in. Gently he nudged the door open inch-by-inch. It wheezed at the hinges but no matter. The killer robot couldn’t…
What the?!—
Its head whipped round, clearly alerted, fixing Jerry in its cold red-eyed gaze. Jerry froze. Maybe needed new shorts (if he was wearing any). The mech-monster roared something fierce, nearly blowing Jerry’s eyebrows off his head as it spun its huge bulk in a one-eighty and charged right this way.
How is it possible!?
Jerry burst through the double doors and cut an immediate hard left out of sight, back to the wall. He froze. The robomination thundered into the lobby and galloped straight past, surging towards the corridor it’d just come from. Jerry smiled inwardly, pumped to have the metal monstrosity’s number, then gasped outwardly: the thing was headed right for the girl! He liked to think the whistle-blower was a girl anyway. It was always a girl in the movies and comics. (well, until Hollywood’s gender-swap craze of the mid twenty-teens at least…)
The robo-creature disappeared same way it came—shadow and all—and Jerry gave chase. After inwardly confirming the prudence of running down the kill-craziest monstrosity known to man, he wondered how the thing had known to look back. He’d confirmed it was deaf and only saw through its eyes.
And all I did was—
Ah. That’s it.
The light.
When he’d opened the doors, light from the lobby spilled into the dark surgery ward, changing the luminance on the walls and floor in front of the thing. And now that poor, beautiful, complimentary virgin had to die for it! (she was becoming quite special in Jerry’s mind)
Heroic resolve swelled within his breast, waxing even stronger than that of Ornax when he rescued She-Toad from Uranian space-pirates! He followed the dogleg right then abruptly slowed to a creeping walk. The mech-monster had resumed its sentry’s pace the other direction. Jerry was reminded of video games now, titles like Metal Gear Solid where alerted enemies search frantically if they see you, but then return to dim-witted sentry mode after only five seconds of feeble searching. Made no sense in real life of course—even total morons would remain alerted for probably the rest of the day—but A.I. had the intelligence and creative imagination of a hamster chewing on its water nib. Jerry wasn’t surprised. More forefront of his mind: the whistle was coming from the doorway just between those plants!
He checked his breath, hoped it didn’t stink too bad of “heart surgery”. Or should he maybe save his future wife and mother of seven from a distance? Pants would’ve been nice, but God hath not ordained it thus.
(good story for the grandkids though…)
Jerry pressed his hand to the door, took a deep breath, pushed it open. The whistle was deafening. He closed the door behind him and cupped his ears.
“Hey!” he called into the dark windowless room. “I’m here to rescue you,” he loved getting the chance to actually say.
The whistle was coming from the corner. Behind a curtain maybe. He stepped forward but nearly tripped. His eyes adjusted just enough to see the outline of a dead body laying at his feet. He removed one hand from his ear and felt behind him for the door handle. He opened it, a ribbon of light falling onto another dead body, this one in a patient’s gown like his. The whistle kept up its ear-piercing call, annoying Jerry albeit not too much. She was scared, he thought, and just wanted to make sure any survivors even across the building might hear.
Beautiful, kitchen-savvy, AND smart?! Triple threat!
“I love you!” he hoped she didn’t hear, hand cupping mouth.
He pulled the door open some more. This room being dark, it wouldn’t change the luminance of the bright many-windowed lobby at all. The shaft of light broadened, revealing more of the room. More bodies. All types of people (medical staff, patients, family members from the waiting area maybe). Five, six, seven of them.
What?!
More light revealed three bodies alone piled right at the curtain. These poor people, he thought, all gave their lives to save the girl. But he was going to succeed where they fell short!
He strode across the room towards the curtain, stepping over bodies while muffling the whistle best he could. This victim had no blood on his neck. Odd… not mauled at the jugular after all. He kept moving. Same for this technician in scrubs. As Jerry reached the curtain and extended his hand, he noticed none of them had been bitten.
As he grabbed the curtain and drew it aside, he saw the topmost of the bodies piled at his feet had a dart impaled through its chest. He lifted his eyes just as the shrieking whistle stopped. The girl’s delicate form—the outline being all he could see in the gloom—sat at the head of the bed, her feet pulled back under her raised knees like a frightened child. Jerry heard her inhale deeply as if about to blow the loudest note of all time. This did not please him from his bride-to-be. And whatever sort of hat that is (that a feather sticking out?) has got to go.
He drew the curtain back some more to let in more light. Another lifeless body was wedged against the wall, a dart in the forehead. At last the light fell on the girl. No… a boy. A robo-boy, one who’d never grow up. Mecha Peter Pan. Green leggings, Merrie England huntsman cap. Pan flute in hand.
It baited me!
Robo-Pan paused at the top of his “breath” then blasted a jet of air into one of the flute’s pipes, launching a dart into Jerry’s neck. Poisoned, he figured, A.I. mashing together Disney’s Peter Pan and… and… Jerry lost consciousness before sticking the last reference.