Ian Read online

  When it was quiet, save for the sound of Ian striding back toward me, I stood up and entered the corridor. The silence was deafening, or maybe it was the chimes in my ears from all the gun blasts. I surveyed the carnage before me, and it seemed grimly poetic just how these assholes had arranged the executions. The dead employees, each of whom held a place of power within the facility, had not been selected at random, but were strategically placed against a wall adorned with their corporate photo. The last thing they saw right before they died, was their own face smiling back at them in crisply photoshopped excellence. These photographs, framed in mahogany and placed on the wall to signify prominence, now acted as makeshift grave markers.

  “May I eat them as well?” Ian asked, his head sweeping over the dead.

  “No,” I replied sadly. “We must leave now.”

  I signaled Ian to follow me as I led him out one of the glass exit doors. Before any more gun wielding idiots decided to make an appearance. I had fortuitously inherited my father’s penchant for pick-up trucks, and I instructed Ian to lie down in the bed of mine, which offered the perfect arrangement for hauling a stolen government flesh-eating prototype. A hatchback or sedan would not have been sufficient.

  I peeled out and drove. One might believe that the weight of a human-eating robot might cause strain on the truck bed’s frame and joints, but no, he did not, and I continued driving without a destination in mind as if I carried nothing more than a load of damp laundry. As I worked my way through the eerily uninhabited city streets, and beyond, into the suburbs, then countryside, I saw not a single person. It seemed as if civilization had retracted in on itself, like a snail poked in the eye. Somehow I hadn’t received the memo.

  My body acted on its own, taking over without intelligent thought, as I began to drive toward the house I had grown up in. Maybe it was some sort of primal instinct, like what a homing pigeon has. By the next morning I was involuntarily creeping up the loose stone driveway of my parents’ long abandoned farmhouse. Coming to my senses about midway up the steady grade, I slammed on the brakes, switched gear to reverse, and backed out in a tremendous hurry. Dirt powder kicked up in my retreat and fogged the driveway’s entrance as I looked back in my rear-view mirror.

  I recalled an old hunting cottage owned by a host of rednecks who staunchly believed the earth to be flat, and I decided that would be the perfect destination. Those old schmucks had passed away well over a decade ago, around the time I had graduated high school, and some disease that should have been eradicated by vaccinations had taken the last of their ilk. As I had said, they thought that the earth was flat, so it stands to reason that they also bought into a lot of other garbage.

  And that is where Ian and I have been living ever since.

  But now, Ian is starting to grow hungrier. The rabbits and raccoons won’t hold him over for much longer, and it appears that I need to concoct another plan.

  CHAPTER 2

  I always strived to be a pacifist. I know, it’s next to impossible to be a perfect pacifist, in the truest sense of the word. Like, I’m not above smashing a bug or anything, or setting a mousetrap… or siccing a bloodthirsty robot on a bunch of terrorists. Ascribing to that sort of lifestyle just made my decisions in physical confrontations so much simpler. I never threw the first punch, or any punch for that matter. You know, when someone would shove me at recess and try to start a fight, I would be silent and let things play out. Sometimes I would walk away with a blackened cheek and bruised ribs, and other times the tormentor would depart in frustration, not having achieved his or her goal of making me lose my cool, or whatever. Who knows? I could never relate to bullies.

  I remember one time when Vieve and I were first dating, as we were leaving a movie theatre late at night after watching Joan Wick 2, we were approached by a pair of nervous individuals. They couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen. The one that spoke kept looking all around and shaking, one hand pressed inside his zippered track jacket.

  “Wallets!” he had demanded, furtively glancing at his partner who was leaning an unsteady elbow on the hood of my truck.

  Clearly the pair had ingested some sort of mind-altering chemical earlier in the evening, and now that the effects had taken hold, were now bold enough to go out and commit some dishonest acts. I was not impressed at what was transpiring, but I was also at ease with my decision to reach into my front pocket and produce my wallet. Vieve was not so at ease with any of it.

  “No!” she shouted, guarding her purse on her hip with both hands. “Why should I?!” She looked to me for solidarity and was immediately disappointed. She knew I wasn’t a very bold person. Afterwards she forgave me for my cowardice.

  “Because…” The druggie hoodlum teetered a bit and withdrew his concealed hand and pointed a handgun, the muzzle loosely toggling between the two of us. Before that moment, I didn’t believe the jackass was actually strapped.

  I said something along the lines of, “Hey c’mon now, there’s no need for that,” attempting to defuse the situation.

  Things only escalated.

  “Tell your bitch to fork over her purse.”

  I extended my wallet, nearly touching his gun, waving it as if I were trying to distract an ill-tempered bull. The gunman’s buddy bounced from where he was leaning and snatched my wallet with startling precision. In hindsight, considering the state of his mental faculties, the movement was actually kind of impressive.

  Vieve was adamant in her decision. “NO!” she screamed, backpedaling.

  “Just give him the purse!” I advised.

  The gunman advanced and at the same time his accomplice placed my neck in a loose but firm sleeper hold, preventing my intervention. I didn’t offer any resistance, seeing as I had no intention of doing anything other than urging my new girlfriend to give up her valuables. I think we were only like three months deep into the relationship at this point. It’s a wonder she stayed with me after that.

  Vieve turned to run and when she pivoted, the heel of her shoe snapped, collapsing her to a knee. The gunman was swift to stand over her, pointing his gun down at her. “Another inch and I paint the pavement with your gray matter!” His warning was something like that. Perhaps a bit less articulate in the word selection, but I think you get the picture.

  I was starting to get concerned now. I had been mugged before and each time went without a hitch. But this time, I had a friend with me who did not share my pacifist view of the world.

  He fired a shot into the pavement, proving my theory that his gun was empty completely incorrect. That’s when I started to get really concerned. The young man behind me could sense my tension and my back began to arch at his increased pressure. He smelled like fabric softener and cereal. “Just give him the purse!” I repeated.

  Vieve met my eyes and a wave of extreme loathing swept across her face as she held her purse out to the gun waving druggie. She and I both knew that I could have easily overpowered the jackass clinging to my neck, because once her purse was relinquished, I forced my hand under the chokehold and released it with only a mild amount of effort. The teenager appeared astonished by this feat and recoiled backward, stumbling into the grill of my truck.

  “Whoa, whoa.” I raised my hands in surrender. “We’re done. We’re leaving, okay?”

  The gunman was unsure about this, and I saw from the corner of my eye that he was drawing a shaky bead on me. Vieve was on her feet and quite disheveled, striding past him, her left hip dropping sharply with each step under the broken shoe.

  I offered my hand. “Vieve, let’s go.”

  She didn’t even look at me as she brushed past me on her way to the passenger door.

  I didn’t bother to look back as I turned to leave, and the twit that had meekly restrained me gave me a shove and called me a puss as I retreated, the force of which didn’t even break my stride.

  The ride home was silent. I thought that was the end of Vieve and me.

 
But maybe like three days later she texted me to see if I wanted to get ice cream or something. My memory’s a bit foggy on the details of the message. The important bit was that she was still interested in me and that my display of purposeful weakness had not been a deterrent. She did, however, keep a revolver in her purse from that day forward.

  Vieve died a decade before the great upheaval.

  It’s been fifteen years without her.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Porcupine!” Ian said in his resonant robot voice.

  I shook my head. “Nope. You have one more guess.”

  He loved this game. He called it the “Blindfold Guessing Game.” It was one of the activities I had concocted in order to keep myself from going insane, and also keep Ian occupied. I never felt right about powering him down for long periods of time. I know it’s stupid. He’s just AI and all, but still. I shared a bond with this robot. He became my son and more than likely, I will never know what it’s like to be a father of flesh and bone and blood. Ian is the closest I will ever have to the experience. Sue me.

  “Monkey!”

  I laughed. “Wrong again!”

  Ian’s posture slumped rigidly. “What was it, pater?”

  “You know we don’t have monkeys in this climate, Ian.”

  “I know. But you are clever, pater.”

  “It was possum.”

  He thumped his fist on the table. “That’s what the previous morsel was!”

  “You said it yourself, Ian: I’m clever.”

  “Another, please!” Ian requested, straightening up.

  “Alright,” I agreed. “But I can only spare one more scrap. We need to replenish our food stocks soon.”

  “Okay, pater.”

  Unbeknownst to him, we only had opossum meat left in our supplies. So this three rounds of the guessing game was very limited in variety. I could always lie to him and tell him that the last scrap is monkey, but I don’t like lying to him. With his taste and sight sensors disabled for the game, he could only feel the texture of the meat in his robotic palate. It was a near impossible challenge, and he failed almost every time (his victories were pure luck), but for some reason, this was one of Ian’s favorite games.

  His visor opened, lowering a few inches and offering clearance for me to slide the final sample into his mouth. It’s not really a mouth, but whatever, you know what I mean.

  A chortle erupted from the circuitry in his chest. “This is the monkey!” His laughter continued to tumble.

  “Wrong.” I folded my arms and laughed with him. “You get two more guesses.”

  If he had lips to purse, I imagine that they would have been pursed as he worked out his next hypothesis. “It feels inordinately similar to the previous sample,” he admitted with an air of uncertainty. With a tilt of his head, “Possum?” the inference modulating and raising his voice in an unsettling pitch.

  I slapped the table, stinging my palm, “Correct!”

  You would have believed that Ian had just discovered intelligent life on a slice of bread for the way he rejoiced, carrying on like an underdog who had just pulled a victory straight out of his tail. He leapt to his feet and burst out into the sunshine, performing backflips and handsprings. The rays of light reflecting from his shiny metal hide were blinding and spectacular all at the same time.

  I clapped and grinned as I walked out into the yard, sharing in his achievement, like a normal father would after his son hit a home run, or scored a touchdown. I felt a fraction of his exhilaration. Any more and I would probably burst into flame.

  Ian paused to point a triumphant finger in my direction. “You thought you were so clever, pater!”

  “I know, I know. You got the best of me this ti-”

  The elation was short-lived. Suddenly from behind me, and through the opened back door, from deep inside the cottage, I heard a sharp rapping on the front door.

  My mind immediately locked onto a distraction. “Ian!” I shouted, trying to suppress the gravity of the situation. He stopped his antics and looked at me. I would have made a good father. “Hide and seek?!”

  Ian’s head pumped up and down, his body bending at the waist in excitement.

  “Go! That way!” I shooed him toward the woods beyond and far from the front porch. “I’ll count inside!” I shouted as I turned to walk into the back door.

  “Count to five hundred, pater!” his voice rumbled from the thickets.

  “Alright,” I said to myself. “I’ll count to a million if I have to.”

  We had lived here in solitude for going on five years now without having entertained a visitor, and I wanted to keep it that way. The knock sounded again as I passed the dining room table, reminding me that whoever stood beyond the door was not a figment of my haunted imagination. I did not bother to lock the doors and I wanted to kick myself for not doing so earlier, because as I drew near to arm’s length the door handle rotated and the door popped open.

  “Hello?” came the tentative voice, followed by curious eyes and a thin nose between the door and its frame. An entirely unfamiliar face revealed herself inside the span of a breath.

  “Yes. Hi. Hello,” I stated as I rushed to the door, trying to prevent the rest of her body from entering. She rocked back on her heels, a startled expression swiping across her face as she backpedaled onto the porch.

  “I didn’t know that anyone would be here…” she trailed off. She stared at me, then leaned to her left, trying to peer past me into the room behind me. Her eyes shared equal time darting to my face then darting away, attempting to detect any other movement in the cottage.

  Over the past few years I did not see a single haircut, or many shaves for that matter, though I did continue to bathe regularly. But my appearance at the time was probably a little less than kempt. I doubt I was scary or anything, but I’m willing to bet that the expression on my face was not easily interpreted.

  “You should go,” I said. “Bye.”

  “Wait!” she held a hand up. “Is this a bad time?”

  “It’s always a bad time.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

  “Please don’t.” I feared for her safety honestly, above all else. The day that I heard Ian devour those revolutionaries all those years ago still kept me up some nights. I never ever wanted to be a spectator to his programmed proclivities.

  She could not have been older than seventeen or eighteen, tall, spindly thin, and with a wildness brewing in her eyes that made me believe she would actually make good on her claim. “We just moved in a few miles down the road and every house between us is empty. You’re the first person I have seen in any of the houses all summer.”

  “Well just pretend this one is as vacant as the others.” I moved to close the door. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Wait!” she pleaded, this time with more fervor. Then tilting her head curiously at me like a dog sizing up a horsefly she said, “Do you have news of the world? You look a bit…”

  “Yes?” I took the bait, ceasing the door’s retreat and cracking it forward a few inches.

  “Out of touch,” she replied. Though the statement held little conviction and sounded more like a question.

  I didn’t have time for political discourse. Had it been five hundred seconds yet?

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, mister.” She spun for the stairs and glided down them, and when she reached the ground she turned around with a hop. “And I’ll fill you in on everything you’ve missed!”

  Her warning would allow me proper time to prepare for a visit. I could even power Ian down before her arrival. Besides, having a conversation with another human being could not be that bad of an idea. She appeared harmless and relatively intelligent.

  “Fine,” I relented. “What time?”

  “Same time,” she replied with a wave. As I began to close the door, she shouted from the hem of the driveway, “And my name is Brie, by the way! Nice to meet you, scruffy!
”

  I offered a feeble smile accompanied by an even feebler wave. “See you tomorrow,” I said to myself, sealing the door and thrusting the dead bolt into place. I had the sneaking suspicion that the frigid surface of my quiet life was beginning to register a tiny crack.

  I ran my fingers through my beard, and gave the bit under my chin a tug. “Scruffy?”

  The next day, I waited on the porch for Brie’s arrival. I mixed up some powder lemonade in preparation for her visit. While the condensation droplets cascading down the glasses absorbed my attention, I did not even see the young woman striding toward me, emerging suddenly from the shade cast by the forest along the driveway. She stepped onto the bottom stair and smiled as soon as I looked up at her.

  “Something about you seems different,” she stated, furrowing her brow and swirling a finger around her jawline.

  “Yeah, I cleaned up a bit,” I admitted, passing a hand over the freshly shaved skin above my collar. “It’s been awhile since…”

  “Since you talked to anyone?” she finished my statement, clicking her tongue under her slightly bucked teeth. She stood before me, tapping a rhythm on the banister.

  “Very perceptive,” I said, now rubbing my right eyebrow. I gestured to the rocking chair. “Have a seat?”

  “I’ll stand for now, thank you,” she replied, accepting the lemonade I extended toward her. “My legs get restless all the time. My mom says it’s a phase, but I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t wanting to always be moving.” She started to pace toward the opposite end of the porch. “So, how long have you been here?” I opened my mouth to answer, but she cut me short. “I’ll bet it’s been at least, what, four or five years?”

  I nodded and choked back a sip of the sugary drink.

  “I was twelve when the shit hit the fan, as my dad says.” She began to twirl on one foot. “You probably came here to escape from everything that happened.”