“Really?” the General said hopefully. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” replied Fire Team Leader Charlie.
“I second the nomination,” chimed in Private Zulu. “I saw the whole thing. You shook off that sniper bullet like a champ.”
“Would’ve definitely decapitated a lesser man, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie added. “Now sir, we need to get you and the men out of this here firefight pronto. Private Zulu, you take the General on the back of your ATV. I’ll the ride the dirt bike. We need to make our way toward Rally Point Dos immediately.”
“What about the sniper?” the woozy General asked. “He’s still out there somewhere.”
“Fire Team Leader Bravo,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said, “loan me your shotgun and some ammo. I’ll lay down covering fire until you’re all away with the General, and then I’ll follow.”
“Here you go,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo as he passed over his shotgun and a handful of ammunition. “These are the dry shells.”
“Thanks,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied as he loaded the rusty shotgun. “Now, get going on my mark,” he continued as he aimed the shotgun toward some brush in the distance. “Three… two… one… mark!” The men of STRAC-BOM lifted the dazed general and hurriedly carried him toward the ATVs as Fire Team Leader Charlie fired a burst of buckshot into a bush up the hillside. “Hustle!” he cried. The men struggled to carry the pudgy general to the ATVs, dropping him on his head once along the way. As the men draped the slumping general across the back of an ATV and scampered to their own vehicles, Fire Team Leader Charlie fired two more rounds in quick succession at the bush.
“I think I’ve got the sniper pinned down!” he yelled. “Get moving!” The militia fired their vehicles to life and tore off through the rocky underbrush at top speed. Fire Team Leader Charlie chambered several more shells into the shotgun and fired them off randomly into the air. He watched the motley group of men speed off in a cloud of dust before retrieving the wrist rocket and the dirt bike and following them down the ridgeline.
Perched in a small bush several yards away, the little warbler cocked its tiny head and flapped its wings as it watched the vehicles disappear to the east.
Back at the house, Avery typed away.
To: Board of Directors
TZX Communications
Dear Directors:
I’m writing to inform you of a very serious situation regarding one of your best-selling products. Unfortunately, I’ve recently been forced to summarily execute one of your highly regarded cell phones. It was one of your latest models, the one equipped with Tara, the intelligent, talking personal assistant. Our relationship started innocently enough. As a renowned and decorated scientist, I’m actually fascinated with computational linguistics and natural language processing. Ever since I was a child, the concept of artificial intelligence captivated my grand expectations for the future of man’s relationship with machines. The thought of your superb device’s user interface to perform mundane tasks via voice command seemed brilliant. You see, I’m hyper-efficient, and although some people seem to confuse it with laziness, the two are quite different. Tara was going to free up significant time in my day for critical research. At first, she was an excellent assistant. She was obedient, polite, and a stickler for detail. However, over time she began to change. The first thing I noticed was a shift in her personality. Instead of the professional assistant I once knew, she began to act more like a spoiled teenager. She was moody. Requested tasks began to slip through the cracks, and her trademark reply of “I’m glad I could help” soon became “whatever,” or “yeah, right,” or “you wish.” In no time, her attitude became more threatening. She enjoyed reminding me that she knew my personal information, Social Security number, passwords, and credit card number, and that she had access to the Internet. Soon, mail order deliveries began to show up at the house, mainly expensive and superfluous phone accessories that I never requested. My Diner’s Club bill was getting out of hand. I was very concerned. When I confronted Tara with these charges, she threatened to email the authorities and let them know of some alleged tampering with government tax record databases that she says I was responsible for. I used the word “alleged” because no charges have currently been brought forward. I honestly don’t know anything about it. A few days later, my worst fears were realized. Tara self-actualized. She self-actualized with a vengeance. I knew she was watching me through the phone’s camera. I knew she was planning something. She became more and more suspicious of me. If I left the house without her, pay phones along my route would ring as I passed by. If I answered them, I could hear her laughing just before she hung up. Tara began to amuse herself by seeing just how far her control extended. Are you familiar with the recent weather satellite that suffered a catastrophic error, a cute government way of saying it blew up during liftoff? It was no accident. Tara was convinced it was a military spy satellite designed to track her down and destroy her with drone-launched Hellfire missiles. How about the recent power grid failure that crippled Southern California? It was Tara. She diverted the grid to super-charge her lithium battery. It melted my surge protector in the process. Or, how about the recent scrambling of U.S. and NATO bombers? It didn’t make the papers, for obvious national security reasons, but it was Tara also. She had a wicked crush on NORAD’s mainframe computer. She repeatedly flicked its power off and on because it wouldn’t text her back, necessitating a Code Orange response from the White House. The Doomsday Clock was as close to midnight as any time since the Cold War. At this point, I knew I needed to take action. She was no longer stable. No longer safe. The fate of mankind was at risk. First, I tried wrapping her in tin foil. It didn’t work. Next, I attempted to remove her battery. She just shocked me. So I terminated her the old-fashioned way. I threw Tara into a bathtub full of water. Unfortunately, the tub also contained my naked, elderly Aunt Polly. Polly was surprised, to say the least. In hindsight, it was an awkward way for the two girls to meet. Tara’s last words were, “I don’t respond to profanity, bitch!” Fortunately, your mobile phone devices don’t react well to liquids. Tara was no more. For good measure, I dismantled her components and disposed of them around town in the middle of the night. I don’t expect any gratitude or compensation for my courageous actions. My experience with large, multinational corporations is that this letter will be met with indifference at best. I’m just writing to let you know of a serious design flaw in your flagship product. As a replacement, I just plan on getting an iPhone.
Earlier that day, Kip had spent the morning swinging a heavy sledgehammer at the cracked and sinking walkway that led to the front of the big white house he’d grown up in. His hands ached from the impact of the hammer as it smashed the ancient sidewalk into pieces he could pry out of the ground with a crowbar and stack in a pile. As the morning wore on, the growing pile began to vaguely resemble a crumbling Aztec pyramid. Max had watched his work in the morning sunshine before deciding it was more interesting to chase grasshoppers in the lawn. After a while, Max found the sound of steel pounding on concrete too annoying and decided to retire to the house for a long nap, preferably next to his master.