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I wait until dawn, hiding in the garage washroom. The nightmare of monstrous noise had completely disappeared by midnight, and I might have slept a few minutes here or there. Lying there on the mechanic's crawler, I continue to debate my future actions. Everything points to continuing with the delivery, insane as it seems. I imagine arriving at the destination and unloading the crates, stained with gore and covered with the dead body parts of a rival gang who seem to have been trying to steal the drug-making equipment.
Would the owner be pleased?
And this thing? Does it belong to them?
I conclude it’s some kind of animal, a smuggled panther perhaps.
What is the alternative? The authorities would lump me in with the drug cartel, my innocence proofless without implants. I can’t really run away. Eventually, the cops or the cartel will catch up to me.
This animal is nocturnal, I debate in my head.
After a few hours, as the desert heat level returns to high, I head back to the roller door and manually open it, certain of what to expect. The splatter of blood is the first thing I see. There are no bodies, just pools of red fluid drying in the hot air. I walk towards the Cyberstar, noticing the bloodied footprints made by human shoes and a pair printed by a clawed foot.
Bipedal.
I don’t know what to make of it, as I return to my truck. The back doors are closed, so I head to the cabin and climb inside.
“Bring up the manifest,” I order the AutoMIND.
“Affirmative,” states Avocado.
“What are the contact details for the Raven Mountain delivery?”
The data flashes on the console.
“Make the call.”
The speakers pulse with the dial tone, echoing over the sweltering breeze outside, when a gruff, earthy male voice answers, “Saluton?”
My mouth goes numb. My throat is too dry to activate.
“Where are my artefacts, cajero?” says the voice.
“I am running a little late. I ran into a few problems.”
“I don’t recommend you make them my problems.”
I begin with, “The cargo…” but my tongue snags my words.
“The delivery of the cargo is your only problem. Deliver the package immediately.”
I muster up the right, most appropriate attitude. “I was ambushed by bikers. Vipers. I’m guessing they were not your friends.”
I hear the hissing of breath. “It’s not the artefacts they’re after. Give them what they want. Bring the remainder to me.”
“They died,” I say. The words just keep pushing themselves out. “A bunch of people, killed. Police are involved; it’s a mess.”
“You did this, cajero?”
“No, the cargo did this.”
There is a long pause “Listen to me, cajero. I will send someone to pick it up.”
“No, this location…” I look around at the evidence; an orgy of blood and murder. “Not possible. I will come to you and deliver the cargo. I just don’t want any trouble.”
“As long as you don’t run away, cajero. There is no escaping it. Deliver the cargo and you will get no trouble.”
“I’m on my way.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Once the call drops off, I order, “Let’s go. Avocado, get us there.”
As we sped away from the desolate clearing, leaving the bloodbath, I couldn't help but let my thoughts wander to the remaining crates from Serpent Island. The conversation had piqued my curiosity even further. What secrets lay hidden within those containers, and why were they so important to whoever had just contracted this delivery?”
The road hummed with a steady rhythm as I focused on the desert landscape ahead. The monotony of endless desert transforms into an unending expanse of hills and rugged terrain.
As an hour passed, the sun, slides lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the road, and I couldn't help but wonder about my fate. The mysterious crates and their unknown contents have thrust me into a world of uncertainty, and I am beginning to realize that there is more to this situation than met the eye.
The Black Mountain district is all craggy hillocks and valleys, pushing the Cyberstar’s six electric motors to work overtime. As we arrive at the gates of Villa 1, I can see the luxurious white mansion nestled at the top of the property, overlooking the desert. I can't help but feel a sense of unease. The owner, likely a notorious drug lord, has entrusted me with the Snake Island Foundation crates, most likely contraband, so I discard my apprehension.
Make the drop and go.
Artefacts?
Yet still, with my mishandling of the crates, I still expected dire consequences; pesky witnesses don't usually survive these types of people.
“Avocado. Give me control.”
“I am more than competent to...”
“Just give me control,” I snap, anticipating this AI’s recalcitrance.
“Do you not trust me, Zachary?”
It used my name. It never does.
A strange development, but I have bigger issues. “It’s not a trust thing, it’s a command thing. I’m ordering you to give me control, or would you like me to manually switch it over?”
The lights on the dash change from purple to green.
“Thank you,” I say, unable to hide my anger.
Entering through the arch of a bougainvillaea-infested gate, I spot a group of individuals walking in the driveway. I stop next to them and wind down my window.
“Back up,” yells one, pointing to the barn located on the side of the building. I comply, backing the Cyberstar into the first open entrance. I stop between the forklift and half a dozen luxury automobiles and turn off the power, and sit there, awaiting my fate.
A tall, slender man approaches. His straight hips, long legs, and long arms give him the appearance that he’s held together by wires. As he gets closer, his frame is more muscular than I first assessed.
I check the delivery docket on the screen, and ask, “David Sanforth?”
“No, not Sanforth.”
“This delivery is for David Sanforth.”
“I’ll take delivery on behalf of Sanforth.”
“Can I have your name?” I need to ask. It’s my job.
The man smiles, looking at the others, none of whom finds it amusing. “I am Miĉjo.”
“Miĉjo?”
“That’s right.”
“Is that it?”
“Open the back, cajero?” he says.
The prospect of another episode of slaughter and pandemonium crosses my mind, but I am reluctant to get in the way of fate. “It’s unlocked,” I say.
Miĉjo nods at his guys and they get to work. The forklift activates as I sit in the relative safety of my truck and listen to the crew rummage in the back. They carefully unload the crates and place them on the ground. I half expect screaming at any moment, my stomach churning, the truck's cabin offering only a false sense of security. I watch them, the seriousness of their operation, the disgust on their faces. With trembling hands, they open one of the wooden boxes, only to find that it contains some kind of sculpture. Miĉjo inspects it and, seemingly satisfied, moves on to the next crate.
Again, another strange sculpture. I watch from the side mirrors and see panic set in as they realize that the one thing they are expecting is not onboard the truck. I hear footsteps approach me. It is the drug lord himself, and he does not look happy.
“Where is it?” he demands.
"I don't know,” I stammer. “It got loose last night.”
The drug lord's face turned red with anger. “Get out,” demands Miĉjo.
I comply. “I thought it may have gone back inside.”
“You’re an idiot!” he shouted. “Do you have any idea what you're dealing with?”
“You gotta declare wildlife,” I explain. “You can’t just send a wild animal with ordinary packages.”
“Wild animal. Is that what you think it is?”
The agitation among the other men increases with each moment. Even Miĉjo’s body language betrays a nasty dread nibbling at his heart.
“Fiku,” yells Miĉjo as he turns rubbing his jaw. “Merdo!” He pulls out a pistol and waves it at the crew. They pounce on me, grabbing me by the arms, pulling me outside, under the blistering sun.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I cry.
They force me to my knees as Miĉjo turns around holding his head.
“What are we going to do?” asks one of the thugs, the fear in his voice palpable.
Miĉjo exhales. “It wasn’t supposed to be awake.”
Now the gangsters seem to be the least of my problems. “What the fuck is that thing?”
The skinny man snickers. “A gift.”
I can’t even begin to try to understand what that means.
“They are not going to be happy with it roaming free. When did you see it last?”
“At the abandoned charging station outside a settlement called Raven.”
Miĉjo looks at his men. “That’s west of here.” He looks back at me. “When did it feed?”
“Last night,” I answer. It is my best guess.
He seems surprised that I know. “When did it stop feeding?”
“About midnight.”
Miĉjo looks at his watch. “It’s sad to have to eliminate it, but we don’t have any other choice. There is no chance in hell we can recapture such a marvel.”
“Sanford is gonna be pissed,” says one of the thugs.
“He’ll want us to kill it before it meanders into a populated area. Prepare to head out to the excavation site. We’re going to lure it into a trap.”
Horror strikes the cajero’s face. “Kiel diable ni faru tion?”
“We are going to use him as bait.”
They all turn to face me.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
