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God Damn, Machines By Sean Harrison

God damn, machines. They’re everywhere.
The man ran for his life, his heart beating in rapid succession. As far as he knew, he was the last man on earth. All hope was lost. For this reason, sweat had flooded on top of his bald head and drenched his five o’clock shadow.

So he ran along the sidewalk, passing skyscraper after skyscraper. Thankfully, he had been preparing for this day for as long as he could remember. His athletic build was never for show; rather, it was to help keep him alive when the end came. On that day, he proved to be the only one prepared—the only one with any chance of survival. No one else even knew what hit them.

The man, however, could not dwell on the past. I could not afford to do anything more than live in the presence, so he continued to run. He searched for any human he could. Though mankind was proving to be a thing of the past. Mankind had gradually been assimilated, replaced by robotic duplicates.
God damn, machines. They’re almost to my location.

The man hid in an alley, at first trying to avoid a couple of machines. The robots in question were acting as human as possible. They had replaced an old couple, a man and woman who were in their 70s. One was a scrawny man with paper thin white hair that walked with a cane and wore plaid. His wife, on the other hand, was pudgy and pushed a walker. They both moved at the speed of a snail.

This was good, since the man wasn’t quite ready for a fight. He didn’t have the resources to mount a rebellion. For all he knew, there weren’t enough members of the human race left for any revolt to have any chance of success.

But he needed to make a dent. The machines all shared one hive mind, so killing one or two of them might damage them all. This may, in the end, be the only shot he gets—so he better take it. Better remove his gun from its holster.

The machines didn’t know what hit them. Springing out from the alley, the man instantly held them at gunpoint. However, they never made a sound. If they were still human, this silence would most likely be out of fear. More than likely though, they did not possess the ability of speech. Hopefully, they still had the ability to be destroyed though.

God damn, machines. They must be obliterated.

Neither stood a chance. The man shot them each in the chest, one after the other. With mankind, they would have been shot in the heart. In this case all he hit were circuits, the bullet cutting through liquid metal like a steak knife through butter.

Both fell over. They ended up in each other’s arms as they stopped moving. Motor oil seeped out the gaping holes as sirens filled the air. Their destruction alerted the rest of their kind, as the man noticed something peculiar. The oil was a shade or red, not black like he would have though.
God damn, machines. They can’t be stopped.

The man was surrounded two black and white police cars before he knew it. The occupants got out, merely shadows against the metallic cityscape. As machines, they had already drawn their weapon—and they’re mouths were moving but the man couldn’t hear a thing. Everything had gone silent.
So the man never responded. Instead, he drew his weapon. He knew he couldn’t shoot them all, but it was better to take out as many as possible. Unfortunately, he was shot before he could pull the trigger—multiple bullets piercing his chest.

Motor oil seeped out the wound. The machine, formerly a man, collapsed to the ground. It wondered how they could kill their own kind. It wondered how they could have been assimilated.

God damn, machines. We’ve become one.

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