Massimo Rossini – “Mo” - stood shoulder to shoulder with Watley. Mo could not remember Watley’s first name, not after they had messed with his head. He knew the man from before, but damn if he knew his first name. Didn’t matter. Watley probably didn’t know his either. Just the way it was.

“Talk about déjà vu,” said Watley.

Mo wiped the visor of his helmet clean and stared ahead at the expanse of land. They sat atop their idling cycles at a wide intersection. Tall pine trees lined both sides of a two-lane highway, much of it littered with abandoned cars and all of it gray and bleak. Ahead, about a mile or so from where they stood, the trees thinned, then ended. The road rose to a bridge that spanned the bay.

“Route 78, right?” asked Watley.

Mo nodded and pointed to a sign off to the right that had been partially concealed with overgrown vegetation. “Route 78. Runs East to West. Takes you all the way into town. Into Sunset Bay. Route 50 runs North to South.”

“Damn. I’d give anything to see the ocean. It’s been like, years since I’ve seen it.”

“The ocean’s a hot bed; probably teeming with weird life,” Mo said.

Watley nodded, as if suddenly remembering. “Right.”

“Sure as hell wouldn’t make it to the beach without being obstructed by vegetation.”

“Or attacked by something,” added Watley.

Mo, busy inspecting their surroundings, ignored the comment. “Anyway, we’re going north, to where he was likely headed.”

Behind them was a dense wall of vegetation featuring a tunnel of sorts, their entry point. Hearing movement, Mo turned and watched as the vegetation shivered, then constricted, engulfing the tunnel in greenery, as though it had never existed.

Mo noted the healthy, vibrant green of the vines. Quite a contrast from the gray, dying land around it. It was getting nourishment from somewhere.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

It.

Mo remembered a time when plants moved only when nudged by the wind. When rapid growth had to be observed through time-lapse photography instead of right before your disbelieving eyes. He longed for those days again. But they were long gone.

“That shit still spooks me,” said Watley, staring at the still shuffling vines behind them. “Whenever they move like that…”

Feeling no compulsion to add to his partner’s observation, Mo turned the throttle on the cycle and almost departed, but Watley waved him off. He was thumbing toward the Machine, his mouth forming soundless words.

Shit. Mo had turned off the mic in his helmet, hoping Watley would forget about this next part. He stared off at the seemingly endless roadway before him, wondering about his chances should he just take off.

Not good, he thought. Mo hesitated, considered it again, then thought better of it. The Machine was watching…waiting for them. If he sped off, it would give chase and catch him, probably with little effort, then disable the cycle. He wouldn’t stand a chance. It might kill him. Sighing, he opened the mic with a static click.

“We have to scan out,” Watley reminded.

Reluctantly, Mo jumped off the bike and with Watley, went and faced the Machine. The thing had been a piece of farming equipment; a replacement for traditional tractors, sprayers, harvesters, and likely anything other machinery Mo could think of. Like a walking Swiss Army Knife, the thing’s arms housed a variety of instruments that could be extended and retracted at a moment’s notice. Things like scythes, grinders, irrigation nozzles. Then, once it had been repurposed as a hunting robot, it had been fitted with an automatic weapon. It stood much taller than a man, around ten feet high. The hulking exterior was an assemblage of metal parts that had been drawn together and merged by some mysterious force. Was it electromagnetic? Mo had no idea, but he assumed that same force was responsible for how the globular head behaved. Suspended in air between its broad shoulders, the globe was a dark, glass-like substance, but much thicker. It looked like an oversized bowling ball, although Mo suspected it was made from a far more durable substance.

From deep inside of the head, a narrow, precise laser was emitted. The blue light flowed across the curved visor of Mo’s helmet and stopped dead in the center of his right eye. The laser read the encoded information on the chip that had been implanted behind his eye and instantly his photograph, the date and time of departure was visible within the globe.

The machine spoke in a deep masculine, yet robotic voice. “Proceed.”

When Watley had finished the same process, they mounted their bikes. The vehicles activated with a low hum, not a roar like a street bike. These were tools of stealth. They needed to be…Alex Dash was considered armed and dangerous.