The cigar-shaped ship retracted its segmented legs, its hull glinting in the pale fall light as it climbed into the cloudless morning sky. Killian crouched in the brittle grass, heart pounding, as Junior wriggled free from the think and tangled bush he’d buried himself in. “Junior?” Killy whispered, eyes locked on the ship until it vanished over the treeline, leaving a faint hum in the crisp air.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Junior said, his voice small but steady. “What’s going on, Killy? Who were those people?”

  “They sure as shit weren’t here to help, kid,” Killy replied, rubbing his hands against the morning’s bite. The frost stung his knuckles, a reminder of the valley’s harsh turn into autumn. When he first started bringing people together to build this place, he’d sworn to keep it hidden from threats like the Ascendancy. Now, his trails, his traps, his vigilance—two decades of work—lay in ashes. “They took Nora, Reese, and Clay. Did you see them take anyone else before I got here?” Junior’s face fell, his gaze dropping to the frozen earth.

  “They killed everyone else. ’Cept my dad. But I’m pretty sure he blew himself up with that thing they sent in the house. What was that thing?”

  “Some kinda robot,” Killy said, his mind racing. “Your folks ever talk about robots?” He’d never seen anything like it—not in the pre-Cutoff world of factory bots or during The Cutoff’s chaos, when drones tore through cities like molten comets. This “clanker,” with its writhing limbs and organic pulse, was a nightmare beyond his worst plans. As leader, he’d prepared for drones, raiders, even starvation, but this tech mocked his foresight.

  “Dad said he fixed robots at a car plant,” Junior replied, eyes red-rimmed but dry, toughened by a world that didn’t reward tears. “That thing didn’t look like what he described.”

  “No, it didn’t,” Killy agreed, his breath fogging in the chilly air. “We had bots before The Cutoff—welders, cleaners—but nothing like that. That ship, too, wasn’t like any plane or chopper I knew. Those bastards are the Ascendancy, the ones who’ve had us hiding for twenty years.”

  “You think those two guys did The Cutoff?” Junior asked, incredulous. “They seemed kinda dumb.”

  “Not them personally,” Killy said, scanning the clearing, its once intact and livable trailers smoldering. “They’re just grunts for the ones pulling strings. You don’t need to build a rifle to fire it.” He’d designed this village to outsmart such enemies, choosing its valley for its cliffs, banning fires at night, teaching kids like Junior to move silent. Now, he had to act, not react. Nora, Reese, and Clay were gone, and whatever the Ascendancy wanted with kids wasn’t good. “We need answers, kid. I’m checking your house for clues from that robot. Can you handle it, or wanna stay here?” Junior straightened, his voice older than his nine years. “I gotta go, Killy. They were my folks. I gotta see if there’s anything to bury. Heck, I was gonna ask if you wanted to sit this out.” Killy’s chest tightened—pride and grief colliding.

  “Wouldn’t dream of letting you do it alone, buddy.”

  “Thanks,” Junior said, drawing a deep breath, the frost catching in his exhale. “Let’s get this done.”

  ***

  They crossed the clearing, boots crunching on frozen ground, the air thick with smoke and the tang of burnt metal. Killy led the way, eyes sweeping for threats, his instinct to protect Junior overriding his own dread. The trailer—Dave and Susan’s home—was a ruin of ash and splinters, its frame collapsed under the dynamite’s blast. Killy knelt in the slag, sifting through debris, and spotted a glint. “Here, kid, pretty sure your dad would want you to have that, I never saw him without it.

  “His knife. Yeah, he loved this thing.” Junior said while taking hold of his fathers most invaluable tool. He stared at the knife reverently for a moment, the words Milwaukee Fastback barely visible anymore, worn away through years of loving use. Junior pushed the small black button near the top of the knife, releasing a three inch gleaming stainless steel tonto blade in the blink of an eye. Killy watched as Junior thumbed the liner lock and folded the blade back into the handle. Twenty minutes of searching yielded nothing else—no blood, no bones. Dave and Susan must’ve been at the blast’s heart, vaporized. Quick, at least, Killy thought, his mind flashing to the early days when Dave’s scavenged tech had fortified their homes. Killian Had come to lean on Dave’s grit and ingenuity, and now that loss cut deep.

  Killy expanded the search, spotting the trailer’s wood-burning stove flung seventy-five feet into the dying grass of the field, its iron warped. “Killy, come look!” Junior called from the tall grass on the wreckage’s far side. Killy jogged over, heart lurching as he saw it: the clanker, its body split like a clam shell, circuits and actuators spilling out. A torn, liver-like organ leaked dark green fluid, pooling on the frozen earth. “Proximity alert. Unauthorized personnel,” its clipped robotic voice spat.

  Killy crouched, motioning Junior to stay quiet. “Hey, tin can, you’re busted. Where’s home? Your owners want you back.”

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  “Proximity alert. Unauthorized personnel.”

  “I’m trying to get you to someone who is authorized personnel, who can fix you,” Killy pressed, his mind probing for leverage. “Where’s that?”

  “Authorized personnel… to effect repairs?” The robot’s voice shifted, and Killy seized the opening.

  “Yeah, I can’t leave you like this. Where’s home?”

  “Lattice Site 163. Thirty-seven degrees, forty-nine minutes, thirty-two seconds north.”

  “No GPS, pal. Got another name for Lattice Site 163?”

  “Alcatraz Island. Thirty-seven degrees, forty-nine minutes, thirty-two seconds north. One hundred twenty-two degrees, twenty-five minutes, nineteen seconds west.”

  “Alcatraz? The old prison in San Francisco?” Killy’s mind reeled. Had they come that far for kids? “What’s there?”

  “Transport to authorized personnel to effect repairs immediately. Primary nanobot generation unit damaged, unable to effect self-repair.”

  “Which part’s your power unit? Don’t want to shut you off by mistake.”

  “Z-PEG unit, behind shielding compartment three, section A-twenty-four of the carapace.”

  “Z-PEG? Speak English, I don’t know what a Z-PEG is.”

  “Zero point energy generation unit. Z-PEG unit is located behind shielding compartment three on section A-twenty-four of the carapace.”

  “Carapace—your back shell?” Killy smirked, recalling turtle hunts from his youth. “Got it.”

  “Affirmative. Transport immediately—”

  “Nah, I’m done,” Killy said, tone hard. “Gonna gut you for parts.” He dug into the wires, fingers slick with oil and green fluid, finding the Z-PEG—a black box like a Zippo, bristling with tiny wires. He flicked open his folding knife, cutting connections as the clanker sputtered, “Proximity alert. Unauthorized personnel—”

  “Stop! Where am I? Who are you?” The voice changed, human now, laced with panic, like a phone call from the old world.

  “What the fuck?!” Junior blurted, and Killy pushed him back, shielding him.

  “You’re a robot,” Killy spat. “You trashed our homes.”

  “Robot?! I’m a person!” The voice was frantic. “What do I look like? I can’t see!”

  “You’re metal and plastic, buddy. No people look like you.”

  “What’s going on?!” The voice sobbed. “I can’t remember my name!”

  “Calm down,” Killy said, softening but firm, his inner detective kicking in. “Last thing you remember?”

  “I was sent to meet the Shill. Climb the lattice, they said. I was on a table… oh God, kill me. Please.”

  “Tell me everything, or I leave you like this,” Killy said, nodding to Junior, who held the Z-PEG and knife. “What’s the lattice? Alcatraz?”

  “My parents were in The Breakaway—what you call The Cutoff. Five hundred families, all the best tech, like magic. We’d live forever, own the planet. A few years in, they said I had to meet the Shill, get new tech for the new world. I was the first to meet him. They put me on a table—that’s it. Please, kill me.”

  “Alcatraz—where my people are,” Killy pressed. “Talk.”

  “Not Alcatraz. That’s repairs. Your people are in DC. You won’t get them back. But if you go anyway, take this.” A compartment slid open, revealing a black polymer rectangle with a lens. “It’s a Trident—the primary weapons system for most of the robots. Plasma shots, blade, or shield. Hook it to the Z-PEG. Maybe you’ll hurt them.”

  “Why help us?” Killy asked, gripping the Trident.

  “They killed me, and put my mind in this fucking robot! My own family! They’re all monsters. Go to DC, you’re dead, but with this maybe you’ll give them a headache.” The voice begged, “Now do it.”

  Killy nodded to Junior, who sliced the wires. The clanker went silent.

  ***

  “Damn, that was weird,” Junior said, spooked, as they reached Killy’s trailer, its frame scorched but standing. “You think it was a person?”

  “Don’t know, kid,” Killy said, circling back to grab his Hoyt Carbon RX9 bow, still propped against a tree. That bow—state-of-the-art pre-Cutoff—had saved him the night the world fell, feeding hundreds since. Finding it untouched was a flicker of hope in the chaos. “It sounded human at the end.” In his forty-five years, he’d seen the world’s horrors, but a human mind in a robot? That was new, and it fueled his resolve to save Nora, Reese, and Clay.

  “Here, Killy!” Junior knelt by a paving stone, the Z-PEG and Trident laid out. “Look!” He nudged the Trident closer, and their casings rippled green, like a lake in the wind.

  “I’ll be damned,” Killy said, dropping beside it. He tapped the Trident’s lens, the rippling intensifying. Suddenly, they slammed together, fusing into one unit, the green fluid hardening to black polymer. Killy gripped it, the Trident’s lens gleaming between his fingers. “No buttons, no switches. Smooth as ice.” The green fluid crawled from his hand, coating it deliberately. Killy and Junior locked eyes, screaming, “What the fuck?!”