The Tiger
By
Kyle Jennings
Each puff from the cigarette warmed my body in the cold morning. The smoke snaked its way up to the lone street lamp. The white bus pulled up with a squeak. I chuckled as someone wrote in the dust "sucks" next to the Ship-It logo on the bus. The bus ride is five minutes, maybe six. I hate the bus ride. The constant recruits filed onto the bus with smiles and great attitudes. It gets old watching the smile disappear as the void of Ship-It eats away at their soul. Add that to the few who don't like to shower, which makes the bus ride unenjoyable.
The snow from a few days ago had opened new potholes on the road, and the cold air stiffened the bus. Every bump was a rock to my body. My head swayed left to right. I had a death grip on my bag to keep it from falling out of the seat. It reminded me of the time I rode a wooden coaster; the vibration and violent turns left my body shaking like a drug addict coming down.
I filed in like a penguin, waiting my turn to walk through the X-ray gate, my bag riding a conveyor as a security guard observed the screen. There were usually two guards for the two X-ray gates, but this morning, the room was filled with new security I hadn't seen before.
"Expecting something exciting?" I asked.
The tallest one looked at me.
"Keep moving," he said, handing me my bag.
The walk to my station is the longest of all. It's a small office past the constantly running conveyors. Four quarter-mile-long belts are split in half. Blue chutes swirl down like curly slides, dropping packages onto the conveyors. Workers load the packages into containers to be loaded onto other vehicles. I swipe my badge, and the door unlocks with a beep, allowing me into my office. Six desks sit on elevating platforms, three on each side. One desk sits in the middle at the top. Six screens made a rectangle of data, multi-colored lines, and the percentage of packages left to be shipped. The room is always dark.
There are only four of us this early morning: Rachel, a young redhead who started in the office two months ago. Pete, our team lead, only because he swapped paperwork, stole the job lined up for me, and finally, Samantha, a middle-aged woman with a hint of grey, came in. I set my bag down next to my desk, and I could feel Pete's eyes staring down at me from behind me.
"You know, if you didn't stay out all night drinking, you could be here on time," Pete said from behind his monitors. I could visualize the crumbs falling out of his fat mouth. Pete had a knack for not keeping to himself. Looking at the time, it was only 5 am, the supposed start time for my shift. When Pete became the supervisor, he tried to push for a 4 a.m.4 am time. Rachel's desk was to my left of me, steam rising from a cup on her desk; she was pointing at her wrist where a watch would be, silently laughing. Rachel had been here the longest out of the morning crew. She managed to get her daughter hired during the years she attended college. Samantha's desk was in front of me; her bag was wrapped around her chair, but she wasn't there.
"Where is Samantha?" I asked.
"She is inspecting a suspicious package. Something you would be doing if you were on time," Pete responded. Little does he know, I don't come in at 4 am b4 amse he makes me do extra stuff, making him look better when things get done. I pulled my green thermos, slid the lid off, and sipped. The burn warmed me and eased my irritation. My father, the drunkard that he was, always told me the quickest way to warm up was with his friend Mr. Daniels. He would say every morning, driving me to school.
"Can I get some help out here?" Samatha asked through the office radio.
"Outside door 6," Pete said.
I knew he was talking to me without looking back at him. I set my thermos down, hooked my radio into my belt loop, pulled the speaker over my shoulder, grabbed my thermos, and headed out the door, giving the middle finger to Pete when the door was closed.
The sun peeked through the morning clouds as I arrived at the location Pete had told me. The suspicious package was a massive box. A dark wood nailed into a rectangular shape, big enough to fit a car in. Quinn Tech was written on the wood. Two men wearing neon orange reflector vests stood around it. Samatha emerged from behind it, trickles of her hair poking from under the brown Carhart hat. Her neon green jacket was wrapped tightly around her. Her cheeks are red and cold. Samatha hasn't been the best at moving packages where they need to go or handling suspicious packages. She was kind-hearted and better at motivating the workers.
"What seems to be the problem?" I asked.
"We moved it through the x-ray and were preparing to load it up, and it just started moving," the guy replied.
"Where did it come from?" Samantha asked.
"Semi dropped it off at the end of the last shift," the neon vest said.
"It hasn't moved since I've been here. What's Quinn Tech?" Samatha asked, looking at the black lettering.
"Quinn Tech was the robot company the military hired a few years ago to build them robots. Last I heard, they failed and were fired." One of the guys said.
He was right. I remembered the news article about the U.S. getting worried about Japan starting a robot basketball league. They were scared of getting left behind in a technological world. The U.S. hired Quinn Tech, an American robot company, to match the Japanese in their craft, but all they could do at Quinn was make a robot mouse and train it to kill other mice. The U.S. disappointedly dropped them.
The box was covered in a heavy layer of dust. I tried to wipe the dust under the Quinn Tech logo, but it was so thick that I pushed it to the side until I saw more lettering: EL TIGRE. The box shifted as I tried to look at something below the exposed letters.
"Told you," a voice said behind me.
The box shifted again, a layer of dust floating to the ground. I stepped back, standing next to them. The box shifted again, followed by a low growl. The four of us stepped back in unison. An ear-piercing squeal, like a microphone close to a speaker, ripped through our radios. I gritted my teeth for what seemed like minutes before it stopped.
"What was that?" Samantha sounded scared. I could feel my fear creeping up the back of my neck; it had a lock on my legs. The box rattled again, nails clicking on the asphalt. The box was hit from the inside, moving it over a foot and splintering the side—a humming sound emanated from the box, followed by an explosion of heat and splinters. The force knocked me down, giving me a great view of the dawning sky.
I rolled to my side, and Samantha was staring at the box, her face in fear. I got to my feet, and the top half of the box was gone, and small fires spread across where the bottom began. Inside was a metallic white tiger with black stripes, two rectangles on its shoulders, smoking. It swiped the box fully open. Its teeth were a heated red as it growled. It spun in a circle, like a cat excited to play. The rectangle hummed as it finished its circle. Rockets soared from the boxes, flying over us and into the open doorway of the plant. Explosions full of small packages blew through the top of the building. The roof bent as metal crushed metal, falling in on itself. People were running from the door screaming. I looked back at the Tiger; it was in a low crouch, its metallic tail bobbing like it was hunting. Fear still had a hold on my legs as it leaped, clipping Samantha. She landed with a skid as the Tiger landed gracefully and jumped again into the building.
I grabbed my radio to call for help, but all I got was static. The two guys loomed over Samatha, asking her if she was okay. As I fought with my fear for control of my legs, I noticed a plastic envelope with papers inside. It was partially melted. It was a manual of the Tiger, featuring sketches and drawings that pointed out what the Tiger was capable of. The only part was that it was all in Spanish. I drank from the thermos, wanting Jack to help with my fear, and slid the papers inside my vest pocket. Samantha was up, and blood trickled from her nose; the other two guys stood on her sides, holding her up and telling her everything would be okay. I took a deep breath and had control of my legs again. I didn't wait to see if she answered before I headed into the dock.
"There you are," I heard Pete say after walking around frantically. He was surrounded on both sides by guys in black suits and ties—the extra men standing at the entrance this morning. Their buzzcuts hovered over their aviators. Just as I guessed, Pete had crumbs sticking to his green shirt.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked.
"Well, sir, a robotic Tiger is shooting rockets," Pete looked surprised, but the guys in sunglasses didn't. I told him about what had happened outside, the Tiger coming from the box.
"We need to get the manual?" one of the suits said to his partner. I pulled the papers out of my vest pocket.
"I want to know what is going on?" I wanted answers about something that nearly killed me. The guy on the right explained it was a Quinn Tech test robot. When the U.S. cut its ties, Mexico offered a partnership and wanted a test subject. Quinn Tech decided it was easy to ship commercially.
"I want you to know that Grey Hone gave you these papers," I said, looking at Pete.
Shades rolled the manual and stuffed it into his suit pocket.
"We'll need to isolate it inside something while Jack goes and grabs the controlling device," Left Shades demanded.
"We can use one of the sorting cars," I suggested. I was met with confusion. I explained that rectangular metal boxes were used to store the packages when we needed to load planes. He liked the idea and ordered us to get one.
"I'll get the car. You go help people get out of here," Pete ordered.
I helped a few people out of rubble piles before standing at an exit and waving people through. My anger was getting better, and I couldn't stop thinking why Pete would want me out of the way. Was he jealous I found the manual? My father, the self-centered man he was, always said never to let someone take credit for your deeds. A line, he always said, looking at my high school trophies.
"He's got you helping people also?" Rachel said, walking up to me. Her red hair was down around her sweat-covered, freckled forehead. Her neon green jacket was stained with grease and speckles of blood.
"Yeah," I replied. She stood next to me, mocking my wave as people ran by.
"Did you see it? It chased me and a few others. It hopped around, swatting at people like my cat does; I saw Pete grabbing a car; he said he had a plan,"
All I could think about was Rachel saying he had a plan. My anger was boiling, and I would not let Pete take all the credit for this. Rachel once found a drug package a few months ago, and Pete took all the credit as a solo effort. I started walking towards the office, ignoring Rachel's pleas for me to stop. It was empty. The monitors on the wall were blinking in static. I moved the mouse to wake up my computer. I clicked on the live camera feeds to see if I could find Pete. Most of the cameras were static, which was some form of EMP that the Sunglass guy had mentioned. After a few clicks, I found Pete. He and Shades were setting up a can on the floor.
The warehouse was a wreck. Bodies with missing limbs were sprawled across the concrete floor. The conveyors were missing belts. Sparks blew from control boxes. The metal roof had collapsed on the chutes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Pete asked as I walked up.
"I thought you guys could use some help," I lied.
"You were supposed to help the injured out," Pete added.
"I did," I said.
"I got the device," Jack said, walking up to us. He was holding a silver-cased tablet.
"Great. Let's shut this thing down," Shades said, coming around the car.
"I'll begin to lure it here," Jack said, tapping the tablet. Pete pulled me to the side.
"Look, you need to leave. You can't be here right now; no one else needs to get hurt."
"That's what someone trying to take all the credit would say," I replied, slurring my words and smacking his arm away.
"Are you drunk?"
"I discovered it, and I'm getting the credit I finally deserve." I rebutted.
"It's coming!" Shades yelled.
The Tiger climbed over a conveyor, crushing boxes under its feet. It flashed its heated teeth in a growl; its eyes were now a bright blue. Its body lowered like it did before it jumped earlier. I was able to move before it leapt off the conveyor, landing on the floor with a skid, and hooking Pete with its claw, dragging him into the car. The Tiger was on its back, swinging its claws like a turtle stuck on its shell. It caught Shades as he was trying to close the car door. He was hit in the leg and on the side by the hind legs. Blood squirted as he hit the ground before he could grab the pull-down door.
"Close the door!" Jack screamed. His fingers typed furiously on the tablet.
I ran to the car; the Tiger had gotten to its feet but was shaking its head, its blue eyes switching on and off.
"Help me," Pete begged, reaching out an arm. His leg was badly busted, and he was behind the Tiger.
"Close the door!" Jack screamed again
The Tiger's blue eyes switched and stayed on. My father, the selfish man he was, always said to look out for yourself. He'd say this before denying any peddlers asking for change.
"No, wait!" Pete yelled as I slid the door down. Nails tore through the door in a shower of sparks. I didn't think the door would hold until the Tiger stopped moving inside.
"It's deactivated," Jack said next to me.
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