After a few backfires and mechanical groans, Richard's truck finally roared to life. The plume of blue smoke that fled from the tailpipe was actually a bit unnerving for him, and he didn't know if the truck would make it down the hill. Fortunately, it continued to idle and the truck rattled its way down the steep sloping turns of the Blue Ridge.

Richard tried to tune into the Casey Kasem's "American Top Forty" classic shows that ran for most of Sunday afternoon radio but only found static. He scrolled the dial back and forth, but rather than hearing country, classic rock, or even talk radio, he only caught the inanimate sound of white noise.

He was a little unnerved. "Maybe it's not just us, Giz," he said. "Maybe it's the signal in these mountains. Or the grid is down, or something."

Richard turned his head to Gizmo for reassurance, but what he saw frightened him. Gizmo had begun to aggressively shake his head and wine, rubbing his ears as he did so. Richard felt his insignificant fear turn into a bit of panic at the sight of his best friend seeming to suffer some unknown pain.

"Giz? What is it, buddy?" Richard asked, reaching over to pet him. Gizmo finally began to calm down, but still gave the occasional whine while he lay in the seat beside him. Richard also noticed that he was shaking.

"What the hell is going on?" They continued their descent down the mountain.

They finally reached the base of the mountain running on fumes. Richard stopped at the first station he saw, and that's when he knew something was wrong. He saw that the cars at the pumps seemed old like they'd been sitting in a junkyard. Some with flat tires, others with chipping paint, some with bubbling leather interior. It all seemed wrong. The pump itself seemed to be a relic to a lost society in itself, standing with fading paint, burned-out lights, and a broken window. Richard got out of the truck, let Gizmo hop out behind him, and shut the door. He could smell something riding the breeze, an all too familiar smell to an experienced nose; Rot.

"Something's not right," he said to Gizmo, who looked up with needful eyes, as to agree with him.

Richard saw the first body lying splayed out on the pavement. The person didn't look particularly distraught (for a corpse) but seemed as if they'd just fallen over suddenly. The body had obviously been sitting for some time; the smell of decay had been riding directly from this person and others that seemed to have fallen nearby. They all held their phones in-hand, lying on the warm blacktop, practically cooking. Richard was in a shocked stumble, working his way back to the truck when he heard the first whirring of small propellers. He saw three drones approaching over the skyline in unison, moving eerily as a unit rather than individuals. Whatever was controlling them, it was precise. Richard felt fear enveloping him.

Gizmo had begun to act alien to any dog Richard had ever seen. His hair stood higher than it seemed to be naturally possible. He bore his teeth and snarled at the approaching drones, taking a poised stance of two legs forward and two back like a boxer. He was ready to attack. Richard was not. He felt that his feet were glued to the Earth where he stood, and no matter what was about to happen, he would be unable to move from this spot. He was petrified.

All three drones approached within fifteen feet, and Gizmo began to bark. Richard looked at him, as he aggressively shot back and forth with a driving force that seemed to push the barks out of him. Richard then turned to look at the drones. Two of them were small with four propellers, hovering like hummingbirds over a flower, but one in the center was larger. Still having two propellers, it carried a small speaker on its undercarriage. The speaker began to speak.

"Identification." It was a soft, female voice. It was chillingly comforting. Richard stood in awe, wondering what the hell he and Gizmo had missed in their time enjoying the mountainside. He suddenly longed for nothing more than to lay in his hammock, watching the sun glisten off the lake and feeling the breeze bush his hat back farther on top of his head. He figured he'd soon end up just like the others on the ground.

"What?" Richard returned, feeling slightly out of body.

"Identification, please," the drone replied. Its voice reminded him of his mother's, except that his mother's voice had a soft sense of livelihood. This voice was nothing; computers whistling, charges firing, gears turning. There was nothing but death behind its cool feminine tone.

"I'm Richard Ford. I taught at UNC. I was a Professor of Botany." Richard's concern was making his voice almost as rigid and robotic as the drone's. Gizmo continued to bark even more aggressively, saliva flying from his jaw with every howl.

"Priority level unclear," the drone decided. "Termination required."

"Wait," Richard said. "What's going..." The sound that then came from the drone's speaker was piercing. It was unlike anything Richard had ever heard before; it seemed to bypass his ears and work its way straight to his brain, cutting every thought off in the middle of its flow and replacing it with nothing but sharp, untamed pain.

Richard naturally put his hands to his ears and cowered before the sentry drones in front of him. He began to hear a scream, not realizing it was his own over the deafening frequency that was rupturing his brain, and he collapsed to the ground. He had sealed his eyes shut, but he opened them briefly, only to see his best friend yelping and rolling on the ground a few feet away. He wanted nothing more than to help him, but he knew he couldn't. He knew he was done for; he could feel splitting headaches forming across the stormy sea that was becoming his brain. He thought he probably had a few seconds left, and for a dying moment, he hoped that there were others. Others like him who searched for life in the hills. Others who fought to keep the world a wholesome, healthy place. Others who wanted nothing more than serenity by the lake.