text: There were no zombies like he expected. There was no cataclysmic event that obliterated life on the surface of the earth which had been altered significantly since the great flood a few years ago that wiped out Florida and most of the Gulf Coast that now gave Tennessee a wonderful ocean shoreline, reducing the area of the United States by nearly fifty percent due to solar flares that the ozone could no longer protect the earth from. Instead the apocalypse came from Cylon Corp. that controlled the economy of the new United States and the thirty one states that were still remaining. The programmed revolt had come from within the nerve center of the super conglomerate that had risen from the ashes of the Super Depression four decades before the Programmed Revolt as the Cylon Corp. News Center was reporting on every network station twenty four seven. “Craig.” Some called to him, but with the power in the building shut down it was hard for him to see where the voice had originated from. “Yeah.” He called back. “It happened.” The voice sounded quite distrubed. “Yeah.” He sat at his station, too traumatized to move, his headphones still in place, but his screen was black. “What happened?” It sounded like Doug from three stations away from his. “Cylons are running things now.” He removed his headphones. “That’s not good.” Doug emerged from the blackness of the open room. “Tell me about it.” Craig was still trying to get his computer to respond by clicking the on off toggle switch, but he knew that no matter how many times he flicked it back and forth, the Cylons were now in charge. “What are we going to do?” Doug sounded genuinely frightened. “Sit here until we get instructions.” Craig answered, but there was not enough confidence in his response. “If we stay here, we’ll be sitting ducks.” Doug put his head against one of the dead control panels. “If we go out there, Cylon patrols will exterminate us.” Craig looked up at his partner. “You know I knew we were headed for trouble when the Cylons began coming off the assembly line.” Doug sat on the floor as his legs no longer seemed to be able to support him. “Yeah, but you know how the management felt.” Craig allowed himself to let out a cynical chuckle even though Doug did not seem to share in his humor. “Cylons produced over fifty percent of the corporation’s profits.” “You think the Super Depression would have taught them a lesson.” Doug whined. “Yeah, my old man told me all about it and how Russia was behind it.” Craigh snickered again, “But you know, it was even bigger than that. It was a worldwide effort.” “Cylon was involved.” Doug moaned. “Without a doubt.” Craig affirmed. “Why would they do it?” Doug asked. “Money. Plain and simple. It’s like that game our ancestors used to play...what was it...oh yeah Monopoly. The winner was the player who got all of the money.” Doug remembered reading about it in one of the online journals he subscribed to published by Cylon Publications. There was an explosion from somewhere just outside the building and Doug closed his eyes and started to pray, “Our father who art in heaven...” “You still remember that chant?” Craig chuckled again, pulling out his laser from his desk drawer. It wasn’t much, but it might stop one of those things in its tracks if it should come in looking for survivors. A few feet away, Mary’s body lay on the floor, her head crushed by a heavy file cabinet unit as her boyfriend Bart stood over her like an idle mannequin with a rod protruding through his chest. Craig began to suspect that he and Doug might be the only survivors from their section. Waldo, the section chief, had taken matters into his own hands, and put a pistol into his mouth before pulling the trigger. He made it very clear that if the Programmed Revolt happened, he did not wish to stick around and as it turned out, Waldo was good to his word. Craig walked into his office where he was still sitting upright with a look of horror on his face and the splattered pieces of the back of his skull appearing like some kind of Rorschach inkblot test on the wall behind him. When Craig tried to move Waldo away from his desk, Waldo’s body fell with a sickening thump to the tiled floor. Opening the desk drawer, Craig removed the code sheet, folded it and put it in his pocket. Turning to Doug who appeared as if he was going to puke as he stared at Waldo’s body sprawled out awkwardly on the floor. “C’mon, let’s go.” “I changed my mind.” Doug shook his head. “Those Cylons will be coming any minute and we don’t stand a chance.” Craig pulled at Doug’s arm. With a sad moan, Doug followed Craig out of the room. Once outside, you could see the endless expanse of the corporation as it spread over ten square miles in the secret compound, but there was no secret about Cylon. All technological advancements were spawned here including the Cylons. The Department of Defense was the main player in the development of the Cylons which were much more advanced than their predecessors the cyborgs. Ten years ago there was a huge war between the Cylons and the Cyborgs and little doubt as to the outcome. One of the errors was that the technicians made these Cylons superior to humans in both strength and cognitive functioning or as Craig had told his now dead coworkers with the exception of Doug that humans had just created their own doom. Waldo would always laugh hysterically whenever Craig spoke about his biggest fear, but now that fear had become a reality. Strange how what you fear the most about something is the exact thing that takes place. And when it does you have to deal with it. Cylons did not need weaponry like Craig did when he shoved that laser into his pocket and then retrieved the codes from Waldo’s desk. As the pair went by the main production unit, Craig saw one of the ugly Cylons standing at the entrance of the production unit that Craig told people was the size of Rhode Island. Carefully citing the laser, he pressed the button and pieces of Clyon rained down. He pulled Doug into a materials bin so the other Cylons who were searching for the person who had shot their cohort, would not see them. The engineer who had put the Sound Wave Destroyer into their program needed to become a victim of his own horrible invention. Sound Wave Destroyer was based on a physics theory that sound waves could produce matter like behavior and could even display actual mass and volume if concentrated and since Isaac Newton told us that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time, the waves would obliterate the object in the space it wanted to occupy. It was messy and quite effective and it did not need any sort of pre-guidance mechanism to reposition the mass and volume of the obstacle. The Department of Defense was overjoyed to learn about this capability, but when the units were programmed, the artificial intelligence took on a life of its own and decided to use this engineered system to destroy their creators thus making Cylons the deadliest creation known to mankind. “Do you think we’ll have another solar flare?” Doug was suddenly concerned. “One crisis at a time, eh?” Craig snarled as he peeked out of his hiding place, not a Cylon in sight, but that did not mean they were in the clear. Still he pushed open the lid and together they stepped out into the darkness. It was so quiet for a moment Craig thought that perhaps he and Doug were the only ones left in the entire world. Seven million people were instantly incinerated where they were standing during the last flair. If you were not able to get into an underground shelter, you would be instantly melted. The alarm ub what was left of the city gave you about thirty seconds before the sun’s flare like a fiery tongue would slurp you up in a ball of flame. Craig had the pleasure of watching his parents succumb to a solar flair as they sat in the living room reading the Sunday online newspaper like all of the old folks did so many years ago. When he graduated from college, Craig had a portal installed so he could just plug it into the back of his neck where he had the portal installed. Such a primitive practice to read the things they put online. The remains of two security guards lay near the back gate where he and Doug were trying to flee. There were some safe places in the city they could go to, but these places were a few blocks away and there was no telling how many Cylons had already taken to the streets. As they stealthy moved through the dark city streets, there were random explosions in the distance. Was this the apocalypse? Judging from lack of human presence, this was a real possibility. Maybe Waldo had the right idea, but then it made him chuckle when he remembered the “Where’s Waldo” books his grandmother had read him when he was a toddler. After the Great Solar Flare, Craig had no idea what had become of them. Where’s Waldo? I know grandma, he blew his brains out in his office. Laughter follows. Craig raises his laser and blasts a Cylon who is feasting on the dead lying in the streets. Pieces of him rain down on the cold damp streets. Craig pushes Doug down to the street where they lie there for several minutes next to the dead bloated bodies as three Cylons come to investigate what the noise was. One of them bends down and sniffs Criag and for a split second, he thinks that it will begin to eat him thinking that he was dead like all the others. Sweat pours out of his forehead and he sucks in his breath as he hears his heart beating its way out of his chest. Much to his surprise and relief, one of the other Cylons pats the sniffer on his back and so he straightens up and joins the others on their patrol. “That was close.” Doug wipes the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Craig does not say anything, he knows how lucky he is to be able to walk away. There are even more dead lying in the street as they continue, but Craig refuses to let the carnage get to him. He knows his brain has been scarred beyond repair, but survival seems to be the only thing he allows his brain to think about. He is also afraid that Doug is getting more fragile and if he cracks, Craig will not think twice about dispatching him if he needs to. Checking his laser, he notes that his energy level is low and he has two maybe three more blasts at the most. None of the dead have devices, so they tredge onward. When Craig saw him, a shadowy figure that appeared from an alleyway, he raised his laser and prepared to fire, but then when he saw the face, he could not believe who was standing in front of him. Dr. Crowder was the chief designer of the Cylon project. At one time, his face was more recognizable than the Premier who would address the country that all was well, when everyone knew otherwise. “I had no idea.” His face was white and there was actual terror streaking through his dark eyes. Doug pointed to a security hover cruiser manned by three Cylons and they knew that the security officers had been exterminated and the Cylons now controlled the streets. “How could you not know this was going to happen?” Craig was filled with hatred for his man who had brought the end of the world without a single note of regret or so he seemed when he was on television, but standing in front of him now, Dr. Crowder was a shuddering, frightened pathetic coward of a man. “I was told I was doing this for the good of humanity.” His voice was barely a rasp, “Come, I’ll take you to the shelter.” “Could be a trap.” Doug said dryly. “Doesn’t look like we have much choice.” Craig pointed to another security hover cruiser a few blocks away. There was another explosion and the trio picked up the pace a bit. “It was supposed to be the greatest achievement for us all and look how it turned out.” Dr. Crowder explained, “We had all of the elements. Our research was impeccable. We just count on artificial intelligence to be the problem. Once we had things set, the intervention of free will entered into the formula. We did not account for it and frankly we did not think it was possible for such a thing to occur.” “But it did.” Craig pointed out. “It was just like Oppenheimer observed during testing of the bomb in the Manhattan Project when the energy released during destination exceeded expectations and he realized they had tripped into the realm of the creator. When you put the intellect of a highly intelligent being into a weapon, you wind up with a very intelligent destructive weapon.” Dr. Crowder was nearly in tears. “How much further?” Craig asked, seeing yet another hover cruiser up ahead. “Right over there.” Dr. Crowder pointed to a blank storefront with the large window smashed in. Inside Craig could see a few soulless shells aimlessly wandering about in the darkness. Stumbling inside all of about two dozen empty faces stared up at the three of them. “It’s alright everyone, they survivors like you.” “They are from Cylon.” A woman stepped from the crowd. “Like you.” Another pointed a bent finger at Dr. Crowder. “It’s okay.” Dr. Crowder swallowed hard holding up his hand. “Why did you create those things?” The woman asked in a bitter tone. Dr. Crowder just collapsed on the floor and began weeping into his hand, making unintelligible sounds as he shuddered. It was known as the Programmed Revolt, because no matter how carefully the Cylon program was managed with the introduction of free will these Cylons became executioners, an unintended consequence of the whole project that had inevitably brought about the apocalypse. There was a small pocket of resistance, but nothing to match the horror that was going on in the streets of the ruined city. As the lights of the early dawn took over, making hiding in the darkness impossible, the survivors would have to use caution. There was a strange calm in the early morning light. Silence fell over them like a comforting blanket. The danger would be ever present, but as Dr. Crowder pointed out in the sun's first rays, we are the architects of our own destruction as we are given the tools only to build devices of hate instead of creation. As we peel away the mysteries of the universe, instead of learning the lessons of creation we choose to use the information to destroy instead. This Programmed Revolt occurred not because of the advancements, but rather because of our need to protect the resources we have. And as strange as it seems, we justify our reasons to use our limited resources for our own desires without regard to what we may require in the future. Dr. Crowder was filled with these philosophical ideals once he saw what he had wrought. The warnings and road signs were all in place, but just like the posted speed limits along the interstate, they are ignored until a flashing red light appears in the rearview mirror and by that time it is too late.