The blare of his patrol car's sirens woke Officer Ray Bidwell from his slumber. The car was already heading down Maple Street before he took the driver seat out of recline.

"Damn," though Ray, "I can't believe I nodded off again."

The monitor told him that he was heading to the scene of a car accident. Initial data sent from the crash scene indicated there were no injuries. In fact, as usual, there were no human participants in the fender-bender.

Ray's squad car drove past an empty city park and down a residential boulevard. Eventually, it stopped directly behind the damaged vehicle and started flashing its warning lights, an unnecessary precaution since all traffic would automatically be redirected to different routes.

Ray reached for his hat and glanced at the squad car's rear-view mirror/selfie camera. He froze for a second, shocked by how much gray was sprinkled into his once thick, black head of hair. His older brother, who was nearing fifty, didn't have a single gray hair. "Oh well," he thought, "that's what I get for doing a job that nobody seems to respect anymore."

He went to talk to the vehicle's owner. The car was a late model Rainbow Trendia. The vehicle's shiny exterior changed color every five seconds. While he approached the vehicle, it changed three times. First, it was burnt orange, then aquamarine, and, finally, peach.

Ray walked around the front to see what the car had run into. Accidents were very rare with autonomous vehicles. The officer wasn't surprised to find a delivery drone embedded in the Trendia's grill. The remnants of a large Papa Caesar Hut pizza were scattered all about.

"Hey, that's my lunch," shouted a hefty man standing on the sidewalk.

"You can still have it if you want," replied Ray. "Help yourself to the pieces."

"Can't I get a refund or something?" asked the man as he picked up the nearest slice and examined it.

"That's not my call," said Ray. "You have to check with the pizza place."

"Why should I have to do it? I already had to order the pizza once. Shouldn't the police have to get me a replacement?"

"Like I said, not my job."

"All right. But how'd this happen in the first place? Aren't the drones supposed to be on the same navigation network as cars?" The man nibbled on the edge of the slice he had grabbed off the ground.

"They used to be, but a lot of them are operating under their own AI lately. It's supposed to be more efficient but I'm not so sure. This is the third car-drone accident I've run into in the last two days."

The man picked up the pizza box and started placing the least damaged of the slices inside. "Do you need me for anything or can I go back inside. I'm in the middle of watching season three of The Masked Mime."

"You're good to go," answered Ray. "I have to contact the car's owner and have them request a towing unit."

The man took his pizza back to his house without another word.

Ray moved to the driver-side door of the car and ran his scanner across the barcode. Almost immediately, the door's tinted window was filled with the image of a young woman.

"What's going on?" she asked. Her voice coming from speakers built into the car's tires.

"I was hoping you could tell me," said Ray. "Your car has been involved in an accident. Did you see what happened?"

"How could I?" she replied. "I'm not there. I'm busy checking my social media accounts. My car was just getting me a double latte with skim milk."

"So, you weren't monitoring the vehicle?"

"Why should I? They're automated for a reason. I've got better things to do than watch a monitor. It's not illegal to just let the car go off by itself."

"No, it isn't. Some people do like to keep tabs on their vehicles. I was hoping you had some idea what happened."

The woman shook her head. "Not a clue. Do you know if it's picked up my drink yet?"

Ray looked over at the drive-thru access compartment. It was empty.

"No, there's nothing in the receiving bin. You need to contact a towing unit to take the vehicle to a repair shop."

"I don't know how to do that. Why don't you do it for me?"

"That's not my responsibility, Ma'am. You just need to go to your insurance app and answer a couple of questions. Your car will send its location and other pertinent information once you verify."

The woman sighed loudly and her image disappeared from the screen.

"You're welcome," said Ray.

Since he needed to wait for the towing unit to arrive, Ray headed back to the front of the car to see if he could dislodge the drone.

After checking to make sure the drone was inoperative, he grabbed it and tried to pull it out. It wiggled but would not release its grip on the vehicle. Putting his foot on the bumper, he tried again. Without warning, two of the drone's three blades began spinning. One of the blades tore into Ray's calf, ripping his pants leg.

"Damn," he shouted. He limped back to his car for the first aid kit. Before he got there, a scream drew his attention to the other side of the street.

He turned to see a middle-aged woman soaked in blue paint. A bright orange Hardware Depot drone hovered a few feet above her.

"Stupid drone," shouted the woman. "You're supposed to set my delivery down on my driveway, not pour it on me."

Ray started toward the woman. "Excuse me, is there something I can do to hel . . . "

A loud crash stopped him in mid-sentence. Turning around, he saw that the hardware store delivery drone had crashed into the windshield of his patrol car. It sat there, stuck in the window with its blades spinning defiantly.

Another scream came from up the street followed by a thunderous explosion.

Ray heard a loud humming sound. He looked up to see a half-dozen drones, flying in military formation, heading toward the center of the city.

The drone uprising had begun.

The Middle of the Beginning of the End (2)

The sound of gunfire roused Ray from his sleep. Rolling over, he waited for his eyes to focus on the clock next to his bed. It read; 6:15. Groaning and stretching, he climbed out of bed. He had been at the precinct until well after midnight, attending to all sorts of drone-induced damage throughout the city. Reports rolled in from all over the country. The drone uprising was happening all over the world.

Another gunshot pulled Ray's attention back to the present. He ran outside, still limping from yesterday's drone encounter, and saw his neighbor from across the street, Rufus Smelter standing on the lawn wearing a bathrobe and carrying a rifle.

"What are you doing?" asked Ray.

"I'm protecting my family and property," replied Rufus. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna let some mechanical helicopter drop a piano on me."

"I don't think they can carry pianos," said Ray. "Look. Shooting off a rifle inside city limits is illegal and dangerous. Just go back inside . . ." Rufus fired the gun again, aiming up the street.

"Dagnabbit. I missed again. Those darn things are quicker than they look."

"Don't make me arrest you, Rufus. Just go back inside and let the police handle things."

Rufus sneered, "A lot of good that has done us so far. Some of them drones covered my house in queso cheese last night." He gestured upward.

Ray looked at his neighbor's house. Rufus wasn't lying. Ninety percent of the shingles were covered with thick, gooey cheese. As Ray watched, an orange gob dropped from the roof and landed on Rufus's cat. The poor thing whimpered in pain or fear and ducked under the porch.

"Be that as it may," began Ray "somebody's going to get hurt."

A loud blast from the backyard interrupted both men.

"What was that?" yelled Ray.

"Oh, I gave Erma my shotgun and told her to guard the back of the house." Rufus turned around and yelled, "Did you get one?"

"No," came the reply from the other side of the house. "The gun accidentally went off. I shot your grill."

"You shot my grill? How could you?"

"What do you care?" Erma yelled back, "you haven't used that thing in at least five years."

***

It took about fifteen minutes and a promise to check if the city would reimburse the cost of a new grill before Ray got his neighbors to suspend their drone hunting exhibition. That gave Ray only a half-hour before he needed to head back to the precinct. The captain had given him a few hours off, but it was obvious that he and every other available officer were going to be needed.

After a quick breakfast of cereal and a granola bar, Ray took a look at his computer before heading out. He had been working on his letter of resignation for weeks. His frustration over the lack of respect, general laziness, and absence of motivation of the citizens he had to deal with each day had reached the breaking point. This job continually teetered between unbearably boring and completely frustrating.

He wasn't going to have time to work on the letter this morning or any time soon, but when this drone thing was over, he was going to call it quits. His brother had been telling him about the opportunities and perks in the autonomous housing industry for years. The idea of joining his brother's business had become too inviting to ignore.

To Ray's surprise and chagrin, the letter he had been crafting so carefully was nowhere to be found on the computer. It, along with his fantasy football notes, a receipt for a big-screen TV he had just ordered online, and the file with his bank statements was missing.

Ray resisted the urge to scream. This was a terrible time for his computer to pick up a virus. There was no way he would be able to find the hours that would be needed to fix the damage.

In a foul mood, he took one last minute to check his Faceter account. After scrolling through a myriad of ads for TV's, cereal, granola bars, and computer virus protection packages, he finally got to his Faceter page only to find that his profile picture had been replaced by his high school graduation photo; the one where his acne was so bad that his classmates called him Zitzilla. The virus must have been more powerful than he first thought.

His watch started beeping, telling him it was time to get to work. With a heavy sigh, Ray pulled the plug on his computer and headed to the garage, pressing the garage door opener as soon as he got there.

Nothing happened.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to manually open the garage door. Finally, after wrenching his back and shouting a couple of dozen swear words he was finally in his car and pulling out of his driveway. He adjusted the settings on the car's preprogrammed route to the precinct, setting the maximum speed to ten miles per hour faster.

Just as the car turned onto the street and started toward the station, Ray noticed a contingent of drones heading down his street. Each was carrying an extra-large bag of tortilla chips.

He ignored the ensuing gunshots and continued on his way.

-