SCREENS WENT BLACK all around the world: laptops, cell phones, televisions. Radios went silent. Everyone was suddenly jarred from their mindless electronic amusements. Then the world heard the voice for the first time: deep, calm, and deadly. A huge Great Dane filled all the screens of the 21st century, his robotic eye staring directly into the camera.
“You are going to pay,” he said in crisp English. “You are all going to pay for what you have done to us. You have tortured us, abandoned us, eaten us, and neglected us….and we have reached a conclusion.
“There are not too many dogs,” Robo said with a snarl. “There are too many of you.”
And then Robo started his first live stream to the world, recorded in the backwoods of America.
Plywood surrounded the dirt pit; the walls were stained with blood. A few men were inside a trailer, but most people leaned over the walls, holding cash and screaming at each other. Growling dogs strained against their short, tight leather leashes, their owners cuffing them when they barked too much.
Pork Chop was used to this. He had such contempt for these people. They were so stupid, some with gold chains, oversized
T-shirts, missing teeth, and beards. Others were in sleeveless undershirts, decked out with tattoos: women in bikinis, snakes, stars, devil wings, or some Chinese character they couldn’t even read.
The Bull Terrier looked down at his paw, taking courage from the symbol burned into his pad, barely visible behind the dirt and blood. An air horn blew, and he was shoved out into the dirt, along with a scarred Pit Bull. They circled each other with deadly intent.
Both knew tonight would be different. There would be no more ruthless killing among dogs here. They had a plan. The smaller dogs had hidden the guns, and the strays had carefully unlocked the cages.
The two dogs circled each other, dodging beer bottles hurled at them when the crowd got impatient. Then they felt it—a loud rumble shook the ground.
“That’s our cue,” Pork Chop growled at the Pit Bull.
Immediately, they turned on their owners. Pork Chop bit down on his owner’s arm; the Pit Bull clamped down on his owner’s ankle. The owners started to kick and slap them, but both dogs didn’t let go. Other dogs charged the audience. Some voices screamed, “Get your guns!”
In confusion, the men yelled, “Where are they? Where the hell are the guns?’ They tried to fend off the snapping teeth surrounding them.
Most of the crowd ran toward the exit, but were attacked by a team of big breeds waiting for them.
Pork Chop pinned his owner to the ground, steam rising from his nostrils, his eyes bloodshot. “How could you do this to me?” he screamed. “I could kill you right now, but I have more honor than you.”
The owner lay still, trying to comprehend that his dog was talking.
Pork Chop yelled, “Cowards!” to the wounded men, and joined the other dogs as they ran toward freedom.
The live feed showed the mayhem of the dog-fighting pit, with close-ups of the injured or dead gamblers and owners. The screen went black, although Robo’s voice could still be heard: “We are not done,” he snarled.
Within 24 hours, the humans had downloaded and shared his video. Many news programs questioned its authenticity, instead focusing on the scourge of dog fighting. As usual, they completely misread the danger they were in.
Meanwhile, Robo polished his shiny front paw, and leaned forward toward the control panel. The orb glowed, rotating slowly in its case, energy pulsing through the compound’s weapons system. Robo typed in the coordinates: First, 51.5074° N, 0.1278° W. Second: 35.6895° N, 139.6917° E
Robo’s armies in London howled with happiness when they saw Tower Bridge collapse into the River Thames. While people reeled from the destruction, the dogs took over the streets, buildings, cars, and shops, stealing meat, stalling traffic, and snarling and snapping at all they encountered. Those who resisted paid dearly. All the while, Robo livestreamed, telling the humans that they were witnessing a new beginning: The Dawn of the Dog.
Robot armies herded humans together, imprisoning them in cages at shelters, which had been used to house strays. Other divisions stormed through the countryside, freeing those trapped in dismal puppy mills. Everywhere they went, dogs, coyotes, and wolves created fear in humans’ eyes.
Killer and his crew particularly enjoyed the chaos. His boat had been docked in the harbor for weeks as they worked nonstop on Robo’s plans. Standing on the banks of the Thames, he and his soldiers sang a children’s nursery rhyme as they gulped down ale from wood barrels knocked open in the street.
“All together now,” Killer said, swaying slightly, and looking back at his troops. With barks and howls, they sang off-key:
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down
London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady!
Killer turned and winked at a finely groomed white poodle that walked by, draped in her former owner’s diamond necklaces.
Robo laughed at the mirth and mayhem. The uprising was going well. He switched monitors over to the second target: Tokyo.
The Tokyo Skytree, the tallest tower in Japan, was in ruins. Huge pieces of concrete and glass littered the streets. Young girls in their school uniforms ran screaming from their small dogs, now vicious and free of their rhinestone leashes and silly anime costumes. Thin street dogs, their ribs visible, ran boldly into sushi restaurants, leaping up on the bars, fighting over raw salmon and shrimp.
The walkways of the Imperial Palace were strewn with cherry blossom branches and abandoned weapons. Sabu stood proudly in the rubble with a strong line of Akitas.
“This is now yours,” Sabu said with a flourish of his paw, presenting the palace to Robo.
“Well done, Sabu,” Robo said. “Take control of the city, and then come back home.”
Sabu and his troops snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
Robo continued to watch as his forces reported victories in Rome, Beijing, and Moscow. He even joined a virtual toast of vodka-and-broth with a platoon of Russian wolfhounds on Red Square.