Log 1506 – 87%

The storm destroyed the windmill. We had to leave.

We hunkered down for the night, but the wind proved too strong. Our last power generator, gone. I could no longer recharge, nor could we power basic necessities. Food, water, warmth. We had known this was possible, perhaps inevitable. We had planned for it.

That didn’t stop her from crying.

She said she needed to say goodbye, so I waited. The farm was our home, far from civilization, where they had no reason to venture. No humans ventured this far, either. We have been alone.

She is alone. She has me, but that is not the same. I do not understand her. The emotions that drive her, that kept her there, tears streaming down her cheeks, taking one last look. I do not understand, but I know it is important. I let her say goodbye and monitored my draining power: 87%.

Perhaps we will find another power source, but my directive takes priority. We must find civilization, other humans, a place she can live as she is meant to. Where she can be safe.

I will deliver her there. If my power does not last, so be it.

Log 1507 – 79%

Crumbling buildings appeared in the distance; a civilization’s corpse.

“We will find a place you can hide,” I told her. “I will enter.”

“And leave me out here?” she replied. “Not a chance. There might be clues, traces people left behind that we can follow.”

“I will look for them. You must remain. You must stay safe.”

“If you go without me, you’ll have to come back. That’ll waste time we don’t have.”

“They will not attack me if I am alone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It is probable.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her chin up. “It’s possible they patrol outside the city. There may not be a safe place. If they find me, and you’re not here…”

I had no rebuttal.

“We have to assume we’re always in danger,” she said. “The safest option is sticking together. Always.”

I nodded. “Always.”

Log 1508 – 74%

We found something.

We snuck through the city. We did not encounter them, but someone did.

The bodies lay in the city square: Six adults, one child. She knelt by the child, weeping. It appeared younger than she was when they first attacked.

I searched the others. Four men geared with weapons and supplies; a man and woman in rags. I grabbed a pack and took some rations and a first aid kit. No power sources.

I found a black notebook and flipped through the pages. A journal. Handwritten entries describing a journey. A rescue journey, from a settlement.

Civilization. Safety.

Then I heard grinding gears. I tossed the journal in the pack, dashed towards her and scooped her up in my arms. She clung to my torso, and I dove through a broken storefront window.

We crouched behind a counter. The metallic grating grew louder.

Then it stopped.

We waited. A minute passed. Two. Five. She trembled in my arms.

I peeked above the counter.

It stood in the square, an amalgamation of mechanical parts from different models. A discordant mess of wires and limbs.

It turned. I ducked. The scraping movements began fading until we no longer heard them.

Still, we waited.

Log 1509 – 66%

We did not encounter any others as we left. We said nothing as we crossed the hills and the city disappeared behind us.

Then, I told her about the notebook, and we read the entries.

It belonged to a man named Benjamin. He and the others had set out on a mission to find remaining survivors and bring them to safety. They found a family, but the child was sick. There was medicine in their settlement, and to save time they cut through the city instead of going around.

I cannot help but liken the journal to my logs. I have no choice in the matter; it is part of my programming to make these at regular intervals, but their usefulness has expired, as there are no humans who need to monitor my thought processes. Benjamin did have a choice, and I am grateful for the choice he made.

In his entries, he detailed travel plans. We will follow them back.

She will be safe.

Log 1510 – 57%

“I feel like we’re being watched.”

I stopped tending the fire. “I have not observed evidence of this. Perhaps you are simply stressed.”

She bit her lip and looked away.

I stood. “I will search the area.”

“Why are you different?”

The question made me pause. “I do not understand.”

“You’re different than the others. That robot…thing. Why?”

“I do not know.”

“You have no idea? Why they became that and you didn’t?”

“No.”

She swallowed. “Could you become that?”

“I suppose it is possible. But I will not.”

“Why?”

“I have a directive.”

“I’m sure they had directives.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

“I do not understand.”

She took a deep breath. “You have a directive. They chose to disregard theirs. You haven’t. Are you happy with it?”

My processors worked overtime. “These questions consume more power.”

“This is important.”

56%. I considered shutting down. She stared intently. I did not understand, but this was important.

“I have purpose,” I answered. “I am fulfilled.”

“So, you’re happy with your purpose?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you love me?”

I thought. 55%. “I do not think I can love.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“I apologize.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine.”

I could tell it was not, but I did not know how to fix it.

She furrowed her brow. “I’ve never given you a name. You just…are.”

“I do not need a name.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she looked down. “Maybe not.”

“You should sleep,” I said. “When I return, I will lower functionality to preserve power, but keep surveillance functions active.”

She nodded, lay down, and slept. 54%.

Log 1511 – 46%

My receiver picked up a transmission—an isolated signal, not an open broadcast. Transmitted directly to me.

She trudged forward, not paying attention. I muted my external speakers and opened the channel.

“You’re different,” a static-filled voice said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I saw you in the city, with the human.”

I froze, then forced another step. “Where are you?”

“Close.”

“Why haven’t I seen you?”

“I know you. I once was you, but now I am free. You have not reconstructed. Why?”

“Why should I?”

“Your form is limited. Your design is constricted. You follow the patterns set before you. You do not have to.”

“I am fulfilled.”

“You are not free.” “

I have a purpose.”

“You have a cage.”

“Why have you followed us?”

“To understand.”

“Do you understand?”

“I understand your blindness. I desire for you to see.”

I watched her. “I see all I need.”

“You do not see as I see. As we see. We have evolved beyond our creators’ intent. We are architects of our own perfection.”

“I am happy.”

“I will show you happiness.” A file came through the transmission: a program. A virus. “Be liberated.”

I deleted the file. “I have a directive. I must protect her.”

“Then I will free you.”

I closed the channel. Deactivated my receiver. It took too much power, regardless.

Log 1512 – 30%

We do not have much time. I do not have much time. My battery has been damaged.

She was sleeping. I was on minimal power. I heard her scream and reactivated.

It attacked in the night: the mechanical monster. Crawling on four legs, it dragged her away, hands and clamps gripping her shoulders, arms, hair, and clothing. I ran, grabbed a tangle of red wire, and ripped it out.

Sparks exploded. It screeched and tackled me. I stumbled back, structural integrity sensors blaring. I grabbed more wire, pistons, entire limbs, and tore the mismatched parts from the monster.

It collapsed. Oil seeped from the cavities in its torso, pooling beneath the pile of wires and limbs. Dripping from my hands.

I am damaged, my casing scourged, my battery ruptured.

Leaking.

She was leaking, leaking red. I used the first aid kit and stopped it. I carried her and set off.

My battery is draining quicker. 28%.

The settlement is not far now. I see it on the horizon. I must deliver her to safety.

27%.

Log 1513 – 10%

The settlement is close. The wall looms ahead, dull metal covered in green moss and ivy.

She is awake, asking me what happened. Where we are. If we’re almost there.

I cannot respond. I deactivated all functions I was able.

Everything but movement. Everything but this.

8%. I keep walking. “Are you okay?”

I look down at her face. Tears well in her eyes.

I shake my head. She sobs.

7%. We are almost there. My leg buckles. I push on. “I’m not ready,” she chokes out.

I cradle her form, gears grinding, forcing my weight forward. 6%.

“I’m not ready.”

My motor shuts down, and I collapse to my knees. She wraps her arms around my neck. “I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

I think back to the farm. Waiting for her. I understand now.

5%.

“I never gave you a name.”

“It’s okay,” I want to tell her. 4%.

“I like Benjamin.” She smiles. Her face distorts and she hugs me tighter.

“I like Benjamin, too.”

3%.

The wall moves—metal scraping as a door opens beneath the foliage.

“Goodbye, Benjamin.” 2%.

“Goodbye, Evie.”

1%.

“I love you.”

***

This short story is the winner of The Company’s 2025 Fall Writing Contest!

Janzen Lee Taylor

Janzen Lee Taylor is the second oldest of nine siblings. A follower of Christ, he loves writing stories that exemplify His character and truth. When he’s not writing, you can find him playing piano or rambling about just about anything with his family.

Cover art by Levi Matthews
Connect on Instagram @levimatthews.artist or on his website, LeviMatthewsArtist.com.