“This is one of seven entrances into Lord Dread’s secret manufacturing facilities,” said Park Warden Hancock. He pointed to the brick building with large doors. The crowd of tourists tittered anxiously.
Park Warden Thistlewait murmured in Hancock’s ear. “Aren’t you sick of this, 47? We’ve been at this for a month and no bites.”
“It’s got to work, 84,” whispered Hancock. “There’s only one left.” He spoke to the crowd again. “From locations like this one, Lord Dread launched an attack upon England with his nightmarish androids. We still cannot break into these entrances. An impenetrable force field protects them. The key pad beside the door is unhackable, the entry code unbreakable.”
A man raised his hand. “But how were the androids stopped?”
“For a time it seemed no weapon could defeat them. We tried everything. Nuclear weapons were considered, but the cost in civilian casualties was unthinkable. We knew the androids possessed organically-grown brains, but they were impervious to any known toxin, disease, and as it turned out, nuclear radiation. Eventually, it was a woman, attending a garden committee luncheon, who solved the riddle.”
“Garden committee?” chuckled the onlookers.
“Yes, as an android attempted to choke her, it suddenly spasmed and collapsed.”
“What did she do?” asked a woman.
“I’m afraid that’s a State Secret.”
Martin, an anti-government activist and conspiricist, if the buttons on his clothing could be trusted, spoke up. “Why is it a secret? Shouldn’t the public know how to defend themselves?”
Right on cue, 93, thought Hancock.
“Well…ah,” stuttered Hancock, theatrically looking flustered. “It’s really not for me to say.”
Thistlewait murmured, “Two o’clock, 47. In the hood.”
“Got him,” whispered Hancock. “Well done, 84.”
Martin continued loudly, “Isn’t it true that you never figured it out? You government clods simply got lucky and you’re unwilling to admit it aren’t you?”
Suddenly, the hooded homeless man, whom everyone ignored, threw back his ragged garment. The rusting, battered metal of the android’s skull still shined in the sunlight. It darted forward to the keypad amid anxious shouts. Its fingers moved in a blur and entered the sixty-four character keycode in a mere second.
The great doors began to open.
“Now, 84!” shouted Hancock. Both pulled perfume bottles of Chanel No.5 from their pockets. Before the android could enter the at last open entryway, they sprayed the machine with perfume. It spasmed violently, metal snapping as its limbs convulsed. It soon collapsed and died.
“That was its achilles heel?” said the woman from earlier. “Perfume?”
“Achilles Brain,” corrected Hancock. “The only known weakness of the androids’ organic brains was a bloomin’ perfume allergy.”
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Look here for the original prompt and a blue link to many other stories: https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/03/20/sunday-photo-fiction-march-20th-2016/