This article is part of the That Insidious Beast series.
"Eyes," Fatso wheezes.  The hoplite's cyclopean green eye
continues to bathe us both in light. My heart hammers against my
ribs so fast I feel woozy. Cooling fans whir within the armored
shell.  The green beams sweep back across the truck's interior
and converge in a brilliant emerald cone that illuminates
Fatso's eye.  "Ahh!" he complains.  The hoplite stands away from
the truck. The gate opens with an automated clank. The stout
machine turns to follow us as we pass. There. The white stylized
skull of its unit is painted on its shoulder guard.  The
indomitable machine is split open, cracked, burning from within.
The pilot hangs roasted in his harness. His cooked juices spit
and sizzle down into the trench. I can hear the voices of mighty
and terrible things exulting victory beyond the horizon.  We are
through the gate and into Ashland City. The Hoplite disappears
from view.  It begins to rain almost immediately. Raindrops drum
on the hood and splash a