Chapter four

Not only was there nothing in San Francisco like the country he was presently traversing, there was nothing like it in any of Marcus Wright’s memories. It might well be a fit landscape of hell, he thought to himself as he strode numbly onward. If it was heaven, then the priests and pastors he had briefly known as a child were even further off the mark than he had always suspected.

What place in either afterlife the wreckage of a crashed 747 occupied was a physical and philosophical conundrum he couldn’t even begin to fathom. The metal hulk was empty, deserted, giving no sign anyone had ever been in it or near it. Striding past, he wondered if this piece of limbo had been raised up exclusively for him. Since regaining consciousness (or whatever it was that he was experiencing) he had not seen any indication that the space he was presently exploring was home to so much as another human being.

Much later, his foot kicked aside something that caught the subdued sunlight. It was a shard of reflective red plastic. Kneeling, he wiped away the sand that half buried it. For his efforts he was rewarded with the sight of a highway reflector. Brushing away more sand and grit exposed pavement and a yellow dividing line. Incongruous though it might be in the complete absence of any vehicles, it did provide him with something he had so far been lacking.

A direction.

More hours of walking found him gaining instead of losing strength. That made no sense, but since nothing else seemed to make any sense he saw no reason to question the contradiction. He accepted it just as he accepted the sight of the nearly obliterated hillside sign that was just intact enough to proclaim “HOLLYWOOD.” From his vantage point he had a good portion of the city spread out before him.

Or rather, what had been the city.

Like the metropolis it had once been, the ruins stretched out as far as he could see, the promontory of the Palos Verdes Peninsula looming like a buff shadow in the distance. Of life there were still no signs. In the entire vast vista of destruction, not even the dust moved.

It took him a while to work his way downtown. There he hoped to find potable water, though so far all he had encountered was wreckage and devastation in close‑up, from obliterated storefronts to the dinosaurian hulks of cars and trucks, some of which had crumbling skeletons slumped at the wheels.

Something moved in the distance, walking. Though several hundred yards away, there was no mistaking the human shape of the lone figure. Disbelief gave way to a ray of hope. Cupping one hand to his mouth, he yelled.

“Hey!”

The figure turned toward him. It was humanoid–but not human. No human could have supported the oversized machine gun it started to aim. As a shell‑shocked Wright gaped at it dumbly, a grim‑faced youth appeared as if from nowhere and slammed into him.

They tumbled together behind a heavy forklift as a hail of heavy‑caliber shells tore into the pavement where Wright had been standing a moment earlier. How they missed him he could not understand. Rising to the fore, half‑forgotten instincts took over. Rolling deeper into cover, he found himself face to face with the teen. When the boy spoke, he did not sound young.

“Come with me if you want to live.”

More slugs ripped the air around the forklift as the figure that had trained its weapon on Wright started toward them. Red eyes flickered; scanning, seeking, looking to exterminate. The teen led Wright back around the corner of one crumbling structure. They were out of sight of their attacker and out of range. For the moment.

Facing his young companion, Wright jerked his head back in the direction from which they had come.

“What the hell is...?”

Despite the difference in their ages and the disparity in size, the teen did not hesitate. His open hand clamped across Wright’s mouth, shutting off the older man’s query. In an earlier time and place the blatant physical imposition would have caused Wright to rip the youth’s head clean off. Under the present circumstances, however, he was too confused to do more than accept the gesture.

Pointing in the direction of the bipedal creature that had fired at them, the teen then gestured at his own ear. Only when Wright nodded that he understood did the youth lower his hand from the stranger’s mouth.

Time passed: not much of it, and all of it fraught with tension. Advancing toward them, their pursuer was barely visible, and inclined its head in their direction. The muzzle of its rapid‑fire weapon rose. That was when the teen slammed his arm down on something metallic protruding from the side of the building against which he and Wright had been pressed.

The wire that looped around the stalker’s right foot was not thick, but it was unbreakable. Machine and machine gun were turned upside‑down as the contracting cable yanked it completely off the ground. Frustrated but not disoriented, it struggled violently at this unexpected interruption of its pursuit.

Not waiting around for the machine to free itself, the teen grabbed Wright’s arm and led him down the alley where they had taken cover.

There was barely enough room at the top of the mound of rubble that blocked the entrance to the ruined factory for the youth to wriggle through. Wright had a harder time, having to rely more on brute force to make his way to the other side. Standing at the base of a disintegrating stairwell, the youth gestured impatiently for Wright to follow. Too stunned to argue, the older man complied wordlessly.

On the street outside, the stymied T‑600 fired twice at the cable that had wrapped around its right foot. Most shells missed the gleaming, slender target. Those that struck it glanced off. Responding to the overriding resolve of its pursuit programming, it proceeded to shoot off the restraining foot. Thus freed, it slammed into the pavement below with enough force and weight to buckle the old concrete.

Proceeding to right itself, it limped toward the entrance to the factory.

***

By the time he and his guide reached the roof of the building, Wright thought he ought to be out of breath. That he was not he attributed to the inevitable surge of adrenalin that always accompanied being shot at.

Halting, the teen flashed a succession of hand signals across the flat surface. A second figure emerged from the shadows. Slight of build and grimy of appearance, the little girl was clad in layers of salvaged clothing, child‑sized cowboy boots, and an old police hat with a flipped‑back brim. A single metal star gleamed on the front of the hat, above eyes that were preternaturally hard. With brown hair that exploded wire‑like from beneath this singular chapeau, she looked to be about nine or ten.

In response to the older boy’s gestures she turned toward what looked like an old railcar wheel assembly. The enormous hunk of rusting metal sat on the edge of the rooftop where at one time it might have handled cargo deliveries. Having long since eroded away, a portion of the underlying structure had been replaced with a series of shims and props.

As she leaned over the edge of the building, the girl was intent on something below. When the moment suited her, she shoved hard against a pole that was centered on the mass of shims. They promptly gave way, followed immediately by several tons of abandoned industrial manufacture. The noise this all made when it struck the street far below was eminently satisfying.

Hurrying to the edge, Wright peered over and down, and drew back as a burst of automatic fire erupted from below. When none of the shells whizzed in his direction, he took a second look. Pinned beneath the mass of metal, the exposed gun arm of the crushed machine was still firing, but wildly and seemingly without control. It continued to do so until the weapon’s magazine ran out.

Shaking his head, he straightened and turned to his youthful savior.

“What the hell was that?”

Stone‑face, the teen shook his head curtly. He had the build and look of a lone wolf.

“You first. Who are you?”

Ignoring him, Wright shifted his attention to the little girl.

“What was that?”

Taking a step forward, the youth partially interposed himself between the ingenuous stranger and the girl.

“She doesn’t talk, but you need to. Who are you?” His voice did not change. All the emphasis it required was provided by the gun he drew and aimed. Wright regarded it as dispassionately as he did the question.

“I’m–Marcus.”

This concise response was inadequate to reassure the teen.

“Why are you wearing a Resistance uniform when you’re obviously not a member of the Resistance?”

Wright glanced down at himself, then back up at the youth.

“I–needed clothes. The dead guy I took it off didn’t.”

Still wary, the teen began rifling the pockets of the older man’s jacket with one hand while keeping the pistol trained on him with the other.

“Well, if you’re one of those crazies whose brains turned to oatmeal from radiation poisoning, jump off this roof right now ’cause I’m not letting you get us killed.” He continued fishing through the jacket pockets and continued coming up empty.

Wright stared blankly back at him. Everything that had happened, everything that was happening, was happening too quickly, giving him no time to analyze, no time to digest–only to react.

“I–I don’t know what happened to me,” he explained sincerely.

His honesty was insufficient for the teen.

“Nice handle on reality, roadkill.” He licked his lips. “Where’s your food?”

Wright mumbled a response. “Roadkill?”

“That’s what you’re gonna be, you don’t start waking up to certain facts. Like who’s looking to smoke you and who isn’t.”

Wright’s memory might have been shocked and his perception stunned, but there was nothing wrong with a lifetime of instinctive reactions. In a single swift, smooth motion he reached out, grabbed the teen’s wrist, twisted him around, relieved him of the gun, and shoved. Barely aware of what had taken place, the teen abruptly found himself lying on his back on the rooftop with the muzzle of the gun positioned frighteningly close to his face.

Nearby, the now terrified girl had retreated several steps.

Wright gazed down at the prone teenager. The boy was shaking, and Wright knew exactly what he was feeling. Because there had been a time, long ago, when he had all too often found himself in similar situations.

“You want to rip a guy off, make him empty his own pockets. If you do it yourself, you get too close, it gives him a chance to turn things on you. Never get closer than two arm‑lengths to whoever you’re locking down.” Taking no notice of whatever the teen might chose to do, Wright turned slightly to one side, popped the clip out of the gun, pocketed it, and tossed the weapon onto the teen’s chest.

“You point a gun at someone, you better be ready to pull the trigger.” He stared down at the youth, who stared back a long moment before finally nodding.

“Right,” the teen muttered.

Reaching down, Wright extended an open hand. As he picked up the gun that had been stripped from his grasp the teen regarded the powerful fingers warily, but decided to accept the offer. The stranger, helping him stand, all but lifted him off the ground.

“Now I’m gonna ask you one more time.” Wright indicated the edge of the building. “What the hell was that?”

Back on familiar ground, some of the teen’s former boldness returned.

“Terminator. T‑600. It kills. And once it locks on to you it won’t stop–ever. Until you’re dead.”

Lifting his gaze, Wright surveyed the surrounding devastation, letting his eyes roam across the ravaged Los Angeles basin as far as heat and haze would allow.

“What day is it?” When the boy looked at him as if he really was crazy, Wright revised his question. “What year?”

“2018,” the kid replied.

Wright stared at the panorama of destruction.

“What happened here? To–everything.”

“Judgment Day happened.” The teen was eyeing him curiously. “Are you just stupid, or...?”

He didn’t finish, probably deciding that the “or” really wasn’t important when all that mattered anymore was surviving to the next day.

Wright rubbed the back of his head, as if the thought itself was painful.

“Gotta get out of here.” He muttered to the teen. “Away from this area.”

The younger man’s shrug seemed to suggest that geographical designations like “away” no longer held much in the way of relevance.

“Can’t go on foot, that’s for sure. Machines will cut you down. If you expect to get anywhere you’re gonna need speed.”

Something, at last, that made sense.

“I need a car.”

“Good luck.” The teen squinted over at him.

“You’re serious, aren’t you? Well, it’s your funeral. Moving car is just a bigger target.” He gestured ahead, toward the nearby hills. “Last time I was up that way I saw a few of ’em by Griffith Observatory that didn’t get incinerated. You can try. None of ’em run, though.”

“Take me there.”

Coming to a halt, the youth was ready with another acid response when the girl suddenly stopped as if shot and dropped to the ground.

“Get down!” he yelled at the stranger. “And when you’re down, don’t move. Act dead–or you will be.”

Wright complied. Lying motionless, he was starting to feel like a fool when a low rumble became audible. It rose quickly in volume if not pitch. Not daring to raise his head, he caught a glimpse in the broken windows of a nearby building of something in motion. It was enormous, purposeful, and now almost directly overhead.

***

As the airship moved with lethal deliberation through the canyons of the ruined city, it scanned its surroundings with an assortment of sensitive instrumentation. Seeking sound or movement, it passed by the three inert figures splayed on the ground without reacting.

Wright winced slightly as a nearby still‑standing tower crumbled from the effects of the airship’s vibration.

The three humans stayed motionless even after the giant machine’s last aural twitch had receded into the distance. Taking his cue from his younger but far more knowledgeable companions, Wright didn’t rise until they did. The teen explained before Wright could ask his question.

“HK–Hunter‑Killer. Can’t stop that with an improvised spring trap.” He nodded forward. “We should keep moving.”

As they resumed their march Wright glanced toward the girl.

“How’d she know? That it was coming.”

The youngster looked uncertain.

“Not sure. Just glad she does. Better than talking. She’s got a sixth sense or something about the machines. She’s kept me alive plenty.” He lengthened his stride. “We’re too exposed here. Pick it up.”

Wright matched the teen’s pace effortlessly.

“You know my name now. Who are you?”

“What’s it matter?” The teen dodged around the scorched wreck of a city bus. “You had my gun. Why didn’t you shoot me?”

“Why would I have done that? I don’t shoot people just because....” A memory came rushing back. A bad one. Wright’s voice trailed away without finishing the declaration.

The teen frowned at him, appeared to hesitate, came to a decision.

“My name’s Kyle Reese. Come on. Let’s go.”

It had been dark outside for a while by the time the tech crew and their heavily armed escort arrived. Water dripped from the tarp‑wrapped object they were carrying. When they finally laid it down on the place that had been cleared for it, the display table groaned under the weight. Beneath the tarp, extremities akin to limbs were thrashing uselessly. Connor was still careful not to get too close.

Carefully pulling back the tarp, the tech chief revealed an intact Hydrobot. Superbly if inhumanly engineered to operate in the water, on dry land it struggled to carry out its programmed functions. It was unable to prevent the silent soldiers from securing it to the tabletop. The tech chief eyed it with grim approval.

“We fried its transmitter and backup, so it can’t call any of its pals. But it can still receive.”

Connor nodded. He had been briefed on what to expect. His gaze was intent as he scrutinized the small, crudely cobbled‑together transmitter that rested on a nearby bench.

“Turn it on. You got it?”

The tech nodded. “Give me the strap.” Holding the device, the senior technician flipped a switch. A soft hum came from the transmitter’s battery. The setup was far from state‑of‑the‑art, but it functioned.

Proof that both the transmitter’s circuitry and programming were working was provided by the Hydrobot. It spasmed once, then went inert on the table. Connor pointed out to the tech that while the single red light in the center of the machine’s head faded to an ember, it did not wink out entirely.

The chief technician nodded. “The code signal creates a disrupt. It’s not a permanent turn‑off or we’d simply send out the broadcast and shut down all the machines.”

Connor grunted. “So it’s more of a ‘pause’ than an ‘off’ switch.”

“I’m afraid so,” the tech told him. “And the signal has to be continuous in order to sustain the effect. Any interruption and....” He flipped the switch back.

The Hydrobot immediately jerked back to life, beating violently but futilely at the tabletop and its bonds. Locking eyes with Connor, it snapped viciously in his direction. He studied it dispassionately, like a defiant mouse that had suddenly managed to turn the tables on its would‑be trap. The tech switched the transmitter back on and the machine was once again immobilized.

“While the signal is being broadcast, it can be traced. It gives away your location. But it works.” He eyed the dormant Hydrobot with unconcealed loathing. “And while it’s working, you can walk right up to any machine and blow it to bits.”

“I’d rather have a full‑time ‘off’ switch,” Connor muttered.

“We all would.” The tech was sympathetic. “But if this is the best we can come up with based on the information that was acquired in the course of the attack on the Skynet VLA, I know plenty of people in the field who’ll be glad to have it.”

“Speaking of people in the field, John....”

Turning, he saw that Kate had been watching from the other doorway. Entering, she smiled gently.

“Have you forgotten? It’s time for your radio broadcast to the survivors.”

He spoke more curtly than he intended. “There’s no time. Not tonight.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “There are people left out there. Not just those in the Resistance. People out on farms, scattered in the mountains, hiding in the desert. Trying to keep it together in national forests and city subways and on small boats at sea.” Her fingers contracted gently against him. “They need to hear a voice. Your voice.”

She hesitated briefly, then added the unavoidable coda.

“You know who’s out there, John.”

Looking back at her, he didn’t have to ask who she was referring to.

“All right. What I’ve got in mind is going to take some time, anyway.” Turning, he saw that the chief technician and the entire tech crew were waiting on his orders. He indicated the motionless Hydrobot.

“Destroy this thing. See if you can rig up a more portable version of that transmitter. We’re going to try it out on something bigger. We have to, otherwise we’re just spinning our wheels.”

“That sounds more like something a machine would say, sir,” declared one of the watching soldiers. Everyone who heard it chuckled at the quip.

The clandestine radio room the two of them entered was unoccupied except for the technician on duty. Waiting for me, Connor thought. Waiting for encouragement, for hope. Wanting to supply both, he knew he could offer only words. Broadcast via hidden, surreptitiously maintained towers, the Resistance base’s encrypted signal would be decrypted only at the final points of transmission–an assortment of battered but still functioning translators scattered across the continent. Each had been rigged to self‑destruct in the event of its discovery by the machines.

Every month, more were lost. Every month, the voice of the Resistance grew fainter, its area of coverage smaller. But they would keep talking, right up to the end. Whichever end the end turned out to be, he thought.

He settled himself in the chair facing the microphone. Off to his left, the busy technician was intent on his equipment. Checking not only to see that everything was functioning and that the carrier wave was sufficiently strong, but also that it was not being traced. Only when he was satisfied with both did he turn to the waiting Connor and give him a silent thumbs‑up.

Connor nodded and leaned slightly toward the mike. He could feel Kate’s eyes on him; watching, waiting, expectant. Though he had performed such broadcasts many times before, the words never came easily to him.

What could he say that had not already been said? What more could he do to exhort those who continued to resist, to encourage those who were still fighting back?

What could he say to Kyle?

He stared at the radio for a moment longer and then leaned toward the microphone.

“I hope he’s listening to this,” he muttered, before beginning his transmission.

“We’ve been fighting for a long time. We’ve all lost so very much. So many of our loved ones are gone. But you are not alone. There are pockets of Resistance all around the planet. We are at the brink....”

Date: 2015-12-13; view: 414; Нарушение авторских прав