Chapter eight

The interior of the Skynet Transport was an accurate reflection not only of machine design but of their disdain for humankind. It was dark, cramped, and uncomfortable, providing just enough room and air to keep its captives alive. Not unlike the cages humans had once used to smuggle endangered animals from one country to another in the service of the lucrative and illegal exotic pet trade.

Trying to hang onto the little bit of space he had managed to carve out by dint of mild pushing and shoving, Kyle Reese did not feel like he was going to be made into a Skynet pet. While he had no idea why the machines had taken them alive, he doubted it was to fete him and Star and their fellow prisoners with candy and ice cream. The brief thought of ice cream, which he remembered clearly but had not tasted in years, did nothing to soothe either his mood or the hunger that was once again rising in his gut.

They were not alone in the belly of the Transport, though nearly all the other captives were adults. Conversation was muted and conducted in a variety of languages. Around them the steady whirr and hum of the machine was interrupted only by an occasional clank. He had already decided that the Transport was not equipped with the most advanced machine mind. There was no reason why it should be, since it was essentially a semi‑sentient truck.

Where there was a way in, there had to be a way out. Looking around, searching every corner and ignoring the other captives, he began hunting for one.

A tiny sniffle broke his concentration and caused him to look down at the little girl who was curled up against him.

“Don’t cry, Star. We’ll get out of this. We’ve gotten out of worse.” Then he noticed the reason for the uncharacteristic sob. “You’ve lost your hat.” She nodded, staring up at him.

He had to smile to himself. That was Star. Imprisoned by the machines, being hauled off to who‑knew‑what ruthless, inhuman fate, and she was worried about her hat.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find it.” It was an unfounded but necessary boast. He had no idea where it might be. Most likely it was lying at the bottom of the river beneath the shattered bridge where they had been captured. The machines wouldn’t have kept it. The only human artifacts that interested them were devices that could be studied with an eye toward improving themselves or weapons that could be used against them. But his pointless promise served its purpose. She stopped crying.

Most of their fellow captives were strangers, but not all. He noticed one white‑haired woman who was actually smiling across at him. It was Virginia, the woman from the now eradicated convenience store who had taken them in and generously given them food. How she could smile under such mournful circumstances was something of a wonder in itself. She was the type of person, he decided, who if being roasted in hell would find it in her heart to comment favorably on the clement temperature.

Hell being, he reminded himself gloomily, a distinct possibility, since while no one knew what the machines had in store for them it was unlikely to be nice.

One stocky, swarthy man had draped an arm protectively around the shoulders of a woman who was likely his wife. He was holding her hand with the other.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be okay,” he was murmuring in soft Spanish.

While still alert, the woman was plainly in danger of withdrawing from reality. Her eyes were vacant, indifferent.

“What’s going to happen? What are these things going to do to us? I’m afraid we’re going to die. I don’t want to die.”

“Don’t worry.” His hand squeezed hers tightly. “No matter what, I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”

Seated nearby, a man clad in a tattered Resistance uniform was studying the unadorned ceiling and muttering to himself in French.

“ Il ne devrait pas être beaucoup plus long. ”

Still clinging tightly to his wife, the Hispanic blinked at him. “What did you say?”

Meeting the other man’s gaze, the solemn‑faced fighter switched to English.

“I was saying that it should not be much longer. Until we reach–wherever it is we are going.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because the machines know we need food and water, and it makes no sense to take us alive if they do not intend to keep us that way.” He hesitated. “Until we have fulfilled whatever purpose they have in mind for us, at least.”

Seated across from the Frenchman, a wide‑eyed Angeleno in his thirties had his arms wrapped around his knees and was rocking slowly back and forth.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re all going to die. They’re going to kill us all.”

“No they’re not.” Though misplaced and entirely unjustifiable, Virginia’s quiet confidence was something to admire. Much to his surprise, Reese was sufficiently motivated to agree with her. He hugged Star a little closer.

“That’s right, Virginia. They’re not going to kill us.” He looked down at Star. “I won’t let them.”

The despondent speaker who had given voice to his gloom sneered at Reese. “Smart‑ass kid like you will be first.”

“It is like this gentleman said.” Virginia indicated the French fighter. “If they simply wanted to kill us they would have done so already. There would be no reason to take us prisoner.”

Someone else in the chamber muttered, “Maybe they want to study us. Open us up and look for vulnerabilities.”

While potentially accurate, that was quite possibly the worst thing anyone could have said. It turned quiet inside the Transport for a long time. Eventually taking it upon herself to break the oppressive silence, Virginia leaned toward the silent Star.

“You feel like a story? I know some good stories.”

Refusing to be mollified, even indirectly, a heretofore silent young Chinese woman spoke up. Her voice rose just above a whisper, as if she was imparting an accepted fact instead of just speculating.

“They’re just keeping us in here until the war is over. It’s not true about the machines killing us. They’re just keeping us in here until the war is over.”

Another man spoke up. “I’ve heard what they do. It’s worse than just killing you.”

The depressed man who had challenged Reese turned toward him.

“Why’s that? What’s worse than being killed?”

He raised his voice slightly. His eyes were haunted.

“I’ve heard what they do with prisoners. I heard the machines tear your skin off your body while you’re still alive, slide it over a metal skeleton so you can’t tell who’s human and who’s a machine.”

Ever positive, Virginia refused to accept the nightmare scenario.

“If that was true, there’d be no survivors to escape and tell that story.”

The Frenchman was shaking his head. “What I would not give for a tomato. And a sip of a decent shiraz.”

The woman who held a different theory crawled back to her space.

“I don’t know if one is true or the other. It’s just what I heard.”

This time the man who had voiced the terrible possibility voided his frustration on her instead of Reese.

“What difference does it make? So they intend to kill us, or dissect us, or make us slaves. What does the method matter if the end is the same?” He let his gaze roam around the interior of their traveling prison. “What we should be doing instead of thinking about how we’re going to die is trying to come up with a way to save ourselves. Look at us. We’re in a cattle car. We’re on the way to the slaughterhouse!”

While Virginia was hopeful, she was also practical.

“What can we do right now? We’re trapped in here.”

The man’s voice rose to a snarl.

“See what toaster’s piloting this plane and take it over.”

“And crash us into the ground?” Reese shot back. “Besides, what would you suggest we do? Hold a gun to the onboard computer and threaten to blow its circuits out? We don’t have any weapons anyway.” He leaned back against the inner wall of the compartment, one arm draped loosely over his right knee. “No. I’m with you when it comes to trying a breakout, but not while we’re an unknown number of feet above the ground. We hold tight, wait until we land, and then look for the right spot and time to make a move.”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” the man growled. “Wait until we land and they dump us in a pot, or whatever.” His hands bunched into fists. “I’m not waiting around for whatever the machines got in store for me. I’m fighting back now.” He let his gaze sweep the compartment. “Who’s with me?”

The gauntlet he threw down was allowed to lie where it fell as his challenge was met by a deafening silence from the rest of the downcast prisoners. He kicked at the unyielding floor, unable to scuff the smoothly machined surface.

“Cowards.”

Ignoring him, Reese shifted Star against him. Having moved to join them, Virginia took one of the little girl’s hands in her own. “I’m going to tell you a story. Guaranteed to make you smile. Okay?”

Staring up at her, Star nodded.

But she did not smile back.

***

It was raining hard and Wright was cold again. The downpour didn’t seem to bother Williams. Or maybe she was just one of those stoic types who like to pretend they are immune to whatever the world cared to throw at them, be it bad weather, harsh language, or explosive projectiles. He had known many people like that and thought it a foolish way to go through life. Marcus Wright had never seen much point in trying to deny reality.

They had arrived at a racing arena of some sort, and clearly it had been a long time since anyone had taken a victory lap around the old racetrack. With humankind locked in a battle for its very survival against the machines, the devotion–even in another era–of so much time and effort to something so superfluous seemed not merely wasteful but obscene. Wright didn’t care whether the track had been home to pointlessly circling horses, deceived dogs, or supercharged engines masquerading as cars. What mattered now was that it offered the promise of shelter from the elements, which was more valuable than anything it had ever hawked when performing its intended function.

The first overhang they encountered was not large, but it was intact and kept off the rain. Moving as far in away from the weather as the structure would allow, Williams regarded their surroundings with satisfaction. They should be safe here for a while. Though the machines were immune to the rain, they preferred not to operate during strong downpours. Heavy rain complicated electronic perception of their surroundings and occasionally interfered with bipedal movement. Even the most powerful machines preferred to operate on a stable surface rather than mud.

“Looks like a good place to camp for the night.” Williams took a last glance at the compass before flipping it shut and slipping it back into her suit pocket. “I think if we can maintain the same pace as today, we can make it to my base by tomorrow night.”

Wright’s attention remained focused on their surroundings. The track was a useful place to stay because the open area fronting their shelter would allow them to see anything that was approaching while it was still a good distance off. Personally, except for the chill, he was enjoying the rain. In a world gone mad it was a familiar and insofar as he could determine unaffected companion from the past.

Turning away from the wind‑ and water‑swept track, he watched as Williams slipped the pack off her back. She was moving slowly, deliberately. Using both hands she lowered her service belt to the ground. Eschewing comment, he took note of the holster and the oversized pistol it held. That was when he saw the dark stain that had soaked part of her flight suit. She winced as she dragged off the underjacket. As his eyes roved over her, his gaze settled on the gash above her arm. Something gleamed there that was not exposed flesh. In addition to dried blood he saw glints of metal. Evidently not all of her downed aircraft had been washed away by the river. Some of it was still stuck in her shoulder. The wound continued to seep blood, but not copiously. It was not a lethal injury, but it must have been a painful one.

His lips tightened. He ought to have asked how she was feeling. But in the course of the entire long afternoon’s march, she hadn’t said a word about the presence of the shrapnel.

He moved nearer, studying the injury with interest.

“You’re hurt.”

She waved him away.

“I can take care of myself. You want to help, go find something we can burn to keep warm.”

He gestured out into the deluge.

“Why not ask for steak and lobster while you’re at it?”

“I didn’t say it’d be easy. Look under the grandstand. It seems pretty much in one piece. It ought to stay dry under there, at least in spots.”

He nodded, staring at the rain and wondering why he wasn’t shivering.

“I think I’ve been cold all day.”

Her reply was mocking.

“That’s why they call it a nuclear winter, Marcus. Or did you think this was ‘normal’ weather for this part of the world?”

“I didn’t realize how much it had changed,” he murmured.

“Everything’s changed. Now those of us who are left have to find a way to change it back.” When he didn’t move but continued to stand and stare, she added a terse reminder. “Fire?”

“Oh. Right.”

He headed back out into the storm.

Once she was sure he was out of sight she began peeling down the top of her flight suit to completely expose the wound. The sight was not pretty, but she was up on all her shots and not too worried about infection. That confidence wouldn’t last if she left the shrapnel in place, though. A pouch on her service belt yielded gauze and hydrogen peroxide. Basic therapy, but it would have to do. The corner drugstore was closed.

Clenching her teeth, she used a small probe to dig out the bits of metal. She could only extract those she could see. Anything smaller or in too deep would just have to stay where it was for the time being. When she had the gash as clean as she thought she could manage she dosed a gauze pad with peroxide, gritted her teeth, and slapped it over the wound.

The rain would have drowned out any noise she wanted to make, and there were no machines about in any case. Still, she didn’t utter a sound. Because there was someone present who would have sneered had she whimpered.

Blair Williams.

Nothing organic survived in the ruins of the long abandoned racetrack. No food, no fried chicken bones, not even a ketchup‑stained hot dog wrapper. Such edible debris had long since been cleaned up by the planet’s other organic survivors: dogs and cats, buzzards and crows, pigeons and rats and the ubiquitous insects.

Wright came across discarded beer and soda cans from which any remaining liquid had long since been drained or evaporated. There was nothing left to tell that the oval facility had once played host to thousands of screaming, cheering, blissfully happy human beings. Now the place was being reclaimed by the land and by the elements.

Williams’ assumption had been correct. Where the overhanging roof remained intact, it was dry beneath. He set about the business of ripping up anything made of wood, from railings to posts. Another man would have needed a saw, or at least a sledge, to do the job.

Wright managed with his bare hands.

Williams’ shoulder was throbbing. Picking small shards of metal out of her flesh wasn’t the activity she would have chosen to begin a relaxing evening, but nothing vital had been cut and none of the wounds seemed to go deep. After letting the peroxide‑soaked pad sit for a while, she pulled it off, tossed it aside, and dressed the wound as best she could with the limited materials she had available. She still wasn’t certain that she had removed every last fragment. There were likely to be microscopic particles still embedded in the muscle. But the arm rotated freely, she experienced no loss of strength, and that would have to do for now. When she got back to base, one of the doctors could take a closer look at the injury with better equipment.

Pulling up the flightsuit, she searched through her medical kit until she found a makeshift foil pack. From the patchy contents she selected a painkiller and an antibiotic–one pill each. She could have taken two, but given the difficulty of obtaining fresh supplies it was vital to ration such medication. Rainwater helped her to swallow both with ease.

She had just downed the second pill when an unannounced voice rose above the drum‑tap of falling rain.

“What’ve you got there?”

There were three of them. Disheveled and indifferent to their appearance, worn down by a world that seemed bent on annihilating them, sullen of demeanor, they were one of thousands of such bands of independent‑minded survivors whose only interest lay in the preservation of self. Such men (and sometimes women) banded and traveled together not out of love or family or friendship but for mutual support. The trio’s unexpected emergence from the storm was troubling; the fact that each of them was armed made it more so.

“Name’s Turnbull.” The speaker nodded toward the foil packet she was still holding. “Antibiotics? Painkillers? Narcotics? Not easy to come by the hard stuff these days.”

Williams studied each of them carefully; measuring, appraising, calculating the most rational response.

“I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to take what you need.”

One of the other men looked over at Turnbull.

“Hear that? We’re welcome to take what we need. And we gonna.” He squinted out at the sodden racetrack. “Be good to get out of the stinkin’ rain for a while.”

“We’ve been watching you,” another of the men said.

Williams could not keep from sneaking a glance in the direction of her service belt. The belt was where she had left it–but the holster was empty. Smiling, the third member of the group held up the Desert Eagle it had formerly contained.

“Looking for this? Nice gun.” He examined the huge pistol thoughtfully. “Kinda big for such a pretty lady.” His eyes glittered in the faint light. “Name’s Carnahan. I’m thinking you shouldn’t have to haul so much extra weight around. There’s easier ways to get exercise. Better ways.”

Despite the pounding rain Wright saw them clearly from a distance as he approached the temporary shelter. Holding the heavy load of firewood, he quickly evaluated the unforeseen state of affairs. He had already delayed his trek northward and altered his course once in order to help the pilot. His fight was with the machines that had taken his friends, not with other humans he did not even know.

Probably they wouldn’t kill her. There would be no reason to. They would tend to their business and move on, leaving her to make it the rest of the way back to her base. Meanwhile he could easily avoid a confrontation he had not sought. They were no threat to him. They didn’t even know he was there.

Searching with increasing desperation for an escape route, Williams was not finding one. The men were armed and had spread out, blocking the way to the racecourse. Thoughts of appealing to their better nature faded swiftly as she realized that this trio had none. All she could do was play for time while hoping that some other possibility presented itself.

“Come on, guys. Machines are the enemy. Skynet is who we have to join together to defeat. We’re all on the same side and we’re all equal in this fight for the future.”

Carnahan pursed his lower lip, feigning thoughtfulness.

“Not exactly. See, I’ve got two friends on my side and you’ve got none, so we’re not really equal. In any fight.” He smiled again, as unpleasantly as the first time. “’Course, nobody has to fight. Not that we’re against it. We can do this any way you want.”

Stiffening, she moved her right leg back, raised her left arm, and dropped into a fighting stance.

“You want to fight, I can do that with or without a plane. It’s good that you’ve got friends. You’ll need someone to carry you after I’m done with you.” Opening her extended left hand, she gestured with her fingers, taunting him to make a move.

None of the three would have qualified for a university scholarship, had there been any functioning universities remaining. Having survived by stealth and brute force, neither were they prepared to risk health and limb for the sake of false pride. Instead of accepting her challenge, Carnahan raised the muzzle of the Eagle and took aim at her head (no point in wasting the rest, he had already decided). A minor point of macho conceit failed and he had to use both hands to hold the heavy pistol level.

“She’s a firecracker, ain’t she?” He leered at Blair. “Want to have some fun? Let’s have some fun–you and me.”

She nodded once toward the wavering weapon.

“You might want to chamber a round. Or do you think a pilot is stupid enough to wear a loaded sidearm in a cockpit where it might go off accidentally?”

On close study and subject to the rules of logic neither of her statements would hold up. However, before subjecting them to close examination Carnahan instinctively looked down at the gun he was holding. That was just enough time for Williams to dart forward and slam the knuckles of her closed fist into his throat. His mouth opened wide but with his air cut off nothing came out.

He dropped like the sack of shit he was.

Caught by surprise by both the speed and efficiency of her response, his two companions hurried to bring their own weapons to bear. Struggling to rise, eyes blazing, Carnahan started to raise the Eagle.

The chunk of grandstand that exploded against the back of his skull was a good three‑feet long and at least as solid as the bone with which it connected. Carnahan went down, revealing a dripping Wright standing behind him. His unexpected appearance distracted one of the other men long enough for Williams to kick the sawed‑off shotgun out of the startled vagrant’s hands.

Rolling clear, the last member of the trio raised his own shotgun to fire at Wright. Exhibiting extraordinary reflexes, Wright reached down and yanked the stunned Carnahan up in front of him. The dazed leader of the attackers caught the force of the shotgun blast full in the chest, killing him instantly.

As Williams looked on in disbelief, Wright lifted the limp body and threw it at the man who had fired. His second shot went wild as the bleeding corpse crashed into him.

Wright was on him before he could even think of reloading. The man screamed as his arm was not just snapped but crushed. Letting the moaning, sobbing intruder fall to the ground, Wright turned to confront the only attacker still standing.

“Turnbull’s the name and surviving’s my game,” the man stammered as he held both empty hands out in front of him and began backing away from the cold‑eyed slayer who had materialized in their midst. “Killing me ain’t gonna win this war. Save it for the machines.”

In full killing mode now, all emotional restraints removed, Wright started toward him. He could end the life of this cowering shaft of slime with one blow, he knew. Whether he should do so or not wrestled in his mind with whether he wanted to or not.

This dilemma was solved for him by the sudden eruption of the Desert Eagle. Having recovered her weapon, Williams had taken careful aim at Turnbull’s right leg and fired once. He screamed and collapsed as a large chunk of his calf was torn away.

Walking over, she glared down at him.

“That’s so you don’t follow us.”

Whimpering as he clutched at his badly damaged lower leg, Turnbull stared up at her.

“Follow you? What, do you think I’m insane?” His frightened eyes shifted to the silent, menacing figure of Wright. “Follow that?” A long howl of pain bubbled up from the back of his throat. “You’ve crippled me! Kill me now and don’t leave me for the scavengers.”

Returning from searching through her gear, she looked down at him in disgust.

“You’re not crippled. You’ve lost blood and muscle.” She tossed him gauze and an Ace bandage. “There’s plenty of wood here. Make yourself a damn crutch. If I’d wanted to cripple you I’d have blown up your knee, not your gastrocnemius.”

He gaped at her. “My what?”

She shook her head in revulsion, glanced briefly at the unblinking Wright.

“What a specimen. There are times when I think I might prefer the machines to my own kind, if only they weren’t so dead‑set on exterminating all of us.” She returned her attention to the sniveling Turnbull. “I’m letting you live and leaving you stuff to treat your wound because you’re right. Killing you isn’t going to win us this war. Might improve the species, but at this point in time every body is a welcome one. Think about that while you’re healing.”

One by one, Wright picked up the intruders’ weapons and checked to make sure they were empty. Searching each body thoroughly, he recovered all their live shells, stepped outside, and tossed them as far as he could into a copse of trees that was growing by one edge of the track.

“Leaving you unarmed, might as well hand you over to the machines right now.” He spoke to Turnbull while off to one side his surviving companion cradled his shattered arm and rocked back and forth. “When you can get up, you can go look for your ammo.” He leaned over, forcing Turnbull to shrink back from the other man’s murderous glare. “You said you’d be insane to follow us. Here’s your chance to prove it. And keep living.”

Straightening, he turned to Williams.

As soon as she finished dressing and buckling her service belt back on, they started out. Her shrapnel‑struck shoulder ached, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

The rain was starting to let up. Williams said nothing, she just kept looking back to make sure none of their attackers was limping toward the trees where Marcus had flung their bullets. Wright did not look at her once, but when his attention was focused elsewhere, she kept stealing glances at him. She was careful not to let him catch her looking in his direction. She did not really know him yet, and she did not want him to see the unbridled gratitude that she knew must be suffusing her face.