Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

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...?”