Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

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.