Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

“ Reese! Kyle Reese!”

The absence of a response did not keep him from yelling out the name, nor from running. As for the Terminator, he did not look back to see if it might be gaining. There was no need to do so.

Eventually, it would be.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He was alone. Star was gone, Virginia was gone, Marcus Wright—who he had thought of as a friend—was gone. Reese sat in the tiny cell and waited. He knew not for what, except that at the hands of the machines he could only hope it would be quick.

It was not much longer in coming. The door drew back unexpectedly. As he scrambled to try and get away, the T-600 grabbed him and dragged him, kicking and fighting, down a short corridor and into a larger chamber. In contrast to his holding room this space was larger and more brightly lit.

It also was not empty.

Mostly, it was clean. No, not clean , he told himself with rising dread. Sterile. Everything was shiny and chromed and gleaming. The instruments, the machines of varying sizes, the overhead illuminators. Everything except the blood that was draining off a metal table in the room’s center. Its smell contrasted sharply with that of the otherwise all-pervasive disinfectant. The latter was of course unnecessary for the protection of the machines. They made use of such chemicals because they did not want their specimens to become contaminated.

Hauling him toward the surgical table, the T-600 paid no attention to the human’s kicking legs and flailing arms. Effortlessly, it forced him inside. A flurry of activity in the hall beyond did not dissuade it from its assigned task.

A group of fleeing prisoners raced past, having escaped when the system shut down. One of them, smaller than most of the others, suddenly came to a halt. Star stared into the room, her eyes fixed on Reese.

The gesture did not go unnoticed. Still pinning Reese in place, the young man saw the T-600 rotate its eyes toward the line of prisoners and home in on the little girl. She froze instantly.

“Star!” Reese yelled frantically. “Go!”

Altered programming engaged the T-600’s memory. Releasing him, it raised its minigun and aimed it toward the hall.

Reese struggled to sit up.

“No!” he howled as he grabbed the T-600’s shoulder. He slid the shiv from his sleeve and started to bring it down.

Striking his chin, a glancing blow from the Terminator’s elbow knocked him halfway off the surgical table. The shiv went flying.

But not far.

It was secured to his wrist by the shoelace. Reese yanked it back into his waiting palm and slammed it as hard as he could into the single small exposed space at the base of the Terminator’s neck that John Connor had identified as its one vulnerable spot.

“Magic....” he hissed.

Reaction was instantaneous. The T-600 went into a paroxysm of mechanical spasms, flailing wildly as it sought the source of the interrupt to its motor controls. Uncontrolled, its minigun sprayed slugs in all directions, riddling the surgical chamber. Thankfully, it was locked in an upward position. Rolling off the table, Reese sprinted for Star and the hallway beyond, dodging back and forth as the machine fired wildly behind him.

Flanking the table, the automatic vivisectors stood immovable and emotionless, waiting patiently for their next flaccid, screaming subject.

Connor heard the gunfire. Unless the machines had suddenly gone crazy and begun shooting at one another, the rapid-fire bursts could only mean that someone—some human —besides himself was inside Central and raising havoc. If nothing else, the cacophony provided a destination. Breaking into a run he headed toward the source of the noise, homing in on the percussive bedlam like a bat on a bug.

In his wake and not far behind, the Terminator methodically clawed itself up out of the blackened hole in the floor. Standing, it surveyed its blasted surroundings, took samplings of the air and the floor, and resumed pursuit of its quarry as though nothing had happened to interrupt its mission.

Turning a corner, Connor nearly ran into Reese and Star. Both fighters regarded one another warily as Star clung to her protector’s arm.

“Who are you?” Connor blurted. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle Reese.”

There was no time for hellos. They hurriedly ducked around one of the surgical bays. Why no other machines had come to the aid of the T-600 that he had incapacitated, Reese could hardly imagine. Perhaps the fact that he had only temporarily impeded its motor skills was not reason enough to cause it to generate an alarm requesting assistance.

Regardless, the malfunctioning T-600 that Reese had immobilized could be seen lurching down the hallway toward them, firing erratically into the air.

Searching wildly for a way out, Reese saw none. There was wall behind them and in every other direction. It was over—again. Maybe if he could occupy the killing machine for a few moments, draw its attention wholly to him, it might give Star enough time to dash past the gleaming metal legs and get away, if only for a little while longer. If she could make it to the streets outside there was a chance she might survive, even in the depths of Skynet Central. Terminators wouldn’t be hunting humans here, in their haven.

Star was nothing if not a survivor, and....

As the T-600 stumbled toward them, it crossed paths with the Terminator that was pursuing Connor. Mechanical joints whirred. Programmed to deliver Kyle Reese to the vivisectors and to kill the small human, the T-600 refused to give ground. Programmed to eliminate the human John Connor, its superior brother jammed its hands into the midsection of the obstructing machine and tore it in half like a bale of hay. Tearing off the arm mounting the minigun, it promptly let loose with rapid fire in all directions. Several arriving Resistance fighters pouring into the complex were unlucky enough to find themselves in the line of fire.

All interruptions having been appropriately dealt with, it pivoted, pointed the weapon at the three humans huddled in the surgical bay, and activated the gun again. The only response was a series of clicks, followed by a metallic clang as the empty ammo belt dropped to the floor.

“Run!”

Giving Reese a shove, Connor rushed for the other exit. Behind them, the Terminator regarded the now useless weapon, let it fall to the floor, and started after the fleeing trio.

Pausing in the hallway, Connor swung his grenade launcher off his back, loaded a round, and took aim. The instant the machine came into view, he fired. The heavy shell slammed into its shoulder and knocked it ten feet into another surgical bay.

Recovering, it came toward them again. A second round spun it like a top but failed to knock it off its feet.

Racing along the main hallway, searching for another exit to the outside, they encountered instead a line of massive shafts that ran from ceiling to floor. A glance up and down the corridor showed no route out except the way they had come.

Maybe, Connor thought, he could make one.

He blew a hole in the wall of the nearest shaft. Leaning into the gap, he could feel warm air rising from below. It wasn’t hell down there, then. Peering harder, he thought he could see a reflection of light on a solid surface. Clutching the two children to him, he took a deep breath.

They all jumped together.

His perception had been accurate. Though uneven, the floor was not dangerously far below. As they picked themselves up, a symphony of sounds became audible. Clanking, whirring, humming, buzzing and banging, as if they had landed in some kind of factory. Which made perfect sense , Connor thought. There was neither need nor reason for the more mundane manufacturing activities of Skynet to be situated above ground.