Terminator: Rally Point

Chapter 1

August 2020

San Antonio, Texas.

The city had become a wasteland. The earth had begun to reclaim its territory. Streets were littered with rubble, abandoned and burned out vehicles, while grass and weeds forced their way through the broken asphalt and concrete. The hollowed out shells of former high rises stood in defiance of the cataclysm that occurred seventeen years ago.

Little to nothing remained of the city's architectural icons. Of the Tower of the Americas only half of its structure remained aloft, the rest sprawled out on the street before it in a mangled heap of steel and glass. The Alamo, San Antonio's most important cultural attraction, was reduced to dust. Hotels, city government offices, the Alamodome were torn asunder by the nuclear onslaught wrought by Skynet in July of 2003.

The attack had come quickly and without warning. San Antonio was a target of strategic importance to the newly self-aware computer system, as was any city with military bases. The tactical nuclear warhead detonated over Lackland Air Force Base. The installation, along with its air power and personnel, were instantly incinerated. The shockwave ripped through the city, blanketing the highways, neighborhoods, and downtown epicenter in flame. For its inhabitants, the world had come to an abrupt and fiery end.

For Shawn Madison, the nightmare had just begun.

He was six years old when Judgment Day befell the world. The maelstrom of that day was a distant and ever-fading memory. He knew he was well out of the city when the bombs fell. It was by pure happenstance that he was with his father in the far hill country when the attack was launched.

It was a modest house at best. Shawn would stay there every other week with his father. Summers spent fishing in the creek, staying up late, helping his father clear neighbors land. Shawn loved it there. It lacked the endless calamity of the city. It was peaceful; a place where, even at the young age of six, he could escape the turmoil of his parent's separation.

He could still remember sitting on his father's porch and watching the mushroom cloud rise to the south, a gust of wind and the faint sound of what had to have been a deafening boom. He remembers the panic of his father, frantically trying to call his mother who was in the city, only to find that the cell networks were down. No television worked, no phones were operable, and the neighbors were just as befuddled as his father was. Shawn remembers fear and uncertainty.

Since then all Shawn Madison has known was struggle and uncertainty. Shawn grew up amongst the survivors. It began by neighbors banding together to protect their property and each other. As the days and weeks passed, fellow survivors would travel their way in small groups, each one recounting their tales of surviving the nuclear holocaust. Despite numerous accounts of the survivors, no one yet knew why the city was destroyed.

As the days dragged on, Shawn's father's appearance changed. A towering, well-built man, the devastation of civilization drew him down. He paced the rooms and hallways of his home with the weight of the destruction bearing down on him. The uncertainty of the days ahead changed his once jovial demeanor to one of hopeless tedium. No longer did he speak to his neighbors and refugees with words of encouragement and solace. Every response to any inquiry was met with a short, stern response. His confusion gave way to frantic frustration.

Shawn spent these early days weaving in and out of the groups on survivors huddled together across his once peaceful home. Nothing they said made any sense to him. He desperately wanted to understand why his father had changed so suddenly. Shawn would sit on the porch and look to the south and observe the columns of smoke rise from the city he called home. Day after day he would ask his father why his mother hadn't come to get him and his father would simply walk away.

Shawn would spend hours watching his father meet with his neighbors and the many despondent survivors. They spoke tirelessly of what they thought happened. "It had to have been the Chinese." "No, it was terrorists; they have been saying they would get nuclear weapons for years." "How did they shut off the phones and internet?" "Everything fell apart, I had no internet or TV and then BANG!" "How the hell did this happen?" "Where is the military?"

Weeks after the attack, time spent pacing and hearing the desperate stories of the survivors occupying his home grew too heavy. Shawn's father had found an old CB radio in the attic of his house, thinking this was the only way to gain answers, he spent day after say scouring the airwaves looking for any sign of life.

Shawn remembers the day he first heard the voice of John Connor. His father was perched atop a bar stool at his favorite workbench, he was hunched forward, his head in his hand, the other hand grasping the receiver and methodically rotating the knob on the radio to various frequencies. His father's face was the picture of desperation. His once close-cropped brown hair had grown shaggy. His brow was crinkled with numerous worry lines. His once clean shaven face was long gone; a scruffy beard now held sway, covering his strong, square jaw. His body language reflected the how sullen and obsessed he had become with deciphering what happened to the city.

The reports from other survivors had suggested that San Antonio was utterly devastated; the southwest area of the city was wiped clear off the map, the part of town Shawn's mother called home. This news crushed his father. He would lay awake and weep, filled with deep regret for leaving her to own devices, the guilt he felt permeated each room he occupied. Here began his obsession with finding his answers. All the while Shawn didn't quite know how to interpret his father's explanation of "Mommy's gone."

The only sound emitted from the aging CB radio was static. His father would occasionally repeat a plea into the receiver; "This is Frank Madison of Lampasas, Texas, is there anyone out there listening to this? We need to know what happened in San Antonio, is anyone receiving this?" No reply was heard.

Finally, like a light in the mist, a voice was heard from the transmitter. Shawn remembers his father straightening up like a shot from a rifle, and furiously adjusting the frequency to hear the voice better. "we…sur…we must band together now."

The voice rang through clear. Suddenly the room was filled with every survivor Shawn's father had taken in, the excitement was palpable. Shawn's father quickly hushed them to hear what this man on the radio had to say. Finally answers had come. The message continued.

"The machines are coming. Terminators, whose sole mission will be to hunt us down and exterminate us. The bombs were simply the first phase of Skynet's plan. You survivors have a great struggle ahead of, but if we unite, we can defeat the machines. Stick together and protect each other at all cost." The voice was strong and affirming. His tone of strength alone caused Shawn's father to sit up straighter. "The first waves of Terminators are out there as we speak, on the land, and in the air. Skynet attacked us, humanity, because we posed a threat to its continued existence. It will not stop until every last human being is killed. I promise you, in the coming years we are going to show Skynet that the human spirit is stronger than any bomb or machine it can create. This is John Connor. If you're listening to this, you are the Resistance."

The transmission abruptly ended and the room fell eerily silent.

Shawn remembered no one quite knew what to make of the broadcast they had all heard. Skynet? Terminators? What did it all mean? Shawn would find out in a few short years.

Shawn was now twenty-three years old. He sat quietly, huddled in the pit an old Valvoline, where mechanics would recede to work underneath the cars, near an old and largely destroyed highway structure.

He was well covered, never being a very tall man. What Shawn lacked in height he made up for in girth. He was a stout individual, thin due to the continuous shortage of food, but never-the-less built solid. His clothing reflected the life of a Resistance fighter. Old and tattered outdoor clothing mix-matched with military garments and gear they had been able to salvage, blotched with sweat and blood stains. The only bright color on his person his blood-red armband signifying his status as Resistance.

The little building smelt of old oil, the odor filled his nose and sent memories of his father working on his old clunker to the forefront of his mind. Posters peeled away from the walls and a blast crater from an HK's main plasma gun took up the space where Shawn assumed a reception area once stood.

The setting sun shined directly into the bays of the building. The days were still sweltering and sitting in this pit Shawn could feel the heat soak him through his clothes. Sweat poured from his forehead down his face, creating streaks where it cut through the dirt down to his stubble.

"Nuclear winter, my ass." He quietly uttered to himself as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow.

Shawn closed his eyes and focused all his energies to his ears, his rugged and war-torn face contorted in a look of total concentration. He was listening for the tell-tale sound of an HK's onboard engines.

He had been a block away from the Valvoline, cautiously making his way to his objective from one area of concealment to another, when he spotted the monstrous aerial tank hovering above what remained of the series of highway overpasses. He ran for the cover of the old structure as quickly as his legs would allow and dove into the pit; to be spotted by an HK so close to his objective would be disastrous.

He sat for a few minutes, listening intently to his surroundings, hoping to God that the HK would not bank in his direction. His hand squeezed the pistol grip of his SGL31, his index finger slowly shifting to the trigger. Finally, Shawn unclasped his eyes, and slowly raised himself up. He swung his rifle up and forward, just looking above the edge of the pit. His gaze steadily scanned the area in front of him, his heart beating rapidly, his breathe abated. His eyes darted up toward where the HK was hovering just a few minutes ago; nothing.

Shawn signaled his relief with a deep exhale. He stuck his head up a bit further and looked towards his objective just close to three hundred feet ahead of him.

No aerostats he thought to himself.

Shawn placed his SGL31 on the concrete in front of him, propped his hands up on the edge, and lifted himself from the pit.

He snatched up his rifle and swiftly moved over the wall, standing flat against it. Slowly Shawn looked out from the relative protection of the wall, peering across the distance he would have to run to reach his objective.

There isn't shit for cover out there he thought.

Ahead of Shawn was a fairly large parking lot occupied by two burnt out sedans separated by about fifty feet. Pock marking the lot were various light poles that were next to useless as concealment from any mechanized onlookers.

His objective was a sporting goods store. He had volunteered to go recon the store in hopes of finding ammunition.

In the grand scheme of things, concerning the war on Skynet, the San Antonio front was insignificant. The big engagements were occurring in LA and San Francisco.

Further exacerbating the problems was the massacre of the Resistance command structure. Up until 2018, General Ashdown and Resistance command was the only source of supplies and ammunition available to anyone. Now that they were gone, they were receiving nothing but an endless stream of "We're working on it's."

The little rag-tag band of fighters Shawn belonged to was running desperately low on ammo. Shawn himself was down to his last magazine for his SGL31 and he had only two rounds left in his Ruger SR1911. Not much help to him if he were to run into a T-600 or T-700. Shawn's group figured a sporting goods store might have a decent supply of ammo, granted it hadn't already been cleaned out.

He had set out three days ago from their base of operations in the hill country near his old home. He didn't mind walking; it was safer than driving, though he was not looking forward to returning. If he came back empty handed, it would be a major disappointment to the unit. If he found ammo, than he would have to lug it all the way back on his own. All the same, he would rather take the risk than pawn it off on someone else.

So here Shawn stood, poised to make a mad dash for the first sedan. He leaned his rifle up against the wall and tucked the ends of the two duffle bags he carried across his back into his pants.

Better to not have these things flapping in the wind, that would catch an aerostat's eye in a heartbeat.

Shawn retrieved his rifle and held it in a ready position against his chest. He locked his gaze on the first sedan ahead of him and poised himself for the first leg.

Here goes nothing.

Shawn sprang forward. The sounds of his boots hitting asphalt and his frantic breathing filled his ears. He reached the sedan and drop to the passenger side of its charred shell, facing away from the road. His head slowly rose from the door; his eyes peered through the window, checking the area in front of him for any signs of movement.

He slowly lowered his head back down, collected his breath, and began the sprint to the next car. Each step in the open ground was a step too long for Shawn's comfort. He felt entirely too exposed.

He made it to the second sedan, squatted down and once again raised his head to look through the window. This car's window was blown out, offering him a clearer view of the area in front of him. It seemed unnervingly quiet. Machines generally patrolled these major roads frequently.

Suddenly a sound registered. It began as a soft hum in the distance. Shawn instantly dropped down and hugged the ground, the barrel of his SGL pointed towards the road from under the abandoned car.

His eyes darted side to side as the sound grew louder, the steady hum turning into a louder roar. Shawn's heart was beating hysterically, every hair stood on end.

The sound was close enough now to be recognizable: Moto-Terminator. One…no, two. Shawn looked towards the direction the sound was emanating from and fixed his gaze. His finger once again shifted to the trigger of his rifle as he aligned his sights with the road. The two motorized killing machines steadily came into view. In the blink of an eye they drew closer to Shawn's position along the access road to the highway. They deftly dodged piles of concrete rubble from the highway's infrastructure, all the while pressing forward at break-neck speed. Shawn remained absolutely still, though limited in their ability, Moto-Terminators still carried an onboard plasma cannon and if they targeted you, they'd be all over you in a before you could scream.

Shawn watched as the figures of the Moto-Terminators grew larger and larger, the sound of their massive engines growing louder and louder. He held his breath, tightened up and focused on the sights on his rifle as the two machines careened past his parking lot. The sound of their engines faded as they sped down the battered roadway, off to herald death to some other unfortunate soul.

There, lying on the warm asphalt, Shawn stayed put, his rifle still pointed where the Moto-Terminators passed. He waited to ensure that the machines didn't double back.

Satisfied that the threat had passed, Shawn hefted himself off the blacktop, and made one last quick scan of the area. Still crouch, he shuffled his way towards the front entrance of the sporting goods store.

It was a large outlet store with six massive automatic glass doors. Shawn didn't bother to test the doors as the glass had been shattered. Whether this was done by the blast wave or looters…he didn't know.

He kept his SGL at the ready as he cautiously stepped through the opening created by the voiding glass. The store was pitch black, lights hadn't operated in this structure for over a decade. He reached his left hand forward and switched on the Surefire tactical light on the fore-end of his SGL. Pointing the light into the store, illuminating his way, he steadily plodded forward. His head snapped from left to right, careful to keep an eye out for any movement. Anything could be in there. …Some gang of merciless survivors or worse yet, Skynet.

"Anybody home?" He quietly asked himself

Shawn strode through the store at a steady pace, his head on a swivel, his rifle pointing in all directions. The stores clothing was gone, likely looted. Any food that once held space on the front end checkout counters was long ago consumed. Shawn wasn't concerned with food or clothes. He moved straight to the hunting and fishing section, specifically the firearm counter. He cut down an isle that looked to have at one time housed fishing rods and supplies and came upon the firearm counter.

Nothing.

No weapons inside and no weapons on the racks above. Shawn sighed and hung his head. He felt deflated and defeated. He picked his head up and looked around, surveying the area. There was a shelf with boxes that looked like they contained shotgun shells. Shawn knew at least one man on his team had a 12 gauge. He slung his rifle on his back and walked over to inspect the boxes. Winchester 12 gauge buckshot…of five boxes only one had any shells.

"Shit." Shawn reached around; untucked one of the duffle bags from his pants, opened it up and dropped the solitary box of shells inside. "…better than nothing, I suppose." He said sullenly.

Shawn walked back to the counter. Inside he could see where handguns were displayed for eager customers before Judgment Day…before all of this. He read various labels marking which pistol or revolver was displayed there.

"What I wouldn't do for any one of these right now." He said to himself as he read the labels and descriptions.

He gazed beyond the counter and saw a few more little boxes. He placed the duffle bag along with his SGL on the counter and pulled himself over. Dropping down onto the other side he looked at a thin shelf that ran the length of the counter. In it he could see various boxes towards the back with different caliber listings.

His hope rose and he frantically reached into the shelf space to grab box after box. His hope faded fast as he realized upon grasping each successive box that these were empty as well. Not a single one of those boxes contained any ammo.

There has to be SOMETHING here! He thought to himself.

Shawn walked behind the counter and back onto the floor, looking around desperately for any sign of hope. He paced through the area behind the many isles until he came upon a set of swinging double-doors. The sign affixed to the door said RECEIVING: BACK ROOM. Shawn swung his SGL back to a ready position and gently nudged the door open. He walked in barrel first, his eyes darting from his surroundings back to his sights. The room was pitch black, the only light Shawn had came from his Surefire. He brought his light up and slowly scanned the area. It was a large room with two steel sliding doors covering bays used to bring in trucks. It had massive hallways on either side, stretching down the expanse of the building. The main area was filled with shipping pallets strewn about the expanse. Towering racks designed to hold freight lined the walls down both directions. Shawn turned to his left and pointed his rifle down the hallway facing him and began to slowly make his way down.

He pointed his light towards his right where there were still some boxes and pallets with markings. He scanned top to bottom. They were all comprised of various outdoor gear. Boots, golf accessories, sports equipment; nothing he needed. This was the case all the way until the end of the massive hallway. Shawn pivoted and walked back the way he came, towards the other hallway. He turned his light now to the left, scanning the scattered boxes on the pallets. More useless equipment awaited him until he came upon the last section.

His light was fixed on one word that adorned every box from the bottom rack to the top for two spaces: ammunition.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" He exclaimed as he tore into the nearest box. Inside were an innumerable collection of smaller boxes marked 9x19 luger. He furiously rummaged through every box within reach. He had hit the jackpot. .45 ACP, 40 S&W, 9mm, 5.56NATO, 7.62x39mm, 30-06, it was all there.

Too much to fit into his two duffle bags. He quickly reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small radio, quickly pressing his thumb to the call button, he spoke into frantically. "Jekyll this is Hyde, Jekyll this is Hyde, do you copy?"

"Go ahead, Hyde, we copy." replied a voice on the other end. "Dad, get down to the target location as quick as you can, I've hit fucking pay dirt, bring trucks!" exclaimed Shawn. "How's the area?" inquired the voice of Shawn's father, Frank.

Shawn quickly answered; anything to get them down there with those trucks as fast as possible. "Same as usual, HK's up, Terminators down. Now Dad, quit dicking around and get those fucking trucks down here, there's more ammo here than I can carry on my own."

There was a pause on the other end until Frank's voice broke through "It's too risky, bug out, RTB."

Shawn snapped back, a sudden flare of frustration enveloping him "No, fuck that, we need this ammo and if we just leave it someone else will take it, so get the fuck down here!"

This time Frank's reply was quick and authoritative "Shawn, nightfall is coming, those bastards hunt better at night, and you're asking me to drive our trucks out there to load ammo?" Shawn paused as his frustration gave way to reality. Frank finished "Why don't we just paint a big fucking target on the roof and have it say shoot here, please. Now get your ass back to base, that's an order!"

Shawn's mind was racing a mile a minute. He couldn't just bug out and leave all of these munitions to one of the city's roving gangs. He came to a conclusion, put the radio to his mouth, and with a resolute voice said "I'm staying here, Dad. I'll hold it down until you can bring the trucks in the morning."

Frank's response was rife with disbelief "Kid, are you fucking nuts? You're less than five miles from one of Skynet's staging areas and you want to have a sleepover? Negative, Shawn, RTB immediately."

Shawn was not going to give on this, he spoke into the radio one last time "That's a no copy on your last, Jekyll, maintaining radio silence until 0800, see you then. Hyde out."

Shawn shut off the radio and placed it back into his shirt pocket. He moved quickly to pick out a spot with a good vantage point and a viable exit if he came under attack. He walked to the steel sliding doors in the main area of the back room and made sure it could open if necessary as this seemed to be his only exit.

Shawn slid into a space between pallets on the bottom level of the rack facing the doorway into the room. Placing some boxes on the floor he managed to fashion a seat. He sat down and shut off his surefire, allowing the darkness to mask him. The only sound to be heard was his slow and steady breaths. He held his rifle at the ready, his gaze never leaving the doorway.

Shawn settled in for what he knew would be a long night.