Chapter Two

Glimpses of the past were an ever-present entity in Shawn's existence. In moments of solitude his mind would recollect the weeks and months following Judgment Day.

Sitting there in this dark wareroom, he was alert to all sounds. His ears were always on the lookout for the heavy, methodical footsteps of Terminators or the mechanical buzzing of an aerostat searching for survivors amongst the devastated landscape. He learned long ago to maintain a constant state of vigilance and preparedness.

Here he sat, hunched over, leaning into the stock of his SGL, his eyes affixed to the doors in front of him. His eyes and ears were tuned in to his surroundings; his mind however, was elsewhere. With the fear of being discovered by Terminators on patrol at the forefront of his thoughts, his memories went back to his childhood.

2003: J-Day plus 69

Frank Madison stood upon the front porch of his once peaceful home, gazing to the south. The plumes of smoke still rose from the ashes of what was once the third largest city in Texas. It was only around noon but the days had grown darker. Clouds frequently blotted out the sun, further enhancing this feeling of despair that coursed through Frank. He leaned on the wooden pillar that rose from the top of his steps to the roof that covered the porch. His face bore the worries of the last two months following the devastation that heralded the end of the world.

He hadn't shaved or bathed since that day. His home had no running water; all he and the other survivors had was a well on his neighbor's property. That water was best suited for drinking, hydration was first, and hygiene was secondary. His clothing had become as ragged and poorly-maintained as his beard. Most of his shirts and pants had been redistributed to the survivors he took in. Hell, some of them didn't have a shirt or pair of shoes to their name. He looked down and ran his hand through his shaggy, unkempt hair, sighing deeply at the feeling of hopelessness that had enveloped him.

He turned to look into the window, into his house, too see the group of disheveled survivors he had opened his doors to all those weeks ago. They don't do much he thought to himself, can't blame them though, there isn't much to do, nothing but keep breathing…don't even see much point in that these days. The refugees mostly kept to themselves, huddled in their groups, each of them discussing amongst themselves what they believed happened, whether or not to believe the voice they heard over the radio a few days ago.

This had become a hot topic of debate amongst Frank and his neighbors. Many of them believed this John Connor to be some loon with a radio. They found it more conceivable that some rogue nation such as Iran or some terrorist cell had launched the warhead. They believed the idea of robot killing machines called "Terminators" was about as ridiculous as it got. Frank's closest neighbor Jimbo was fond of saying that it was "just a bunch of nonsense from some nut job who watched too many damn movies."

Frank wasn't so sure. He remembered the day of the attack. As the hours passed he had no cell phone reception, no television, and no connection to the outside world. He thought it was some simple technical difficulty and regarded it as a mere inconvenience. He couldn't imagine a small terrorist group or a developing nation like Iran having the capability of knocking out communications across the country. It was too massive an attack, the pieces just didn't fit.

That…and there was just something in him that told him he had to believe this Connor guy.

Frank took a moment to look upon his own figure in the window. The confident, well-groomed, towering man that once commanded respect was gone. His blue eyes that had once exuded hope and wisdom were now reddened with grief. He had lost weight as he didn't eat much these days, his old work shirt and blue jeans hung loose off his now trim frame. His hair had grown shaggy and his beard had begun to cloud his strong facial features. Frank Madison no longer looked like the man his neighbors loved to invite over for bar-b-ques or birthday parties. He resembled a common drifter…in a way he was, a man lost in his own grief.

Movement in the window caught Frank's eye. It was his son, Shawn, scurrying across the floor with his favorite toy airplane, running around the strangers sprawled out across the room. Frank's eyes began to fill with tears and his throat clenched up. He could not look at his son, this little boy who has no idea what is happening around him, no idea of the fate that has befallen the world, and not feel as if he had failed. Failure was a feeling that had taken root in Frank Madison and not let go.

He had failed to protect Shawn's mother, his ex-wife. She was no doubt incinerated in the blast; she lived so close to Lackland. He felt regret in ever divorcing her, obsessed with the thought that if he had stayed with her, this wouldn't have happened. Thoughts of her raced through his conscious late at night and he would find himself crying himself to sleep, damning God for ever letting this happen.

In the weeks following the attack, he had failed to be the figure of strength and certainty that his little Shawn had needed. Too damn caught up in my own grief to realize that my boy needed me more he thought to himself as Shawn turned and caught his father's eye staring at him through the window.

A smile crossed Shawn's face and he waved his favorite toy airplane at his father and continued to trot through the house, his toy held aloft, his mouth imitating the sounds of fighter jet coursing through the sky.

Frank smiled back as a solitary tear ran down his face. He placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his gaze never leaving the form of his son. Never again. I'll never let my boy down ever again.

"Frank, we need to talk."

The voice came from behind him. Frank turned around whilst frantically wiping the tears from his eyes. It was his neighbor Jimbo, around him were three other neighbors and ten of the survivors Jimbo had taken in.

"Hey, Jim, what's going on?" Frank asked as he attempted to straighten himself out. Jimbo stepped up the first step on Frank's porch, placing one leg on the initial step. Jimbo was a stout man in his late fifties, a native of the hill country; his clothing reflected the life of a hardworking farmer. He wore an old and faded baseball cap from his favorite team in Houston with a pair of tattered over-alls and well worn boots. His skin was tough and permanently darkened by days spent toiling in the Texas sun. His face was round and red, a pair of small spectacles covered his eyes, and his eyes looked up to Frank with a look of concern. Unlike Frank, who had lost weight in the last weeks, Jimbo retained his oval figure, accentuated more so by the belt adorning his waist, carrying a large-bore Smith & Wesson wheel-gun he only retrieved for hunting expeditions.

Jimbo was not the only man armed. A neighbor Frank had never been able to remember the name of was standing to Jimbo's left, an old WWII Mauser K98 bolt-action cradled in his aging arms, and bandolier of stripper-clips, loaded with rounds for the antique rifle. Looking at the man, you wouldn't be surprised if he lifted that rifle off a dead Wermacht soldier himself.

"Listen Frank, we're all runnin' low on supplies, food and water and such, and my well is gettin' awful low." Said Jimbo, his thick southern draw enunciating the concern in his voice. "We all got to talkin' and feel it be best if we went into Johnson City, to that Super S market down yonder, to see what we can find."

"Are you sure that's the best thing to do right now? The closer we get to San Antonio the more we could be exposing ourselves to radiation, Jimbo." said Frank, shifting his eyes to look into each of his neighbors.

"There ain't much reason to worry, the wind has been blowin' south, and one of the ladies I took in says there won't be much if any in Johnson City, she reckons it's far enough away from the blast zone to be safe." replied Jimbo.

Regarding Jimbo and his older neighbor's firearms, Frank nodded toward them. "Loading up kind of heavy just for some food and water, don't you think?" he asked, causing Jimbo rest his hand on the stock of his large-caliber revolver.

Jimbo stuck his thick chin towards Frank and stood straighter causing his gut to jut forward. He wore the face of an unabashed gun-toting Texan he had donned so many times before during neighborly debates concerning gun control.

"Better safe than sorry, Frank. We've all been holding up here for weeks, we have no idea how much has changed out there." said Jimbo as-a-matter-of-factly.

Frank was quick with his retort, an old custom of his and Jimbo's before J-Day had made a surprise return on his front porch: the argument.

"Sure we know what's going on out there," Frank said as he pointed towards the distant south. "John Connor said there were machines out there slaughtering people, do you really want to jump head-first into that, Jimbo?"

Truthfully, Frank didn't really know whether or not to believe Connor. He wrestled with it constantly. His voice was so convincing, there was something about it that just lent itself to trust. On the other hand, Frank had yet seen concrete evidence to support Connor's claim, only theories.

Frank did however like to occasionally ruffle Jimbo's feathers. Responsible for recent ruffling was none other than John Connor.

Frank's comment had the desired effect. Jimbo's neck seemed to swell and his face grew redder at the very mention of John Connors name. He snapped back like a rabid bulldog, his jowls shaking with fury as he spoke.

"Oh, cut it out with that bullshit, Frank. Look around ya, this ain't no goddamn twilight zone or "Star Trek" or some shit. Ain't never been no machines that jus' go `round killin' folks, ain't never will be. Ain't no goddamn net in the sky or whatever the hell he called it. It's all a load of Saturday mornin' cartoon bullshit and that Connor you done heard is just some whack-job who's out somewhere yonder getting his sick jollies off scaring poor, innocent, God-fearing folk. Now I'm gonna tell ya straight, Frank Madison, you bring up that Looney Tune one more time and I'll beat your ass blue with my Daddy's old birch switch, and you can believe that true as Texas is the greatest state in the Union."

Frank gazed upon Jimbo with a blank expression. Getting Jimbo all riled up wasn't as exciting as it once was. He chocked it up to another casualty of his persistent melancholy.

Jimbo, his eyes still keenly fixed on Frank's emotionless face and his temper brought back to a low simmer, continued as calmly as possible. "Now, may the good Lord pardon my language, can we kindly say fuck the iron, get your raggedy ass in gear, and hit the road?" His eyes went wide towards Frank as he asked this question. He persisted like a child grabbing for candy, "C'mon Frank, make yourself useful and jump on this with us!"

Frank ran his hands through his hair, looking back towards the window, images of Shawn running through his head. "I can't go, Jimbo." Said Frank sullenly, "I can't leave Shawn here without me, he's been through enough."

"Aw hell, Frank, bring him along." replied Jimbo, shaking his head at Frank's lack of initiative, "There ain't nothing to be worried about there, probably just a bunch of folks like us looking for food and water. Plus it wouldn't kill the boy to get out of the damn house. Now you listen here, I took in twenty people after that day, you took in thirteen," Jimbo threw his arm out, his hand pointing down the road, "Hell, Wilma over across the way took in thirty and she's sixty-seven years old. If the rest of us are running out of food and water, you damn sure are too, so go on get your things together, grab your boy, and let's go." He finished.

Frank refused to look at Jimbo. He was right; he had been running low on food for weeks now. Rationing had been the only thing that had sustained him, Shawn, and the refugees for this long. It wouldn't be long before they ran out completely. After an awkward long moment, Frank looked again at Jimbo, realizing that he was not going to leave until Frank agreed, knowing it was only because they needed Frank's pickup truck to make the trek. For months leading up the attack, Frank's truck was the only one within ten miles that still ran, mostly due to Jimbo's negligence concerning his own pickup. Frank sighed and threw his hands up, causing a grin to spread across Jimbo's round face. "Fine, you win, Jimbo." said Frank "Let me get Shawn ready, but if he goes he stays with me at all times, understand?" he added sternly, pointing a finger at his neighbor.

"That's fine, Frank, just hurry, we've already done burned enough daylight jaw-jackin' over here." replied Jimbo, adding as he turned to walk away "We'll meet you by your truck."

Frank turned and walked toward the front door, not bothering to acknowledge his neighbors as they made their way to his pickup. His mind was still trying to come to grips with what he had just agreed to. Was he really about to take Shawn out there from the relative safety of this house? The message of John Connor replayed endlessly in his head. He sighed quietly as he shut the door behind him, walking into the living room. Maybe it's nothing, maybe Jimbo is right, we do need food after all…it's at least worth a shot he told himself.

He entered his house, looking to one of the unfortunates that littered his floor, "Where did he go?" he asked an elderly lady huddled amongst the band she had arrived with all those weeks ago. She did not speak, she merely pointed towards the back of the house, down the hallway that led into the kitchen. Frank nodded and made his way through the hallway into the kitchen in long strides. Frank didn't like that hallway; too many pictures of Shawn's mother from back when they were still a family adorned the walls.

He stepped into the kitchen to find Shawn sitting at the table, making mock landings with his toy jet fighter. For a second, a small window of time, Frank forgot the reality of his life Post-Judgment Day.

The kitchen was largely untouched by the disaster. The refuges hardly ventured outside the living rooms, bathrooms and occasional excursions outside aside. They never came into the kitchen, nothing worked for cooking. There was no electricity, water or gas, so it in the mind of the survivalist, it was a useless room.

As Frank's eyes observed the kitchen, he saw it as it was before this madness. The faint sunlight shone through the windows on Shawn's small figure at the table, playing this silly game without a care in the world. Frank stepped forward lightly, as if not wanting to disturb his son's imaginative bliss, the look in his eyes changing from concern to utter adoration. He stood behind Shawn, leaning down to wrap his son in a long overdue embrace.

Shawn tensed as he felt the first hug he had received from his father since that day everything changed. He turned his little head to where his father's head rested, "What's wrong, daddy?" He inquired. Something must be wrong for his father to act like this.

Frank stood back up and laid a hand on the shoulder of his son, gripping and relaxing while looking straight into his boy's dark brown eyes, a slight grin contorting his face. Eyes like his mother's. He thought to himself. "Nothing's wrong, son, just wanted to make sure you are ok." he said to Shawn, doing his best to inoculate as much of his tone with concern and comfort as possible.

Shawn looked back to his toy, whizzing it through the air while his father looked on. "I'm ok, daddy, I just hungry and bored."

Frank knelt down next to the chair his son occupied and placed a hand on Shawn's back. "Well, Shawn, you won't be bored today or hungry for that matter. You and I are going to take a little trip with Mr. Jimbo to the store, how does that sound?"

Shawn's eyes lit up as he shot a look at his Father of pure excitement. "Yeah!" exclaimed Shawn, his mouth agape with joy.

Frank couldn't hold back the laughter, being the first laugh from his mouth in sixty-nine days, why would he want to? He raised himself up once again, lifted his little son from his chair, and set him down in front of him. Pointing towards the hallway Frank urged Shawn on telling him "Well, let's not keep Mr. Jimbo waiting, go wait on the porch for me while I go grab a few things."

Shawn did not need to be told twice. He ran towards the door, his shaggy brown hair flapping in all directions and his hands rose triumphantly in the air as he repeated the word "yay" over and over like a mantra of elation. Frank walked slowly behind his son into the living room, as Shawn went out the front door in a whirlwind of joy, Frank turned to the huddled refugees congregating on his floor.

Frank took a knee in front of them, ensuring that he had their attention. "I and a few other neighbors are heading into Johnson City for food and water. With any luck we will be back tonight with fresh supplies." He explained. One of the refugees stood up to go along, a young man who Frank recalled hearing was seventeen…and that he had lost his entire family. Travers, wasn't it? Frank pondered.

He was a tall and lanky young specimen. The clothes he wore fit over his frame like a bed sheet as they were Frank's. Travers clothes were almost completely burned from him when he arrived on Frank's doorstep with his group as he was nearly caught in a firestorm while working on his uncle's property in Bandera. His uncle was not as fortunate as Travers to escape. Frank had shaved his head when he first took him in; most of his blonde hair had been burned. His skin was a radiant hue of bronze from working long hours outdoors. He had a gentle face with large, round hazel eyes but it was not hard to tell that there was more churning underneath the surface.

"Now that isn't necessary, son, the truck is full anyway," said Frank, motioning for Travers to sit back down. "You'll be of more use here, holding down the homestead."

Travers reluctantly sat back down amongst his group, looking slightly defeated. No doubt he wanted to pay Frank back for his hospitality.

Frank had noticed a sudden shift in himself just then. Looking into the eyes of these lost souls, people who had witnessed their world torn from their grasp, Frank had buried his grief and despair deep down. He filled this void with courage and determination, he made a solemn promise to himself in that moment, and he decided he would do whatever he could to protect his son and these people. The message of John Connor resonated in his mind. He would make it his mission to salvage what he could of decency and humanity to provide these strangers a home.

Franks face grew resolute and he peered directly into the eyes of each person huddled together in front of him. "This is your home now and we are all now family. Look after this home and each other. We are going to survive this together, one way or another." He paused and locked eyes with Travers, the young man's face set in stone, he had soaked up every word Frank had just said. To a seventeen year-old boy who survived Judgment Day and left his families ashes in the rubble, it was as pure as gospel to his ears.

Frank looked over each man and woman that inhabited his floor and nodded to each of them. Before he stood he uttered one last phrase before making the trek upstairs: "Thank you, all of you."

Frank stood and began to ascend the stairs into the second story of his home. All the way up he could feel the eyes of his new friends remain locked to him. They were probably as awe struck as Frank was himself. It had taken some time, but John Connors words of hope and courage had finally taken root in Frank. He looked to the future with a renewed focus, beginning today with this excursion into Johnson City. He would return to his home with food and hope for a home to be born from this chaos.

Thanks, Connor, wherever you are.

Quickly Frank retrieved an old green duffle bag that belonged to his father during his Army days; it would be big enough to carry some things. He retrieved a heavy winter coat for himself and Shawn as nightfall these days sent temperatures plummeting, even during a south Texas September. His hands fumbled around the top shelf of his closet space, searching for the old flashlight he left there for power outages.

His hand grasped the aluminum cylinder of the flashlight as it rested next to a stout metal box. Frank lifted the light from the shelf and repeatedly pressed his thumb to the switch to ensure that it was still working. Once satisfied that the light would last he tucked the hefty torch into the waistband of his jeans.

His hand traveled back up to the top closet shelf and grasped the stout metal boxed that rested next to his flashlight. He brought the box down and with his other hand he gingerly wiped the dust from its surface. The top of the box was imprinted with a logo that read "Sig Sauer."

The box had belonged to the 9mm Sig Sauer P226 he had owned prior to Shawn's birth. He had purchased the gun as a means to protect his new wife and himself. His father taught him to shoot as a boy and he was a more than proficient marksmen with pistols and rifles. He remembered being very fond of that pistol. However, after Shawn was born, his mother insisted that they sell the gun lest Shawn get his curious hands on it. Frank was forced to sell it to a friend of his; a deal he was not all too enthused about making.

Frank stared at the logo streaking the box, hefting the tin case in his hands. "I wouldn't mind having you back in my hands right about now." He said to the logo.

Frank didn't like the idea of going down to Johnson City with nothing standing between them and trouble but Jimbo's Smith and an old man's antique Mauser. This minute voice in the back of his mind rang through his consciousness; something called a Terminator doesn't sound like it's going to take much damage from an 8mm Mauser round.

Repelling that thought was something his father used to say to him; "Now now, Frankie-boy, don't get ahead of yourself, you dwell on the what-if's enough and they have a nasty of habit of materializing."

With that comforting his anxious mind, Frank set the tin box back atop its place on the shelf, leaving the what-if's with it. He bounded down the stairs as quick as possible, deftly grabbing the keys to his truck off a wall hook next to the front door, pausing only to give his new friends a nod and salute, as if to say "I'll see you soon."

He flung the front door open and looked out to the gravel driveway that led to his porch. In the driveway where three of his neighbors and ten refugees waited for his arrival, all being thoroughly entertained by the whimsical antics of his six year old son. He shut the door and briskly stepped down each step and onto the gravel, striding to his pickup with the assuredness of his purpose propelling him forward.

As he walked around the driver's side of his pickup, he nodded to each member of the party setting out this day. All of them save for Jimbo's old neighbor who was preoccupied checking his Mauser's bolt for what had to have been the tenth time since he arrived, regarded Frank as a man who had just taken a massive shot of adrenaline. He certainly wasn't the same downtrodden vagabond they had been forced to strong arm just to go along with this little mission. His eyes and the way he now carried himself signaled to his neighbors that the Frank Madison they had all respected and trusted had returned and then some.

Frank had walked up alongside the driver's side door to find Shawn sitting on his legs, his short arms outstretched at nine and three o'clock on the steering wheel, frantically turning the wheel while making amusing car noises that sounded more like raspberries than a Chevy big block.

Frank looked at his son and a sly smirk began to form, "I don't think your quite ready for driving lessons, son," he said, suppressing a hearty chuckle. He threw the duffle bag in the cab, set the flashlight on the dashboard, and gave Shawn a gentle tap on the thigh, signaling that playtime was over. "Move on over now, Shawn, Dad will show you how to drive."

"When?" asked Shawn, ever the inquisitive type.

Frank smiled his biggest smile yet of the last sixty-nine days as a clever answer struck his mind. He looked at his boy as he climbed in to the driver's seat of the 1991 Chevrolet Silverado and said "I'll teach you how to drive when you can name every Black Sabbath record from '70 to '79."

"I can't count that high, daddy." Replied Shawn quickly, a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

This response triggered a chain of snorts and chuckles from the pickups other passengers as they each climbed in. Jimbo and another neighbor climbed into the back passenger seats, Jimbo behind Frank, the other neighbor to the rear of Shawn. The old man with the Mauser and the tag-along refugees took up seats in the bed of the old blue pickup.

Frank reached over and ruffled his son's hair as he reassured him by saying "You will someday, Shawn, you're the smartest boy I have ever met."

Shawn looked at his father and smiled, and Frank returned the favor.

Frank looked into the rear view mirror to verify that every passenger was well situated as he inserted his key into the ignition, bringing the pickup to life. He stole a quick look to the meter informing him how much fuel was in his gas tank. Should be enough to get us there and back, he assured himself as he threw the truck into gear and applied steady pressure to the accelerator pedal. The truck began to move forward, steadily increasing its speed. They were off.

Shawn sat in the front seat next to his father, his excitement was almost too much to contain. Shawn always liked Johnson City; the people at the store were very nice to him. He was happy to see them again. He turned his head up and looked at his father. He was different, his eyes were intense and focused, and it felt as if he was prepared for anything.

It would soon be made very clear how wrong every member of this group were.

Dead wrong.