Away
Chapter Eleven: The Cultists
John's tongue hung out of his mouth in concentration as he worked on unlocking what used to be his residence at Benjamin's Place. For some stupid reason he'd left the key inside, and... it got locked. Probably Allison, doing rounds of the place. She kept copies of every key and... well, it was still his fault. Ordinarily, if things had gone the way he'd expected this day to go, he would have found the door locked at like... eight o'clock, or something. He'd have been mildly annoyed. He would have asked Allison to unlock it. And then he'd flop down on his dusty bed, to stare at the ceiling for several hours, barely skirting the edge of sleepiness... and not quite getting there. Or... maybe things with Sammy the cashier girl would have gone well. Maybe he could have slept with that on his mind.
As it stood, John's fingers kept slipping away from the tiny paper clip lock-pick, because they were so sweaty. He kept staring in either direction down the hall, seeing Cameron down one end, and the promise of escape on the other. Past Cameron there was the club. Past that? Who knew? People with lots of guns, probably. They wanted John dead. So his previous plans of lounging around earning his keep were pretty much shot for the day.
As were his original plans, which were to put a big ol' stop-sign in front of the destiny train. No leader here. No sir. Cameron wouldn't have it. Circumstances would not provide for it. And every moment made the promise of a new life seem more and more unrealistic, more of a pipe dream by every second. Here he knelt, picking the lock off a door, back in the same old routine. Fear. Apprehension. Purpose. The sound of gunfire acting as punctuation marks to every event.
He hated it. He hated it. But he was damned if he wasn't comfortable with it.
"John..."
"Pistol and my laptop, c'mon," John said, not even looking back at Cameron. "I'm not leaving them here."
He could have sworn he heard a sigh from Cameron, but it was always difficult to tell with her. "This is taking too long."
"Just... bear with-" John's fingers slipped; the paper clip tumbled out of the lock. John cursed in frustration. "Fuck it, unless you have any fucking bright ide-"
THWUMP!
The door went crashing off its hinges, bounced once onto the floor of the dingy living quarters, and settled with slight groan. Dust flew up in all directions. John blinked as Cameron stepped aside, holding her hand up toward the room. After you.
John grumbled and started his search. For some reason his backpack wasn't in plain sight. He was kind of schizo like that when he wanted to be, always moving shit for no reason.
"I'll keep a look out," Cameron said. John grunted. Behind the door and staring out into the hallway, he didn't notice her smiling like the chesire cat. He was sort of busy grinning himself. He missed moments like this... y'know, where everyone tries too hard and the Terminator-of-the-day's piercing logic just comes right in to solve shit.
"John, hurry up."
He opened his mouth to say "sure" or something like it as he was checking under his bed when two loud gunshots rang out from the club. His head bounced up in reaction to them and smashed against the steel underside of the frame. He strangled a yell of pain in his throat before it could come out; Cameron had to stay outside. Masking his pain was more important right now than having it tended to. If those assholes came and she was busy in here with his clumsiness...
It turned out his backpack was under the bed, nestled right there in the middle. When the hell did he do that?
You're liable enough as it is to go nuts, Johnny. Don't get hung up. He grabbed the backpack by its strap and pulled it out, gingerly feeling the top of his head for blood. He felt a nasty bruise, but nothing else. Maybe Cameron wouldn't notice. They really had no more time to waste.
Those gunshots, though... were they executing people? Jesus, he hoped not. If they were, though... if there was any indication, then fuck it, he was gonna go out there and help. Screw running. Cameron would have no choice but to follow him.
How easily you get back into the same old routine, indeed.
Would he have ran an hour ago? Just left without so much as a fare-thee-well? Yeah, probably. He felt like... like less of a coward, now. It wasn't necessarily pleasant, too, for some reason. Responsibility seldom is pleasant.
As soon as he stepped out of his room, he blinked as a man rounded the nearby corner and got his head blown to pieces by Cameron's shotgun.
--
Hicks kept his arms folded as two pistol shots echoed out from within the club. His eyes kept flicking towards the boulevard behind him. Cars occasionally came down the street, saw what was happening, and oftentimes panicked. They left in a hurry, usually. Hicks wasn't worried about them. He was worried about cops.
In all honesty, they had little to worry about from pistol toting L.A.P.D.; the cultists, arrayed on the sidewalk and awaiting orders, were armed to the teeth. Still, Hicks wanted to get this over with, because, like it or not, those pistol toting L.A.P.D. would be trouble if they got enough resources into the mix.
"Robinson..."
The black-suited-black-masked commando turned slightly to look at his superior. He wore a pair of goggles over his eyes, a black strap and contraption that went round his head. The eyes pieces were blood red.
Why did he need those?
"Yes, sir?"
Sir. A day ago, Hicks was lower tier than this asshole, but once the metal man said something it was gospel.
"Call your recon back, I wanna finish this up soon." He paused for a second-
Robinson spoke first, though; "If he kills Connor, we won't have to go in at all. That would be the most efficient course of action."
Hicks coughed. Goddamnit... "Right, but there's a tiny problem with that-"
A loud roar sounding very much like the shotgun blast from earlier ripped through the air. Hicks felt the air in his words deflate, and he became silent. Robinson looked distantly annoyed; as if emotion could be transmitted through that ski mask and those... fucking goggles.
"Tiny problem?" Robinson echoed.
"There's a... a machine inside. It's... protecting Connor, I think." Hicks had to keep himself from licking his lips. Why give these people the luxury of watching his embarrassment?
Cameron Forsythe was silent. Hicks glanced at her for a split second as Robinson stood there and trembled. She looked like she wasn't even listening, standing by the door, waiting. When did she become so fucking eager?
"Yew-you mean a... T-Terminator?"
Well, at least he feels one emotion; fear. How fucking convenient. "Yeah. With them."
Robinson muttered something. It sounded very similar to the word "blasphemy," but you wouldn't find Roland Hicks betting any money on that supposition.
"We have to recover it," Robinson said. "A-and Connor, of course. Kill him."
Hicks gawked at the suited commando; "Are you fucking kidding me? If we're going in there that bitch is burning."
Robinson was shaking. Unlike his previous fear, he looked angry now. Hot enough to blow his top, actually. "We cannot let it languish in their unclean hands, sir. Would you let an angel spend its time in the company of devils?"
"It's a gaw-" Hicks shuddered and shut himself up. If he badmouthed the fucking metal these guys were gonna ventilate him, superiority or no. Christ, even Cameron was glaring at him. Her expression was masked by her balaclava, but he could feel the bated... waiting, that aggression in her eyes. When did she become so...?
Robinson continued. "Furthermore, destroying it is out of the question, sir. Think of what Samuel would do to us for... for killing one of his comrades."
Hicks raised his hands. "I get the fucking point, Robinson. Your guy in there is dead, by the way."
Robinson shrugged.
Hicks gulped. "Are ya'll ready?" His voice was so fucking hoarse. Jesus. Hoarse and... terrified. He could go over the same spiel in his mind. These guys are whacks, yadda, yadda yadda. But... even with all the enforced monotone in their speaking habits, the fact that they tried to emulate the Terminator so much... none of that resonated with Hicks as scary. He found it ridiculous.
Robinson blithely accepting the death of a fellow soldier was frightening. And it was all the more so because Hicks wasn't really in command. These men loathed him. He was outsider, unbeliever. They would follow Robinson. Cameron, too, would follow Robinson.
And she, and they, would all die.
A loud string of "yessirs" rung out.
--
Jesus, Jesus, JESUS.
Michael's legs felt like they were on fire. Literally. Literally on fire. They felt like someone has touched a match to them. The bones burned with a zeal that left Mike drained of energy even as he hobbled towards a car in the hospital parking lot. Every bending of his joints sent a jolt of agony through his whole body. He was past tears, grunts of pain. He just had a blasted, depleted expression on his face. Only his eyes carried the determination, the purpose in his mind. He had to get there. See what was happening. Find John, the Connors.
Try not to collapse while getting there.
Ok. White car, right ahead. Closest one. He stumbled toward it, running down a green, sloping hill that lead down to the parking lot. That was even more torturous than simple walking; it put more stress on his legs as he descended. God, he felt weak.
Now, even amid all of that pain, which sometimes was so overpowering that he felt deaf, even so close to the busy streets of Los Angeles, Mike was still keen enough to hear the slow release of a safety hammer.
"HOSPITAL SECURITY, HOLD IT!"
Mike didn't turn around. He certainly didn't hold it, either. What he did was panic and took a long, blind, bounding step forward. Into nothingness. He folded up like a cheap card table and collapsed down onto the green hill, tumbling down towards the asphalt below. Mike shut his eyes tightly and jerked himself to the side so that he was rolling instead of just falling. The pain was unmentionable. It all sort of accreted into some detached feeling now that he could put away in a box. Separate himself from it.
"Jesus!" the security guy yelled.
Mike hit the ground a moment later and was motionless.
He heard the sounds of nearby cars, people, in the distance, chatting. And the guy running down the hill toward him. The guy had a gun. Mike's hands twitched. Alright. Still good. Nothing got broken. Not even bruised. He started to moan.
"Stay right there, goddamnit! Drop your weapon if you can hear me!"
Mike didn't do shit. He kept his eyes shut. The security guard dropped down onto the parking lot asphalt a moment later and clambered toward the prostrate teenager. Mike felt hands, fumbling at first as they secured purchase on his arms, turn him to the side, so that he was facing the sky.
The gun in Mike's hand, by extension, faced the security guard's torso. Mike blinked four times in quick succession as he emptied four rounds into the man's chest. Bing bam boom bang. The guard didn't make any noise. He just... gurgled something up, which splattered an inch from Mike's head, and he crumpled to the ground.
The man had been an incandescent blob of light blue uniform and tan flesh, obscured mostly by the brightness of the sun as it hung in the sky. Mike didn't even turn to look at the guy's corpse as he got up to resume running. He didn't want to look at him.
Michael reached the white sedan; it was sleek and pretty modern looking, with some fancy logo on the hood. It looked like there was leather on the seats. A nearby sign proclaimed "Reserved Parking." Mike used the still-smoking Glock to smash the window open. His hand poured into the car and fumbled with the unlocking mechanism of the door.
A loud report from a pistol shook Michael. His entire body went cold for a split second before the bullet punched through the hood of the sedan. His fingers gripped the lock and pulled it upward, eliciting a click from the door. He pulled it open and clambered inside. Through the windshield he saw none other than the FBI agent from before, standing on the hill, a pistol in her outstretched hand.
A little below Greta Simpson, the dead guard was just laying there. Mike could see more red on him than any other color.
Greta squeezed off another shot, which dented the roof. She wasn't fucking around anymore; he'd murdered that guy, after all. Murder. Jeez... that really sounds terrible when you put it like... that.
Mike ignored the agent and the bullets she sent his way, smashing the ignition lock with the butt of his pistol. And again. And again. It needed a good few more swings before the wiring was exposed. He bent his head forward --wincing-- and started to carefully twist the wires. The windshield blew out as two bullets smashed through it, bringing a whole sheet of safety glass down on Mike's head. Most of it was too big to cut into him, but it did give him a nasty start. That stupid bitch wouldn't give up. She was firing off randomly now instead of taking short, accurate shots. Bullets just flew everywhere. If he tried to get up he'd probably become a goddamn pincushion of lead.
Ok... red wire, yellow, blue... some green. And white. Twist them in the right ways... you can do this... Squad driver from the age of ten. If you can hotwire a car like this under withering plasma attacks, you can get this fancy piece of crap in workin-
The car gave out a low rumble from its engines. Mike blinked and immediately pulled the transmission down to reverse. Pick up speed... A bullet ricocheted off the dashboard and nearly flew into Mike's face. He wished he had the fucking strength to shoot back at her, tumbling down the hill as she was. She was yelling something. It didn't matter. Michael pulled up into drive and flew out of the parking lot, the sedan sideswiping a few parked vehicles as it picked up speed. Greta quickly assumed the appearance of a tiny stick figure in Mike's rearview mirror, throwing her hands up in frustration before turning tail and running for a car herself. Mike took in a deep breath and kept his twitching eyes on the road.
He wanted to fall asleep so bad. Right there at the wheel. His whole body felt like absolute zero, nothingness. Responses were lethargic. The weird thing was, he felt absolutely no adrenaline in his body. Nothing. It was all gone, leaving him to press onward on pure will alone. If he just... had a moment of allowed rest, his body would eagerly seize on it, forcing him to sleep. He couldn't do that. No. Still in danger. Still had to get there, to that place on Pico Boulevard.
Been in worse, Mike. Much... much worse. Right?
"Yes," he said. So deal with it.
He absently adjusted the rearview mirror and continued to stare out at the road as it unfolded in front of him. Goddamn, but it hurt. It all hurt.
--
They were walking outside, moving past some dumpster. The brightness of the sun seemed to flow right over the rooftops of the nearby buildings, whitewashing John's view of what was probably an incredibly blue sky. True enough to the lighting conditions, everything on the ground of this dingy back alley appeared way too shiny. It was all really blinding, and John decided to focus on Cameron. She walked in stride with him, having discarded the brown coat she'd used for the old woman facade. Underneath was a myriad of bright red scars over what little skin he could see. He hadn't asked her about them yet.
And he didn't feel the need to, either. "So... what else did she say?"
"Who?"
John smirked. "Mom." The question was a bit of a double entendre; he wanted to know what other apologies his mother had, and he wanted Cameron to elaborate. If she faltered, he'd know she was really lying after all. But he didn't expect that. Still...
"She said she'd let you spread your wings. She was worried about you, which was why she decided to act so harsh. She said she'd always find you."
"Always find you..." John repeated. And he nodded at that. "Well, I guess I can't blame you for impersonating me."
Cameron raised a single brow. "Who said I did?"
John chuckled. God, she could be so perceptive at times, yet so naive at the same time. John, as always, didn't know whether to be frustrated with that novelty or endeared by it. "She would have known something was up if you just took a message, Cam. Don't worry, I wouldn't tell her."
Cameron's head seemed to bob as she nodded. Like one of those knowing aha nods, the kind you'd make a clever joke. It was sort of wrong for the occasion, yet felt incredibly appropriate. John found himself giggling at that, and he refused to explain himself to Cameron.
They continued on. The mouth of the alley was about fifty meters ahead, with a bunch of trash cans and various refuse bestrewn along the way.
"Are you ok?"
John blinked. "Huh?"
"You look sick."
"I am?"
Cameron nodded patiently.
"Uh..." John shrugged. "Just that guy you wasted. I'm not a huge fan of watching people's heads explode." He gulped for a second, working another shrug in. "S'ok, really. You were just..."
"He was holding a weapon."
John shut his eyes. Which was a bad idea, because he nearly tripped over a piece of garbage, his foot slipping on something wet and slimy. Christ.
There was too much, way too much going on right now. Have to decide what to do, have to get past these machine cultists (that was pretty much over with now, though,) have to try not to think about Sammy and everyone else in there. And here he was, heading back towards destiny. He felt a bit... empty. Like this was wrong, somehow.
Maybe he just had to get used to it all over again.
"I know, I just don't like watching people get..." He sighed.
Cameron's face crinkled apologetically. "I'm sorry."
John managed a smile. She could no more kill in order to protect him than...
Well, that wasn't quite right. The T-800 had made a point of not killing as it protected him. Those were cops, though... what about these guys? Goddamnit, way too many technicalities. "It's fine. Really. He probably deserved it."
"'No one deserves to die. No one should have that kind of power.'" Cameron looked at him.
John kept walking, mulling over the quote. "Sounds about right. Who said it?"
"You."
John smiled and turned his head down, a bit embarrassed. "Well, that makes me the world's biggest hypocrite."
"No. It was just something you acknowledged," Cameron said. "You were aware of your faults, and you accepted them."
John scratched his head absently, the weight of his backpack suddenly seeming to increase twofold. "Unlike now?"
"We'll figure that out soon, won't we?"
Jeez. Everything was getting so freaking serious all of a sudden-
They were about... maybe ten feet away from the end of the back alley when... god, it was like a fat toad of a monster, this black van just suddenly screeched to a halt in front of the exit, blocking their escape. John gaped at it like he'd just witnessed the second coming; holy christ, I didn't even hear it! Cameron's eyes widened as she raised her shotgun, her previously vibrant expression going completely blank as targeting parameters and detailed descriptions of where humankind would go "ow" the most appeared in her vision.
John, on the other hand, lacked Cameron's machinelike precision and fumbled to pull the Beretta 9mm out of his jeans. It kept... tugging, tugging, it was stuck. Stuck on some band of felt or SOMETHING, Jesus-
Cameron's shotgun spoke twice in quick succession, the individual blasts sounding like fucking artillery strikes when he was so close to it. The racking of the shotgun was even worse, a starkly industrial, hydraulic slam-click as another shell was pushed up to fire. The glass passenger window of the van shattered into oblivion; blood seemed to fountain from within, as though Cameron had struck a huge vein instead of a person. She fired once more as John struggled to free the pistol from his fucking pants, goddamnit, it was stuck. He was cursing up a frenzy, like he couldn't stop himself from yelling.
There was a loud, high-pitched rattle from within the van as the driver --the passenger was fucking dead, no doubt about it-- began to fire at them with a MAC-10 machine pistol. Tiny explosions of dust and cordite began to sprout up like spring flowers --what a terrible metaphor-- around John and Cameron. Cameron immediately lowered her weapon and pushed herself in front of her charge, her body jerking spasmodically as bullets struck her. John screamed; the scene was far too much like the T-1000 emptying a goddamned nine millimeter into the Terminator as John was eclipsed by his frame. This was a bit more of a tight, almost intimate fit. She pushed him forward, scooting constantly ahead, keeping every inch of him covered with her own body. John gave a final pull to his Beretta, felt a rip in his jeans, and finally the pistol was free in his hand. He swung his firing arm back towards the shooter and squeezed off a bunch of shots. Every one of them probably flew into the sky, not even hitting, but it was something at least.
"Run," Cameron whispered, mouth hovering over his ear. John pushed away from her and began to sprint for the nearby dumpster. It was far, fucking far. Too far, he realized as the distance seemed to grow even as his bounding strides took him closer. He was sure he'd take a bullet to the back, or something. Just as he was beginning to... do what? Nothing. Return to the status quo. His life. He'd done nothing over the past few days, hadn't read books, hadn't trained, hadn't looked for anything important, done nothing. If he died now, he'd have been useless the whole time. All he'd done was run. Oh, god, what a fucking downer, huh?
Cameron kept firing off with her shotgun, but he could hear her keeping step behind him. Carefully behind him. If she wanted, she could outrun him easily, but as long as she was there that was one less void of space between John Connor and the path of a flying bullet.
Just keep running. Don't stop, stop is death, don't lose breath, it could make you slow, slow... god, god, god... He could hear them yelling to each other, firing, there were more guns, assault rifles, he was gonna DIE.
"CONNOR!"
"TERMINATE!"
"Holy shit," John gasped under his breath. They wanted to kill him, they were there for him. Like the T-1000, like Cromartie, like any fucking machine, they were there for one purpose; to kill him. Why? Why them? How did they KNOW him? Weren't they human?! If they knew, then they knew about Judgment Day, then they knew about the fucking destruction, the...
crazy. it was so fucking crazy.
Bullets freaking everywhere, he felt like he could walk on them. They never hit. They never struck him down. They always came terrifyingly close, enough to make his breath come in quick, petrified gasps.
And then he reached the dumpster, and he dove behind it. Cameron was right behind him, pumping the shotgun. She reached into one of her pockets and methodically began to draw out individual shells and load them into the weapon. John, on the other hand, collapsed against the steel, slapping a sweaty hand over his sweaty forehead. His bangs of hair were like tiny, wet ropes. Jesus.
"What were we talking about?" He laughed uproariously, sounding insane. Y'know what? Whatever. Who gave a shit anymore? He was going back. That was it. If they lived through this, John was gonna go back to hiding behind his hair as his mom took out the bad guys, and he... hacked into some system, or something. Get shot at occasionally. What'd it matter?
Cameron, matter-of-factly, said, "We were discussing you denying your faults." She cocked her head toward him, and, insanely enough, they both grinned at each other. John could hear stampeding feet running through the alley.
They both jumped up, weapons drawn, and laid into the approaching cultists with a fusillade of bullets. Cameron's shotgun racked continuously and fired. John's Beretta bucked in his hands as he aimed and fired. The approaching cultists --looked like seven or eight of them. How'd they fit in the van?-- seemed to have reflexes honed in... somewhere where quick reflexes are fucking honed, goddamnit, they returned fire immediately, washing the dumpster with fire. One of the cultists flew back, blood spiraling away from his corpse before it even settled on the ground. John couldn't tell if he'd done the guy in or Cameron. If he did, that would be the first guy, ever, that John had fucking killed, something he'd completely sworn not to do from the first day he understood the word "killing."
He couldn't tell, though. They both jerked down again. A bullet, almost comically, tumbled out of a wound in Cameron's forehead. The metal on her scalp was plainly visible.
"We gotta... Do something, Cam!"
Cameron was reloading again. "We need to get you someplace safe first."
"I can hide in the dumpster!"
Cameron shook her head. "They'll see you do it. We have to go back inside. Fortify a room."
"Wooden walls?!" John said, incredulous before her supposedly apt "logic."
"We'll have the element of surprise," Cameron said. "And this isn't open to debate. We're going back in. Now."
"What about the other way?!"
"Dead end. Get ready to run on three."
John shut his eyes tight and mechanically reloaded his pistol.
"One."
They were still running. Still coming. They sounded so close.
"Two."
The sun kept shining brilliantly, like a gargantuan "fuck you" to the violence below it.
"Three!"
John sprang up and ran for the door. He didn't turn to fire as he went. He just ran. Ran. RAN.
Cameron covered his flight. Jesus Christ, he loved the fucking shit outta her. Even when she was enigmatic, even when she wouldn't take shit, she was there for him. No matter if he liked it or not, too.
One of the cultists screamed. Bullets traced John's path. He slammed himself into the steel doorway, pulled it open --several bullets immediately clanged against it-- and ran in.
Cameron joined him a few seconds later, shotgun pumping and roaring intermittently. She immediately turned to the door and pulled off the lock. Her hand twisted inside the tiny mechanism, eliciting a small click!
John took in a deep breath. "Ok. What now?"
Voices. From inside the club. Lots'a voices.
"We're surrounded," Cameron said unnecessarily. John had to restrain himself from hitting her.
--
A little earlier
Hicks prodded the cashier girl with the muzzle of his M4A1. Her head bounced to the side... slowly. Eyes, green and piercing under a starkly red head of hair, were blank and staring. She was dead. The only wound Hicks could find was a patch of gooey red on her knee. That would be enough to do it. There were something like seventeen billion veins, or something, in the human leg. You could lose a lot of blood easily from there.
She was dead, anyway. God. Did he do this, or Cameron? Cameron did the hobo; what remained of his head was slowly cooling on the wooden floor. Past the corpse was Robinson's team, fanning out into the club proper. Hicks could hear voices, low and frightened. Patrons. Goddamnit.
Hicks opened his mouth.
The club exploded in a cacophonous roar of gunfire. The patrons began to scream now. In pain. What the fuck?!
"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, STOP!" Hicks yelled, his voice going hoarse and panic-stricken. They were... just-!
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY CLUB!"
Hicks gawked as a fat, past-middle aged woman burst out from underneath the bar, a long-barrel shotgun clutched in her hands. She had an expansive, wildly emotional face, and underneath that was her bulbous body, draped in a yellow jumper. Christ. It was so funny looking; she was like a big ol' bumble bee with a shotgun.
She selected a target at random and fired. Hicks did nothing. In Iraq, even as a woman with a fucking burqa or something, he would have ventilated her before she could attack his comrades. Now? Blackwater was murderers back then. These guys? Murderers too. He just hadn't known it back then.
God, what was happening to him?
One of Robinson's boys --maybe even Robinson-- took the fucking well-aimed bullet in his head. Said head exploded into a fine rest mist. Body formerly attached to head crumpled like a puppet emancipated from its strings.
"NOT AGAIN, YA AIN'T DOIN' IT AGAIN-"
Cameron Forsythe, a little to Hicks' right, calmly shot the woman in the chest. The shotgun tumbled from her grasp and her hands went to the wound. She had a look of utter bafflement on her face, all confusion and no pain. She even tilted her head.
Then Robinson's team ripped her to pieces, flames spitting from their rifles. And then they turned and continued to execute whoever remained inside.
"STAWP!" Hicks yelled, running forward to Robinson. Behind him, Cameron was walking forward to join the other soldiers.
"Robinson!"
Robinson raised his hand to his compatriots. They quit firing and turned, all looking annoyed. They refused to regard their recently slain comrade. If only that bitch had had a grenade. "Yes?" Robinson said, all sweet-like.
Hicks raised his hands. Outside, in the distance, gunfire rattled. Taylor's team. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Silencing the witnesses. Any one of them could be Connor." One of the witnesses began to pathetically cry out for help.
"Fuck that, you murdering sonbitch," Hicks said. "Let them go. Check to see if they're Connor, but I fucking swear, you can't..." His hands grappled with air.
Robinson shrugged. "If you insist." He raised his voice. "Now hear this! All of you, leave at once!"
Only two people appeared. Both male. Both fairly young. They approached slowly.
"You heard the man, GET OUT!" Hicks yelled.
They ran now, dodging past the cultists and dashing out the door. People were still groaning, in pain, were dying for pity's sake. Jesus Christ.
"Sir," one of the cultists said, addressing Robinson. "I hear gunfire. We should move."
"Agreed."
They began to jog toward the back entrance.
Hicks stood where he was, speechless. Cameron was walking past.
"You..." he said.
Cameron turned. "What?"
"Let's get outta here." Dear God...
Cameron tilted her head. He imagined a glare behind that ski mask of hers. "They're all dead anyway. Why do you care, Hicks?"
Hicks ripped his balaclava off and took a few long steps toward her. Just as he wanted, she shrunk back from his advances, but she wasn't fucking quick enough. He grabbed her by the shoulders, dropped his assault rifle and stared at her widened blue eyes. "What... are you doing?"
"Let me go," Cameron said, voice barely rising above a whisper.
"Not until we talk, Cameron. What are you doing? You're... you're, god, you're with them, aren't you? I can fucking see it."
Cameron leaned at him. "They're lunatics."
"No, you're the fucking lunatic, Cameron! You dance to their fucking tune just like any of em'."
"Hicks!" Robinson yelled.
There was a roaring blast of thunder, followed by a swift reprisal of assault rifles chattering. Hicks didn't move. Cameron just sort of stared at him, like he was a bug on a plate. "I'm avenging my father. We're gonna kill him. We'll both be happy. Simple, like you fucking said, Hicks. Are you pussying out?"
"Not the only fucking way you're avenging him, you bitch. What the fuck were you doing for them?"
"Nothing, it was all dad!"
"HICKS!"
"Fall back!" Hicks yelled. He turned back to Cameron. "Now... you listen to me, Cameron. We're leaving as soon as this is over with. Do you get me?"
She kept staring. Hicks shook her with his gripped hands, jerking her body back and forth. "YOU GET ME?!"
"Sure," she said cooly. Hicks gasped and released her. All going wrong. What was he doing here? He doing here? This was all wrong, he wasn't a murderer. Not anymore. He could barely remember what his fucking wife looked like.
Ohhh god. The soldiers were running back. They kept staring back towards where they'd fled. "We found them!"
"Great," Hicks said, stooping to pick up his M4A1. "You see Taylor's team?"
Robinson took in a few deep breaths. "Been in contact with them. They're tearing down a door Connor locked. If we coordinate we can flank them while Taylor attacks head-on, and then we'll be able to terminate-"
Hicks interrupted him with a single raised fist. "You tell them about the Terminator?"
Robinson shook his head. "I'll have to do that."
"Don't bother. I'm sure they already know. We're waiting here."
--
Perform self diagnostic.
"This room?" John asked.
They stepped inside, Cameron taking one sweeping glance of the place. The bed was conspicuous enough. Its constitution indicated that bullets would have a hard time penetrating. She pointed toward it. "Yes. Get under there and wait for me. I'm going to deal with our problem."
John frowned at her, absently rubbing his eyes. Facial map scan indicated he was suffering from a fairly low level of trauma after fleeing from the cultists. His stance seemed more shaken, yet tinged with determination. Since the gun battle he hadn't attempted any "real" conversation with her, as they had throughout the encounter. "Cam, I dunno if you can take them all by yourself."
Perform self diagnostic. Alert. System has not been examined in several hours. Please correct.
"I can, and I will," Cameron said simply. She decided to put him at ease with another question. "Have you thought about your decision?"
"Yeah, actually. I have."
Cameron's HUD glowed as she tried to glean the expected response from his expression, body language, anything. But no, he looked... neutral. Damn. "What is it, John?" She smiled.
John reached over to her and stroked her cheek with the backside of his right hand. He beamed at her. "I said I'd tell you later. Now... y'know, go get em'."
"Please?"
John blinked. "I'm... I don't have any other choice, Cam. I'll go with you. This whole thing was... a big mistake."
She'd be with him again. And he wouldn't run. They could talk. She could learn. Fulfill her purpose again! She felt... happy. "Are you sure?"
"I'm never fuckin' sure. I dunno. Just..." He sighed and started to crouch down so that he could slide himself under the bed.
ALERT. Self diagnostics are a necessity for flawless performance. Examine unit system immediately.
"Alright. Be careful."
John looked up at her. "You too."
Cameron racked her shotgun and quietly opened the door. Several black suited men were walking past, sweeping the area with their assault guns raised. Cameron's shotgun hand flew up as her combat subroutines were downloaded up to her CPU, strong-arming and removing the lesser protocols from priority. She felt absolutely no emotion, whether fake or genuine. All she knew, all she understood, was the art of killing as efficiently as possible.
Five targets. Weapon inventory; 2x Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun, 1x Colt M4A1 Carbine w/ Aimpoint close-combat modification, 1x Mossburg 590 combat shotgun w/ bayonet attachment. 1x Colt 1911 Pistol w/ tactical aimpoint modification.
Mossburg represented the greatest threat; his shotgun could effectively blow her back with every shot fired, and so he had to be taken out first. Cameron swung her shotgun out toward Mossburg, as he turned to face her, and fired.
Buckshot discharged. Wide-spread #-22 attach/
Damnit. Mossburg's head was blown clear off of his neck, the generous amounts of kevlar and armor on his torso doing nothing to protect his vulnerable head. Cameron brought the shotgun back around and pumped it for the next shot. Heckler, Koch, Colt, and 1911 turned in unison, looking decidedly unconcerned with the demise of their compatriot. Cameron frowned at this. That meant their cohesion would be difficult to disrupt.
They opened up on her. At this range, they couldn't not miss. A multitude of flying lead pierced into Cameron's body, punching through flesh and bouncing off her metallic exterior. As they laid into her, as she racked the shotgun, she absently thought to herself that she wouldn't be able to go out in public much for the next two days.
She raised the shotgun, aiming towards Colt.
Negative.
She swung her aim toward Heckler. What the hell?
Target represents the greatest threat.
No it doesn't.
Affirmative. Fire.
She fired, blinking rapidly as the encased buckshot shell expanded into many shells and pierced Heckler's armor. Blood streamed from the back of his torso, painting the wall behind him with ichor. He descended with a low grunt, MP5 still roaring.
She racked the shotgun.
"SHE'S A MACHINE!"
"RUN!"
"AHH!"
Colt, 1911, and Koch panicked. They started to flee back from whence they'd came, firing rapidly and inaccurately as they went. Cameron blasted 1911's back as he ran. He stumbled, but kept running; only a few of the shells hit him, and most were probably denied entry by the kevlar.
"HICKS!" someone yelled distantly. Cameron ignored the voice and dropped the shotgun. She powered up her leg hydraulic enhancers and started to sprint after the fleeing cultists, heading straight for 1911. They were so slow. She cleared the distance between herself and them in absolutely no time at all.
"WAH-WAIT!" 1911 yelled, reaching his hands out to grasp at his fellows as they outpaced him. He was sweating quite profusely; terror, probably an alien emotion to him given his status as a machine-obsessed fanatic, was entirely visible in every possible way. His breath came in heaving gasps, his arms shook, legs shook, he kept shivering. Cameron reached over with one hand and pulled him back into her other hand, which punched straight through his torso. Her vise-like hand tore through skin and bone and clenched in at the man's heart. She squeezed. Felt the organ explode in her hand. The cultist vomited up blood and toppled, torso sliding away from Cameron's now bright red arm. She stared up again and continued her pursuit.
Colt and Koch died very much the same way 1911 had, having their vital organs destroyed or pulled from their bodies. Efficient. Clean kills. Well, messy, anyway, but that was besides the point. The team had been decimated.
PERFORM SELF DIAGNOSTIC IMMEDIATELY OR SUFFER THE RISK OF CATASTROPHIC SHUTDOWN.
No time. No time at all for such things. She had to get John out of there.
--
John barely heard anything after the immediate exchange of gunshots. There was some yelling. A few bullets pierced the door and flew into the room, but none touched him.
Those guys didn't stand a chance. It felt like he was playing God, all of a sudden, even after this whole pathetic episode of his life. How easily he fell back into it. And really... should he? Should he let himself fall back into it? Was it right? He had nothing else. This was what would happen if he ran, John thought, as he heard scampering footsteps running away from the room.
He would go someplace. Feel really bad. Meet people. They would make an impression on him. Maybe he'd do something stupid. They would die. He would possibly die. Cameron would find him eventually. It'd happened twice now, and God, what was the point in hoping? He had... Sarah, right? She was mom. God, he hadn't known. Hadn't known she'd apologized, if only he knew that... He had this life. It was his. He was gonna have to deal with it as best he could.
You know what would give him a great life? Stopping Skynet. Then he could live however the fuck he wanted. Had to focus on that. It was the only bulwark between him and... that. That destiny. General Connor.
Here's hoping it works!
He must have dozed off, or something, or at least gotten too lost in thought to perceive the amount of time that'd passed. In no time at all Cameron was at the door again, opening it.
She looked like hell. Blood matted her entire torso, parts of her face. "Cam!"
"They're dead, we can g-g-go."
John slid himself out from under the bed, standing up. He hefted his backpack and blinked at Cameron. "Are you alright?"
She looked at him, tilting her head. And again. And again. Tilt, tilt, back and forth. John's mouth slid open as he stared at her. "Cameron, what...?"
"We have to go."
"Whoa, whoa, hold on. If they're dead, we can see what's wrong with you."
"There's nothing wrong with me."
John raised his hands at her, as if he was speaking to a young child. "Cam, you keep jerking around, and I've never heard you stutter before. What the hell is going on with you?"
Cameron smiled. And then frowned. Then there was a goofy expression on her face. "I-I-I-I'm fine."
John stood there for a moment, at a loss of words, all of a sudden. Ok, John, think, think. Holy crap, was this happening? Yes. Just think. Think. "Uhh, um... when was... the last time you've, I dunno, done maintenance?"
"GET IN THERE, GO!"
They both jerked and looked out into the hall. Stampeding feet. Cameron hefted the shotgun in her hand, bringing it up to her shoulder. "Run, John. I'll take care of them. G-g-g-get to the van."
John took a few running steps toward the door. "C-Cam, wha-"
She glared at him. "I can still shoot, John. We'll talk later. GO!"
Holy crap. "Cam!"
She shoved him out the door and turned his body so that it faced the hallway exit. The hallway was bestrewn with corpses. She gave him another push. "C-Cam, wait, I can help-"
"N-nonono you can't. I'll be alright, John. You must run."
Jesus, god... John turned to her and gave her a quick hug. "If you fucking fold up and shut down, I'm gonna kill you."
"That's unlikely," she said.
"Fuck you."
"Run."
He ran. God help him, and her, he ran.
--
Hicks led the charge as they passed through the corridor, the cultists at his flanks, weapons raised and ready to spew death. He could hear them. The bated breath. The barely concealed enthusiasm. So much like that place. Cultists could be found anywhere, y'know? They're as common as wild flowers, whether they worship machines or sexual fetishes or plain old killing. The world was full of them.
Hicks wanted to die.
They turned the corner. The machine was standing there, amid the broken corpses of her recently slain kills. The smell of cordite and blood and shit filled the air. Smoke, everywhere. There was a shotgun in her hand. The cultists opened up immediately, lighting up the corridor with brilliant flashes. Cameron's pistol roared. Hicks raised his assault rifle and started to scream out obscenities and machismo bullshit. He fired along with the rest of them, venting all of his frustrations on this protector, this doppelganger. Cameron made low growling sounds. The cultists were deathly quiet.
The Terminator took a few lumbering, ponderous steps forward --she looked like shit. Kept jerking every which way. Was she malfunctioning?-- and fired.
A hole big enough to stick a lamp shade through appeared in Robinson's chest. He dropped like a light. Why didn't she shoot Hicks?
Goddamnit, they kept firing anyway, jerking her back ever constantly. The shotgun seemed to fly out of her hands as bullets penetrated and forced it away. Hicks dipped his hand down into his pocket to reload. He took his time as the machine approached. Kill me. Please. He was gonna go out shooting his brains out, but he wanted to fucking die. He was no murderer. He was a nothing. So was Cameron. She just hadn't seen it yet.
He felt more happy with that bitches death than ever before. How did this happen? Because he was a nothing. He wanted to avenge someone he was better off without. He acted like a fool.
And he deserved to die like one.
--
The bullets washed over her like a water fall. They weren't just annoyances. They kept her from advancing. Everything was so obscured now. Systems were suddenly deaf to her commands. She hadn't... she hadn't done...
Performing mandatory self diagnostic. Remember, unit; procrastination behooves only the resistance.
NO!
She stopped moving as her system underwent a quick reboot so her system diagnostics could be read out to her and her CPU. Within moments she was sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.
"Holy shit!"
"Get the fucking taser!"
"Will it even work?!"
"Who gives a shit, go!"
Diagnostic complete, ERROR:
Combat chassis integrity: 55 percent. Leg motivators damaged.
CPU functionality: 50 percent. Emotional index overpowering other systems. REQUIRE IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN AND REBOOT.
Targeting systems: 95 percent
Logic core: 40 percent. Tied to targeting functionality versus desired subjects of Termination. REQUIRE IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN AND REBOOT.
Combat motivators: 100 percent.
Diagnosis: Logic and CPU functionality has degraded due to lack of regular maintenance and constant subjection to emotional stimulus. Unit must shut down and allow mandatory maintenance to be performed so as to remain combat effective. Prime subject has already fled the danger zone; threat is negligible.
JOHN, NO!
Submit. Ten seconds to comply with order before mandatory shutdown.
She couldn't be captured! Or destroyed, they would FIND him if she wasn't there to KILL them as they ARRIVED to KILL him
The reboot was done. She could move. Some person was standing in front of her. She kicked her legs out and brought the cultist down next to her, toppling and screaming. He hadn't even reached the floor when Cameron's hand lashed out and snapped his neck. If she could kill them all in ten seconds then the danger would be over, or at least for now!
"She's still active!"
"Get away!"
She sprang up and lunged at the other nearby cultist. The man was scrambling away on all fours; he'd been crouching over her as well. Trying to KILL her. She landed on his back knees first and snapped his spinal column under her weight.
Five seconds. CyberDyne Systems (tech-com) reminds unit that not consenting to shutdown may cause problems in the future.
Had to buy him time! Kill them all!
The other cultists were falling back, not even firing their weapons. Cameron pushed herself off the dead cultist and sprinted toward the nearest man. He was the only one without a balaclava on.
The man did nothing. One of the cultists, a woman, screamed for him to run.
Cameron's hand dashed forward, ripped the Colt M4A1 out of his hands, and smashed it to pieces like a twig. Her hand seemed to barely move as it flew up to grab the man by the throat.
"Do it," he said. He smiled broadly. Anticipatory. Cameron was only too happy to oblige, and quickly.
She squeez-
There was a low humming sound, barely audible to the man she was attempting to kill.
To Cameron it was like the roar of an ocean. Everything went black.
--
The machine's eyes flashed with blue for a moment. Then they just stared. Hicks stiffened as he felt the Terminator's grip on his throat go slack. He pulled himself back slightly, blinking randomly.
She just stood there. Her arm fell back in line with the rest of her body, and she just stood there.
"What the fuck?"
"She shut down," Cameron said.
Hicks glared at her. The two remaining fanatics, much like the Terminator, stood there.
Hicks hissed. "Take her fucking chip out. And destroy it."
Cameron gawked at him. "What?!"
"You heard me, Cameron."
One of the cultists spoke up. "Why does she look just like you?"
Hicks ignored the man. Cameron did, too. "Hicks, you don't know what the fuck you're doing. We are not taking her out."
He stared at her. "Cam-"
She raised a quick hand. There was a fucking strong smell in the air, and Hicks felt faintly ridiculous. God, he'd wanted that thing to kill him so badly. "Shut up." She turned to the two remaining cultists. "Process her, take her out to the front. Steal another car."
"What about Connor?" They moved forward to grab the machine. Hicks stood there, slack-jawed. She... was ordering them... around.
Cameron looked at Hicks. "He'll do it." She held out her pistol.
--
John was about halfway through the back alley, rapidly approaching the van, when he suddenly felt too out of breath to continue.
Out of breath, and scared out of his wits. Cameron had been... it was unreal. He'd never seen her act like that. She was having... problems, and...
He took in a deep breath and looked back to where he'd been running from. She was supposed to fucking mess those guys up. She'd messed the other team up, and that took less than two minutes. Where the fuck was she?
Jesus, the way she'd... jerked around, the way she stuttered, it was like watching a computer malfunction and get ready to keel over and shut down. What the hell could make her act like that? Did the guys in the van do something to her, or...? What about him. She'd spent hours upon hours searching for him, trying everything, weathering his flight from her even as she tried to... love him. Because... y'know, she did. How badly did that hurt her? Like, inside? Could things like that even have an effect on her systems?
He stood there, sweating from every pore in his goddamned body. The chill of February wind made it seem like a sheet of ice had been draped over him. He shivered... not just due to the fucking cold, but the pit feeling in his stomach that something had gone terribly wrong. Cameron was... she was there to protect him, she wouldn't just leave him alone for two minutes like that.
God, what fucking irony. Yesterday he would have done anything to get away from her. And now he would give everything to have her back. She loved him, he loved her, (in radically different fashions, but honestly...) even as he petulantly ran away everything she kept coming for him. She was programmed for that, but she did it with... with him in mind, she didn't just collect him, she heard him out! She explained things to him! She treated him like a person, not as a fucking objective! That moment of clarity, as she laid everything done, reassured him...
It felt weird. It felt wonderful. He loved her for it. Trusted her. And... if he couldn't show the same goddamned respect for her, to protect her, to help her when she needed it, what the hell good was he?!
--
Epiphanies are for sissies.
Sarah told him that. Why do you feel so bad about those guys out there, Hicks?
Well, Sarah, I don't like shooting people for no reason. Ain't there enough casualties in this here war?
Nah, Hicks. You knew Jerko. Saw him around. You saw that guy, and now he's dead. Strung up and set on fire. These people are animals. We all animals. But we're stronger animals, Hicks. Strong eat the weak.
You sound like a fucking butch girl when you say that.
If you call me a butch I'll kick your fucking ass, Hicks. Now cover me. Shoot any goddamned Hajji you see.
I don't think they're animals...
You havin' an epiphany all of a sudden, Hicks?
No.
Good, because epiphanies are for sissies.
Neither one of them came out of that too well.
--
Was he having an epiphany? Did he really want to kill this boy? Hicks glided down the corridor, Beretta clutched in his hands. He'd use it shortly. Use it to kill some fifteen year old who was going to become the ruler of the world. The only hope against the machines. They were all dead, really. The cultists? They were fucking nuts if they thought they'd be spared. The machines cared nothing for them. They just wanted to use a bunch of pliable little puppets... to bring about their nice little apocalypse.
Epiphanies are for sissies. Yesterday he said to Cameron that he cared nothing about anything. That all he had in him was revenge. Kill the Connors. Avenge his wife.
It was so nice to have a cause. When you got nothing? Having a cause gives you purpose. It fills that pathetic void you call your life. Whether right or wrong. Epiphanies are for sissies. Real men stick to their guns.
It was also nice to have a brain to think with. To reason with. Rational, you know. There was a very persuasive element of Hicks, a rational part of him, a scared part of him, that did not want to kill the leader of the human race. No matter what he'd done. No matter if he'd guided the hand of the bullet that killed his wife.
Hicks wanted to find John. Kill him, if possible. Or have John kill him. Either would work.
--
The sound of distant sirens was getting pretty loud. John quickened his pace, keeping his Beretta outstretched. Had to hurry. Cameron was in there somewhere. He passed through the back door and took a look around. She'd been... where was everyone? The hallway was empty.
A man stepped out from behind the opened door. He had a gun in his hand. John saw him instantly and aimed.
--
They laid into each other with their pistols, stretching their arms out and aiming for all they were worth.
It was too close, Hicks realized, eyes widening. Their guns went fucking past each other's heads. Hicks stared at the boy. He was not a bad height. Shorter than Hicks. His hair came down in wet strands across his head, like one of those emo kids you saw in the deli or something. He didn't look like any emo kid past that. He had a certain... mute determination in his eyes, which was belied by his trembling, frightened lips.
Hicks swung his pistol around the smack John in the face.
--
John ducked under the flying pistol, wincing as it made a whistling noise above his head. He growled and slammed his arm upward, sending the 9mm flying out of the cultists hand. Unfortunately for John, ducking to avoid the blow in the first place had sent his gun arm up at a peculiar angle, making it easy for Hicks to smack his own pistol away. And he did.
They both stood weaponless.
--
Hicks charged forward and smashed his fist into John's face. His softness was a bit of a misperception, too; Hicks groaned as pain ripped up through his arm after delivering the punch. The teenager cried out in pain, and he brought both of his hands up and wrapped them round Hicks' arm. He pulled the soldier forward and, using his momentum against him, let him fly into the opposite wall. Hicks stumbled and threw his hands out ahead of him as he fell forward and hit the wooden floor. His vision went white.
--
"Sonbitch!"
John took a moment to feel his face. There was a bit of a bruise under his left cheekbone, but it felt alright, otherwise. Just a bit annoying. He kept blinking rapidly. His vision had gotten a bit blurred under the force of that punch.
After a moment, he ran forward and delivered a kick into the cultists' side. The kevlar pretty much negated a lot of the blow, though. John growled and went for the face instead, packing as much force into his foot as possible.
--
The boys booted foot came flying down. Hicks stared dumbly at it for a few seconds. Or it felt like a few seconds. It was actually under a second, but it felt longer than that. He absently raised his right hand up, open palmed, to absorb the blow. The boot smashed into his hand. The feeling couldn't be fucking described as "ticklish."
"Where the fuck is she?!"
Hicks looked up at John Connor and smirked lightly. Then he grabbed John's still raised foot and pulled him forward.
--
He felt like a toppling building. He waved his arms out to try and restore balance to his position, but it did jack shit. The soldier pulled his leg ever forward and he couldn't stay upright. Simple as that. John fell backwards and slammed into the floor with a yell of pain.
--
Hicks sprang up and, carefully massaging his right hand, and he jumped down on the teenager, knees first. It was a crude, ungraceful emulation of the move the machine had used to crack the spine of one of the fanatics just before she shut off. He drove into John's shin, drawing a long scream out of the boy. John leaned up for a split second to punch him. It worked; Hicks took the slug in the face like a trooper, though. He barely acknowledged the blow and leaned further in. John gave a wild shake wit his body and shoved him off. Or he tried to, anyway. Hicks let himself be forced off, but he quickly pulled himself up into a crouch and he slammed his right elbow into the boy's chest. John's eyes went wide, unintelligent, wild as the inevitable pain engulfed him. He gasped out something under his breath and tried to roll himself to the side to avoid the next blow. He didn't. Hicks slammed him again with his elbow, this time to the side of John's head. John didn't seem to react. He just laid there, a positively serene expression on his face. Hicks stared at him for a few seconds, as though contemplating this.
Then he got up and started kicking.
--
He felt like he was dead. This man was gonna beat him to death. If not shoot him. The pain was indescribable. John ignored it.
"Where's Cameron," he murmured.
The soldier stood back for a moment after laying down another brutal kick to John's side. "She's goin' on a fuckin' trip, my friend. S'that what you call her? Cameron?"
John didn't nod. Didn't answer. He tried to kick Hicks in the legs instead. Hicks took the blow, but he kept his balance. There was something shining in the man's eyes. Maybe it was his own craziness. "Cameron, huh? That's a fucking laugh riot, my friend."
He kicked John in side again. John couldn't move. His bones refused to listen to him, muscles went on screaming at the pain, the exertion. He was done.
--
Hicks gave John Connor a measured glance and nodded to himself. Boy put up a fucking good fight. He learned in places, surely enough, but he'd never been in a fucking war, right? He was supposed to lead, but he had no hands-on experience. That killed him.
He was down for the count. Hicks stopped leaning on the teenager for a split second and looked around. The two pistols --both Berettas-- were laying side by side. Column A or column B, eh? Pick yer poison, Hicks.
Hicks grabbed one of the pistols, racked the slide, and turned to face John Connor. He aimed, shutting one of his eyes as he peered down the iron sights at the prostrate boy. He just laid there, unable to move. Kept shaking, like he wanted to move, but couldn't.
Epiphanies are for sissies. Murder the bastards. Do this for your cause, no matter how fucked up it is. Don't think. Be a slave. Epiphanies are for sissies.
Hicks stared down at the helpless teenager for a few seconds before he fired.