Flight is Right
Chapter Twenty One: ...And Hide
In the absence of angels, James Ellison knew, it is fear, not good deeds, that gives men wings. And Cameron Phillips, John Connor, and some kid he didn't know the identity of were flying.
Understandably he was somewhat taken aback to see them --completely unchanged, of course. Last he'd known John was listed as fifteen years old and didn't look a day above as he observed him at that very moment--, especially after the tension of waiting outside a locked police station as gunfire blasted from within. Things were rapidly becoming blurry, unfocused. What had once been sharp now lost its clarity. A man in a van lay dead beyond the steering wheel by Ellison's pistol. He knew he would feel the pangs of guilt later when things winded down... if he was still alive by then. He had no idea what possessed these people to assault a police station. It screamed of West Highland; the one-man assault carried on by some be-sunglassed specter who'd left seventeen officers dead in 1984.
Sarah Connor had been involved in that, too. And now her son was sprinting out of a police station that was undergoing a similar attack. He didn't think he'd helped with it, either. The world was getting too small for coincidences, and he had to make a choice: pursue or get inside to deal with the threat? Possibly die, either way. What was more important? He'd already managed to contact a station several districts away --it being the only one he knew the number of--, and they'd be mobilizing big time to respond to this. He could stay here, identify a few of the perps, maybe take some down... possibly die, of course. He'd be saving lives.
Or he could pursue these phantoms that constantly reappeared to plague him, to stoke his never ending obsession with the Sarah Connor case. His case. Get closer and simply confirm what he already, undeniably knew to be the truth.
It was no contest, of course.
"John Connor!", he yelled. He started off after them.
The two police uniformed kids kept running down the sidewalk. Cameron did turn her head slightly. The shorter male took a few bounding leaps into the street and pointed a gun at the occupant of a sedan. It skidded and tried to avoid, and the boy fired off twice into the air. The driver surrendered pretty easily after that.
John, on the other hand, stopped dead and whipped around. He was clutching a submachine gun, and the scene looked absolutely... well, disturbing. He knew kids liked to play all sorts of, y'know, video games and tote around toys like they were bad asses, but this one looked like he knew what to do with it. The iron-sight launched to his right eye and sighted Ellison. The agent kept running, heedless of this. Eight years. Eight years and nothing, and then all of this within a month. He was damned if a little gunplay would stop him now. He was on the fast track here, being guided. He did not feel as if it was his time yet, and so he kept running.
Luckily for him, it seemed to be nothing more than a reflex maneuver on John's part. He lowered the gun within a moment and stared, his eyes wide with shock. Sarah had evaded federal agents for four years, more than enough time for her to instill a similar paranoia in her son. Ellison didn't give a damn about his paranoia, or his mothers, or anything. All he saw right now was the chance to solve the puzzle, to fulfill his duty. It was overpowering, perhaps even more so than the knowledge, the terrible knowledge that in four years... duty, especially towards the United States, would not matter anymore. His arm was suddenly outstretched ahead of him, his hands clutching his ID which screamed his status as an agent of the federal government.
"FREEZE!"
Now his pistol was outstretched, shuddering, a bullet waiting in the chamber to fire. So close. He aimed at John Connor and covered him. He barely recognized the fact that all the odds were against him. The people he was attempting to apprehend were well on their way towards escaping, they were trained criminals, and had superior firepower to boot. He ran forward in spite of all of this. He had wings, and it was God who guided him now. He could feel that in his bones, his skin. He would prevail-
He passed the doors to the police station and dived forward as a salvo of bullets whined out ahead of him.
"Contact!" someone yelled from within. Shit!
Ellison hit the ground and splayed his arms out, trying to find John again in the iron sight. He couldn't fire first, as powerful as the urge was. He yelled "freeze" again.
Another voice from inside the lobby, "It's not them, move out! Go, go, go!"
John wasn't even there anymore. He was running toward the car his accomplice had commandeered. He was getting away. Ellison desperately tried to realign his aim, knowing it was useless. To hell with the regulations, they were evading arrest. He could fire like a mad man if he wanted. Breathe. Focus. One chance, James. One chance. He scooted his head forward a bit, laid his arms flat on the concrete and aimed slightly ahead of John's legs. He was using a burst-fire Glock semi-auto; the chances of him making an accurate shot were great enough to warrant doing it. Breathe. Focus.
He kept moving the sight just forward of John and he didn't fire. What was wrong? Fire. Fire! Just squeeze the trigger. Don't pull or jam on it, as the shot would go wide. Squeeze softly and...
He still wasn't shooting. He realized, absently, that he couldn't bring himself to do it. John pulled open the passenger door and hopped in. Things seemed to move fast. A bunch of men wearing black body armor ran out of the station and swept the area. Ellison stayed put, paralyzed.
"THERE!"
They saw the car. Opened fire on it without hesitation. The car jumped forward and turned sharply against the hailstorm of bullets. And then it was racing down the street, plowing and weaving its way through traffic.
"Quick, get a car!"
By the time the last word was out of thugs mouth, Ellison had jumped to his feet and was heading off down the street to do exactly that.
--
"Is anyone hurt?" John asked. Cars, pedestrians, were nothing but blurs as Mike drove. Even to himself his voice sounded distant, and kind of... he didn't really know. Not all there. He might be a bit out of it with fear. He was certainly shaking like a tree.
Terminator? Check. Jackbooted thugs chasing them? Also check. And now a fucking g-man after them? Check, damnit. It was like a bad dream. And in a way it seemed perfectly natural given the stupendously frightening tense emotional gun-happy terrible horrible not-at-all happy week he'd been having so far. He was on a ride he couldn't get off of, just enduring what came at him. He couldn't, he wouldn't be able to handle shit like this much more. But it was cool, y'know? They got what they wanted. Information. That was the point, right? Information about their enemies and just how deep in the shit they were. Fucking useful, right?
He was biting his nails. Christ, he was turning into Derek. And god, he was wet. He felt fucking... Ugh. Stay on task, Johnny. You're still in combat.
Mike was leaning forward, almost fully over the steering wheel. He seemed made of energy, of tense, sporadic reactions. The wheel twisted to and fro like it was melded to his mind, pulling them around cars and pushing them ever forward.
"Mike," John said. He knew Cameron wasn't hurt. He wasn't even sure if she'd responded. It didn't matter, anyway.
Mike shook his head rapidly. No time to talk. He looked mad, mad as in crazy. Eyes were bugging out. It had to be the Terminator they'd seen. He looked out of his mind with fear. John was fucking scared too, for a variety of reasons. It all just accreted.
"Ok," John said to himself. "Um, turn the radio on?" He was rambling. Were they being chased? He couldn't get the color red out of his head, for some reason. God, he was out of it. Everyone and their grandmother was chasing him, out for his fucking skin. Robots, the government, and now some crazy anti-luddites. When he was a kid it had been scary, but oddly thrilling. He'd felt way important, and because of that he'd survive. Like it was a book, and he was living in the story. The good guys always win in stories. And now he felt hounded. He was raging with all sorts of shit in his head, and sometimes...
He laid his head back. He was safe now. No need to worry. It's alright. There, there. He couldn't stand death. He'd come close to ending. It was crazy.
Wait, he was in the front seat. Right. Cameron was in the back, and he was in the front. Cameron had shattered one of the windows so she could easily fire out of it. He was in the front. He could turn the radio on. He leaned forward and fiddled with the nearby dial. He should really get over this, because they were still in danger. But he felt blank. Everything...
Stop it. He turned the dial.
"-liiiiiitle-"
"set the solar world on FIRE!-"
Some orchestrated thing came on. John turned it back a bit, seeking the one he'd just heard. It sounded nice and loud. His eyes trailed up to the windshield for a moment, in passing. He never turned the dial.
The air knocked out of him as he was tossed forward against the dashboard when the sedan suddenly impacted the backside of a car. Horns blared. The sedan bounced and debris rained down to the asphalt. The top of his head bashed against the windshield and he felt blood sprinkle down. The world turned from black, to white, to red. Cameron flew into the back of his seat, which snapped nearly in half under her weight. Mike's chest ground against the steering wheel and he screamed in pain.
Then silence. Car settled back. John fell into what was left of his seat and he started moaning in pain. How fast had they been going?
"Mike, what the fuck was that?" Things were shaking, pounding in his head. Everything was all crazy. This... this was just icing.
"Start the car," Cameron commanded.
"Mike?"
"Start the car."
Some guy was getting out of the car ahead of them, bouncing up and down and waving his arms like a loon.
Mike settled back, breathing heavily. "Sorry, I... I'm out of it, we're moving. Going, I'm starting the car."
"Do it, Mike," John said. He looked around them and blinked as some blood trickled against his eye. Cars were piling up all around them. Traffic was... they'd hit traffic. Was why they crashed, sure. For some reason the energy was just draining from him, like he couldn't maintain a constant feel of adrenaline for very long. Like he was just deflating. His head pounded now.
"Yessir," Mike said. John laughed hysterically at this.
"YOU FUCKING KIDS RUINED MY CAR!"
"Start the car, Mike," Cameron said. John fell back against his seat, laughing at the guy.
"I fucking can't, t-there's too much."
"Go through them," she said instantly. John laughed at her insistence.
Oh god...
Christ, just focus, focus focus focus. Get a hold of yourself, John. You're still in fucking combat. You got spooked, fine, but seriously now! GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF. Deep breath. He couldn't lock up like this, just go nuts like a psychotic and refuse to process it all. You're not normal. You are not. Stop acting as if this is all somehow new.
Deeeep breath. He took a deep breath and turned to Cameron, his voice going hard, "Are we being chased?"
There was a noise of grinding metal a few yards back. John jumped and looked out the back window. Nothing but rows and rows of cars. There was another tearing sound, more forceful this time.
"Michael, get away from the wheel and let me drive," Cameron said. She gripped his arm.
"We're being chased," John said. "Shit."
--
They'd gotten into a green sedan, Galloway thought to himself as his car smashed into yet another vehicle. Green sedan. Boxy. Likely damaged. Sirens hooted several blocks away. Irrelevant. The gridlock of cars extended forward almost as far as the eye could see. He briefly weighed the option of abandoning the car his squad had taken and going out to hunt for the target on foot amongst the stalled vehicles. Car horns screamed incessantly. Green sedan.
"Move up," Galloway said.
They moved up, forcing two cars out of their way. They twirled back and smashed into their neighbors. The beeping reached crescendo, world-filling proportions. Galloway leaned out through his window and checked the immediate area. Lot of colors. Machine-like, assembly produced. Impossible from here to tell which one was being used by him. The man next to him nudged up slightly to his shoulder.
"Orders, sir?"
Galloway considered for a moment, surveying the scene. Green sedan- Ah, there. He grinned. A person was standing in front of the target. Galloway yanked the bolt on his M4A1 carbine and took aim.
"To the left, about thirty feet. Open fire."
--
"Is it a fucking jam?"
Michael's hand was clutched around the wheel, resisting Cameron. She'd probably take his stupid arm off if he didn't get the hint soon. John was fiddling with his hair, seeing which strands were matted with blood. Most of them, seemed like. It felt more abstract than painful.
The dude from the car ahead of them was bouncing around just outside, seeming to jump in rhythm with the beeping horns. He was demanding their information. Christ, they probably all looked stoned out of their heads except for Cameron. Cars ahead of them were moving up a bit; the gridlock was slowly unwinding, probably due to everyone's hurry to get away from the clusterfuck that was around their car. They were probably also being pursued, given the noises they'd heard. Things were slow and lethargic when they should have been bolting out of there. There was way too much stress and tension, no one felt like operating.
"Mike, let Cameron drive," John said. "Or me."
"Just waiting for this to clear up," Mike mumbled. He was staring off into space. He didn't want to do anything. Obviously pretty deep in thought, as that was what got them crashed to begin with. John thought that was pretty fucking irresponsible of him, locking up like that.
"Mike, c'mon," John said.
"Mike," Cameron said, "I'm driving."
There was a coughing staccato of sound somewhere behind them. The dude from the car ahead of them suddenly seemed to dance backward and toppled, blood spraying out from his torso. The backside window of the sedan blew out as a bullet pierced it. Cameron looked back through the shattered hole as John flattened himself out.
"Shit!"
Where talking had failed, gunfire succeeded in rousing Mike. The car lurched forward and maneuvered around several other vehicles, driving onto the sidewalk. Mike pounded on the horn to ward off the pedestrians who suddenly seemed to fill the area. People were bailing out of their cars to avoid being shot at. And... they were falling, twirling in... in pain, in... They were being killed.
"What..." He stared at the scene in mesmerized fascination. Oh god, no. What the hell! What the hell?! He turned, "T-they're shooting them, Cam!" He pointed outside, almost as if he was the only one who'd noticed.
"They're not shooting us," Cameron said smoothly. All the same, though, she looked like she knew where he was coming from. He was babbling pretty openly now, unbelieving. Who the fuck were these guys?! That they could do... Cameron laid a hand on him, "John, we can't fire back, that would draw their fire."
As though to refute her, a few bullets clanged off the side of the car. "Fuck it," John said. He grabbed the MP5 and thrust it into her hand, "Your pistol."
Cameron unholstered her SIG and handed it to him. He racked the slide and used the barrel to break the window next to him.
"John, don't-"
He turned against his seat and leaned out the window, aiming. He was a fucking coward, no better than a sack of shit if he just cowered while people died around him. Innocent fucking people. He wouldn't do it, no matter how scared he was.
"John!"
"You're gonna have to put me out or help me, Cam," John said. He watched carefully for the muzzle flash that would signal which car was being fired from. They were still riding along the sidewalk. Everything was in anarchy now as cars tried to go every which way. The sound of screeching metal threatened to overtake the continuous pounding of horns. People ran and screamed in terror. John's knees were shaking like leaves, unused to position he was in. He could barely keep his aim straight. Christ, his head hurt. It felt open, like... gaping. Still bleeding like hell, anyway. Just ignore it and focus... look...
Another loud, resounding cough. A flash of light -- there! Several meters away there was a blue SUV. It looked friendly, which was weird. Sky blue. A Yankees logo had been painted onto the hood, the front license plate read "I (heart) BBall", and an M4A1 carbine hung steady from the passenger window. Heartwarming. John threw his aim to cover it and opened fire. He shot five times before the recoil threatened to shake the pistol out of his hands. He took a moment to breathe, arms shaking. Had he even hit anything?
He jerked back as a bullet slammed into the frame of the sedan, just a few inches from his torso. He dived back into the car as a few more riddled the metal.
"Mike!"
"I'm moving this thing as fast as possible," he said. The pedestrians were thinning out; most of them were fleeing into the surrounding buildings. A few dozen feet ahead, a run-away car plowed through a group of trash cans --and a person-- and flew down an alley.
"Cam!" John turned around and grinned victoriously. She'd smashed her window as well and was busily firing off with the MP5. Hell yes. He leaned out again, pivoted himself over the top of the car and and started to add to the enfilade. The SUV barreled on past several cars, making a bee-line for the sedan. John aimed toward the windshield and fired off twice. He yelled out with something close to delight as it shattered. Yeah, yelling at people, exercising, and crying were all good ways to blow off energy and spend yourself. Shooting felt damned nice, though, when you got results. Felt like power. The SUV hit a storefront along the street and jumped back onto the sidewalk. John stared at it for a moment, waiting...
It backed up slightly, pulled ahead, and resumed its pursuit. He could see one of those black-suited assholes behind the wheel. John cursed.
"Get anyone?!"
"Not yet!" Cameron's gun clicked empty and she dropped the expended mag, "Get down, John!"
He pulled himself back in. "Mike?"
The resistance fighter stabbed the horn twice. Two women in bright red dresses were scrambling out ahead of them clutching several bags of clothing marked "GAP." A few sweaters and pairs of pants flew back and wrapped themselves around the side-view mirror. John grimaced as one of them fell. Her friend stooped to help out.
"Stop!"
Mike kept going, not changing course at all. They were about a few yards away from them and picking up speed for once. John didn't fucking care at that point.
"MIKE!"
He leaned over, grabbed the steering wheel, and forced the car to the left, barely avoiding both women. The car skidded and Mike elbowed John in the stomach. He had to fight to keep the car moving straight ahead, instead of wobbling and losing speed. John fell back against his seat and took in a long, gasping breath. He really wanted to hit back, but it wasn't the time or place. Not by a sight.
They kept driving. Almost like something out of a story, the street appeared to open up ahead of them. Cars were racing around, sure, but they'd cleared the gridlock, driven on past. The constant honk of horns lessened in prominence almost immediately... and gave way to the sound of sirens. The sedan bounced down onto the asphalt and started to accelerate.
"Jesus," John breathed. He felt really light-headed all of a sudden. "Uh-"
The front windshield collapsed into tiny bits of glass. Mike instantly leaned forward and shook out the remaining strands, which cut his hand up bad. He didn't seem to notice. The SUV was still hot on their tail. Behind it, another car (sedan) drove onto the street from the sidewalk. It seemed possessed with the same drive and relentlessness that was within the SUV. Oh, son of a bitch. It had to be that fucking g-man.
They picked up speed. Buildings, cars, everything just seemed to race past. Wind, without the obstruction of glass, blew openly in John's face, making it a struggle to keep his eyes peeled and alert. Only thing that stayed constantly, unchanging was their pursuer vehicle, which seemed almost fixed in the background. One of the thugs (or cultists, John guessed. They were crazies with guns, and they had training to boot. Fucking scary) leaned out of the SUV and opened up with a carbine. There was a sudden, loud pop! and the car started to screech onto the street.
It could only be one thing, but John leaned out anyway. One of the tires was dragging along, deflated and useless. He jumped back in to avoid getting side-swiped by an electric pole and yelled, "Tire's out!"
Cameron flew back in suddenly, the MP5 twirling from her grasp. She'd taken a few bullets to the chest. The carbine continued to send over hot lead.
Mike looked over. He looked pretty fucking tense, but he'd calmed down significantly since his freeze up. "You're shitting me!" Behind them, Cameron's eyes flickered and she pushed herself up like nothing had happened. She grabbed the MP5 and methodically loaded it.
"I wish I was!"
Mike growled, "We'll make it..."
John blinked. And nodded. Yeah, they would. Had to.
"Put some fire on them," Mike went on.
Cameron and John leaned out again and went to work on the SUV, which was rapidly gaining now. The driver ducked immediately as fire came his way, but his passenger suddenly withered and slumped. The carbine clattered onto the street and was crushed by the other sedan. Probably Cameron who made the shot. Yeah, totally. Not him. He breathed, fired once more, and leaned back inside.
"Who was that?"
Cameron shrugged, "I don't know." She looked around and dropped the H&K, "I'm out of clips."
"Fuck."
"The Browning," she said.
Mike nodded to his hip. John bent over and pulled the pistol out from Mike's holster and handed it off to Cameron. Mike nodded again to his pocket. Couldn't he just get it himself...? John shook his head and withdrew a few magazines for the Browning.
John looked back toward the pursuing SUV. It was slowly closing the distance, but it seemed a lot cagier now. They probably didn't want to risk losing more people, although they could basically burn the stupid sedan John was in if the thugs just concentrated their fire when they got close enough. The passenger door came open and the dead --or wounded-- thug was pushed out. A guy jumped over to take his place. The SUV was getting almost directly parallel to the sedan's backside.
Oh christ. Three heads popped out in unison, two from the backseat and the guy in front. John saw one carbine and two submachine guns. The SUV stopped weaving and steadied. They were about to fucking enfilade the sedan.
"GET DOWN!"
John flattened himself just as the thugs opened fire. His head struck the transmission stick and he yelled out in pain. Mike screamed. He was shot, probably. Oh JESUS. He was. They kept going. The roar from the three automatics continued for a few more seconds until they expended themselves. John stared around the car for a moment. Bullet holes and spent cartridges littered the inside. He sent a look over to the dashboard. Oil was dropping pretty fast all of a sudden. Christ, they were lucky the whole thing didn't go up. And...
"Mike!"
Mike waved his hand, rising from cover, "I'm fucking fine, let me... let me drive."
"You... you're-"
"I'm fine." He pivoted his body toward John, "See?"
He was fine. What was...? Fuck, it didn't even matter. The world seemed to be spinning round and round, and John thought he was gonna be sick. He felt himself winding up like a spring, just about to... They were gonna shoot again. They couldn't hold out against that kind of firepower. The center could not hold. Something had to give.
"Cam?"
"What?"
"Just checking." He laughed slightly. Of course she was fine... Christ, that whole shit was scary... He could just about feel them unloading, just...
"We have to get rid of them. All of them," Cameron said.
"No kidding, but we can't just stop, Cam."
"I know. I was going to suggest shooting them some more."
"Oh. Well, ok." That worked. Focus, John. He breathed in tightly and loaded the SIG. Make it fucking count.
They leaned out again and fired away.
--
Ellison was way in over his head. That was a fact. The cars up ahead of him had been locked in a five minute long gun duel and so far it seemed that two people had been killed. None in the sedan, thankfully. Ellison felt nothing for the deaths of the men inside the SUV. They were terrorists. What he did feel was the certainty of his own death... should he get any closer than he was now. Yet at the same time, he felt as if he had no choice. Those guys had some pretty awe-inspiring hardware at their disposal. Homegrown? He hadn't seen any ethnicity indications, but... it didn't matter. John and his "pals" weren't going to hold out much longer, and they were useless to Ellison if they were all dead. And of his own conscience should they die and he just stood by? It didn't bear thinking about.
He was a Federal agent, not a vigilante... but things were shifting under his feet. Better to shift with them. He eased his foot on the throttle and tried not think about the damages he was going to have to pay for the poor woman he'd borrowed this car from.
--
Once, fire. Twice, fire. Thrice, fire. SIG-Sauer P239 with a capacity of... eight rounds. Or was it nine? Fuck. John was trying to keep count of his ammunition as he unloaded on the trailing SUV. It wasn't exactly fun, what with the wind blowing in his face, pounding headache, screaming sirens, dealing with recoil, and trying to keep good tabs on his mag... Basically he didn't think he was being very accurate, all things considered. He'd gradually gone from aiming at the occupants to shooting at the engine. If he could score a hit that would cause an explosion it'd be a fucking happy day for everyone who wasn't a machine-obsessed cultist. So far he was having no luck. He felt that he wasn't even hitting half the time, which made him shit scared that he'd hit some innocent bystander instead of a gun-toting maniac. Cameron, a little ahead of him, pumped out bullets with all the caution and consideration of a five year old with a water pistol.
He fired again. Uh, what was that? Wait. Wait. Fuck, he'd lost count. Fuck. Uhh... Two heads popped out of the SUV, rifles held aloft. They'd scored a hit on one of them, then! There'd been three! Hell yes.
They opened fire, which put a rather sour end to John's private jubilations. He pulled himself back in. Cameron's pistol clicked empty and she fell in as well. They all took cover again as hot rounds washed over the surface and interior of the sedan. John almost forgot to breathe after feeling a bullet whiz over his hair and slam into the dashboard. Cameron soaked up a few rounds for the team. She was gonna look like shit when all was said and done... no doubts there. When they stopped, John could barely call up the will to spring back up again. This wasn't gonna work. Those guys would eventually score a lucky hit, and they sounded as if they had all the munitions in the world at their disposal. They couldn't depend on the stupid cops for help, either. They had to get lucky.
Mike was breathing pretty heavily. That was all John processed at first, silently reloading his gun. Then he realized it was almost all he could hear. Just him breathing. It was fucking loud, wheezing, and-
"Oh, you fucker," John said softly. All he could think of was that his last thought had been the word lucky. How ironic.
Mike's hands were slumping off the wheel, drifting. He was practically doubled over. He was shot. He'd fucking lied to him.
"Mike!"
Mike turned slightly to him. Blood was seeping through his t-shirt, at about the upper midsection. Sweat seemed to rain from his forehead as he said, "I said... I'm fine..."
His entire body seemed to slacken and he slumped over against the wheel with a dull thud. John had just enough time to curse as the sedan swerved. It was like gravity ceased to exist, and that was fucking ironic. He could feel himself being launched sideways against Mike's suddenly still form. Cameron jerked back and one of the guns discharged. They hit a lamp post and gravity was restored in a fucking big way.
John went through what was left of the windshield and rolled twice on the asphalt. A car swung away to avoid hitting him and clipped the side of the SUV, which screamed past. It took John a while to realize that that was deliberate; the car belonged to the g-man. His arms were gravel coated and bloody; they screamed with pain, and he didn't notice. Behind him, he heard the sedan, abused and mangled beyond recognition, emit one last cough and the engine shut down. Ahead of him, the SUV screeched and toppled sideways after being hit by the g-man. Rolled and skidded several feet flat on its top and came to a halt. Ammo began to cook off within, turning the inside into a flash fryer for anyone still within.
The remaining vehicle pulled up to the curb several dozen feet away. The euphoria, the shock of seeing the SUV defeated wore off as suddenly as it came on. Pain, long overdue for its moment in the sun, came blockbusting in, shoving all other feelings away. John screamed, moaned, he thrashed abjectly against the street. His head felt like someone had taken an axe to it, his burns from yesterday were getting irritated by the sensation of being pressed against a hot street, his hands, arms bled like he'd stuck a vein, legs were all...
He started coughing and everything went bright red for a few seconds. He stopped screaming and just started to breathe, taking in gasping, hitching breaths, fighting to restore himself. One hand up. Drag it... drag it... push. Second hand up... drag it and push... He lifted himself up, got onto his knees. There was a lot of blood around him, in messy red splatters all over the black top. Breathe. Get up.
He looked up. A guy was getting out of the totaled SUV, his headgear missing. Blood dribbled off his body as he dragged himself out. The g-man, same guy he'd seen at the police station --he knew his fucking name, it had to be Ellison--, advanced over to him, pistol held high. The man whipped out his own pistol and pointed it listlessly toward the agent. Ellison's handgun spoke once in response and the man collapsed. On your knees. Slowly... slowly... Ellison was running toward him.
"Don't move, John! Do not move!"
His ears were ringing. Could barely hear the man. The SIG was on the ground next to him. John absently took it and racked the slide. He'd reloaded, but forgot to rack it. That was alright. He let it snap back and raised it with wavering arms. Ellison was sprinting, he was a few feet away.
John shot early. The bullet exploded harmlessly against the ground, not even close to the agent. John raised his arms, shielding. Ellison stopped and yanked the pistol from his grasp. He took John's collar and shoved him back against the ground. John groaned, and he slowly tried to push himself back up. Ellison jammed a foot against his stomach. Everything was like jelly. Ellison was reaching for a pair of handcuffs --every agent must have one, John supposed-- and started to unlock them. Ellison was shaking like a tree, he looked so excited.
John leaned his head forward, "H-hey..."
"Quiet."
"Read my rights?"
Ellison sagged, "No."
"Why?"
"Where's your mother, John? Where is she?"
"Not telling," he said quietly.
"Charley already told me everything, John," Ellison said. He used his foot to scoot John onto his back and he bent forward, "Every detail, he sang like a canary bird. They've sent a SWAT team to pick her up at your house."
John thrashed, "FUCKING liar, get off!"
Ellison was silent. He forced John's wrists together and linked one of the chains. John pulled his other hand away and buried it under his chest. His legs kicked up against Ellison's ass, but the agent just took it without wavering. He tried to pull John's arm back up, and he had a fucking powerful grip, too. Even so, John resisted, although he doubted he could hold on for long.
"John!"
"Get off!"
The agent gave another hard pull. John screamed in pain as his shoulder cracked back. His arm went limp. Ellison pulled it over with a grunt.
"Just give up, it's over!"
"No, no, you don't fucking-"
Cameron smashed her pistol butt against Ellison's head. He let out a slight, surprised grunt and turned around to watch her for a second. She offered him nothing but an ironic smile as he slumped to the ground. Every hair on John's body seemed to stand on end. Holy fucking shit.
Cameron dragged Ellison off of him and snapped the link around John's wrist. He silently rubbed his head once down onto the street, sighed, and let Cameron help him up. Without hesitating he scrambled to her and hugged her tightly. A lot of blood from her chest soaked onto his jacket, but he didn't care. He inhaled sharply and let his head rest against her neck. Cameron's arms wrapped carefully around his waist and pulled him in slightly. They stood like that for a moment, the only sound being the howling of sirens in the distance and a sudden, explosive cacophony as the SUV burned.
"Thanks," he breathed, "Again."
Cameron pulled away, "Any time, John." She smiled pleasantly, as if she'd just seen a butterfly. It was sort of weird, but John didn't care. It was affection in her own way, her own right. "We have to go."
"Where's Mike?"
Cameron steered him toward Ellison's parked car, "He's still alive. I'll bring him over."
"Christ, poor Charley," John said, mostly to himself. "We can't give him a break." Guy was shot, of course they'd have to see a doctor... and Charley was the only one they could trust. Poor guy. John giggled manically, even though it wasn't funny at all. Christ. He was freaking wet all over, with blood, sweat, piss... The giggles turned to loud, braying sobs as he wandered over to Ellison's car. He had to lean against the hood for a few seconds to let his breath catch up with him. He turned the side-view mirror toward him and stared.
His hair was clipped a bit, all matted against his forehead, either with sweat or blood. Tiny traces of red had rivulated down his face. There was a pretty angry looking pink wound near the top of his scalp. His lower lip seemed to tremble convulsively, and his right eye twitched. Blinking it caused pain. He hiccuped another sob and climbed into the car, settling on the passenger side. He absently felt down to his crotch. He'd pissed himself again, probably when he hit the ground after getting ejected. He smelt like fear. It was all over him. He remembered that smell. Hadn't had it in a while, but he remembered.
But fuck, man, they'd MADE IT. They were getting the fuck out of there, they'd won. They had an idea of where to go, what to do, who their enemies were, assets... it was fucked up shit, of course, but they could plan now. He didn't know how intimately tied these people were with Skynet. Or how Sarkissian really factored in with it all. They'd have to... talk again, he supposed.
And what? Go through this tomorrow? Another day of emotional bullshit with his feelings toward Cameron, with Mike, with gunplay, with his fucking elders...Go through this tomorrow? How many people had died? He felt empty now. Like, really, really empty, just drained. He wasn't even shaking, he was completely still. Things were out there, and his death would make them so happy. So, so happy. Go through it again? What made him think otherwise? This week had been fucking bullshit every day. He was coming apart. Apart. He couldn't stand much more of it. The center could not hold. Eventually he'd drop dead. Today he'd almost been taken by the stupid cops. His luck had to run out, sooner or later. Only a matter of time.
And he was so weak. Here he was all screwed up over it, thoughts revolving in his head like they couldn't escape. He... he so wanted to be the man everyone wanted. But he didn't think he could do it. He feared for his stability of mind, his life, his feelings. He so feared. He couldn't do this much longer. No.
He was very silent, and very still for a while until Cameron hauled Mike into the back of the sedan. Mike was bleeding pretty heavily. He was conscious, but the words he was saying didn't make any sense. He was probably out of it.
Calm down. Stop being a walking drama. You're not normal. Stop acting like it.
He calmed down. "Where're we going?"
Cameron got into the front seat, "Home. Call Sarah."
John took out his cellphone. It looked pristine. He let out a sigh and lowered his head down onto the dashboard. Car started up. John hit a few buttons.
"Who the hell are these guys, Cameron...?"
Cameron looked at him. "People who must all be killed."
Well. John pressed the phone to his ear.
"Hey, mom," he whispered. "I'm ok."