What had I seen in its hands? A Glock 17? 21? 37? Something like that. Anywhere from ten to seventeen rounds, as a rule, and it had already fired five.
Six, seven, and eight flew past me. It had made it to the hallway too.
Eight rounds? Maybe the magazine was eighty percent empty, maybe it was a little more than fifty percent empty. Every one that didn't hit me was a win in itself and increased the odds I'd survive.
But how many mags had it brought? I'd have brought more than one.
The hallway was a death trap. It was narrow, open, and linear. Perfect for a robot.
Get out of the kill zone.
I threw myself to the side, into a classroom.
Emma's, as it happened. She glared at me, offended, like my bursting in was somehow making her look bad. Everyone gawped at me.
Hadn't they heard the gunfire? Didn't they know what it meant?
"He's got a gun!" I screamed, moving closer to the windows, by where Emma was sitting. "If you're moving, you're harder to hit! Everybody run! Get out of here! Run!"
There was a stampede out the door, and I felt a little guilty because moving was the opposite of what we'd all been told to do during an active shooter situation. But I figured it was after me, not them, and the bustle should buy me a few seconds.
I half-hoisted, half-shoved Emma's vacated desk through a window and looked down.
New problem.
Not that the first one was solved.
Another problem.
I was on the second floor.
I knew how to break a fall, of course. I'd learned it when I learned martial arts, which had been years ago. Brian and I sometimes sparred, but that was different from really keeping in practice. Not that I'd ever practiced jumping out of buildings.
How long did I have left? Five seconds? Eight?
Did I have a choice?
At least I'd hit grass.
I pulled my hand up into my hoodie's sleeve to protect it and used my arm to clear out the last shards of glass that were stuck along the sill. As I climbed out and started to lower myself, decreasing the distance I'd have to drop, the terminator came into view.
I let go.
Rounds nine and ten flew over my head.
I bent my knees, hit the ground feet first, and fell into a roll. Pain shot from my ankle up to my knee.
As I got to my feet, I looked up.
It stood in the window, changing mags. I looked around. I was in an open area, at least fifty feet away from the nearest cover.
Too late. I hadn't been fast enough.
Theresa crashed into him from behind, knocking him out the window to the ground. She landed on top of him, then hauled him up, spun him around, and slammed him face-first into the concrete wall with enough force it cracked.
I tested my ankle. It bore my weight.
I started running again. To the parking lot, where I could at least dodge in between cars as I made my way away.
Scion had tried this before. It hadn't known my mom's name—or that my mom hadn't been born until I was ten—so it had gone after my dad. That terminator had failed because, my dad said, I had sent my mom back to protect him.
A teenage girl shouldn't have been able to toss a few hundred pounds of machine around, let alone survive three shots to the chest.
Had I sent Theresa back to myself this time around?
If so, I had terrible timing. I should have set her to arrive, like, at least yesterday. Told her to meet up with me sometime before the shooting started, anyway.
I quit running when I found a bus stop several blocks away. It was 11:08, and the next bus was scheduled for noon.
I wasn't worried. This was Brockton Bay. The buses always ran late, and the eleven o'clock one should arrive shortly.
Keeping an eye on the direction I'd come from, I called Alan.
"There was a shooting," I said.
He freaked out. Maybe I should have led with Emma's status.
"Listen to me, Alan. Focus. Emma's fine, for now, but she's not safe. The guy was after me and if he finds out I live with you he might think that you're a way to get to me. I've got some money and I'm going to go to Boston for a little bit. To stay away from you, make sure you aren't a target."
"Taylor—"
"You should go away for a couple weeks. Anne too. Just to be safe. You have passports. Maybe Montreal."
He spluttered about his cases and a judge.
"Do you want to die? Do you want Zoe to die? Do you want Emma to die? Shut up and listen to me. Get your family out of this city and don't come back until I call you. If I call you, I'll prove it's me by saying 'Emma needs to be grounded.' If you don't hear 'Emma needs to be grounded' from me, it's a signal you're in danger and need to get out of wherever you are."
"Hey—"
I hung up and pitched my phone into the bed of a pickup truck that was moving the other direction. I saw the driver jerk his head up to look in the rear-view mirror, but he didn't stop.
I checked my watch. 11:12.
I thought might have to give up on the bus and get moving again. I scanned the street, looking for a car I knew I'd be able to hotwire. It's what I would have done if I had any intention of actually going to Boston.
No, I was going to Lisa's place. If I'd sent anyone back, I'd have told them about my friends and where to find me.
I decided against the car. A stolen car would be reported, and if the police found it at the Docks, the terminator might put two and two together.
Besides, I was developing a theory and I wanted to confirm it.
The minutes passed. No terminators, but the bus finally arrived at 11:18.
As I took my seat, I exhaled slowly.
I'd bet right.
If there was a terminator here, it meant I threatened Scion in the future. If I threatened Scion in the future, that meant I was in the future. If I was in the future, I would make it to the future. If I made it to the future, then I would survive "Mr. Wallis." If I survived Mr. Wallis, I would make the right choices here and now. The terminator's very presence was a confirmation it would fail.
I would make it.
That was the only way things made sense.
The loop had to stay stable.
Didn't it?