Chapter Three: A Normal Day

John Connor woke early one morning in his bunk. The room was pitch-black, though the soft snores from the others told him exactly where he was. Lying there, staring up towards the empty bunk above him, he reached over and turned on his lamp. The bulb glowed softly, revealing the metal framework of the bed above and causing some of the others to stir and roll over as they continued to sleep. John stared at the light, listening to the quiet buzz of the bulb. When it was this silent, he could hear these things clearly.

He climbed out of the bed, the springs creaking as he swung his legs over and planted his feet on the concrete floor. He paused to see if his movements had disturbed any of the others, but no-one had stirred. He stood and stretched a moment before creeping out through the metal door, closing it gently behind him as he did.

Sarah wasn't in her bunk when he woke—she usually never was. Instead, John found her where she always was as he stepped into the radio room, his ears tuning out the endless void of rainy static from the speaker on the desk. She was wide awake—and had been for some time—doing push-ups on the ground as she did most mornings as part of her routine. Try as she might, the human body would not match the physical strength of a T-800, but she always aimed to even the odds.

"Morning," John glanced at the radio. "Heard anything yet?"

"Nope," replied Sarah, her reply staggered between reps. "There's nothing out there."

She stopped and sat up straight before standing. She took a swig from a bottle of water and wiped away the sweat from her forehead. "I'd say the Resistance isn't organised yet. They probably don't know that we're at war."

"And who exactly are the Resistance?"

"You. Me. All of us in this bunker. Everyone who is still alive. They just don't know it yet."

"No, but who are we listening out for?" asked John, a tone of impatience in his voice.

"Any of the military bases in California that may have survived. Right now, I bet they're doing the same thing as us. They might not be able to broadcast yet because they'll know that Skynet is in control and will be listening."

"If Skynet is a military supercomputer, won't it know where all of the bunkers are? Won't it have already found them?"

"That's where we have to have hope. All I know is, sooner or later they organise and set up shop somewhere and eventually start sending out messages to people like you and me."

"But what if—"

"I don't know, John!"

A tense silence followed. The lack of sleep and the stress was wearing Sarah down to the core. It had been this way since the start—she knew the answers, but she didn't know every little detail. Over the years, Enrique and his family had humoured her, mostly because they were old friends and he had trusted her for years, but when the bombs finally fell, they were forced to accept that she had been right. She had been right about the event, the date, and the scale. She had been prepared for the immediate aftermath and now they were coming to her with questions that she didn't have all of the answers to. Questions about the ins and outs of Cyberdyne and Skynet and what kind of Terminators were out there and where the Resistance was hiding. Everything she did know for certain was information from near the end of the war, more than thirty years away. The here and now were still a mystery.

She knew about the stealth bombers and she knew about Skynet's plan to eradicate all human life. She knew there would one day be labour camps where humans were going to be rounded up into. She knew that Skynet was a learning computer, and it wouldn't take long for it to start learning about the human body and the best ways to destroy it and to cause pain. How it learns these things was a subject that she didn't like to dwell on.

John left her to her morning routine and continued on to use the bathroom. Then, he went into the washroom for his semi-regular bath and heated the used soapy water that was in the tub by turning on the heating element coil that was wrapped around the bottom of it. He grabbed a cloth to clean himself off with, and afterwards, it was his turn to pour the water out. Everyone washed themselves twice a week and at the end of the week the water had to be changed. There simply wasn't enough that could be spared for thorough cleaning. Not if it was going to last them, anyway.

Once cleaned and dressed, John went down the corridor to the kitchen, entering it to find Enrique's wife, Jolanda, at the small round table with a bowl of porridge in front of her. John's Spanish was better than her English, so she often practiced with him. Though since Judgement Day, that practice had waned a bit, so they nearly always spoke to each other in Spanish.

"Morning, John." She didn't look up. She was worried about Enrique and their son, Franco. It had now been three weeks since they left for La Paz to find Enrique's parents, but they still hadn't returned. Sarah had warned them that to go out there right now was death, that the air was too polluted, that the world out there would be on fire, and that any large human settlements would now be craters of rubble. If the environment didn't kill them, the other survivors probably would.

"Morning, Jolanda." John made himself a warm bowl of oats and sat down opposite her. "Any plans for today?"

"Oh yes, many. First, I need to do the gardening before it gets too hot outside, then I need to go down to the shops and buy some things for our lunch."

Speaking as though the world hadn't changed was a running joke that they had, and it seemed to help them cope, though every day it had made her smile less and less. "Maybe I'll get some wine for our Sunday lunch."

"It's Friday, I think" replied John, though he would have to check the calendar to be sure.

"Oh, well. I'll buy it anyway and save it for later."

They ate in silence, Jolanda never meeting John's gaze. The small joys of day-to-day life were gone, but there were always the happy memories to fall back on. It was the future children who would grow up in this new world with no idea of what a normal life used to be.

Knowing that his mother wouldn't leave the radio room for breakfast, John made up an extra bowl of porridge and took it back to her. He stepped into the room quietly, unsure if her still figure sitting at the desk facing away from him was awake or not. He approached her and placed the ceramic bowl on the desk, the sound of its thud and scrape on the surface rousing her from her nap. She ate wordlessly and told John to take over for her for a while so she could have a proper sleep.

For the next few hours, John stayed in the radio room reading one of his books, not daring to make any sound almost in fear of incurring the wrath of some imaginary librarian. He stayed and he listened. He listened to the empty outside world, the sound like constant rain on a tin roof. The sound conjured images of endless rain pattering on dead soil that would never grow. Slowly, the sound morphed into diesel engines and John could now see rows and rows of old tanks rolling their way towards him, soldiers marching alongside them through the fog of static. It was the Resistance coming to save them. But as they got nearer and the sound got louder, he could now tell that these were not really men of flesh, but ones of metal. They were drawing nearer, an army stretched across the landscape in an endless line. One of the men was staring right at him as he marched closer, his façade of human skin never showing emotion, and when he was close enough, he drew a handgun from his holster and pointed it at him. In that last second, John could see the metal arm glinting from underneath the man's sleeve, revealing to the empty world the open secret of what they really were. There would now be nobody left to fool. It pulled the trigger.

John woke with a start. The sound that had filled his head had seemed so loud, so all-consuming. Now, as he looked slowly around the room in a daze, he was reassured that the quiet sound had only ever been coming from the small radio speaker.

It was mid-morning and as John began to pace the room, he could hear the sound of all of the bunker's inhabitants as they talked and laughed. He approached the open doorway and leaned out to see little Paco running up and down the corridor, darting from room to room in a game that only he was playing, his imagination firing. Jolanda was at the far end, just outside the kitchen speaking animatedly with her eldest daughter, Juanita. John smiled to himself. In the face of an apocalypse, they were able to keep themselves, though the cracks were beginning to show, and John could see it if he watched Jolanda for long enough. She spotted him and waved with a strained smile, Juanita turning and doing the same, though her smile was more genuine. John waved back and retreated again into the radio room.

It had been this way since the start. Though all of them were sharing the bunker that Sarah had built with Enrique's help over the years, they had never quite felt like a single family. It had always felt like they were living separately with John and his mother. They all got along, as they would have to when living in such close quarters, but there was always an underlying sense of 'us and them', a dull simmering sense of tribalism that was threatening to rear its ugly head. John felt it now as none of them had joined him in the radio room. It could have just been that they had noticed that he was asleep, but he still felt as though they were keeping themselves separated away from him.

Sarah's exhaustion and stress didn't help the situation. She firmly believed that Enrique's family would be dead by now had it not been for her and she had never quite felt their full appreciation. The bunker could hold more people, and the thought that Enrique could have saved his parents as well if only Sarah had done a better job warning them kept creeping up in their minds. It was an unfair thought—none of them had really believed her—but nonetheless, if they were already hunkered down with them, Enrique and Franco would still be here.

The mild, simmering tension within the bunker that was brewing amongst the old friends further cemented Sarah's resolve not to broadcast their location to other survivors, as John had once asked.

"If we can't find the Resistance, why can't we let them know where we are?" he had asked one afternoon while listening to the radio.

"Because" replied Sarah, her tired eyes watching him carefully, making sure he understood. "The people out there will be desperate. Starving. Will do anything to get ahead. Our cities are gone, our governments are gone. There is no law anymore, nothing to stop them from doing anything that they feel they need to. If you think it's a bit hard in here now with the people we do know, imagine what it would be like if we had dozens of people who we don't know trying to get in. We have plenty of weapons to defend ourselves, but they could very well fall into their hands, and then what? We could so easily lose everything to a bunch of desperate men if we just let anyone in.

"We want to save humanity. But right now, without any real structured society, we're on our own against them. There has always only ever been a thin line between civilisation and anarchy, and those nukes blew it to pieces. Out there, right now, you can't trust anyone. Keep your secrets to yourself, don't let just anyone know where the caches are, and keep looking for the Resistance. They'll be the closest thing to society and law that we'll have, now."

The day went on. Sarah returned from her short sleep and sat back down at the radio while John and Juanita sat on the couch, playing a card game. That feeling of creeping tribalism was fading again as they all sat in the radio room and just enjoyed each other's company. It was just a normal day.

The room went still. Everyone looked up, not sure where the sound had come from or what it was. It rang out again, a dull hammering on solid metal. It came from down the other end of the corridor. Sarah recognised it and sprang into action like a soldier itching for an attack to happen. Everyone stood with uncertainty as Sarah ran out of the door and reappeared moments later wearing a disposable HAZMAT suit and grabbing a shotgun from the locker in the corner, her head covered by the hood, her face behind a surgical mask and clear safety glasses—choosing this instead of a full face shield or gas mask as it was easier to aim her weapon. She turned and headed for the entrance. With a gesture, she told them to stay where they were as she continued on down the corridor.

They stood in nervous anticipation as the banging sound rang out repeatedly through the thick, established silence of the bunker. Sarah reached the ladder and stood, listening, looking up at the hatch that had been locked from the inside since Enrique and Franco had left. There was a voice. Only one voice, calling out for Sarah Connor. She recognised the voice and, shotgun still in hand, she climbed up a few rungs and reached up towards the hatch and unlocked it. She stood back immediately and raised the shotgun again as it opened and a man began to climb down.

"Enrique? Stay there! What happened to your suit? Take it off and put it in the bag! Now!"