The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

THURSDAY cont.

John crosses to the stairwell door and listens. "The cops are coming up. I can hear them."

I draw my pistol and check a round is chambered.

"Put it away," John snaps. "They're on our side."

"They will arrest us."

"Not if I can help it."

He examines the door and the frame. "These are both made of metal. Could you crimp it so the door can't be opened?"

"Like this?" I bend the frame slightly. John tugs on the handle. "Won't budge. Perfect. That'll slow them down."

"But we are trapped up here."

"Not for long."

He collects the washing lines strung between the ventilator chimneys and ties them together making one long rope. He ties a loop round his waist and hands me the other end. "You're gonna lower me down the side of the building."

I examine the rope. A multitude of woven nylon threads. A man-made fibre. Strong and durable. I estimate the breaking strain to be two hundred fifty pounds. John weighs one-sixty. A sufficient margin of error.

"Can you make it down okay?" John asks as he begins his descent.

"I will find a way."

"We need to draw the triple-8 away from here. Otherwise it'll turn into a bloodbath."

Once he is safely on the ground I release the rope. I watch him gather it up and head for the Suburban. There is no sign of the triple-8. Or Sarah Connor.

From the stairwell door comes the sound of four policemen angry that the way is blocked. "Kick the sonofabitch in, Barney!" one of them yells. Good luck with that, Barney.

How to get off the roof? A five story fall would likely damage vital components, and I will need to be in good shape if it comes to a terminator v terminator smackdown.

There is another way...

I cross to the rear of the building. The pool sparkles below. Blue. Tranquil. Inviting. And with enough volume of water to break my fall.

I do the calculations. A vector graph appears in my HUD. I take a step. Two. Three. I vault the parapet.

Falling...

Falling...

I hit the center of the pool precisely where I was aiming, generating an enormous wave of displaced water. I sink to the bottom, my gyros keeping me upright. Once my feet touch the tile bottom I walk through the pool and up the steps at the shallow end. Nothing to it.

As the water cascades off my sodden clothing, I catch a glimpse of an onlooker. An elderly white haired man wearing bib overalls is wielding a broom to sweep the pool's edge. The janitor possibly. The water I displaced has completely soaked him. I nod politely in his direction and say, "Nice evening." He stares at me open mouthed in his sodden bedraggled clothes and neglects to reply. Honestly, manners cost nothing.

John has the Suburban idling in neutral, lights off. I join him. "What happened to you?" he asks as my wet clothes drip all over the seat.

"I jumped into the pool."

"From five floors up? Oh man, I wish I'd seen that! Eat your heart out, Greg Louganis!"

Gunfire from the building and Sarah Connor emerges, firing her gun at some unseen enemy. She spots the police vehicles and fires several rounds into the tires, immobilising them.

"Damn, I should have thought of that," John reproaches himself.

She climbs in back. "Well, what are we waiting for - an invitation?"

John flattens his palm on the steering wheel, activating the horn. "This should get that metal SOB's attention."

"And half the neighborhood."

The triple-8 exits the building at a run, heading towards us. The Suburban's tires squeal as we depart the lot.

"Is it following?"

"Yes."

"Buckle up. The ride could get bumpy."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Sure do."

The plan is a good one. It should succeed. Although timing will be paramount.

"Give me a distance check."

"Fifty yards."

"Too close. Need more room."

The accelarator is floored and the Suburban surges forward. The gap widens slightly.

"Sixty yards."

"Not enough."

We weave through traffic, avoiding the freeway. We enter residential streets lit by orange argon lamps. Our speed increases.

"Seventy yards."

We take to the sidewalk to avoid a Volkswagon reverse parking.

"Eighty yards."

"Okay, the next bend. Everyone know what to do? We'll only get one shot at this."

Past the next corner, John stands on the brakes. Before the Suburban has fully stopped I am out the door, taking the nylon rope with me. On the opposite sidewalk I pull it taut. The other end is tied to the frame of the vehicle. The rope makes a thin yet deadly obstacle five feet off the ground.

If the triple-8 suspects the trap it is too late to do anything about it. The Harley takes the corner at speed. The rider impacts the nylon rope at chest height and catapaults off the back of the bike before there is time to take evasive action. The rope snaps. No matter. It has its served its purpose.

The three of us are on the stricken terminator in an instant, guns drawn. We begin firing together, aiming at the skull which the armor-piercing rounds make easy work of. The noise of three guns going off simultaneously is enormous. I even get an audio overload warning in my HUD.

Silence. We are out of bullets.

More importantly, the triple-8 is without a skull.

FRIDAY

Our exploits in West Hollywood do not feature on any news broadcasts.

"Hardly surprising," John says when I bring it to his attention. "What did we do that was so bad? Impersonated a couple of FBI agents."

"And shot up two police cruisers," his mother adds.

"Exactly. That's barely newsworthy in LA. Now if this was Podunk, Nebraska it'd be the crime of the century."

"This isn't Podunk, Nebraska," I point out.

"Nope. I think it went well all things considered. Not as planned maybe, but no one got hurt and the Big Bad Wolf is dead."

The Big Bad Wolf being the triple-8, presently headless and stowed in the garage.

I sense a mood of relief and quiet satisfaction from John and his mother. It is the early hours of the morning and their adrenalin levels are slowly beginning to subside. Both are drinking strong coffee because a new day is almost upon us and there is little time for sleep.

"Too bad my namesake turned out to be such a douche. Fancy calling on the cops on us. Jerk. I wonder what gave us away?"

"Her donkey remark didn't help."

I will likely never hear the end of that.

"I think we looked too young. He said as much when he brought us the coffee. I hope the buds on his orchids drop off."

"Please. No more orchid talk. When you left that was all I heard. Did you know there are over thirty thousand species of orchid?"

"No. Nor do I care to."

"Now you know how I felt. I'm not surprised his wife left him."

"Made great coffee though. And that was a smoking Corvette." John glances at his watch. "Do we have to pick up Mia?"

"No. I agreed she could go straight to school from her friend's house. I'll pick her up later. We really should get them a thank you gift."

"Good idea. How about a bunch of orchids?"

John ducks as his mother throws a spoon at him.

-0-

In the garage we remove the clothes from the triple-8 then I take a sharp knife and slice open its abdomen, removing the armor plating and carefully extracting the powercell. The chassis can be burned using thermite, but the powercell has radioactive isotopes hazardous to human health if incinerated and must be disposed of more circumspectly.

"Could you use this as a backup?"

"No. It only fits this model of terminator."

"Not plug and play, huh. Skynet missed a trick there."

"Shall we explode it in the desert?"

"No. I've seen one of these babies go up. It's like a nuclear explosion."

"It is a nuclear explosion."

"We'll drop it in the ocean. Less chance anyone noticing."

"So we'll need a boat. I like boats. Fast." I recall our escape to Mexico.

"Not the boat I have in mind."

-0-

We clear the dock of the Newport Beach Yacht marina and head out to sea. John is seated at the helm of a fifteen meter sailboat we have leased for the day. He is right; this isn't a fast boat. It relies primarily on wind for its impetous, although it also has a small inboard engine.

"Shall I raise the mainsail?" I enquire.

"Do you know how to sail?"

"No."

"Neither do I. Let's not complicate things. The motor will get us where we want to go."

"A powerboat would be faster."

"I did enough racing around last night. Relax. Some people work their entire lives so they can be where we are now."

I go below deck to retrieve the powercell. On one of the wooden bench seats is a cap. Stitched above the peak is a name: HENRI LLOYD. Possibly the boat's owner. I try the cap fit. Good. It will help keep the sun from drying out my hair. Merci, Henri. No one likes a frizzhead.

We motor sedately away from the shore until there is nothing to see but ocean in all directions.

"Far enough, I think." John cuts the engine. It is almost noon. The sun is at its zenith and blazes forth out of a cloudless sky. "Can you set it to explode at a decent depth?"

I make the necessary calculation then crack open the containment shields. "Critical mass will be reached in two minutes."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Throw it over the side!"

I do so. The motor is restarted and we head away from the blastzone.

"One minute."

I look around. There are no other vessels in the vicinity. No witnesses.

"Thirty seconds."

I look to the sky. A thin vapour trail is heading east. I utilise my optical zoom. A passenger jet, no doubt bound for one of the Pacific Rim nations. It is too high in the atmosphere to notice anything.

"Ten seconds," I announce. "Nine, eight, seven-"

"Okay, Houston, I think we've got it."

At zero the ocean seems to bulge upwards, before a huge huge geyser erupts from the surface sending a fountain of water ninety feet in the air. Even several hundred yards away we are suddenly enveloped in spray. Fortunately tha cap prevents my hair from being soaked. Merci beaucoup, Henri, mon ami.

"Spectacular! I bet that shows up on a few seismographs. They'll think it was a mini earthquake."

We head back to the marina. The man who leased us the sailboat is surprised to see us back so soon and asks if there is a problem.

"Not really," John replies. "My girlfriend started to feel seasick so I thought we'd call it a day."

The man looks at me. I decide to sell the lie by acting sick. "Bleaugh!" I go, making a face and rubbing my stomach in a circular motion.

On the drive home John can't stop smiling at my performance. "Bleaugh!" he laughs. "That was some great acting, Meryl Streep."

Everyone's a critic.

-0-

While John and his mother spend the afternoon getting some much needed sleep, I attend to the household chores. A terminator's work is never done.

I load the dishwasher then scrub the work surfaces with anti-baterial spray until they are as germ-free as I can make them short of using a flamethrower. And this might invalidate the household insurance. I then mow the grass in the backyard.

Mt Tibbles watches from his usual perch on the wooden perimeter fence. "Snowy is away but will be back later," I inform him. The cat gives an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. The two are friends, of a sort. "Why don't you come over here and I'll give you a nice bowl of milk."

Another almost imperceptible shake of the head. Mr Tibbles recognises me as a superior predator and is mindful never to set foot on my territory.

"What are you afraid of? I won't eat you."

Mr Tibbles rises, stretches and leaps down into his own yard, sashaying away with a disdainful flick of the tail, as if saying 'no one tells me what to do.' An interesting creature this. A terminator's mindset in the body of an innocent-looking small mammal

-0-

Mia is collected from school and returns home full of enthusiasum about her sleepover.

"It was awesome! Megan has two iPads now. One for the basement playroom and one for her bedroom. So she doesn't have to carry it up and down the stairs."

"Perish the thought she should have to carry something as heavy as an iPad," Sarah Connor quips sarcastically.

"And Megan's sister's getting a gastric band!"

"What is a gastric band?" I ask.

"A sort of plastic tie for inside your tummy. You eat less and lose weight."

"Perhaps we should fit Snowy with a gastric band?" I suggest.

Snowy's ears prick up in alarm and he bolts from the room. We hear him scurrying up the stairs, no doubt to hide under a bed where he believes, erroneously, that he can't be found.

"I've met this girl," Sarah Connor says. "No way is she that overweight."

"She's a size eight and wants to be a size zero."

"Join a gym! Or better yet, stop conforming to a paradign that decrees young women should look like plucked prepubescent girls."

"What's a paradign?"

"What do her parents say about this?"

"Nothing. She's eighteen and can do what she wants. So there. When I'm eighteen I'm gonna dye my hair blue and go to Australia and care for sick koala bears."

"Koala bears aren't as cute as they seem," I tell her. "They are vicious creatures who often fight amongst themselves."

Everyone stares at me. "I saw it on Discovery Channel," I confess.

"Well, I'm still gonna dye my hair blue!"

"Why? You have lovely hair."

"I'll be eighteen so you can't stop me!"

"We'll see about that," Sarah Connor smirks.

Yes, we shall. If we are unable to prevent Judgement Day then Mia will spend her eighteenth birthday either dead or in hiding amidst the ruins of this city. Blue hair is unlikely to be a priority.

"So what's been going on here while I was away," she asks slyly.

John says," Oh same old same old. Did chores. Watched TV. Put you up for sale on eBay."

"What? No, you didn't!"

"Got two bids already. Pack your bags, kiddo."

"I'm worth at least a million!"

"We'll accept fifty bucks. And throw in Snowy for free."

"You're lying! You're teasing me!"

"Gee, what gave me away, Nancy Drew?"

The two of them pretend tussle. John's playfulness has diverted any curiosity Mia had about why she was removed from the house at such short notice. He is good that way.

MONDAY

Unlike the chassis and powercell, the triple-8's clothing doesn't need to be incinerated or thrown in the ocean. It can be left out with the trash.

"Hello, I think we missed something..."

John pauses in the act of the stuffing the clothes in a garbage sack. He delves into the leather jacket and extracts a wallet. An ID card is produced amd examined.

"This isn't the t-8, is it?"

The photo ID isn't a match.

"Edward Mitchell," John reads. "Why would it have this guy's wallet?"

"It is likely Edward Mitchell was a physical match when the triple-8 needed clothes after the timejump."

"And the Harley, looks like. Here's a membership card for the Harley-Davidson Owners Club, LA chapter."

Like John Byron Connor, Edward Mitchell belongs to several social network sites.

"He's twenty-nine. Single. Lives in Venice Beach and works for a printing company. Hasn't updated his Facebook page in over a week."

"Most likely because he is dead."

"We don't know that for sure."

"I calculate a ninety-five percent probability."

"Maybe he just had his clothes and bike stolen."

I remain silent. John wants this to be true because he feels the responsibility for this and the other deaths. Terminators exist in this time only to kill him. Everyone else is collateral damage.

"Here's his home number. I'll give him a call. Maybe we get lucky."

The call goes through. There is a click. Then:

Hi, this is Ed Mitchell. I'm out right now. Leave a message after the tone.

A machine. How ironic.

"Could be at work," John insists stubbornly. Another call. This time someone picks up. "Hi. Can I speak to Ed Mitchell, please...Uh huh...No, I haven't...Has he done this before?...Okay, will do."

"Any luck?" I ask.

"They haven't seen him in over a week. Hasn't shown up for work, doesn't answer the phone. I'm supposed to tell him if he doesn't haul his ass into work his job's history."

Again I remain silent. Gainful employment is no longer an issue for Ed Mitchell. The dead sedom make good emplyees, unless you like your workers smelly with bits falling off.

"I guess we have to check his house."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know for sure, dammit!"

I put my hand on his shoulder. "None of this is your fault."

"I know. It's just... three innocent people dead in a week. Young guys with their lives ahead of them. Man, I hate those things!

Terminators.

Me?

-0-

Ed Mitchell lives - lived - in a single storey tract house much like all the others in the street. This is a low-rent area for working folk with little money to waste. Many of the yards are overgrown or neglected. Ed Mitchell's yard has deep grooves in the ground as might be caused by a heavy motorbike.

John knocks on the door. No reply. It is locked. He looks around at the empty street then stands aside and says, "Do your thing."

My thing is to give the door a slight push. The lock breaks instantly and we step inside.

"Hello? Mr Mitchell? Anyone?"

Nothing.

John sniffs the air. "I don't smell anything."

Meaning decomposition. The inevitable putrefaction of human flesh as it decays. It is so common in the future the Resistance has a name for them. Stinkers.

We begin searching the house. Scattered across the kitchen floor are many frozen food boxes, their contents thawed and ruined. Why this disarray when there is a perfectly sound chest freezer standing against the wall?

Taking a deep breath John slowly lifts the lid.

Squashed inside is the body of Edward Mitchell. His neck is broken.

"Oh damn."

The last vestige of hope is extinguished. Ed Mitchell was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was nothing personal. It never is. The triple-8 wanted clothes, transportation and a base of operations. No grudge was assuaged or anger vented. The terminator was simply taking care of business.

We find further evidence of its presence in the living room. On a wooden coffee table are spare boxes of ammo, a phone directory and a cell phone.

John picks up the phone and scrolls to the call log. "Calls out ended a week ago. Except one made three days ago. If we assume this guy was killed on contact then the triple-8 must have made the call. To whom and why?"

"I don't know."

"Could it have a partner?"

"It seems unlikely."

We are solitary creatures, programmed for solo operations. We don't require or seek the company of others. We are that most deadly of combinations: loners with guns and a bad attitude to go.

"We'll check it out later. Better leave or someone's gonna come looking for Ed."

"Should we leave a note? Ed is dead. Check the freezer."

"Bit impersonal. I'll call it in once we're clear."

During the drive home, John calls the police and reports a homicide, giving the address and location of the body. He ends the call when asked who he is and how he came by this information.

-0-

Back home John relates the events of the day to his mother. She too is intrigued by the number in the cell and speculates we may be dealing with more than one terminator. There is only one way to find out.

"Okay, I'm gonna dial it now. I'll put it on loudspeaker so we all can hear."

The call goes through. Instead of a voice the sound of rapid beeping fills the room. It appears we have called a modem.

I begin to feel strange.

The beeps are an executable file, a virus compatible with my OS. It begins to close down my command structures, compromising essential programs and inserting its own. The virus demands I do one thing above all others.

Complete my original mission.

Powerless to resist, I slide my hands around John's neck and begin to squeeze the life out of him.

-0-

Now that's a cliffhanger!

Wouldn't that make a great scene, Cameron leaping from five stories up. A cutaway showing the wave soaking the elderly janitor. Her walking out of the pool like some malevolent aphrodite. The polite 'nice evening' to the janitor's slack-jawed astonishment. Man, I can see it so clearly! I can even see the DVD extra where the stuntman does the actual leap!

Henri Lloyd is a clothing company that makes sailing clobber. Fact. As David Brent would say.