The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
Saturday cont..
John is in the living room seated on the sofa reading a newspaper.
I walk past him and switch on the TV.
"Hey, I was not watching that," he quips. "Palmdale?" He puts the newspaper aside. "Why do I know that name? What's going on?"
I turn and face him.
"I've been kidnapped."
-0-
By the time Sarah Connor returns from her run John is fully up to speed. His mother takes a little longer to catch up.
"Inside? On a day like this?"
"Mom, you need to see this."
"After I've had a shower. Doug had to bail so I was really able to work up a sweat. He thinks he's holding me back. If he only knew."
"This won't wait. Take a look."
"What is it?" She stares at the TV. "Alison Young? That name sounds familiar..."
"Alison Young is the Resistance fighter Cameron becomes. Or rather assumes her identity. She's been kidnapped by what sounds awfully like a T-800."
"Why would a T-800 kidnap a child?"
"Presumably if she's killed then she won't exist in the future and there won't be a Cameron to send back to this time. Except I don't think that's the reason. Think about it. A T-800 against a five year old girl. Hardly a fair contest."
"Then why...Oh. Bait."
"Yeah. The bait in a trap designed for us."
"Why kidnap the mother?"
"Probably to care for the little girl. T-800's aren't exactly noted for their parental skills."
"Oh I don't know. I seem to remember you got along pretty well with one once upon a time."
"Except he was programmed to protect me. This is a whole different ballgame."
"So what do we do?"
"We can't just ignore it. Forget the future; this is a little girl we're talking about."
"So we walk right into the trap?"
"I'm open to any better suggestions?"
"The place will be swarming with police," Sarah Connor points out. "That creates a whole new set of problems."
"Perhaps not. The action's shifted elsewhere. They'll be trying to track down the kidnapper. Once the forensics are done they'll probably move on."
"And if we run into Creed?"
"Why would Creed get involved? He can't connect us to this. It's a matter for the local cops and the Feds."
"What makes you so sure we'll be able to track them down when the cops presumably can't?"
"I think he'll leave a clue. Just for us. He'll want us to find him. On his terms."
"What clue?"
"Won't know until we get there."
"And what do we do if the local cops catch us snooping around?"
"I've been thinking about that. I've got an idea... Remember Agents Pasco, Higgs and Valente?"
"The fake FBI agents we impersonated when one of them started killing men with your name."
"We still have the uniforms."
"I seem to recall it didn't work that well then."
"We'll do better this time. Trust me. I know. I'm G Man."
-0-
Mia offers no ojections to the prospect of another sleepover at her friend Megan's house. Because it's a weekend she isn't particularly suspicious of our motives. Or possibly she disguises it well. It is hard to tell with her these days. We still haven't come up with a plausible explanation for why she should paint a metal skull during a school art class.
"Why do you need to take so much stuff?" Sarah Connor demands as Mia drags a heavy suitcase down the stairs to be stowed in the Suburban's trunk. "It's a sleepover not a three week vacation."
"It's mostly Snowy's things, not mine."
"What can that dog possibly need?"
"Well, he needs his favourite water bowl because he won't drink out of anything else. And I've packed his food bowl for main meals. And his dry food bowl. And his treats bowl. Oh - and his grooming kit because he likes to be brushed before bedtime. Plus all his collars and leashes so he can decide what to wear when we go out. And wool, cashmere and mohair blankets because he likes to choose which he sleeps on according to mood and/or room temperature."
"I've said it before, you treat that dog like royalty."
That's if royalty needs a worming tablet every month and their tummy tickled on demand.
SUNDAY
Palmdale.
Population: 158,000
Unemployment rate: 9.5%
Number of MacDonald's : 3
Number of stores selling high velocity firearms : 9
Number of residents who will one day be captured, tortured and killed by Skynet : 1
Alison Young
Number of children presently kidnapped by a cyborg from the future : 1
Alison Young
That kid cannot catch a break.
-0-
"Nice place," John remarks as we cruise the streets. It's not long after sunrise and the town seems empty. We are in a black Lincoln town car, a rental naturally. It was decided genuine FBI agents were unlikely to show up for duty driving a family Suburban, certainly not one with seats covered in doghair and a VOTE SNOWY FOR PRESIDENT bumper sticker. If Donald Trump can run - why not?
"On average house prices here are twelve percent lower than Los Angeles," I point out.
"We're here to rescue a little girl not go house hunting," Sarah Connor remarks sourly.
"And crime figures in Palmdale are over thirty-two percent lower than Los Angeles." I continue. I can't help myself. I'm so very anal.
"Not anymore they're not."
I concede the T-800 actions have skewed the crime figures upward. That's terminators for you. No respecters of statistics. Or the housing market.
"This is it. Alison Young's house."
John steers to the kerb and turns the engine off. In the sudden silence we stare at the house, each of us lost in our thoughts.
Home...
Where I - she - lived.
Where it all began. A birthplace, of sorts. A beginning, at the very least.
The house is no different from the others in the street. Two stories tall with an attached garage. A scrubby lawn with adjacent driveway. Yellow police tape cordons off the yard and the still broken door. A child's overturned tricycle lies by the garbage cans.
"You want to go inside?" Sarah Connor suggests. "In and out before the cops turn up."
"Forensics will have done their stuff. I don't think we'll find anything they haven't. If there's a clue it won't be in there."
"We don't even know what we're looking for."
"True. But we'll know it when we see it."
A vehicle approaches. An all too familiar black and white police cruiser. It pulls up directly outside the Young house. Our bumpers are barely twenty feet apart.
"Palmdale PD," John whispers. "Okay we play it how we rehersed. FBI trumps local PD. It's all in how we act."
We don mirrored aviator sunglasses -it's a cliche for a reason - and climb out of the Lincoln. The police cruiser's door opens and its occupent steps out. A woman. Late-20s. Medium height and build. Dark hair. Tanned face. Not latina. A Caucasean who likes the outdoors. Or neglects sunscreen. Her body posture is relaxed, sensing no threat. There is a holstered pistol on her right hip.
Sarah Connor takes the lead. She takes out her fake badge and holds it up briefly. From twenty feet it will look real. "FBI."
The officer nods, smiles. "Yeah. I figured you for feebs. You're not the ones who were here yesterday."
A statement. Not a question. Meaning she met the genuine FBI agents.
"We're part of a specialist department. Child abductions. We got the call late and flew the redeye. I'm Agent Pasco. This is Agent Hicks and Agent Valente."
A nod for each of us. "I'm Officer Smalling. I pulled the early shift. We got a call that a TV crew from one of the breakfast stations is gonna do a live broadcast from here at seven. They're probably not dumb enough to break a police cordon and snoop around inside but you never know with these media types."
John exchanges a knowing glance with his mother. We can't be here when the TV crew arrrive. Not when there's a chance we could seen on camera. Suppose Mia was watching? Or Rubin Creed?
"Were you here with the first response team, Officer Smalling?" John asks, taking out a small notebook as if to take notes. It actually a list of Snowy's favourite foods. It's a very long list.
"Yeah. Probably no more than twenty minutes after it went down. Lucky we had a witness who saw it happen otherwise it might've been hours before anyone knew they were missing."
"What kind of van was the perp driving?"
"We think a tan Ford Econoline."
"You think...?"
"The witness is old and not really clued up on vehicle distinctions. A panel van. Beige or tan. Medium size. An Econoline fits the description."
"It show up anywhere?"
"Nope. There are cameras on all the freeway flyovers. Not a single sighting."
"Meaning he took the street route. Or dumped it somewhere and it hasn't been found yet."
"No ransom demand. And we know the mother isn't rich. Not poor by any means, but if the kidnapper expects a big payday he's gonna be shit out of luck. She's a month behind on her mortgage and her Amex is near maxxed out, though we don't think that's a factor. If the banks start kidnapping folk because they're a little short from time to time we'll have an crime epidemic on our hands."
"No panel vans reported stolen locally?"
"None that I know of. Why - you hear something?"
"No. Although it's a fair assumption the kidnapper didn't use his own wheels."
"I guess not. You want to see inside the house? Before Regis and Kathy or whoever shows up?"
"I presume forensics already did a number on it?"
"Oh yeah. Dusted from top to bottom. Didn't find much. Looks like the guy just kicked in the door and grabbed them while they were eating dinner. Meals are still where they left them. Store bought meatloaf. Mixed vegeatbles. Cherry pie for dessert."
"You a local, Officer Smalling?"
"Uh huh. Born and bred. Though I worked the Fresno station for two years."
John says, "Okay, we're just gonna take a look around. Maybe head further down the street. Thanks for your help."
"We already took statements from the neighbors. No one saw anything apart from the one guy."
"You canvas the whole street?"
"This isn't our first crime scene."
"What about forensics?"
"Just the house and yard."
"Okay. Thanks for your assistance."
"Well, I'll be here if you need me."
We walk down the street. Sarah Connor whispers, "We have less than an hour until that TV crew arrives. If we're still here by then..."
"We become the news. I get it. Okay, let's spread out. We're looking for anything out of the ordinary. Something that says - hey, puny humans, here I am. Come and get me. If you dare."
-0-
The front yards are all broadly alike. House ten yards back from the sidewalk. A garage. A driveway sloping down to the street. A squarish yard laid to turf, planted up with shrubs or paved over for easy maintenance. A basic sensor scan shows up typical debris: empty candy wrappers, cigarette remnants, dead plant material, fast food containers. Anything edible is most likely quickly eaten by birds and small scavenging mammals. Or small greedy dogs.
"Anything?" John shouts after twenty minutes fruitless searching.
"No."
"Keep looking."
House. Garage. Driveway. Gravelled yard.
House. Garage. Driveway. Lawn. Requires irrigation.
House. Garage. Driveway. Yard with succulents.
ANOMALY
There is a yucca plant, tall and wide. Its thick fleshy leaves perfectly adapted for a dry desert climate. In one of the leaf axils something round and white is wedged tight, showing up against the green. A flower bud? No. An insect? No. I take a step and pluck it from its resting place. A balled up piece of paper. Something in the middle gives it unexpected heft. I carefully unwrap the paper and reveal what is hidden inside.
A bullet...
"John."
"Find something?"
"Yes."
He beckons to his mother and we huddle around what I have found.
"Looks like a nine mill. Where'd you find it?"
"On the yucca plant."
"Strange fruit indeed." He looks at the street and then the plant, gauging distance. "Twenty feet, give or take from the middle of the road. Probably lobbed it out the window. Far enough from the scene of the crime not to get noticed on the initial sweep."
"A bullet tells us nothing," his mother points out. "As a clue it's useless."
"True. Show me what it was wrapped in."
I hand the paper over. John smooths it out. There is writing on the inside. Printed not handwritten with colored inks.
"Club Trocadero. For the party of your Life. Cover charge $30. Complimentary drink included."
"What does it mean?" I ask.
"It's a flier. Advertising this Club Trocadero presumably."
"Would a place like that be empty during the day?" Sarah Connor asks. "Could it take a woman and a little girl there and hide without people knowing?"
"Wouldn't have thought so. If he's holed up there with the girl and her mom then... I'm guessing the complimentary drink's off the menu. Let's go back to the car. Google maps should be able to find this place easily enough."
Officier Smalling watches us approach. "Find anything?"she asks.
John hesitates then shows her the flier. "Maybe. Ever hear of a Club Trocadero?"
"Club Troc? Sure. It's on the corner of Jefferson and Main. Or was. Closed about six months ago."
"So it's empty?"
"All boarded up and waiting for the wrecking ball."
"How far away is it?"
"Ten minute drive. Why - you think it's connected to the kidnapping?"
"We're just gonna check it out. Probably nothing."
"Okay. Follow me."
"Shouldn't you be guarding the house?"
"TV crew won't arrive for another thirty minutes. I'll show you where it is and come straight back. Don't want you feebs getting lost, now do we."
We watch as Officer Smalling walks back to her patrol car. "We can't take her with us," Sarah Connor insists. "If that thing is there she could get hurt."
"On the other hand, if we leave her here and the real Feds show up they'll know we're not legit the moment she mentions us. Then we'll have them and the local cops on our case. We can't be fighting battles on three fronts. Besides, this might be a wild goose chase. Could just be litter the wind blew in."
"You believe that?"
"I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago."
-0-
The drive across town does indeed take ten minutes. Score one for the Palmdale PD.
"Place is starting to wake up," John says as several vehicles pass us on the previously empty roads.
Officer Smalling parks her patrol car a block from where Club Trocadero is located, far enough away that anyone in the building won't see us arrive. Smart. Score two for the Palmdale PD.
We get out of the Lincoln. Officer Smalling points down the street. "There. The big building on the corner."
"That's Club Trocadero? Looks more like a church than a nightclub."
"It was a church originally. Baptist, I think. Closed in the nineties. Became a nightclub about five years ago."
"Ever pay a visit?"
"As a customer? Not my scene. Got called out here plenty of times on duty. The place was a DUI magnet. Caught the mayor here once trying to start his Lexus with his house key. Kept calling me sweetie pie and stared at my...well, you know. Drunk as a skunk. Three times the limit."
"You bust his ass?"
"Oh yeah. Had it all nicely typed up in triplicate. The sarge took one look, tore it up and told me not to be such a goddamn smartass. Apparently the major signs off on our budget."
"That's politics for you. When did it close?"
"Six months ago. Had a license for liquor and lapdancing, except the girls were doing more than dancing, if you catch my drift. And Palmdale isn't that kind of town."
"So they're knocking it down to build - what?"
"Gun range."
John and his mother laugh. Officer Smalling merely shrugs. Are guns funny? I suppose it depends which end of the barrel you're on.
John fetches his iPad from the Lincoln. "It might be closed now but there'll be pictures of it online. Old websites never die. Not in cyberspace. That'll give us some idea of the layout. Ah, here we go."
We stare at the pictures on the screen. Club Trocadero has - or had - a large floor area with room for tables and chairs. A long bar runs along one wall. An elaborate stairway leads to a balcony with more tables.
"What are these small rooms under the balcony?" John asks.
"Lap dancing booths," Officer Smalling replies. "Private dancing. One on one, if you know what I mean. Except the girls were turning tricks. One of the reasons it got shut down."
Oh my. Dancing and magic tricks. These girls were mult-talented. I wonder if they did children's parties?
"Okay, let's get suited up. Thanks for your help, Officer Smalling. We'll take it from here."
"Hey, I'm going nowhere till we find out if that jerk's in there."
"I told you, it's a long shot."
" Well, maybe I'm feeling lucky."
We don bulletproof vests. Officer Smalling's is black with 'Palmdale PD' stencilled on the back. Ours are navy blue with 'FBI' written on them. Bulletproof vests are surprisingly easy to aquire. Ditto white paint. I just hope it's dried properly.
As we walk towards the building John gestures for me to hang back. "Suppose this was you in there," he whispers. "How would you play this?"
It's a good question. But for a few lines of altered computer code the T-800 and I would share the same priority: lure John Connor into a trap and terminate him.
"I would keep the hostages secured in one of the tiny rooms."
"Booths."
"Booths. Any rescuers would need to cross the large open space. A perfect killzone."
"So you'd be - where? The balcony?"
"The balcony. With a lot of ammo."
"What about booby traps?"
"Electrify the doors. The T-800 knows I am with you. If he can take me out early the chances of success greatly increase."
"The hostages. Alive or dead?"
I hestitate.
"Cameron, I need to know. Don't sugarcoat it. Alive or dead?"
"Alive. For now."
We join Sarah Connor and Officer Smalling by the main door. It has a sturdy metal frame with glass panels. The glass has been wiped over with swirls of a whitish substance, making it opague and impossible to see inside.
John says, "Don't touch anything. Could be boobytrapped."
"So how are we getting in?"
I say, "Leave it to me."
There is a fence running down the side of the building. I take hold of one of wooden posts and yank it out of the ground. It comes out with a satisfyingly large plug of a concrete. The perfect battering ram.
"Holy shit! How'd she do that?"Officer Smalling exclaims.
Oops, I forgot I had an audience.
"Agent Valente is stronger than she looks. At Quantico we called her the Hulk," John quips.
The Hulk? Oh well, I've been called worse. I just hope no one expects me to turn green. So not my color.
I advance on the door. The glass shatters. Electricity arcs between the metal frame. The battering ram, being concrete and wood, is unaffected. I toss it aside. Job done.
"Crap, you were right! We've found the SOB. I'll radio for backup."
"Wait. Could just be a regular security device."
"Are you freaking kidding me? That could have fried any one of us."
Sarah Connor is cautiously peering through the ruined door. "I don't see anything. No movement. It's dark in there."
"Windows boarded up to keep out vandals presumably. The perfect hiding place."
"And right under our noses. Damn, the guys at the station aren't going to believe this."
"Help me, please! Somebody help me! I'm so frightened!"
A child's voice. Alison Young. Pain and fear and barely suppressed panic.
Or a perfect imitation.
We mimic voices.
The effect on Officer Smalling is instantaneous. She reacts instinctively. A police officer. A woman. A potential mother herself. It matters not. A child is in danger, crying out for help. What happens next is as inevitable as sunrise.
"Hang on, honey! I'm coming!"
"No! It's a trap!"
Too late. She steps through the door. Through the looking glass. An Alice with a badge. And a gun. For all the good it does her.
BOOM!
Shotgun. Balcony. Direct hit. She is not so much stopped in her tracks as forcibly propelled backwards, the front of her tunic torn and smouldering.
"Cover fire!"
Sarah Connor empties her pistol at the balcony from where the shot came. The explosive rounds blast great chunks out of the walls. The T-800 is nowhere to be seen. These shells would cause real damage. Be smart. Take cover. Wait. Bide your time.
John and I drag Officer Smalling clear. Her tunic is ragged, the bulletproof vest taking the brunt of the impact.
"Officer Smalling? Can you hear me?"
"Uh...what...happened?"
"You took one for the team. Your vest held. You're lucky."
"This is lucky? Feels like I've been kicked in the chest by a mule."
"Don't try and get up. You've probably cracked a rib or two. You're officially benched. Hear me? We'll handle it now."
"Damn Feds. Think you're such hot shit. You guys found Jimmy Hoffa yet?"
"Any day now."
"Been saying that for years."
"And one day it might even be true."
Officer Smalling laughs then winces. "It hurts when I laugh."
"Then don't laugh," I suggest. Duh!
The three of us crouch near the door. "Balcony. Top left. Otherwise the place looks empty," Sarah Connor reports. "No sign of the girl or her mother."
John says, "They're in one of the booths."
"How'd you know that?"
A glance at me. "Call it an educated guess."
"There's no cover. We'd be torn to shreds."
"We make for the bar. Looks sturdy enough. From there we'll have an angle on the stairs. Try and pin him down."
"How's the cop?"
"Bruised. Maybe a couple of cracked ribs. No immediate danger."
"Another educated guess?"
"What do you want to do - declare a timeout and drive her to a hospital? We need to get this done now."
"Okay. On three. One. Two...Three."
In through the doorway, short sprint, seeking the refuge of the bar which runs the length of one wall. The shotgun blasts illuminate the interior like strobe lighting. Empty. Bare. Return fire misses high and right, shattering the plaster which falls from the wall to litter the floor with debris.
"I'm out!" John shouts. I toss him a fresh clip.
Club Trocadero has been divested of its fittings: tables, chairs, bottles of alcohol that once lined the wall behind the bar - all gone. In the centre of the room, suspended from the ceiling high above us, is a glitter ball designed to revolve and reflect light from its multi-faceted surface. I have encountered these before from my time in New York in the 70s. Studio 54. Mick and Bianca. Andy Warhol. I was waiting for the man. Not a drug connection; a gun importer from the Balkans. While I was waiting for him to show Mick hit on me, told me he was in town to play music with the stones. I asked why not use musical instruments? He laughed and called me a funny little thing. I refrained from snapping his neck like a dry branch. Rock and roll.
"Alison! Mrs Young! Claire! Are you here?" John yells during a lull.
"I'm up here, John! Please help me! I'm so scared!"
A little girl's voice, tremulous and afraid. Hard to resist.
"Shit, we were wrong. She's upstairs!"
"Wait. How can she possibly know your name?"
"Sonofabitch! Okay, my bad. We go with what we think we know. Cameron, go up there and keep him occupied. We'll free the girl and her mom. Once they're safe we'll come back and help you finish him off."
"I won't need any help."
"Great, kid. Don't get cocky." A small smile. It's a line from Star Wars, a movie we have watched together many times.
-0-
I ascend the stairs, boots scrunching on the loose masonry. Behind me John and his mother lay down covering fire that is so loud in the enclosed space that my audio filters engage automatically and everything becomes muffled. It's like having my own personal Dolby noise reduction.
Terminators are immune to fear, to apprehension and doubt, but we understand prudence. The T-800 knows these are high velocity shells being fired and the damage they can cause. He shelters behind the thick wall. As I reach the top landing I see that he hasn't been as prudent as he might have. Much of the pseudo-flesh on the right side of his face is missing, collateral damage that exposes his coltan skull and the red LED optic normally disguised by a false iris. It's not a pretty sight. Though at least we can still function with half our face missing, unlike a human. Sorry, Gustavo Fring. Low blow.
The T-800 cradles an M-16 assault rifle, which he raises as I approach. Is this all he has? I open a subroutine to examine his tactics. He has had a great deal of time to plan this, to lure us to Palmdale and choose the battleground. He should be commanding an arsenal. It's not as if weapons are hard to come by. It seems to me that once we entered the building, evading his killzone, he has no choice but to engage. His mission is to terminate John Connor. Skulking upstairs when his primary target lurks below is...illogical. I know it and therefore he must too.
Unless...
Have I missed something?
There is no time to speculate. The T-800 moves towards me. We grapple, servos whining silently, causing flutuating stress levels to register in my HUD. I pivot sharply and slam him into the wall. Another cascade of shattered masonry. This place won't need a wrecking ball at this rate, not with the two of us going at it.
"Found her!"
John's voice makes the T-800 twist his head and snarl. The sound of his enemy's voice so close like cat nip to a, well, cat. I pivot again, a full one-eighty and he smashes back against the wall. Cue more falling plaster and masonry. His lips peel back and the edges of his mouth tilt upward. Is he smiling? Dude, WTF?
It's his turn to pivot, swinging me round and pushing. Except there is no wall this side of the corridor, only a wooden railing. Not nearly enough to resist our combined weight. It snaps like so much dry kindling and over we go. Honestly, this place has the worst building codes since Hansel and Gretel's gingerbread cottage
Falling...
Did the T-800 believe the fall would damage me? It's twenty feet at most and while I slam hard into tiled floor the impact isn't nearly enough to knock my CPU offline. But what I don't count on is luck. The bad kind. The T-800 has fallen on top of me, his bulk pinning me to the ground. My arms are trapped while his... not so much. I watch helpless as he unholsters a pistol, one with a laser sight. A thin red beam zigzags across the rubble, climbs my shoulder, traverses my chin, nose, before settling on my forehead. A headshot. How very textbook. And at this distance he can't possibly miss.
BOOM!
Most of the T-800's skull flashes over my head like a silvery meteorite. The body slumps. Directly above me Sarah Connor appears, gazing down, the shotgun in her hands still smoking from the killshot that saved me. "You're welcome," she says brusquely then vanishes from sight.
I sit up, pushing the T-800's lifeless bulk to one side. In front of me are the booths. Two have their doors open. John crouches in one, whispering calming words to a little girl while he cuts her free of the restraints she's been immobilised with. In the other booth Sarah Connor tends a woman. Young. Blonde. Unconcious or worse. She feels her neck for a pulse. "She's alive," is the verdict. Scratch the 'or worse'.
The little girl - Alison Young - takes a few steps forward as John releases her from the plastic ties that bound her wrists and feet. She leaves the booth and takes a few tentaive steps towards me. As she does so her jacket parts revealing something, some object strapped to her chest. It must be heavy because she is leaning over, struggling for balance.
WARNING
PROXIMITY ALERT
LIEBERMAN MINE DETECTED
RETREAT TO MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE
A Lieberman mine? My kind's scourge. An explosive device invented by Daniel Lieberman and capable of destroying us if we step on it or venture within three feet or so. But they are from the future, not yet invented. How could one be here in the present?
Suddenly the T-800's tactics make sense. Somehow he must have smuggled one back. The smile before he dragged me over the railings. He knew I would help rescue the girl. Knew I would be within feet of the sensor that will detect the coltan that forms our exoskeleton. The resultant blast will destroy me.
And kill John...
I try to get up but my feet are still snagged beneath the inert mass of the T-800. Alison is still coming, drawn to me - why? Because I represent safety? Or because I resemble her mother. Either instinct will lead to my doom.
Unless...
I pick up the pistol, holding it at arms length, the laser sight casting a narrow red beam that slices through the dust laden air and alights on her brow. Only a headshot will do. Take her down quickly. My finger tightens on the trigger. She's within five feet of me now. Just seconds to make my decision and carry it out.
In order to survive I must shoot Alison Young.
Whatever the consequences...
-0-
I'm back.
To coin a phrase. Bit of a gap between updates, I know.
So, how's a terminator bring a bomb back from the future designed to blow him to smithereens? All will be revealed. In six months.
Kidding! I'll try and post a couple more chapters before the end of the year.