Afterimage
by zerofret
Chapter 6: Double Exposure
June 1995 –
Stan didn't approach John right away. He knew that the situation had to be handled with care. More problematic, however, were the things he didn't know. Did John even know about his mother's beliefs, and the activity that had resulted from those beliefs? And if he did know, how much of it did he believe himself? It was likely that other people had tried to influence John's opinion of his mother; they wouldn't want him to adopt her views. To John, Stan might seem like just one more adult – one more stranger – who was trying to sway his opinion and tell him what to think. What's more, Stan wasn't even sure what he wanted to talk to John about; the time just seemed right to approach him. It might be a relief for him to meet someone who didn't think his mother was a lunatic. Stan was careful to always keep one important fact foremost in his mind: regardless of what John Connor's future held, right now he was a ten year old boy. And while he suspected that John's lifestyle had probably made him wise beyond his years, it was vital to remain aware of his actual age, and to treat him accordingly.
But he wanted to have a chance to size up the kid before trying to talk to him. He wanted to have at least some sense of what he was like so that he could plan a suitable approach. To that end, he had decided that a little undercover surveillance was in order. And so it was that at dusk on a pleasant June evening, Stan had been parked curbside – in a rental car – on a quiet suburban street in Reseda. It was the first of several trips there. He had kept a close watch on the house at 19828 South Almond Avenue, the residence of Todd and Janelle Voight. The Voights were serving as John's foster parents while Sarah Connor was incarcerated. Stan had hoped that he might catch a few glimpses of John from this vantage point.
He had made every effort to be as inconspicuous as possible, taking several precautions in order to ensure it. The last thing he needed was to have some nosy and suspicious neighbour phoning the police to alert them that a stranger had been seen lurking on their street several times. So each time he had made a "visit", he had come in a different rental car. He had splashed the license plates liberally with muddy water, rendering them unreadable, staying just this side of legal. That isn't exactly tampering with a plate, he had convinced himself. I just drove through a mud puddle, that's all. A very big one. He wasn't deterred by the knowledge that L.A. was in the midst of a dry spell. The Voight's home was located at the connecting point of a "T" intersection; this had given Stan three different locations from which he could observe. He had chosen a different location each time, parking just over half a block away from the house.
He had also made an effort to disguise himself, if only slightly. There was always the chance that someone might notice his repeated presence despite the pains he had taken, so he had prepared for that. During his observation sessions, he had worn a New York Yankees cap tugged down low on his brow, obscuring his face. Not only did it hide his features to a degree, but also Stan believed that any observer's eye would be drawn more to the highly recognizable brand name logo than it would be to him. And that's what they would remember at a later date. If a neighbour were to call the police in regard to his repeated presence on the street, they would likely be asked to give a description. That description would go something like "a guy in a Yankees cap who never drives the same car twice". Oh, him. That sure narrows it down, Stan had chuckled to himself at the thought. He figured he could live with that level of risk.
Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead in a Yanks cap…which, of course, was exactly what made it the perfect disguise. A description of a guy in a Yankees cap wouldn't lead back to him, not unless he was careless and revealed other clues to his identity. And he had plenty of acquaintances who would back him up if questioned, and solemnly vow that Stan would never even think of donning such an item. So if the lurker was wearing a Yanks cap, it couldn't be Stan. It was hardly an airtight alibi, but every little bit helped. He had only grudgingly shelled out the twenty-five dollars necessary to buy the loathsome thing; but he had decided that if the evil empire of Yankee-dom could assist in making his mission a success, then he'd gladly accept the help. Certainly, the Bombers had given him enough heartache over the years. It was time for them to give something back.
Stan had been rewarded for his efforts, managing to get a look at John a few times. He had watched him come and go on his dirt bike, noting that he handled the vehicle deftly – if a bit recklessly – and with confidence. Other times he had seen John tinkering with his bike out in the driveway of his home. Sometimes he was alone; other times he had a friend along. And always, the radio was blasting music. John seemed like a pretty typical kid.
Except that he wasn't. John had already set himself apart from his peers. This wasn't surprising, since he hadn't been properly integrated with them through his younger years. Their interests had to seem impossibly trivial to him. Watching John, Stan had been highly aware that he was looking at a ten year old who already had a healthy rap sheet. The computer disk had supplied that information. It was all petty crime stuff: trespassing, shoplifting, disturbing the peace, vandalism. It could probably be attributed to the lifestyle that he had lived. I guess that's what comes from being raised by Combat Woman, Stan had concluded, rather sarcastically. The lucky kid had been given opportunities that most other kids didn't get. See the world. Be all that you can be. Have a juvenile record in multiple countries before the age of ten! Yes, John was very much his mother's son. How long before he started trying to blow up buildings?
As for John's leadership potential, it had been hard to try to judge it while only watching him from a distance. The kid definitely had a certain cockiness to him. But when Stan had observed him alone – working on his bike, and lost in somber thought – it seemed to him that the bravado was mostly a front. He probably missed his mother; he might even be feeling abandoned. Stan noticed, though, that John's friends deferred to him as the decision maker amongst them. They tinkered with the bike when John wanted to. John chose the music they would listen to. They left to go elsewhere – the mall, a fast food joint – when John suggested it. Even from a distance, Stan could pick up on these power dynamics. In a way, John's friends seemed to be in awe of him. They probably understood innately that John had already had more life experience than they could even begin to imagine. And John, no doubt, was equally aware of his "different-ness". He couldn't blend in by just being like the other kids; he didn't know how.
Stan had also taken the time one day to drive east of the city to Chino. He had wanted to get a look at Pescadero. John would probably ask him about his mom, and he wanted to be able to assure him that the facility she was in was okay. After finding the place, he had parked a block down the street from the main gate. It was a security gate, of course, manned by a bored looking guard. A large sign on the perimeter fence read "Pescadero State Hospital". The state seal was nestled between the words "State Of California". But it was the description below this that had left him staring in bemusement. The half smile that had played across his lips had been one part mirth and one part creeped-out horror. He'd had an eerie sense of whistling past the graveyard. The sign identified the institution as "A Criminally Disordered Retention Facility". The wording created the impression that the facility itself …and maybe the people who run it? Stan wondered – was "criminally disordered". He had wished he could believe that the sign maker had been having some fun with them, but he knew that couldn't be the case. Obviously, the sign had been given the green light to be posted. "A Retention Facility For the Criminally Disordered" really would have worked so much better, guys, he had thought, shaking his head in disbelief. He sure couldn't tell John about this. A slight shiver passed through him. Maybe the sign was a cryptic indication of what this place was all about. If so, it didn't bode well for Sarah.
Looking beyond the sign, he had seen nothing at all to smile about. The building itself looked drab and severe. It was about four stories high; bars covered the windows. If the patients were troubled individuals, there wasn't much here to calm them or to cheer them. The building was surrounded by a tall chain link fence that was topped by spirals of menacing looking barbed wire. The grounds were well kept, but they lacked even a single splash of colour; there wasn't a flowerbed to be seen anywhere.
He had wondered if the treatment Sarah was getting here was equally soulless. The information about Silberman that he had been given suggested that it was likely so. And Al's revelation that a conspiratorial agreement had ensured that Sarah would never see minimum security only discouraged him further. She could be locked up – and drugged up – in maximum security indefinitely. "Welcome to the Hotel Pescadero, Sarah," he had said in a barely audible whisper, aware of a vague sense of dread rising within him. "You can check out any time you like…but you can never leave."
ooOOoo
On this day, however, Stan was driving north of the city. A few extra scenes needed to be shot for his current film project, and he was on his way to assess a potential location. As he drove, he mulled over the possibility of pursuing the Cyberdyne documentary, after his current film was completed. The prospect of challenging a company like Cyberdyne was daunting, but…if Michael Moore can take on GM, why can't I take on Cyberdyne? He'd give it some more thought, but he knew that eventually he'd have to do more than just think about it.
In any case, his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He took a hand off the wheel to reach for it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Stan, it's Frank. I'm out here now. Are you on your way?" It was his location crew chief. He had gone out ahead of Stan to give the location a once over.
"Yeah, I should be there in about twenty minutes. How does it look?"
"Good. Great, actually. I think it's exactly what we need. There's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"Uh…well, they've doubled the rental price they quoted to us the first time we talked to them."
"What!" Stan was incensed. The crewman said nothing.
"You didn't tell them that we have no other options, did you?"
"No, of course not!" Frank protested.
"Bloodsuckers," Stan muttered. "Tell them to forget it."
His crew chief sounded a bit guilty now. "I don't know. Maybe they could tell I needed something quick, and they took advantage."
"Don't worry, Frank. It's not your fault."
"Is that official, then? You want me to tell them to forget it?"
"You bet your ass that's official!" Stan fumed. "And you can tell them that when I call them later I'll have a few other 'official' things to say to them."
Frank sighed. "Okay. I'll start checking for other locations," he said, sounding a bit doubtful.
"Tomorrow's soon enough, Frank. Just forget it for today."
With the call complete, Stan now tossed the phone away with irritation; he paid no heed as it bounced off the passenger seat and came to rest on the floor.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, slamming the steering wheel with one hand. In doing so, he inadvertently hit the horn. The other drivers around him reciprocated with agitated glares. The driver of the car directly in front of him stretched his arm out the window and made a rude gesture. Stan ignored him, and took the next exit.
He pulled into a coffee shop drive-through, placed an order, then parked in the lot. He'd just sit here for a while and cool off a bit. But as he sipped at the hot coffee and watched traffic stream by, he continued to brood over the wasted trip. The least they could have done was call ahead and tell us the terms of the deal had changed. But Stan was well aware that doing so wouldn't have been in the best interest of the site owners. They had wanted to get Frank and him all the way out there, and then spring the news on them; no doubt, they had figured that Stan would agree to the price change just to know that he had secured a location. Hell of a way to do business, he stewed. Now he'd spend the rest of the day fretting about where they'd find another site. Next time, I'll just take my whole production to Vancouver, right from the start, he promised himself, his resentment still rising. He could see that stopping for a while wasn't helping to improve his mood any.
But as he finished off his coffee, an idea came to him. Maybe he could salvage something useful out of what seemed like a wasted trip. Reseda was only a few miles west of where he was now. Having come this far, he might as well check in at one of his surveillance spots; with luck, Connor would make an appearance.
Sounds like a plan, he thought with satisfaction, as he started the car. Maybe some good could come of this day, after all. He reached into the back seat for his "disguise". After groping around unsuccessfully for a moment or two, he looked back. The black New York cap was missing. Stan couldn't believe it; this had to be some kind of cosmic pinstripe revenge! Just when he needed them the most… He pounded a fist against the back of the passenger seat in frustration. "Damn Yankees!" he spit out with contempt, fully unaware of how comical the scene was.
He knew that it was nobody's fault but his own. He could picture exactly where the cap was. It was on the small table in his front entrance hall; that was where he had tossed it after his last visit to John's neighbourhood. So this time he would be going in his own car, and with nothing at all to disguise himself with. He peeled out of the parking lot with an angry squealing of tires, and drove west toward Reseda. At least this day can only get better, he assured himself.
ooOOoo
Finally, something went right. When Stan cruised by the Voight residence, John was out front with his red haired friend. Stan circled the block, then parked about four houses down, on the street that intersected South Almond. It wasn't a through street; it ended right where the Voight's house was. This gave Stan a head on view of what John and "Red" were up to. Which didn't seem to be much. John was sitting on his bike, talking to his friend. Guns'n'Roses blared forth from the portable stereo.
Shortly after his arrival, Janelle Voight made an appearance, too. Stan recognized her because he had seen the Voights come and go from the house once or twice. The morning paper was lying in the grass well within range of a lawn sprinkler. Janelle was rescuing it from a soggy fate, while getting liberally doused with water herself in the process. On her way back to the house she stopped briefly; Stan could tell that she was talking to John. And John, for his part, was being thoroughly unresponsive. While pointedly looking away from her, he revved the motor of his bike a few times to drown out her words. Brat, Stan thought, but not without some humour. Janelle retreated into the house.
Only a minute or two later, Todd Voight emerged from the home. No doubt he was there to take up Janelle's cause. But John was readying to leave; Red was now perched behind him on the bike. When Todd spoke to him, John only shot a few parting words over his shoulder before gunning the bike's motor and releasing the brake. He sped down the driveway and onto the street that Stan was parked on.
For a split second, Stan panicked. He didn't want John to see him. But he had only three or four seconds to think of a way to become invisible. Glancing around frantically, his eye fell on the clutter jammed between the two front seats. He quickly grabbed a map, spread it out, and held it up in front of him. He examined it studiously – his brow furrowed – and tried hard to look lost. Then lowering it just enough to peek over the top edge, he watched John pass within a few feet of him. As the bike roared by, John met Stan's gaze directly, and gave him a long look. So much for invisible. Oh, that went well, genius, he berated himself.
Stan was a bit startled by the very deliberate look John had given him. Had he known all along that Stan was watching him? He tried to dismiss the idea, telling himself that a kid like John probably had a well rehearsed defiant look that he used for any adult. But holding up the map had probably done more to draw John's attention than it had done to hide Stan. The map was still open, sitting on his lap. He started to fold it again, then noticed the large, bold print on the side that had been facing out the window: "Road Map Of Boston". Stan rolled his eyes in exasperation. No one could be that lost, he thought with disgust, while crunching the folds of paper together carelessly.
"Stupid, stupid map!" He threw it into the back seat. It seemed like the universe was against him today. It might be an explanation for John's odd look, though.
"Right…John," he remembered suddenly, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. The moment he had seen John coming down the driveway, he had known that the time was now. This was the time to try to talk to him. He'd be away from his home, so Stan wouldn't have to worry about the Voights' interference. And he was with a friend; that was good. It might give him a sense of security to have some backup nearby when he found himself being approached by a total stranger.
He glanced up into the rearview mirror just in time to see John – a couple of blocks away now – take a hard right turn, tilting the bike at a precarious angle. Stan smiled; he figured Red's heart must be in his throat right about now. He turned his car around and followed the two boys. It didn't take him long to catch up. When he regained sight of them, John had stopped the bike at a bank. Stan eased his car over to the curb and waited, as John and his friend dismounted, and then disappeared around the corner.
Only a minute or two later, they returned on the run. They were excited about something, and they seemed to be rather pleased with themselves. After they exchanged congratulations with each other, Red placed something into John's knapsack. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a different – and smaller – item. It was square-ish, thin…it might have been a photograph. Stan watched in surprise as John's mood changed instantly and visibly. His smile vanished, replaced now by a sullen pout. He snatched the item away from Red and threw it back into the knapsack. Stan wondered what it was, that it could have such a sudden and dramatic effect on John. Obviously, it was something of particular significance to him.
He shrugged off the incident, and pulled out into the traffic, pursuing the bike from a distance once more. Stan was able to keep pace for a few blocks. Then, to his consternation, John gunned the bike through an intersection at top speed, then simply dipped out of sight on the other side. It took Stan a second or two to realize what had happened. Once he figured it out, he finally accepted that this day was going to be nothing but difficult for him. John had guided the bike down into one of the flood control channels that ran through the neighbourhood. Stan caught a glimpse of John racing the bike along the currently dry channel at full throttle. This would make it harder to stay with him, but Stan was game.
He wheeled hard to the right instead of traveling through the intersection. For his efforts, he received an earful of angry horn beeping from other drivers, all of them expressing their annoyance at his failure to signal his intentions. Then he stepped down harder on the gas – as much as he dared to in a suburban neighbourhood – and raced along a street that ran parallel to the flood channel. Before too long, he had the bike and its two riders in his sights again. John was hurtling along with reckless abandon. From time to time he steered the bike through the trickle of water that ran through the middle of the channel, exuberantly tossing spray in all directions. Stan was somewhat reassured by the knowledge that at least there weren't any obstacles for him to hit down there. He winced as John shot under an overpass, almost skimming the wall of the center bridge abutment. I stand corrected, he thought, dryly.
He was relieved when John emerged from the flood channel and slowed to a more reasonable speed; the traffic was heavier here. But he continued to ride recklessly, weaving between rows of cars – oblivious to the lane markers – and coming close to clipping a side mirror or two. He maneuvered the bike to the outer lane, then swung right, into the parking garage of the Galleria Shopping Mall. Stan made a mental note of it and drove on past the mall. He wanted to give them a chance to get into the mall before he entered the garage.
Twenty minutes later, he circled back toward the Galleria. After entering the parking garage, he cruised slowly up and down the rows of cars, scanning for John's dirt bike. He soon came upon a parking area reserved for two wheeled vehicles; it was located on the ground level near the south elevators. All manner of motorcycles and dirt bikes were parked there, and Stan spotted John's bike among them. So far, so good.
He parked nearby in a space from which he had a clear view of the motorcycle parking section. This was where he would approach John. But John hadn't been in the mall for very long; he might have a long wait ahead of him. That was just as well, because he still hadn't quite figured out how to approach the kid or what to tell him. Sarah had probably researched Cyberdyne thoroughly. Maybe she had passed on what she knew to her son. If so, he and John could pool their information. The more he knew about this outfit, the better.
He closed his eyes and relaxed back against the headrest. He needed to form a plan, but he found himself unable to concentrate. His thoughts were mired in his set location problem. He tried to push those thoughts aside and focus on the immediate issue. But after about fifteen minutes, he gave up. Opening his eyes, he reached toward the radio. Turned it on. Fiddled with the dial. Turned it off again. Checked his watch. Retrieved the map of Boston from the back seat and folded it neatly, all the while wondering why he had put it between the front seats in the first place. Stored it in the glove compartment. Checked his watch.
He glanced over at the bikes; he had had his eyes closed for a while, after all. John's bike was still parked there. Now his eye was drawn to a motorcycle that was parked at the end of the row of bikes. It was the meanest looking one of the bunch – a Harley-Davidson – and it brought a smile to Stan's face. Wow, he thought, if I ever make any money on this film – if I ever get it done, that is – maybe I'll get myself one of those.
On impulse, he got out of the car and walked over to the Harley to take a closer look at it. The look on his face was pure admiration. He stroked a hand along the machine, noting that the engine was still slightly warm. He took a cautious look around the garage, then hooked a leg up and over, and sat astride the bike. It was heaven.
"Oh man," he breathed softly, "this is amazing." For a minute or two, he just enjoyed the feel of the bike. Then he leaned lower, toward the handlebars, as if he were riding into a wind. Spontaneously, he began to sing quietly to himself, complete with musical accompaniment:
"Get your motor runnin' DAAAA da da da, Head out on the highway DAAAA da da da, Lookin' for adventure DAAAA da da da, And whatever comes ou- "
He froze. Someone had come his way while he wasn't paying attention. He could feel someone's stare boring holes in the back of his skull. Now a panicked crisis mantra began to repeat in his mind: Please, don't let him be too huge. Please, don't let him be too huge. Please… He turned his head slowly and looked behind him.
The little girl was probably about three years old. She smiled at him and waved. Her harried mother reached for her hand to pull her along, mumbling something to her about not staring. Stan grinned sheepishly, feeling foolish at having been caught in the act of enjoying his biker fantasy. But mostly he just felt relieved that it hadn't been the bike's owner standing behind him. He winked at the little girl, and offered a weak wave back at her. When the two were gone, he climbed off the bike, feeling a bit shaky. Okay, so he wasn't exactly the quintessential "easy rider".
"It's alright," he grumbled, consoling himself, "they got shot by rednecks, anyhow. Who needs that?" He didn't care to go looking for adventure; adventure could find him if it needed him.
He wandered back toward his car. He had just about reached it when he heard the stairwell door beside the elevator open with a noisy clang. That was followed by the sound of sneaker-clad feet pounding across the cement floor of the garage. He took a brief glance over his shoulder, then stopped short. It was Connor! Perfect, he decided. John had lost his friend somewhere along the way; he also seemed to be in one hell of a hurry. But Stan knew that this might be his best opportunity to talk to him. He started to walk toward the row of bikes.
"John!" he called.
Connor didn't seem to have heard him, so Stan called to him again. And he received no acknowledgment again. Clearly, the kid was preoccupied by something else – something urgent. Stan's call had been lost in the sound of Connor frantically and repeatedly trying to kick-start his dirt bike.
"Come on!" John coaxed impatiently, as the bike sputtered unco-operatively. He flicked a nervous glance over toward the stairwell door, which – as if on cue – suddenly opened inward again. A police officer strode out into the garage. He looked like he meant business, and John redoubled his efforts at the sight of him.
Stan was still walking toward John, but he knew already that his plan to talk to him had been foiled for another day. A cop! he thought, disgustedly. That could only mean one thing: Connor must be up to his petty criminal ways again. He eyed the blue knapsack hanging on John's back. What had the kid lifted? Certainly, John must have done something, because this cop sure wasn't looking like Officer Friendly.
The bike's engine suddenly caught and roared to life. John shot out of the row of bikes toward the garage exit. Only a moment or two later, Stan reached John's now vacated parking space. The policeman was still coming, and Stan could see that he intended to give chase. Still standing in the empty parking space, Stan watched the cop stalk by. He passed within a few feet of him, close enough that Stan could read the name "Austin" on his nametag and the number "572" on his badge. But the officer didn't spare Stan a single glance. His focus remained squarely on John Connor, as his purposeful gait now became a determined sprint.
At first, it looked as though the cop actually might catch John. Stan had stepped out into the garage's driving lane to watch the two receding figures. But soon it appeared that John was widening the gap. As he rounded a corner sharply, the outcome of the chase was still in doubt. Stan couldn't see them very well after that. He was able to catch only fleeting glimpses of John as he flashed past cement pillars and cars. Then he jumped the bike over a barrier and out of the garage, passing from Stan's sight. The cop was still gamely in pursuit, but Stan thought that his chances weren't looking very good. Connor handled that bike like a pro.
Almost immediately afterward, he heard tires screech out on the street as a vehicle braked hard. Oh my God, the kid! Stan thought, fearing the worst. He stood stalk still for several seconds, trying to decide if he should go and look. He took a few hesitant steps toward the street, then stopped and turned back. He was then startled by a tremendous crash. The sound had come from about a block down the street. Stan's guess was that a very large vehicle – a truck, probably – had smashed into a smaller one. Just what was going on out there?
He was still undecided as to what he should do. Should he go out and look? Should he try to follow in his car in case John managed to evade the cop? Should he forget the whole thing? He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, feeling upset and confused. It seemed that it had been his second wasted trip of the day. He was bitterly disappointed that his window of opportunity to talk to John had been slammed shut. When he heard the stairwell door opening behind him for yet a third time, he gave voice to that frustration.
As he spun around to look behind him, he demanded, "What is this, a freakin' parade or someth- "
The words died in his throat. The world stopped cold. For all that Stan was aware of it, the world might have just gone away altogether. His universe had narrowed to what was directly before him. He was transfixed by the figure that was walking calmly toward him. If time travel did indeed exist, then Stan felt like he was experiencing it right there on the spot; he was instantly thrust back through time ten full years. He had been here – in this situation – before. It was him! Or rather, it was…it. It was the Terminator.
His mind rejected staunchly what his sight was telling him. It can't be! It's not possible. Al said it wasn't coming back. And it can't come back. It was crushed, taken apart, destroyed. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nightmarish apparition away. But when he opened them again, nothing had changed. Something that he knew to be far less than human – a walking killing machine – still was approaching him. And it was making no effort to conceal the shotgun that it had clutched in its steely, flesh-disguised hand.
His thoughts were a jumble, unable to produce anything coherent. R-n-m-v! It made no sense at all; it was all just so much white noise in his head. It didn't much matter, because even if he could have made sense of his thoughts, he would have been entirely unable to act on them. Finally, though, he was able to decipher the message. His mixed up and panicked survival instinct had tried to tell him to "run" and to "move" at the same time. It had gotten its wires crossed in the process. Still, it seemed like sage advice, and Stan would have taken it if he hadn't become rooted to the ground. But he was stuck fast, as if a lightning bolt were grounding itself through his body.
He was still standing in front of John's vacated parking space. He wanted desperately to shrink back into it, to allow Skynet's "hit-bot" to move past. And if he could have retracted his sarcasm-laden words, he would have happily eaten them whole. In a heartbeat, he would have. The problem was he didn't seem to have a heartbeat just now; and in a moment, he might never have one again. So he stood like a statue, unable to take a single step to get out of the way.
When the thing was nearly upon him, his thoughts finally found their voice. Don't look in its eyes, don't look in its eyes. If anything, he knew that that was something he never wanted to experience again. He forced his gaze downward, where it came to rest on the shotgun. In the last interminable second before the Terminator reached him, he kept his eyes fixed on the weapon, waiting to see if it would be raised to shooting position.
So he wasn't ready for the heavy blow when it came; he didn't even see it coming. It sent him spinning and stumbling backwards. He wasn't knocked to the ground, but he slammed hard up against the motorcycle in the next parking space. He braced himself against it to stay on his feet, and to keep the bike from falling over. When he looked up again, he saw that the Terminator hadn't slowed its pace; it was continuing on its course, now moving away from him.
Stan had been hit hard…hard enough that he'd be sure to remember it for a while. But it hadn't been like being hit by the full force of a runaway freight train. More succinctly, it hadn't been as bad as ten years ago. This had been nothing but a brush-by. But one hell of a brush-by, he thought, defensively. Stan realized now that the cyborg had no interest in him; it had only shouldered him out of the way to get to where it was going. Once again, he had been spared because the T-800 had more important business elsewhere.
He stared after the hulking figure in disbelief, still unable to come to grips with the fact that it was here at all. How could it be? How could this thing be walking the streets of Los Angeles again? All he could do for the moment, though, was deal with the immediate situation, surreal as it was. The sense of it could be pieced together later, when his mental equilibrium had returned.
As he watched the cyborg stride away from him, he noticed something unusual. The back of its leather jacket was riddled with holes; they looked like bullet holes. Someone had been shooting at it; and judging by the shotgun in its hand, it had been shooting at someone, too. Or…it intended to. A fleeting moment of clarity broke through the murkiness in his head, and he realized what the machine's "more important business" might be. Connor! he thought, with alarm. The first Terminator mission, which had targeted Sarah, had failed; this T-800 must be on a mission to terminate John!
At that moment, the cyborg made an abrupt left turn. To Stan's horror, it stepped directly to the side of the motorcycle that he had been "trying out" only minutes earlier. His grip tightened on the motorbike he was leaning against. It was more or less the only thing propping him up; without it, he would have simply slumped to the ground.
It's going to know I was on the bike! his thoughts howled frantically. His brief seconds of lucidity now over, the panicked roar resumed inside his head. But he felt entirely disconnected from it; he felt disconnected from everything. It's going to know! Of course it will, it's a machine. Its sensors will detect it or something. Then what will it do? It's going to –
The Terminator paused now. Its head swiveled slowly on its neck as it made a deliberate sweeping scan of the parking garage. The gazes of man and machine met one another for only the briefest of moments – no more than a microsecond. But it was long enough for Stan to read soullessness and death in what passed for the cyborg's "eyes". The machine started to raise the shotgun…
Yeah, it knows, Stan thought with a sense of doomed certainty. He stood awaiting his fate, feeling entirely unable to do anything about it. He never could have guessed that it would end this way. Squeezing his eyes shut in terrified anticipation, he listened for the sound of the shot.
Thunk! Stan flinched at the sound, and his eyes flew open again. It hadn't been the sound of a gunshot, and he seemed to be entirely intact. A quick glance enabled him to identify the sound. The T-800 had holstered the shotgun firmly behind the Harley's seat. It was climbing onto the bike. Stan felt a rush of relief; he might get out of this yet. If everything else had gone wrong today so that this one thing could go right…well, at the moment that was looking like a very fair deal. More than fair.
The T-800 revved the Harley's engine and flipped up the kickstand. The bike rolled forward a few inches. Stan was almost holding his breath; in a few seconds, this would be all over. He just had to keep his cool for another minute or two. Then – with its hands gripping the bike's handlebars, and both of its feet planted solidly on the ground – the Terminator turned its head once more and fixed Stan with a long look. It was eerily reminiscent of the knowing look that John had given him that morning. Yeah, it knows…and it wants me to know that it knows, he thought weakly, deciding that he must be about as transparent as cellophane today. But fortunately for him, the machine assassin had more pressing matters to attend to. It looked away, then guided the bike smoothly from its parking space. It headed in the same direction that John and the cop had gone in.
Stan never would have believed that this entire encounter had transpired in little more than one minute. It seemed more like years. He stepped out haltingly into the driving lane and watched the leather-clad figure ride away. He didn't take his eyes off of it until he was certain that it was, in fact, leaving. Confirmation of this soon arrived; the sound of squealing tires and vehicles colliding carried to him from out on the street. Didn't anybody look both ways anymore?
Now, with the crisis over, Stan's knees turned to liquid, and he sank down onto the concrete. What he was feeling right now couldn't by any means be construed as happiness, yet he felt like a man who had just won the lottery.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner," he croaked, his throat feeling parched and constricted. Then he laughed, a bit too forcefully. The Terminator was gone; and he was still alive. How had he come face to face with this thing – or one of these things – twice now and managed to walk away both times? Walk away? He remembered that he had slid to the ground and hadn't walked anywhere yet. "Well," he said, still talking out loud to himself, "I will be able to stand up and walk away…eventually." Again he was overtaken by laughter that bordered on hysteria.
He hadn't heard the elevator door slide open behind him. The voice that called to him made him jump. His nerves were shot.
"You okay, mister?"
He looked over his shoulder. Two teenage boys were standing by the row of motorcycles; they were peering at him with curiosity. Stan realized that he must look a sight, down on his knees in the dust and motor oil, babbling and laughing to himself. He raised a hand in acknowledgment.
"Yeah, fine, thanks," he assured them. He pointed at the ground. "Contact lens."
The two teens exchanged a wary, not-quite-believing look.
"Bummer," one of them sympathized.
"Yeah, bummer," the other one echoed.
They hopped onto their motorbike and zipped past Stan, oblivious to the imaginary contact lens. At last, the world started to return to normal. Stan, still slumped on the ground, was left to ponder whether or not he should follow the chase. Maybe he could help John…or at least warn him. John might not even be aware that a Terminator was on his trail. But two things made him vote in favour of inaction: every ounce of energy had been drained from him by his encounter with the T-800, but more importantly, he was unwilling to get anywhere near that cyborg-zombie-thing again. Not if he didn't have to. If push came to shove – and he was becoming quite accustomed to being shoved by Terminators – would he stand between the gun wielding robot and John Connor?
He didn't like the answer to that question, so his mind set to work on justifying his decision. Yes, Connor was being pursued by a Terminator, but he was also being chased by a cop. Who better to protect him? Stan couldn't imagine that he could do anything more than a cop could to help John. A policeman would at least have a weapon. Once he realized the kid was in danger, surely he'd protect him from…four hundred plus pounds of homicidal steel and micro-circuitry, he thought, with a shudder. Then he remembered that the cop was on foot, while John and the T-800 were on vehicles. He might have been left in their dust. But maybe Austin had a partner in a squad car who would have caught up to him. Or it was possible that that's what some of the squealing tires were about. Maybe he had flashed a badge and made some motorist stop so that he could use the car. But that seemed like a lot of effort to go to just to chase a kid who had probably only shoplifted.
Stan was well aware that there was another underlying reason why he didn't want to join the chase; it was specifically because of the cop. These Terminator things had a history with the LAPD, and it wasn't pretty; surely, the West Highland station had never been the same after May of 1984. So if the T-800 caught up to John and the cop, it might be lights out for both of them. Officer Not-So-Friendly Austin would never know what had hit him.
He looked up in response to the sound of sirens approaching. Well, of course, he told himself matter-of-factly. There are plenty of car accidents to clean up out there, by the sound of it. Man, I hope the kid didn't get hurt. With a heavy sigh, he started to climb to his feet. He was successful, although he staggered a bit, still feeling somewhat unsteady. It could be one long walk to his car. He swayed a bit, then fell forward, reacquainting himself with the ground.
As he struggled to get up again, his attention was drawn to something on the concrete floor, a few feet away from him. He crawled over to it and scrutinized it closely. Poked at it once or twice. When he held his finger up in front of him, he was staring at it as if he were a prospector who had just discovered a gleaming speck in a pan of sludge. There was no doubt about it, though; it was fresh blood. Terminator blood, he realized; the blood of the hunter. It fascinated him.
"Skynet, you clever son of a bitch," he breathed, with grudging respect, "that's putting the 'org' in 'cyborg', in a big way."
He rubbed his thumb and finger together, and watched the liquid smear. This meant that Skynet's henchman must be walking wounded. The back of its jacket had been shredded with bullet holes. Who might have pumped that many rounds into it?
Stan was re-energized by his discovery. He clambered to his feet, feeling much steadier now. As he examined the ground, he saw a few more dark spots. There weren't a lot of them – not what you'd call a trail, exactly – but Stan could see that the sparse scattering of drops led directly into the parking space where the T-800's bike had been parked. He walked over to the now vacant space and hunkered down to study the drops again. There was a slightly higher concentration of them here, and something glittered among them. Upon closer inspection, he could see small, ragged shards of glass lying on the ground. Some were clear; others were lightly splattered with blood. Still others were fully coated in the stuff. The glass was scattered only in areas where the blood drops were. Obviously, it hadn't been there before the Terminator had come by. It had brought the glass – andthe blood – with it. The bloodied pieces of glass must have been imbedded right into the 800's skin, falling out bit by bit as it walked. Bullets, blood, tiny daggers of glass. What had this thing been up to?
He wondered what the result would be if he were to have some of this blood tested to see what its component parts were. He decided to take a few of the blood covered glass shards, just in case he ever had reason to do that. Was this real blood or was it some kind of manufactured fluid? If it was real, where did it come from?…where did Skynet get it? And since a cyborg didn't have a heart – he felt he was on pretty safe ground with that assumption – then what circulated the stuff? And wouldn't it have to circulate for the tissue to remain healt –
"Excuse me, sir."
Stan sprang to his feet, startled. He had been so absorbed in his new find that he hadn't heard anyone enter the garage. A mall security guard was walking toward him. Stan casually stepped in front of the blood and glass, blocking it from view.
"The mall administration is considering clearing the premises. Unless you have important, immediate business here, we'd appreciate it if you'd exit the garage. No one is being granted entry to the mall right now."
"Clearing the premises? Is there a problem?"
"There have been reports of shots fired."
Stan's brows rose. "Shots!"
"Something happened in a maintenance hallway," the guard explained. "We don't believe the public is at risk, but we're taking all necessary precautions. We'd appreciate your co-operation."
Stan's heart sank. If he had to leave, with this guard watching him the whole time, he wouldn't be able to collect his samples. Not to mention that walking away would leave them in plain view.
"Was anybody hurt?" he asked, buying himself some time.
"I wasn't there," the guard replied. "I heard that a maintenance worker was caught in the crossfire. Another man was pushed through a storefront window. Some witnesses say he was thrown through, but you know…people exaggerate." He shrugged.
Stan nodded, taking a brief glance at the ground to make sure that no blood or glass was visible in front of him. "Uh, yeah, I suppose so," he agreed, sounding a bit distracted. He gave the guard a weak smile. So that's what happened. That would explain the glass, he thought.
The guard looked at him with renewed interest now. "You know, word is that one or two of the guys involved might have come this way, through the parking garage. You didn't happen to see a man with a firearm, did you?"
Stan shook his head earnestly. "No," he said, then added, "but I've only been here for a few minutes."
Both lies came easily. He wasn't going to get involved in this by admitting that he had seen the "man". And as for the second lie, it wouldn't be wise to tell a security guard that he actually had been here in the garage for over an hour, waiting for a young boy that he didn't know. That would not go over too well. He was glad, though, that he had decided to cover up the blood drops. If the guard saw them, it would blow the cover off of his lies pretty quickly.
His conscience wasn't bothered by his decision to lie. He could justify his answers…to himself, anyhow. After all, he hadn'tseen a man with a firearm; he had seen an "it", a thing. And he had only been here for a few minutes. Before that, he had been, well…over there, a few parking spaces away. It was all a matter of semantics. Oh man, I'm good, he congratulated himself. I missed my calling; I should have been a lawyer. He couldn't help but emit a low chuckle.
"Is something funny, sir?" The guard was peering at him rather suspiciously now.
Damn, Stan scolded himself, how could I be so stupid? Now he'd have to think fast to come up with a satisfactory answer for the guard. Instantly, an idea came to him that would fit the bill. It would also allow him to achieve his objective of gathering a few artifacts, thereby finishing the work that the guard had interrupted.
"Actually, there is," he replied.
In response to the man's expectant look, he turned around and hunkered down, using his back to block the view of the ground. He quickly scooped up two bloodstained pieces of glass, and carefully palmed them. Then he selected a razor thin, clear piece. Rising to his feet again, he held up the sliver of glass, keeping it pressed between his thumb and finger in order to hide its ragged edges.
"You see, before you came out here, I was searching for my contact lens. Looks like I found it. I just stepped on it," he finished, with a sheepish what-can-you-do grin.
With the guard's attention fixed squarely on the "contact lens", Stan then used one foot to quietly drag some dust and dirt over the small concentration of blood drops and glass. His sly use of misdirection had allowed him to gather his artifacts and obscure the remaining evidence. The guard seemed not to have noticed a thing. Mission accomplished, Stan thought smugly, feeling satisfied with himself.
The guard wasn't entirely satisfied, though; he looked rather doubtful. "And you're laughing? Most people wouldn't find that very funny."
Stan shrugged in unspoken agreement, then sighed, "Well, it's just been that kind of a day, you know?"
At least that much he could say was the absolute and unqualified truth.
ooOOoo
He was back to square one. After having absorbed the contents of the videotape and the computer disk, in addition to his conversation with Al, Stan had thought that he had a well-informed understanding of the strange events that had commenced in 1984. But if he had thought that he had all of his ducks lined up neatly in a row, then it seemed that someone had suddenly – and cruelly – declared hunting season open. Now he had no ducks at all, and all bets were off.
He mused to himself that maybe that was an overly pessimistic attitude. After all, he wasn't back to the very beginning, with no information at all. But clearly, the information Alex had given him only five months ago was already outdated. It hadn't said anything about more than one cyborg. And the one he had seen today had to be a second one, because the first one had been totally destroyed. Pictures on the computer disk had shown not only the salvaged artifacts, but also the other crushed remains. So another Terminator was now on the loose, and this time the rumoured future saviour also seemed to be in the mix. He wondered if Sarah knew about any of this. Did anything of the outside world breach the defenses of the "criminally disordered retention facility"?
He was back at home now, resting comfortably on the couch and waiting for the eleven o'clock news. He was hoping that it might give some details about the events that had taken place in and around the Galleria earlier in the day.
In his hand he held a small, clear plastic case. Inside of it were the two pieces of glass that he had taken from the parking garage. The now dried blood on them had faded to a dull maroon colour. He tilted the case this way and that, watching the glass slide from side to side. What was he going to do with these? Probably nothing. Taking them to a lab might result in too many questions, if anything unusual were to show up. He had just felt compelled to gather some evidence; it was as simple as that. He didn't want to regret not having taken some, if it should become useful at a later date. For now, it would simply be stored, just like the videotape and the computer disk.
If a second Terminator was now in play, the primary question was: where did it come from? He thought he already knew the "why" of it. He couldn't say with absolute certainty that the T-800 had been following John and the cop. But it made sense; the pieces fit together. Besides, his gut told him it was so. A Terminator and a Connor in that close proximity to each other? Who else would it be after?
But the "where" was a trickier issue. He remembered how agitated Alex had been, as he had talked about how close Dyson was to unraveling the mysteries of the computer chip. Had he actually been that close? Was it possible that Cyberdyne had already put the technology to work and built a cyborg…here, in the present? The idea was almost too much to fathom. But if that were so, why would they have built it as a killing machine? Military contract, maybe? But why set it loose among civilians? And why would it have a bullet with John Connor's name on it? Whoa, slow down there, he cautioned himself. He had no absolute proof that it had killed anyone or that it had targeted John Connor.
But if Cyberdyne hadn't made it here in the present, then there was only one other explanation: Skynet had sent a second Terminator back in time, from the future, to serve its purpose. If anything like that could be believed. But what wasn't difficult to believe was that the machine mastermind would have a bullet reserved for the future General Connor. It would have as many as were required.
The events of the day had left Stan feeling physically and emotionally drained. He had forgotten entirely about his film location problem. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes for a while. He thought about the sparse scattering of blood drops on the parking garage's concrete floor. For a few brief moments, he forced himself to consider that the leather-clad gunman might be…just a guy. Not a robot. Not a cyborg. Not an infiltrator. But just a regular flesh and bone human, bleeding from a gunshot wound.
It was to no avail, though; he didn't believe it. He had seen too much to still believe it was just a man. That particular bridge had been burned long ago, and there was no going back. For Stan, believing that the gunman was human – and not robotic – now seemed more ludicrous than believing the reverse. And if that belief meant that his psyche was free-falling into the same abyss that Sarah Connor's had, well, so be it. At least he had company.
The top of the hour arrived, bringing with it the nightly newscast. An airbrushed-looking anchorman appeared on the TV screen, and announced: "Our top story tonight…chaos in a Reseda shopping mall…"
But Stan didn't hear him. And his eyes didn't open again. He had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep.
xxx (End Chapter 6) xxx.
Chapter Notes:
1. "Hotel California" (Felder, Henley, Frey) – The Eagles, 1976
"Born To Be Wild" (Bonfire) – Steppenwolf, 1968
2. John's friend's name is Tim, of course, (but Stan wouldn't have known that, therefore "Red").
3. A change of plans – I projected the story to be eight chapters. It's more likely to be nine or ten. There was so much to put into some of these later chapters that they were getting too long; it seemed better to split them in half, and make two chapters of them.
4. Chapter 6 posted March 17, 2005.