One Year Later
A warm rush of air glided like a roll of silk across the dark waves of an inky black ocean slushing and sloshing in its wake. Besieged by the waves and currents of Neptune was the small landmass of a lazy island that stood sentry over the gulf for centuries, undisturbed, solid as a rock. For years it had seen the ravishing passion of Mother Nature's fury through her powerful hurricanes that battered her companion, biting and ripping at his clothing, tearing away buildings and towns; her punishment leaving him bare and scared. But, if her passion was her gale force temper, then the warm tropical breeze that gently floated through the night was like the soft caress of a lover's light kiss.
The salt of the ocean carried on the wind mixed with the tropical foliage of the island tailor making a strange spice in the air that slowly saturated through the small coastal town. The spicy mixture weaved its way through Spanish architecture of white stone and red tile roofs. The small, picturesque Mediterranean style town of white cobblestone streets and chalky stone steps shone like marble in the pale moonlight. The full orb waxed in the obscurity of a light screen of clouds, resembling a porcelain bride veiled on her wedding day.
The combination of the rustling palm trees embedded inside the white stone walkways, and the clacking of the cultural and religious wind chime carvings outside the windows of the denizens of this lazy community made an odd foreboding music that bothered the only man on the island that was still awake.
Ricardo Montez felt as if his life was finally starting to turn around. He had been stuck here as long as he could remember. He spent his childhood watching tourists walk through these tired old streets, taking pictures … gawking at the lives of the people who lived there. His family had all been carpenters, a respected position in such a Christian community … or in any community that needed to be repaired after a hurricane. He enjoyed the irony of all the people who came here from the hustle and bustle of their city lives across the sea, across the world, to enjoy this piece of god-fashioned paradise, when in reality he would trade all of his lazy days just for a taste of the world on their city streets. He just wanted to feel like he was a part of something more in this world than the same five thousand people that lived on the island.
But today, today was going to change his life, maybe a big step in the right direction. Of course, maybe not to his mother or his father, but to him it doesn't get bigger than this. Senor Rivera hired him for his security team tomorrow for the island festival. It was a yearly celebration, to mark the anniversary of the Spanish landing, or the death of some admired priest; he couldn't remember. But what was important was that Senor Rivera wasn't based in the island; he was from the mainland miles away and handled events like this. Landing this job was his opportunity to leave. If Senor Rivera liked the way he handled the crowds, how he kept vigilance over the activities, he said he might keep him on. That meant that he would be taking Jobs on the mainland, and going other places.
He had been so thorough and cautious with this opportunity just around the corner that he had kept his badge and security clearance with him at all times, afraid he'd lose it. But while cautious, the excitement at the prospect of leaving the island had promoted a one last walk about, to memorize the check points for tomorrow. But in reality it was really to say goodbye to this place he couldn't imagine getting away from fast enough.
He had been living in his own fantasy of going to see the Golden Gate Bridge in New York City … or was it St. Louis? He never really got to find out which one it was, because he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. The island's street lamps were not electric but candlelit. In the flickering dimness of the firelight he spotted a silhouette leaning against ancient lamp pole. The man was tall and lithe; he could make out a tall tophat, and long coat. In his hand he was twirling a long staff of some sort. There was a shot of anxiety that ran through Ricardo as noticed the strange figure watching him from afar. Worse yet, the stranger was standing in the way of where Ricardo needed to go.
Ricardo was torn between taking the long way around to avoid him. The crime rate on the island was virtually non-existent, with the exception of drunken brawls over soccer matches or just drunken brawls in general. Sure he knew all this, but there was something in the way he was being stared at that he didn't like. But after a moment of steeling himself it dawned upon him that if he wanted to walk the streets of the world's greatest cities, or more to the point fight off drunken lechers during the beauty pageant tomorrow, he would have to face these kinds of fears.
There hadn't been two steps taken before the man in the top hat and overcoat began to whistle. He suddenly felt scared; his anxiety growing tenfold and he didn't know why. Getting closer and closer he started to realize that his mystery observer was making a tune to the odd clacking and clinking of the religious carvings and the palm trees. Closer now, he couldn't help but stare dumbfounded as he finally reached him.
It could've been awkward with him staring at this stranger as he was, but all the top hatted man did was whistle and tilt his head. Ricardo couldn't say he got a better look at him, but the shadow was more defined. He saw that the man had no shirt underneath his coat. He had a skinny physique of stringy, wiry chest and stomach muscles underneath a tattooed and very tanned complexion. Underneath his large hat, decorated with unfamiliar herbs, branches, and a feather was a long shiny curtain of straight, black hair.
"A little early for the costume? The festival is tomorrow, no?" Ricardo's chuckle was a little too high pitched and long as his Spanish stumbled in phantom nerves.
The security guard flinched as his mystery acquaintance tilted his head and gave him a big smile. His perfectly straight teeth had a yellowish green neon glow that shown dimly in the light. While distracted, the man in the top hat leaned forward into the candle light with an open hand just under his mouth. Ricardo opened his mouth to gasp when he saw the somewhat handsomely narrow face was painted in a skull design, outlined in black. As if blowing a kiss, the skull faced man blew a finely ground powder like soft sand from the island's ivory beaches into the security guard's face and mouth. Having a large coughing fit, the young man gripped his throat and hacked loudly as he hunched over.
Leaving him to recover, the skull faced man in the top hat continuing his whistling. The Voodoo priest smiled with his neon teeth. Twirling his cane topped with an orb which glowed a deep misty blue he disappeared into the darkness.
Detective Stories: Case #0
La Isla Bonita
A young man shot up from a tangle of soft linen sheets. He was covered in a sheen of cold sweat that lingered on his muscular arms and bare chest. His sharp, emerald eyes were haunted and stricken as his vision swirled around the dim, shadowy bedroom. The light of the closing day was an amber backdrop of purple swirls that colored the room like a water painting. Below the queen sized bed was cold, orange tile, the walls were painted a thick white and the room was decorated with old wooden furniture. He could smell the salt in the wind that pushed in white sheer drapes past the open French doors leading to a balcony. Out the doors he could hear the calming noise of crashing waves.
Across from the bed was a female's vanity with a flawlessly polished mirror. All he could do was stare at the man staring back at him. He knew the man but he didn't recognize him, at least not when trapped in the past. The reflection was not the scrawny, petulantly grim teen with an emo attitude. What he saw was a growing young man with a developing barrel chest. His dark hair was soft and thick, grown out and parted stylishly. His sad, yet handsome face was covered with three days' worth of boyish facial hair. Sorrow and the hardness of reality had melted away his boyish features and made him ditch the teen's rebellious attire and attitude.
The self-reflection in front of him pushed away the dregs of the nightmare and its sounds of squealing train tracks like a banshee calling to the dead, and the pained screams of a teenager on his knees in the snowy wilderness. The traumatic memories were slowly supplanted by the gentle thunder of a peaceful ocean, and the scent of paradise calming his nerves.
He felt cold rubber in his hand. Glancing down he realized that he was holding a sleek .45 Colt. Its barrel leveled at the familiar stranger holding him at gunpoint as well- a Mexican standoff. The hand holding the weapon throbbed numbly, dark splotches of old frost bitten flesh in odd patterns streaked across his gun hand; two fingers, index and middle, were darkened against normal skin.
His grin over the strangely existential showdown was dark and grim. "Bang," he growled at his reflection, lowering the weapon he had kept under his pillow.
Tossing the sheet off of himself. He threw a pair of muscular and powerfully built legs covered by black sleeping pants over the edge of the bed. He leaned the now more linebacker-built body over, covering his eyes with his hand. When he closed them he could still see two faces- accepting, sorrowful, and afraid. He could see his lost loved ones- his parents.
The Colt .45 was cold when he pressed it to his temple, lightly tapping the barrel against his head. He was trying to empty the memories from his head as if forcing out the last of the jam trapped in a jar. He gave a deep and sorrowful sigh and straightened his posture. He had tried to forget the sadness, as evidence by the collection of glass bottles on the nightstand and several by the single bed in the room. The headache and the sensation of stepping in holes helped him realize how well that was going. He could recognize some of them: coconut rum, the half empty bottle of tequila was easy to label, and three milk bottles of something that was sweet and burned in your stomach, a local brew that had a name he didn't bother learning.
He tossed the Colt on the bed and scrubbed his face tiredly. The dreams of mortal emotional wounds made sleep almost unattainable, much less a peaceful affair. The feelings of that night were fresh and it was hard putting a cap on the never ending fallout, the happy times turning to ash in his heart … each memory making the longing that much harder to control. He was trying to remember the safety and warmth of his mother's love, but found only the cold remains, like visiting the ruins of a childhood home.
He found his feet and stood on the cool tile, feeling the slippery surface clash with the grainy cross section of the mortar lines in between. Lost in his head of aching darkness, he padded toward the open balcony. He picked up a white button down with a lip gloss mark on the collar sitting on a chair underneath a satin bikini top. The drapes whipped at him as he shrugged the shirt on for a more presentable look. His nostrils were assaulted by a sweet perfume of coconut, seawater, and cherry lingering on the soiled button down.
For six thousand and what seemed like his left nut, John Connor stole the cabana with the spectacular view from the clutches of some drunken reality show peddling heiress. The blood red sun was falling in the west, the injection of the bright colors on the bottom of a growing darkness was like a spilled paint set. The glinting of awakening stars reflecting in the crystal water being drained of all color was like two ships passing in the night. From far away the faint echoes of island guitar music and trumpets signified the awakening of the town with the night, the nocturnal life of those looking to make memories, not to run from them.
"The Festival is tonight." A voice said to him gently.
He leaned against the doorframe and watched a curtain of satiny dark curls belonging to the girl on the balcony flutter in the wind. The glint of the final strands of the day reflected off her smooth exposed skin. A pure white bed cover made of silk wrapped around her straight-as-a-board naked body like a Grecian goddess. It was as if all the light was drawn to Cameron as she stared out onto the horizon.
John stayed in the fringes of the darkness. "I don't know, Cameron …" He shook his head and retreated further into the black blanket.
A slender hand clasped at her silk sheet, turning to face him. Her eyes were soft, if not emotionless, but even if they look that way he knew there was something behind them. She took a step forward and reached out for him from the light. He didn't step away; he never could step away from her touch, not ever again. Her hand took his and pulled him into the light and out of the darkness, away from his dark cave of alcohol and nightmares. The warm tropical wind and atmosphere made him lightheaded
"You haven't eaten in two days …" She reached up and touched his stubbled cheek gently. He grabbed her wrist and pressed it against his cheek hard. Years ago he would've said that she was only doing this to scan him and that any affection was John seeing what he wanted to see. But he could never be drunk enough or lost in so much darkness that he would ever forget the magic in nothing more than Cameron's simple touch. The touch of her hands on his back when he was inside her, the spark in her eyes of a strange panic at the new physical sensations wedded with pure exhilaration of the buildup. She never failed to shed a single tear that fell after her gasp of surprise when the release finally came. A part of him felt ashamed that their first time was between their second and third milk bottle of dark tangy crap bought in an alley like a couple of stupid kids, and not to candlelight and a delicious five star dinner like the lovers he felt they were. But the other part of him felt like if he didn't have her, didn't take her that night, he would've lost his mind a long time ago. The smell of her after sex, the taste of the sweat on her belly, her hands through his hair as she lay on top of him … She was all that he lived for, being with this thing that shouldn't have a soul was all that kept him from falling and never wanting to get up.
"We can order room service … stay in." John offered. He illustrated with a tender kiss that she never rejected. It was as if it was all she ever wanted from him and him from her. A small form of affection that both needed when all they used to think was only that it was what they wanted.
She leaned his head against hers, as he closed his eyes. "John, we didn't come here to stay in." She shot with a hard tone. He looked into golden-flecked, caramel eyes and realized, as if by intuition, that he was making her feel like a failure. She had brought them here to get away, to find somewhere that he could heal. Maybe finding each other was conciliation, but his drunken nights and unconscious days were hardly what she was looking for in him.
He took a step away from her. "What do you want from me?" He asked with a brooding growl in his voice, hoarse and older than it should.
"To come back to life … to come back to society."
"What if I don't want to?"
"You have to." She protested.
"Why?" He snarled. "Because I'm John Connor, leader of the Human Resistance fighting artificial war machines called Terminators, controlled by a defense network computer named Skynet that blew up half the world?" He said it as clinically as possible, absent of emotion like a computer's automated response.
"Because I need you to."
John blinked in surprise and turned back to find Cameron watching him with stern eyes. "I love you, John … I don't know how I know, but I have no other word to quantify it." She explained. "And because I love you, I know that what you're doing is not going to help you recover. I don't know what it's like to lose people I love, I don't know what it must be like to go through what you are … but if we continue like this I will." She nodded.
John walked to the edge of the balcony and gripped a rose studded trellis, bowing his head. "Do you know what it's like to have your whole world … taken from you?" He spat at the situation, not Cameron. "To wake up one day and realize that without one person the one constant in your life … it's built on nothing?" he asked the cyborg.
"Your life is not nothing, John." She touched his arm. "You are everything to me." She finished, turning him to face her. She searched his eyes for a moment. "But, If you think your life is nothing, then build a new one with me." She cupped his stubble. "Please?" She asked.
There was something heartbreaking about the pure court like courtesy in her voice. It wasn't much; there was something off kilter in her voice, just a twinge of a tremble. Maybe that tremble was fear of being left alone, or the thought of a world without him. But if his life was handicapped before, then that little speech was all he needed to hear to know that someone still had a stake in his life. That in John's life there was still someone who saw him as more as just the key to the future, as the savior of humanity. For once it was someone who needed him because they loved him. It was all the strength he needed.
He pulled her into his arms as the bright red sun dipped into the sea and the bright fields of stars shown above them. When the warm tropical wind breathed life into the town …
They kissed.
There was electricity in the air that filled the crowded cobblestone streets outside the tall Mediterranean buildings that enclosed the festivities. Outside the glass entrances of usually quiet cafés groups of men in white shirts and black slacks played homemade instruments serenading anyone who would toss a few pieces of paper in the bowler hats at their feet. Kids with plastic skull masks rushed through gaps in the crowds armed with sparklers. All sorts of music lingered in the charged air, bring a mixed chorus of different sounds that all somehow fit the setting.
Navigating through impromptu dancing and mingling, Cameron strode through the white stone walkways with a look of wonder and confusion; like a child introduced to something that they weren't sure if they were scared of or enchanted by. Her white island dress fluttered around her knees, offset against the red rose in her hair. Cameron's new bronze tan made her exposed skin shimmer in the excitement of the night. Close behind her John's face held a loving smirk as he watched her, still his dimmed white button down shirt over a blue t-shirt, old jeans, and grim façade stood out amongst all the brightly dressed, happy carefree people around him. He kept a close watch on her, though he could list only a couple names on a few fingers that could actually harm her.
The cyborg turned back toward him as if expecting him to explain what everyone was doing, and where to start. He bumped her shoulder and took a look around at the dancing and the drifting of clothing from balconies where a gaggle of drunken college girls were stripping only to their bare essentials as to not get arrested.
"So what do you want to do?" He asked, while shaking his head at one of the girls motioning for him to come up to her.
Cameron was momentarily distracted, fixing a death glare at the blond in the shimmering bikini who could be seen looking away quickly from the deadly caramel eyes. "I don't know …" She replied innocently as if the incident never happened.
They were interrupted by a large fat man with thick black hair, ashy skin, and a goatee. His stumbling was what he was trying to pass off as dancing. Sarah would've said that he was dancing to the beat of his own head as his movements didn't seem to match any music in hearing. Laughing giddily at nothing in particular, he grabbed John by the shoulders and kissed him once on each cheek. Then he turned toward Cameron and wrapped large arms around her waist, poised to kiss her on the lips. John's large hand ripped him away from the confused girl. But just as John was about to strike him, the fat man looped several necklaces of multicolored beads around the raised fist and danced away from trouble.
"You alright?" The younger man asked his companion, glaring after the overly happy fat man with another shake of his head, removing the necklaces.
"Yes …" She seemed more interested in John present than the man who tried to kiss her.
"BEADS … HE'S GOT BEADS!"
She looked up at the college girls as they suddenly searched below for John, who turned red. He took ahold of Cameron's arm. "Let's go." He said and escorted her down the cobble stone street, away from eye sight of the balcony.
"Why do they want the beads?"
"The necklace?"
"Are they culturally significant?"
"Uh … not really."
"Then, why?"
John let go of her arm and began walking down an alley from one busy street to an even louder one. They stopped a moment when a couple making out passionately moved in their way, relocating from one side of a building to another without breaking the kiss. He smirked, leading her past the girl ripping at the man's shirt.
"They're party beads …"
"So?" She asked.
"You know … a girl flashes you and you give them the necklace." He chuckled at the novelty of it, something he never really got to enjoy, being raised by such a strong woman who would take pound of flesh if she ever heard he had partaken in such a demeaning ritual. John found her rules to be a bit of a double standard, coming from a woman who was a waitress at Hooters the summer after Cyberdyne.
Spinning the necklaces, John was reminiscing of the unfair repression of his male rites of passage when Cameron stepped in front of him. He opened his mouth to ask her what was the matter, when she suddenly slipped her white dress down to her waist, exposing a pair of perfectly sized and supple breasts, topped with thick, ample nipples. John made a strange noise that was between a gasp and a surprised snort.
"Cam …" He chastised in shock, turning to see that the woman eating off her lovers face seemed to catch the show. Turning quickly, the young man pulled the girl in his arms to cover her, lifting her momentarily in the air by her slim waist and carried her out of sight, between two tall stacks of crates.
He searched innocent eyes. "Wha … what are you doing?" He asked in confusion, helping her push up her dress, trying not to think how much he suddenly wanted to touch them. Cameron didn't respond, she just stared at him. "Cameron?" He asked with more conviction. She continued to say nothing, only tightening her cheek and fixing him with an expectant look. There was silence for a beat, before it finally hit him.
"Really?" He squinted at her with a sigh. She nodded, extending her hand out toward him. He sighed again and shook his head, handing her a necklace. She frowned and took the rest of them from him. He rolled his eyes, till she pulled him into a deep kiss. As his hands slipped around her waist he knew, in her own subtle way, this was her message that he didn't need to see anyone else, what she had was all he needed. With the kiss there was an overwhelming sense of completeness that overcame him, that made her sentiment the most accurate he ever felt in his life.
She broke the kiss and gave a ghost of a smile. "Oh Yee of little faith." John breathed heavily motioning to the collection of necklaces she slipped out of her hands. They're foreheads were touching again as he chuckled. His hands began reaching underneath her skirt, hooking his thumbs in the elastic bands of satin panties against her firm rear. He couldn't help himself with the now familiar ignition to heavier petting that always came from her showing him her bare breasts.
"What's that?" Cameron gaze was captured elsewhere and she slipped away from him, back to the middle of the alley.
To John the action was like slamming the breaks on a wet road … a very wet road. "What?" There was a sobbed snort of frustration. There was a knowing look in her stoic eyes that let him know she knew what she was doing. Motioning her head to the next street, Cameron began to wander away.
His response to shake the "Launch Sequence" off in his pants was a thump of his head against the stone. "If I wasn't sober a minute ago." He said to himself in a pained grunt. Rubbing his forehead, John peeled away to pursue the disappearing Cameron who was molding into a packed building across the street. "Cameron, wait!" He began to jog after the girl when he bumped into someone.
In the final cycle of puberty John had grown more than probably anyone could expect, so when he ran into the skinny boy about his age, he was surprised that the local flew back into a street palm tree. "Oh … sorry, man." He offered him a hand.
John recoiled a moment when he saw that the boy had swollen, encrusted, blood shot eyes, but rather than red, the visible spider web veins on the orbs were a dark blue. The boy was sweating profusely, soaking his dark cropped hair and white festival security shirt as if he had just showered with his clothing on.
"No … No!" He screamed at him stammering. Even against his wishes, John still helped, hauling him up to his feet. The man fought off John's grip and began to swat at his peer like a flustered chicken. He pursued John two steps despite being outweighed by fifty pounds of muscle, and was about a foot smaller. John even about seventy-five percent recovered from his hangover easily slipped out of range of the smacks.
But rather than press the assault any further, the island security guard began to sprint away from the larger youth. John flicked his eyes around in confusion and tried not to snort at the strange guy or his weird line of attack. When no one seemed to notice the altercation, he moved on.
The building that his cyborg companion had wandered into was an open café with no walls under the supports of a condominium. Behind the counter, instead of baristas serving hot cups of local flavors and old classics, there was a group of men and women playing instruments. There was an older woman with frizzy curls playing Spanish guitar, a young man with maracas shaking to a beat. A pretty young woman in an island dress playing on a keyboard, and a stand up base, played by a man in a straw fedora and sunglasses.
Groups of couples, some local, some tourists, or a mixture were dancing to the heavy Latin beat that was echoing through the café. The woman with the Spanish guitar was singing while shaking her hips and nodding to the beat. He pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers trying to find Cameron. When he found her, she was watching the movement, her eyes darting at each couple analytically. But just as she was in reaching distance, she suddenly spun gracefully onto the tile dance floor.
Her hands ran through her long mane of ringlets, as she began to shake her hips. Her stoic eyes scanned the crowed till they found him. She didn't smile, didn't show any ounce of emotion. Her movements were an amalgamation of everyone else around her, turning it into something completely original that drew all eyes to her. It was hypnotizing the way seemingly stiff mechanical limbs suddenly could find such enticing alternative movements that could capture everything inside him, bending him to her will. It was at times like these as she got closer to him, watching him like he was the only one in the room; he remembered voices tell him how she was just a machine and that she didn't have a soul … and now all he could think was how wrong they were.
Her slender arms tossed themselves around his neck as she moved to the beat, her eyes never leaving his. Under the stoic walls of nothing, he saw it. He may be the only one who ever would: evidence of something more behind them, something living, breathing, self-aware. Maybe John Connor was crazy, maybe he was seeing things, but at times like this, when Cameron looked like this, when she was holding him … maybe the world was better in the mind of the insane. He closed his eyes when he wrapped his arms around the dancing girl and pressed his nose into her silky curls a hint of the red rose in her hair mixed with sweet pea shampoo.
He opened his eyes, with the intention of telling her that he didn't actually dance, as she was trying to pull him onto the floor with the rest of the lovers. But something else snared his attention. Amongst the crowed on the other side of the café was the sweaty security guard from earlier. In his hand, oblivious to others, was a handgun. His crusty, blood shot eyes were focused on the couple in front of John and Cameron.
He felt a rush of anxiety that made it feel like millions of ants were suddenly scurrying through his veins. His eyes grew wide and every bone in his body told him to run. His companion stopped dancing abruptly; her skin to skin vital tracker must have alerted her like a siren. She leaned her head back to look at him in alarm.
"Behind us … one o'clock, a security guard has a gun and he's about to use it." He didn't have to be a detective to know that crazed disconnected look when someone crazy timer was about to ring. He also didn't have to raise his voice over the music … her sound isolating settings was something that came standard with all cybernetic girlfriends. Cameron craned back her head, still in John's arms and found him.
"Screen his vision, keep him moving till he has to reposition close to me, and then I'll take him out." He ordered. He didn't tear away his vision from the man who was crying now; his shaking was almost involuntary.
Cameron turned back to him. "This isn't our mission. We should leave." She contradicted.
He fixed her with a cold gaze; an unpleasant reminder of the last time she had told him that. He didn't have to say anything more. She craned back, and then returned to him. Even awakening a deep anger within him, she still planted a firm kiss against his lip, untangling herself from him. She returned to the dance floor with her sleek, perfectly smooth movements that garnered attention.
The security guard visibly snarled as Cameron moved between a beautiful Castilian blond with light skin and a well-tanned man with perfect dark hair. The Gunman's eyes flicked in panic as he moved through the crowd, John took an angle, ready to engage. Cameron's screen was subtle, seemingly random, as the crowd watched with awe and cheers. The closer John got the easier it was to see how beyond agitated the gunmen was getting with Cameron.
He had tried his best not to draw attention, but an old woman refusing to let John pass his detour snared the Security Guard's attention. They locked eyes and John hesitated when he saw that the man was crying tears of blood. Everything happened fast, though it seemed more like a blur. The man pivoted and began firing at the couple and Cameron. John reached under the button down and drew his Colt. When the security guard saw the weapon he dropped the gun and began to run. John would've dropped him, but the risk of hitting someone was too high.
He turned back to the dance floor and sprung toward Cameron who was lying lifelessly on the floor, her eyes blank, her hands splayed over two gunshot wounds in her belly. The crying blond beauty was kneeling over her, screaming through sobs, her boyfriend holding her. The sight of Cameron lifeless, covered in blood shook John to the core. It was like being trapped in a nightmare; it was a marriage of fear and anger.
He dropped to his knees, sliding to Cameron's side. "Get her out of here!" John pushed the sobbing blond and her boyfriend away from his fallen lover. The woman protested, but her boyfriend dragged her away into the mass of panicked people. John cradled Cameron in his arms and pressed his cheek against hers.
"John …" She said his name like she was asking him for his opinion. "I'm fine." She didn't miss a beat. In the imagery of her fallen form, he had forgotten what she was and what she was designed for. "John, I'm okay." She repeated opening her eyes and frowning in confusion at his tears.
"Just uh …" he gulped and wiped his eyes. "You know, playing a part." He sniffled. The loss of Sarah and Derek was too fresh to see Cameron go down, to see her blood all over her beautiful dress. He never wanted to be holding her like this ever again.
"Oh … Okay." She said easily.
He cleared his throat and in his heart the sudden sorrow and fear began to turn into something else, something black and angry. His adrenaline rose and his breath began to become ragged. He bit his lip, turning gaze to where the shooter had disappeared.
"John?"
"Stay here till the room clears, then get back to the cabana." He laid her back down.
She may have called his name, but he wasn't sure with the blood roaring through his ears. His legs were on fire and the well-lit world of the café gave way to the dark blurs of the panicked street. His emerald eyes were like scanners, searching thoroughly for the white shirt. When he whirled around he saw the gunmen hiding in an alley. When he realized that John had spotted him, he began to run.
Dust and beach sand clouded underfoot, as John's boots pounded over the cobble stone in pursuit. When he turned into the alley, he saw that the Security guard had an extensive lead on him. Without breaking stride, John decided to change up the rules. He leapt full speed onto a crate and began to climb the large stacks, keeping pace with his mark. At the highest point, he leapt onto a balcony overlooking the alley. Climbing on the rail guard, he pulled himself on top of the roof. He lost time when he slipped on the smooth orange roof tile. Finding the right footing he ran on the arch of the roof, stalking his mark.
He leapt from roof to roof, over retaining walls and hacienda tile. He found it odd that most would be fleeing away from town, but the security guard was actually moving closer toward the center, specifically toward the historical district.
The man disappeared between two iconic buildings. One was a large gothic cathedral, with large spired towers guarded by fierce looking gargoyles. The midsection was decorated with a round stained glass window in the shape of a clock with each one of the apostles replacing a number, with Jesus in the center. The second was a smaller building with a cross inside a halo circle of stone at the apex of the mission building.
John grunted when he landed from the second story. He had bent his knees and relaxed his body, rolling into the landing. Once on his feet in front of the mission he ran toward the sound of squealing metal. There was a substantial incline in the narrow alleyway between the mission and the cathedral. The old pathway led to a barred door that hung open haphazardly. The stone underfoot was stained with several hundred years of grime and the odor of stale rainwater.
There was a feeling in John's gut that told him that it was stupid to follow the shooter into the underground tunnels. But that was going against the knowledge that the man was unarmed and that he shot Cameron. He remembered thinking sometimes when her partnership with Sarah and him began that it shouldn't bother him when Cameron took a bullet. But it always did not matter what his brain told him. But now that she was all he had left, whether it hurt her or not … no one was going to get away with even attempting to harm her. That conviction of anger boiled his blood, sending it through his body till he threw caution to the wind.
The tunnels were dark and narrow, blanketed in dim shadow, with a hue of mist at his feet. It wasn't as much of a sewer system as he thought originally when he studied the area around him. Looking through the old eroded stone of the dank passage, he saw long rectangular slots embedded in the walls. He recoiled at the sight of skeleton bodies, in ragged old clothing lying inside. It dawned upon him that he had followed the gunman into the town's catacombs.
Trying hard not to focus on the rows of dead bodies lining the walls on each side of him, he moved through the shadows, straining his ears to hear anything he could: a foot scrape, a step in a puddle. Suddenly he wished he hadn't strained too hard.
"AHHHHHH!"
A blood curling scream filled the tunnel with heavy acoustics that made John jump in surprise. Redrawing his pistol, the youth charged ahead through the tunnel's dark passage weapon at the ready.
He found the man he was looking for several feet from a dark abyss were the catacombs seemingly ended. He was slumped against one of the ground floor slots, motionless. The trained youth approached cautiously, it was never beyond anyone to play possum, especially unarmed. But even in the dark, the smell of emptying bowels was more than an unpleasant give away that the security guard had met his end. He lowered his weapon and squatted next to the lifeless body. His dark eyes were empty, marred by bloodshot veins the color of enriched blood. Trails of blood from his tear ducts and nose streaked across the man's sweat dampened face onto his white security shirt where it stained along with body salt and sediment from the tunnel. John frowned in confusion turning the dead man's head to get a better look at his eyes, and the odd color of blood coming out of his nose.
From behind him a trousered leg silently slipped out from one of the slots of the catacombs, followed by the body of a lithe man in a tailed suit coat. Quietly, he pushed himself out like he was arising in the morning to start his day. The shadow tilted his head in fascination, before digging his top hat out and placing it on his head. It was the rattle of his staff against stone that alerted John to another's presence. He whirled quickly, gun in hand, but the figure swung his rod knocking the gun out of John's hand. He heard it skitter into the dark. John was moving into a defensive position when the priest opened his palm and blew something at John.
It felt like he had inhaled in the middle of a sandstorm; John's airways clogged with grained powder. He coughed violently, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. Despite the cheap trick, his vision wasn't so impaired that he didn't see the shadow raising his cane to hit John over the head. Fighting the suffocating sensation of vital airways being saturated by sand, he put all his effort into a haymaker that made contact with his opponent's face. The blow from the large fist turned the new foe's head to the right and sent him stumbling. John persuade with another from the other fist, the slim man wobbled even further backwards. Finishing the combination, John hit his enemy with a heel kick to the diaphragm. The strike sent the top hatted man shoulder first into the corridor wall, before landing on the floor with a splat.
It was all he could muster, before John surrendered into another coughing fit. Unable to control himself, his first and most basic instinct was to run. Using the walls as support, he moved the opposite way from his fallen adversary. When the wall ended, John let out a startled grunt as he lost his level footing. At the edge of the catacombs corridor was a stone ramp that John couldn't see. Losing his balance, he tripped in the air and rolled down the hard stone incline. He landed with a clap of his palm against a flat floor, as he slid into the middle of a large, dark room. In his eyesight he saw the dim light of candles and a table in front of him.
The table was decorated with a crimson tablecloth of velvet, and strange wicker idols. On golden plates were the entrails of animals, and chicken's feet, all of which were sacrifices to a human skull painted with animal blood on the sculpted body of a scorpion. Still wheezing, John found his feet slowly, rubbing his shoulder and began to look around.
The large room was a lobby made of old gray stone, the floor was a platform surrounded by a moat of drainage water, bridged by four ramps leading to tunnels in each direction. He went into combat mindset when he saw the shadows of movement in each tunnel. The dark figures slowly crawled out from slots in the wall and stiffly moved toward the ramps; the youth found himself surrounded.
Then from the tunnel he came from he saw the neon glow of a blue orb. Like a switch there was a loud mechanical moaning sound like an ignition to a large machine. Suddenly a blue light flowed through see through cables that traced the outline of the room, stapled into the corners between the walls and ceiling. Like flowing water through pipes, the light ran through the cable, illuminating the scene.
There was suddenly a throbbing pain in John's head like someone was beating on the walls of his mind with a hammer, shaking loose things on shelves, mixing them up in his head. He squinted his eyes shut and tried to fight through the onslaught of pain. But the harder he fought, the more a sudden anxiety of fear rolled through his mind. Then all the things he ever wanted to forget, steamed through him like a freight train, until he couldn't think of anything else.
When he opened his eyes, he tried to escape the flood of nightmares and repressed memories. He could feel the loss of his mother and Derek on the runaway train that cold December night. He saw the merciless cold eyes of a killer in the girl he loved so much it hurt, as he ran from her on his birthday. He saw a crying, helpless cheerleader jumping off the school gym. The man with a chainsaw and leather mask at the haunted house he went to with his mom when he was seven. He saw the lumpy mismatched hulking body of the Golem of Prague with a face of the horrible things his small mind could conjure. He couldn't stop them, couldn't control them. The big jumble of sad and horrifying memories clogged his brain. The flashes molding into a loud, white noise in his head that would not let him think of anything else.
His vision began to shimmer and shake, quaking in his mind. Suddenly the shadows that surrounded him were not shadows at all. To the left, was a chubby woman with puffy, red hair. She wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, a white tank top and tight jeans. Her plain, freckled face was pale and her chubby gut was sliced completely open, yards of intestines hanging limply at her knees. To the right was a pupil-less, balding man, thin as rail. His mouth hung open to show case a large, bladed stab wound that you could see through. He wore a baseball jersey tucked into tight jeans. John was suddenly flanked by Todd and Janelle. In front of him Jordan Cowan stalked toward him, her face smashed in, her cheerleading uniform covered in her blood. But behind him was someone that John could never face, not in a million years. His camouflage fatigue pants and fur lined leather bomber jacket were covered in ice. His skin was milk white and frozen, his hands where black. But above everything else it was the sheet of ice that froze Derek Reese's hazel eyes making them almost glow.
Suddenly John Connor was surrounded by the dead of his past …
And they had come to collect.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Author's Notes
This story is half of me going back to what made writing for TSCC fun. The other part is finding myself as a writer again and troubleshooting some of the problems I have encountered while writing some of my longer serial stories. (Word Count, repetive words … word counts.)
The inspiration is me reading and collecting one of my favorite writers of all time, Paul Dini's run on Detective Comics in which he told great one to two issue mystery stories. So I thought I'd try my hand at several short four to five chapter Detective Stories of my own staring an AU John and Cameron.
I also just wanted to prove to myself that I could still write a story with Cannon leads and Cannon leads only.