A/N: Just so you know, I know next to nothing about radiation sickness. I suppose I could've researched it, but I decided to focus more on the drama than medical accuracy.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.
en·dure [in dóor, en dóor]
(past en·dured, past participle en·dured, present participle en·dur·ing, 3rd person present singular en·dures)
v
1. bear hardship: to experience exertion, pain, or hardship without giving up
2. tolerate disagreeable things: to tolerate or accept somebody or something that is extremely disagreeable (formal)
3. survive: to last or survive over a period of time, especially when faced with difficulties
Cargo transport crash site, same day...
They arrived at the crash site quicker than Marcus expected. But then, time was of the essence. All but one of the gunships landed, the holdout remaining airborne to provide cover and warn them of approaching machines. The salvage teams poured out of the helicopters and rushed towards the downed vessel. The cargo ship was much smaller than the transports used to ferry human prisoners, about the size of a single train car. It had the thickest armor anyone had ever seen. So thick it required six powerful jet engines to carry its mass high above the ground. When the ship impacted, it dug a furrow nearly eight feet deep and left its entire nose section buried under a pile of earth. Lucky for the humans, the cargo hatch was situated in the aft. All they had to do was figure out how to open the damn thing.
One of the tech wizzes normally holed up in HQ volunteered her services for this op. Marcus could tell just by looking at her that she wasn't a grunt. Her body was soft from lack of constant labor. She was a black woman in her mid-thirties who wore her curly hair as an inch-thick cap on her head and wire-rimmed glasses that looked way too delicate for these environs. She carried a bulky laptop that had been customized beyond all recognition and wasted no time finding an access port on the vessel to plug into.
This was the only way. The ship's armor was far too thick to cut through in a reasonable amount of time. Although the vessel's higher computer functions had ceased, the tech believed enough of its secondary systems still functioned for her to hack into and get the hatch to open. Everyone waited, hands tense on their weapons and eyes scanning the horizons for danger, while the tech focused intently on her computer. Less than three agonizing minutes later, the woman grinned in triumph as a metallic groan announced the hatch's opening.
Nobody wasted their breath with cheering, though several people did thump the tech on the shoulder in passing as they hurried into the ship's dark interior. There were no lights inside, which wasn't a surprise since machines had no need for such things. The first men and women who entered peered through their night-vision scopes in search of possible threats, such as a security system or even Terminator guards. There was nothing, however. Either the machines didn't bother with internal security for these vessels, or it ceased to function along with the rest of the ship. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, the lead soldiers cracked a few glowsticks to provide some light.
A narrow aisle ran down the center of the cargo area, and on each side row upon row of shelves contained dozens of crates. Most of these had stayed in place, but the crash knocked quite a few of the crates askew and a couple had even tumbled onto the floor. One of these unfortunates had busted open, scattering its contents across the floor. They looked like nothing more than transparent glass squares, each about a quarter-inch to a side and wafer-thin.
"What are they?" Marcus asked.
Guiterez, who was directly in front of him, responded, "Data storage crystals. There's one of these inside every Terminator's head. Everything they see, everything they experience, everything they learn, it all gets stored on that one tiny sliver. These things hold a phenomenal amount of info."
"They seem kinda fragile," Marcus remarked as he heard a telltale crunch beneath his boots.
"Not once they're lodge inside some robot's metal skull," Guiterez countered, "This is a good find. Command's always bitching about not having enough memory storage for all their intel. Gotta keep writing shit down and hope it doesn't get lost or shredded before they have a chance to back it up. These crystals are gonna make a big difference."
Marcus shrugged. Who was he to argue over whether this stuff was worth the risk?
They quickly worked out a system where those inside passed the crates down the narrow aisle to others waiting outside to carry them to the waiting helicopters. Each crate was large and heavy enough to require two people to carry - except Marcus, who was able to carry two of the crates on his own, one stacked atop the other. He could've carried more without any trouble, but he needed to be able to see where the hell he was going.
There was no way they'd be able to salvage everything. It would have taken longer than they were willing to risk. They would grab what they could in an acceptable amount of time, then destroy the rest. So, after ten minutes of frantic relaying, the commanding officers ordered everyone away from the cargo vessel and the demolition team rushed in to do their part. Once the high explosives were set and ready to blow, everyone scrambled aboard the helicopters and took off. As soon as they were safely airborne, the explosives were remotely detonated.
As explosions went, Marcus felt, it wasn't as impressive as the one that destroyed Skynet Central. Still, it was nothing to sneeze at, considering it caused that thickly armored vehicle to fly apart like a cheap toy stuffed with fireworks. What the hell did those demo guys use on that thing, anyway?
Marcus felt a thump on his shoulder and turned to see Blair's grinning face. He grinned back. Their first mission together went off without a hitch. They were headed home with their stolen cargo, not a machine in sight. Marcus looked out through the open side of the gunship at the passing vista below, not keeping an eye out for danger, just enjoying the view. It was then that something caught his eye. He frowned and squinted while his enhanced vision zoomed to bring whatever he saw into sharper focus. Marcus tensed. "There's people down there!" he shouted over the helicopter's rotors.
"What?" Earhart yelled back. Marcus wasn't sure if it was surprise or because she really didn't hear him.
He pointed. "There! Two o'clock!"
The sergeant pulled out a pair of binoculars and peered in the direction he indicated. She lowered them a second later, her lips pursed. "I make out four!"
Marcus nodded agreement. His gaze stayed riveted on the distant figures. It was impossible even for him to tell what gender they were from this distance. What he could tell was that they were raggedly thin and not so much running as staggering after the passing gunships, waving their arms above their heads in an effort to get their attention.
"Think it might be a trap?" Blair asked.
Marcus shook his head. He didn't think so. Those figures didn't move like machines, and bandits wouldn't be stupid enough to try and lure a whole formation of armed helicopters to them. More likely they were a small group of refugees begging for help.
"What do we do, Sarge?" Marcus shouted.
Earhart put on a headset to confer with the commanding officers in the lead gunship. After a moment she shook her head. "We keep going! Can't risk the mission on just four people!"
The muscles of Marcus's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. He understood the logic behind the decision, but he damn well didn't have to like it. He watched the running figures get smaller and smaller the farther they got. He saw three of the refugees stumble to a halt as they got too tired or gave up, but the last one kept going. Kept waving his or her arms and probably yelling at the receding 'copters, pleading for some kind of help.
Marcus looked at Blair, saw the same mixture of anger and pity that he felt. It was then that Marcus did something he never would've even considered a few months ago. He was not at all surprised when Blair did the same.
Earhart was startled by the pair's request and probably would have argued against it if her shrewd eyes hadn't taken in the determination in their expressions. She spoke over the headset with the officers again. For a moment she became quite heated, but finally she and those in charge reached an agreement.
There were emergency rations and water aboard the gunship. Marcus and Blair loaded up on these supplies, as well as extra ammo for their weapons. Their helicopter broke formation just long enough to lower a couple of zip lines. No sooner did Blair's and Marcus's boots touch the ground than the 'copter took off to rejoin the convoy.
Marcus stared after the retreating gunships and it finally hit home what he'd gotten himself into. He volunteered. He told Earhart he'd go back for the refugees himself and lead them on foot back to base. It was crazy! And Blair went right along with him.
He turned to her. "What the hell 're we doing?"
She smiled. "Following our consciences, I guess."
"Damn it," Marcus heaved a sigh, "Let's go." They had several miles to backtrack before they met up with the refugees, assuming they were still around once they got there.
California wasteland, four hours later...
They traveled at a steady jog, a ground-eating pace which Blair was able to maintain for longer periods of time. Marcus could've gone even longer. He was, literally, tireless when it came to physical effort. He remembered the time he crossed the desert not long after waking in the ruins of the lab where he was constructed. In retrospect, he knew he must have traveled non-stop for days, yet it didn't occur to him at the time that it was strange how he never needed to stop for a rest. He couldn't blame it all on Skynet's programming, there was a lot of denial on his part as well. He must have known even then. There must have been the tiniest suspicion way in the back of his mind that something wasn't quite right with him.
There was no denial now, though. He sweated like Blair, but that was it. When they paused for a break, Marcus's breathing and heart rate were the same as before they started their journey. Blair, on the other hand, was panting heavily and all he had to do was look at her neck to see her racing pulse. Still, she was doing a hell of a lot better than he would have when he was human.
Blair took a drink from her canteen. She swirled the liquid around in her mouth before letting it trickle down her throat. Marcus couldn't help but think there was a sensual edge to her actions. Then again, just about everything she did had a sensual undertone, at least in his eyes.
"You ready?" he asked.
She threw him a challenging look. "'Fraid I can't keep up?"
Marcus smirked. They continued their run.
The sun was past its zenith when Marcus saw the four figures in the distance. They seemed to be walking towards him and Blair, but very slowly. He doubted the refugees even saw them. They were just following the direction the 'copters went. They shambled along with their heads down. They didn't even notice the two Resistance fighters approach until the scuff of their boots finally got their attention.
Marcus tried to keep his expression neutral. He really did. Up close the four strays were in worse shape than he imagined. Scarecrow-thin and dressed in rags, two of them barefoot, one wearing shoes obviously too big. What little hair they possessed was thin and wispy. Every bit of exposed skin was covered in grime and open sores. A faint breeze brought a decaying stench from them that made Marcus want to recoil.
"Better keep your distance," he murmured to Blair, "They might be contagious."
She shook her head. "They're not. I've seen it before. Radiation poisoning."
Marcus felt his artificial stomach clench. The wasteland was riddled with radioactive pockets, which was why they carried a Geiger counter. These poor souls weren't so lucky. They had nothing, no equipment, no supplies, not even weapons. How were they still alive?
The one in the lead, a man whose left eye was milky with cataracts, lifted a feeble hand either in greeting or entreaty. "You Resistance?"
Blair nodded and introduced herself and Marcus. "We saw you from our gunship," she said, "We both volunteered to come back for you and lead you back to base."
The man's face twisted in an approximation of a smile. "Don't think all of us 're gonna make it on foot. We was hopin' one of the helicopters 'd take us."
"I'm sorry," Blair said with regret, "We were returning from a mission. None of the 'copters could be spared."
The man nodded in understanding. "I'm Lou," he gestured to the others behind him, "That there's my cousin Ned, his wife Alice, and our friend Jonah."
"Got any water?" Ned asked. He put an arm around the thin shoulders of his wife, who was shivering and staring down at the ground.
Blair nodded. "We brought food, too."
Their teeth were barely staying in their gums, so they had to soak the rations into mush before they scooped it into their mouths. Marcus kept silent the whole time he watched them eat. He didn't know what to say to them. He felt like anything he said would only add to the sense of futility. These people were dying and they knew it. It seemed the only thing that kept them going was the thought of finding the Resistance, for whatever reason.
Lou, who seemed to be the de facto leader of this tiny group, told their story. "We were livin' in what was left of our hometown, down in the basements. We dug tunnels to connect 'em all, so we hardly ever had to come above. We was pretty safe from the machines. Laid low, kept outta sight. Only trouble was gettin' enough food and water. Couldn't grow nothing in the shit-poor dirt we had. Had to go out and scrounge for what we needed. Then we got sloppy," he fell silent for a moment, "One of them Hunter-Killers spotted us. Started droppin' bombs all over the settlement. Only about eight of us got out. Didn't have a damn thing on us but the clothes we wore. No food, no water. Couple of us went off to find some and never came back. Then we decided to try and find the Resistance." He snorted. "Knew it was hopeless, but what the hell else were we gonna do? Just lay down and die?"
For a second, a glimmer of determination shone in the four refugees' eyes and Marcus could imagine the kind of people they used to be. People who managed to survive with practically nothing while living in holes in the ground. People like that didn't give up easily, no matter the odds against them.
"We picked a direction and just kept walkin'," Lou continued, "Don't know how long, weeks maybe. Then we started getting' sick. Wasn't long before we figured out we got radiation sickness. Always been a risk for that out here." He shrugged, as if it were no more than a case of bad weather. Oh well, what can you do? "We lost May first. Then Tomas died a coupla days ago. There's just us now."
There was a long silence while everyone processed this. Then Blair said, "The base is a couple of days hike from here. We'll guide you there, if you're still willing to try."
Another shrug. "Not like we got other plans," Lou smiled weakly.
California wasteland, nightfall and the following day...
The journey was agonizingly slow. The refugees barely managed a slow shuffle when they walked, and had to rest often. But they kept going all the same. Marcus was amazed by this. He kept expecting them to collapse at any moment, but they never did. They continued despite the pain, the wasting sickness, and the knowledge of their fast-approaching end.
He and Blair made camp as evening set in. They soaked more rations in water and warmed the food over a fire kept low to reduce the risk of detection. Blair ate as well, but Marcus didn't touch any of the food. He wasn't going to waste any supplies just to maintain the semblance of being human. If the refugees noticed his fasting, they kept it to themselves.
Marcus kept watch while the others bedded down. He'd promised to wake Blair in a few hours, but he ended up staying awake the entire night. The weariness he felt wouldn't be eased by sleep.
When morning came, Alice didn't wake. She lay on her side, curled up in a fetal position. Her husband had lain behind her with his arm around her waist. Now he sat beside her unmoving form, staring at her ravaged, peaceful face.
"I didn't even know she'd died," Marcus said in a quiet voice.
Blair touched his arm. "There's nothing you could've done for her."
Marcus drew away from her. "That's not the point," he grated.
Wordlessly, the remaining three refugees started digging a grave, using nothing but their hands. Blair and Marcus quickly stepped in and used their knives to chop through the hard soil. Soon they had a grave dug and gently lowered Alice's body into it. No one said anything as they covered her. Soon a fresh mound was all that marked her passing. Ned sat down beside it and rested his hand on the disturbed soil.
"We need to move out," Blair intoned solemnly. Lou nodded and beckoned to the others. Jonah made to follow, but Ned didn't move from where he sat. He met the others' questioning looks and said simply, "Think I'll stay here a while."
Blair opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it and nodded. If Ned wanted to spend his last moments by his wife's grave, that was his choice.
None of them looked back as they continued their journey. No one had the heart to watch as Ned's slumped figure receded into the distance.
The weariness Marcus felt only seemed to grow as the hours passed. Every time he saw Lou or Jonah stumble, every time one of them coughed, or when they vomited up their last meal and acted like they didn't see the blood mixed in with the half-digested food. Marcus felt a weight on his chest that got heavier with each of these incidents.
Late in the afternoon Lou tripped and fell to his hands and knees. Marcus couldn't take the sight of the man trying to muster the energy to stand again. He went over and scooped the fallen man up in his arms like he was nothing more than a child and continued walking. Lou was a proud man, so the fact that he didn't protest showed just how far gone he really was. Marcus could have easily carried a healthy two hundred pound man without any trouble; carrying Lou was like toting an armload of twigs. It felt that way, too. Nothing but frail bones. After a while Lou rested his head on Marcus's shoulder and closed his eyes.
Daylight was waning when Blair finally called a halt for the night. Jonah immediately sat down with a sigh while she started gathering dead brush for a fire. It took a minute for her to notice that Marcus was still standing there, holding Lou in his arms. She walked over to him and met his gaze, then reached out to touch the side of Lou's neck. The second her fingertips touched his skin and felt how cold he was, she knew. Marcus didn't meet her eyes then.
He'd known the second it happened, but kept walking all the same. He couldn't do anything else, couldn't bring himself to tell them that Lou died hours ago.
Resistance base, late the following morning...
Jonah didn't eat anything that night or the next morning. He tried drinking some water, but it came up a little while later, tinged pink. He never made a sound, aside from a few quiet whimpers, despite the fact that he must have been in terrible pain. Marcus carried him, and he and Blair were able to make better time that way. In a few hours they saw the abandoned mine in the distance, then reached the outskirts of the minefield. The safety path was wider than in previous minefields, to avoid a repeat of Marcus's mishap the last time he tried to walk through.
There was a small crowd waiting for them at the entrance to the mine. John and Kate Connor were among them. When Marcus and Blair approached, Jonah looked up from Marcus's arms and asked Connor, "This the Resistance?"
It was the first time he'd spoken, and Marcus was shocked to realize from his voice that Jonah was just a kid, probably no older than Kyle.
Connor nodded in response to his question. "Yes it is."
The boy's eyes lit up in his sore-covered face. "Dad was gonna let me join," he murmured dreamily, "Next year, after my birthday."
"I think you're old enough to join us now, son," Connor said without a trace of condescension.
They took him to a private room in the infirmary. There Kate and her nurses cut away the rags he wore, washed him with infinite care, then dressed him in a clean hospital gown. On top of this, Kate and her husband helped Jonah into a coat with the red Resistance patch sewn onto the left arm. Jonah kept smiling and touching the patch until exhaustion mixed with the painkiller Kate administered finally caused him to drift into sleep.
Connor remained at Jonah's side, while Blair sat on the other side of the bed, holding the boy's hand. Kate continued to watch her patient's vitals while the heart monitor beeped steadily. Marcus thought it sounded like a countdown. He stood in a corner of the room, away from the others, yet watching it all. The look on Jonah's sleeping face could only be described as content. His heart continued to beat, one pulse after another, neither slowing nor faltering. As the minutes drifted into hours, Marcus found himself counting these beats.
...127...212...250...
How much longer could it go? How many beats did this kid's heart have left in it?
...345...400...438...
Was it still the boy's heartbeats Marcus was counting, or his own? He wasn't sure.
...521...602...
630
Marcus didn't go to the funeral. He stayed in his quarters with a bottle of the corrosive substance that came out of the local stills. Probably de-greasing his insides with every swallow, he mused. He sat on the floor with his back against his bed. Kim lay curled up beside him and every once in a while he gave her a scratch behind the ears.
"How come you're not with Blair?" he asked at one point.
The dog glanced at him with soulful brown eyes, then flicked an ear and returned to her dozing. Marcus shrugged and took another swig from the bottle.
Blair entered the chamber a few minutes later. Kim immediately perked up and trotted over to her. A tired smile graced Blair's features as she knelt to give the dog a hug. "There's my girl." A moment later she stood, walked over to where Marcus sat, and seated her self beside him. Marcus noticed her eyes were red-rimmed.
"They buried him in the coat," she said, her voice subdued. She took the bottle from Marcus's unresisting fingers and swallowed a mouthful of its contents. She grimaced. "Ugh. This shit'll eat a hole in my stomach." She set the bottle down on the floor an arm's length from her.
Marcus rubbed a hand across his scalp. The bristles of his close-cropped hair rasped against his palm. "I keep thinking it was all pointless."
"What do you mean?" Blair asked.
Marcus stared at the toes of his boots. "We didn't save 'em. There wasn't anything we could do for them. None of it made any difference. They were already dead."
Blair regarded his haggard profile. "So, if you'd known they were dying back on the gunship, are you saying you wouldn't have made the same choice to go back for them?"
Marcus chewed his lower lip for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "No, I guess I still would've done it."
"We did make a difference, y'know," she threaded her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder, "We gave them a little hope. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps us going. The hope for something better."
Marcus turned his head until his cheek brushed her hair. He wasn't sure what kept him going, except maybe Blair. Mostly, he supposed, it was because no matter how shitty things got, a stubborn part of him always had to hold on. Problem was, he didn't think that alone was enough for him anymore.
"I love you, Blair," he murmured, startled by the fact that it came out so easily.
Blair smiled and absently wiped her eye. "I love you, too."