Chapter 3: First Mission
They were only three levels down, but returning to the surface was one of the more harrowing experiences John could remember. The staircase's condition grew gradually worse as they went up. From sub-level three to sub-level two, it was dimly lit, but at least intact, save for the railing on the second half. From two to one, lighting had to be provided by flashlights of the scavenging team, there were gaps in the concrete and no railing to be seen, but anyone with a little athletic ability should have been able to leap over the holes without a problem.
But the journey from sub-level one to the surface was not for the faint of heart. The first half appeared intact, but caution was needed on the loose rubble. Its stability was definitely a question mark. Kin went first, scaling the staircase like an expert gymnast, bouncing back and forth over the gaps until he reached the top.
"Ally, you're next," Kyle said to the mystery girl.
She briefly exchanged glances with John before ascending the stairs almost as deftly as Kin. At the summit, Ally glowered at John, almost daring him to try. But it wasn't quite his turn.
Trudy, an African-American girl about the same age as Kin, was next, followed by a young Spanish-American boy, Pablo, who couldn't have been more than 7 or 8-years-old. They mimicked Kin's approach, more or less, but Kin was at the top for a reason: he gave the others the extra force they needed to clear that last hole. Now, John was up.
"Don't put too much weight on any of your steps," Kyle said to John. "Move fast, like they did, and don't stop, or else it will give way. And let Kin pull you up at the top."
John nodded and took a deep breath. He wondered if there was a better way out of the complex.
Then he was off. John was never good at sports, but hoped that the paramilitary training he'd received in the jungles of Central America would pay off. Bouncing rapidly off the tips of his toes, like he had seen the others do, John focused on his feet. This is easy, he thought, and he had nearly reached the top, when his right foot slipped and he fell flat on the staircase, just two steps from the top.
John waited a heartbeat, expecting the whole assembly to come crashing down, but all was still.
"Don't just sit there!" Kyle yelled from below. "Everybody grab him and pull him up!" Within another heartbeat, four hands grabbed him where ever they could find leverage—his hoodie, his shoulder, his neck, even his hair—and helped him to the ledge before the staircase could give way. But John did feel it beginning to tremble.
"Thanks," he said to no one in particular. He did, however, manage to lock eyes with Ally. She had one hand on either side of his head and had provided most of the boost up, at least as far as John could tell. Maybe her fingernails being imbedded in his neck clued him in as well.
She quickly disengaged from the impromptu embrace and scoffed at him. "You need to be quicker!" she said.
"I'll try to remember that," John said, entranced by her brown eyes that seemed to go on forever. She even sounds like Cameron, he thought. Or did Cameron sound like her?
"Here I come," said Kyle.
John twisted himself back up and turned to offer assistance to his father, but it was completely unnecessary. Kyle flew up the stairs, faster than any of the others and was next to them in a heartbeat.
"C'mon!" he urged. "Keep moving. It will be dark soon."
"Isn't it better to go at night?" John asked.
"We switch it around, randomly," Kyle answered. "We have to keep them guessing."
The last leg of the stairwell was about as bad as the previous one, but the group advanced up without incident. The stairs going further up the building were completely blocked by fallen concrete and rebar. The group scurried out of the stairwell through a small hole in the wall and advanced into what appeared to be the lobby.
It suddenly occurred to John that the dilapidated stairwell was perfect cover against any prowling machines. Although terminators could probably scale it or merely jump down, getting back up was another issue. And they would probably surmise that humans would be too fragile, lacked the coordination to pull it off, or didn't have the patience to try.
Additionally, John reasoned that there were probably many different routes in and out of the complex. He did not, however, want to ask about their existence and raise the group's suspicions again.
On the main level of the building, or what remained of it, the remnants of the day shone through giant gaps in the edifice. John saw some shattered paintings and crushed furniture and recognized them from the lobby of the Zeira building. So time displacement, didn't necessarily equate to physical displacement, John thought. He and Weaver stayed in the same place, they just jumped ahead 12 years.
When they finally escaped the shattered building, John got his first good look at Los Angeles, post apocalypse. He knew it would be bad, but he was still shocked.
A dark cloud lingered over parts of the broken city, not quite smog and not quite a rain cloud. It was possibly fallout-laden, but in any event, it wasn't precipitating. Where great skyscrapers once stood, now there were just mangled piles of concrete, glass and steel. The piles were indiscriminate, sometimes obscuring streets and intersections, sometimes contained within the boundaries of roads and sidewalks, and sometimes overlapped with the debris of other buildings.
John knew that Zeira was in West Hollywood, a good 15 kilometers from downtown, so this part of the sprawling city was clearly spared of complete annihilation, but not of the highly destructive blast wave, or waves. Sign posts, traffic signals, lighting standards, parking meters, mailboxes and vehicles by the thousands all merged together in the streets to form a sort of a macabre sculpture some sadist might have named "The Final Rush Hour."
Few structures were intact-a small storefront here, a tiny restaurant there-but even they had smashed out windows and had been looted of anything valuable years ago. There were no trees, bushes or grass, at least none that John could see.
A cold wind whipped into John's face, carrying the fine dust of the apocalypse into his lungs for the first time. He stopped to cough and became suddenly aware that he had been running while surveying the damage.
"Keep moving," Kyle said, bumping into him from the rear. "What? Haven't you seen Los Angeles before?"
"Actually, no", John thought. Not like this.
Kyle and Kin zig-zagged the group through many ruins, occasionally retrograding across their original path, occasionally running straight ahead or across. John saw what they were doing. Their journey was completely unpredictable and thus, untraceable, by man or, especially, by machine.
John tried to pick out something peculiar—a red brick, a green sign, shattered glass, anything—but they were moving too fast. To him, each ruin was indistinguishable from the next, so he also had no way of getting back "home" should the guides become disabled.
Suddenly, Kin stopped and signaled to the rest to do the same. Then, another hand gesture, one John didn't recognize.
"Cover!" Kyle whispered from behind John, sensing that the newcomer wouldn't know the signals.
John did the best he could, cowering under the shattered wreck of a table or booth in the remnants of a destroyed restaurant. The others seemed to blend in with the wreckage as if they had done it hundreds of times.
For a moment, all was still. But then, everything began to rumble. The ground was shaking so violently that John thought something was actually burrowing from underground. He looked all around, trying to determine its source, finally noticing Kyle's signal to remain still, which he begrudgingly acknowledged.
Finally, the source was revealed. Squinting through a small hole in the booth's seat, John tried to take in as much as he could. He couldn't see them until they passed the group, so his first visual was from behind, but it was still quite a sight.
Three behemoth tanks, in a delta formation, were advancing down the street, in dominance of their entire purview. The tanks were not the classic armored vehicles that had served in the various armies across the world for the past century; rather, they were two-story tall lumbering hulks, with cameras and guns of varying calibre jutting out from multiple orifices. They were not so much a means to protect a crew across heavily defended terrain, but more a gun and observation platform.
Directly behind the tanks, in twin columns, advanced a squad of no less than 20 endoskeletons, rifles in each arm, coltan bodies gleaming, even in the fading daylight. This was not a crew to be messed with, John thought. They were clearly headed for battle, a battle, some day, John would look to engage them in. But not today.
He watched as long as he could, but after five minutes or so the battle group was out of sight without incident. Another couple of minutes passed before John was tapped on the shoulder-rather violently, he thought.
"We're going," Ally said mockingly in response to John's disdainful look.
"Pretty strong," John whispered to himself, as he scrambled out from his hiding place to follow. "But definitely not Cameron."
The group continued their haphazard advance across the ruins for another 15 minutes, until finally stopping near a pile of twisted steel, rebar and concrete that was considerably lower than those adjacent to it. There was also a heavier quantity of mangled vehicles in the vicinity.
This is distinguishable, John thought, and it suddenly occurred to him that they were in a parking lot, probably for a supermarket or plaza of some kind. One problem, though—there didn't seem to be much cover.
Crouching in the center of the scavenging team with his back to the market's ruins, Kyle looked to either side, getting hand signals from Kin first, and then Ally, both of whom had fanned out to the edges of the market. All was clear.
"All right, uncover it," Kyle said to the younger two. "John, help Pablo and Trudy."
John quickly moved over to where the other two were working. They were moving chunks of debris, mostly large and small slabs of concrete, blacktop, tile, wood, shelving and various other unrecognizable pieces of junk off a cleverly disguised double metal doorway, which was flush with the lot. Some sort of pre-war utility service-way, John conjectured.
John and Trudy each pulled one of the doors open, revealing a concrete stairway. Pablo scampered down the stairs before John had even finished opening his door.
"Hey!" John yelled, belatedly, looking at Kyle.
"Keep your voice down," Kyle said to John, reprovingly. "It's all right, we've been here before. He knows what he's doing. You four, get what you can. You have five minutes."
Ally glowered in disapproval at John before hurrying down the stairs to join Pablo. Trudy went next, leaving John standing alone at the top of the stairs, somewhat bewildered.
"I'm sorry," he said, to no one in particular.
"John, take these too," Kyle said, handing John the backpacks he and Kin had been wearing. "We'll stand guard."
"The future leader of mankind is off to big start," John mockingly mumbled to himself as he lumbered down the stairs.
John noted the fading Cold War fallout shelter signs as he reached the bottom. And whoever designed the bunker, knew what they were doing.
John decided to take the dime tour. Shining his flashlight around, he discovered it was divided into four rooms—one each for sleeping/rest, community/kitchen, utility/bath and storage. There was a large gasoline-driven generator, apparently made from an old tractor-trailer engine and vents to the surface. Someone even thought to add a sump to keep water from flooding, although it was apparent it had never been used.
Naturally, the storage room was the largest. It wasn't really a room per se, as the other rooms were attached to it. It had dozens of shelves containing supplies ranging from canned goods and dried foods to other essentials like soap, batteries, bandages, matches, candles and assorted clothing. And there was hundreds of bottles of water, of course.
"What are you, the tour guide?" Ally snapped at him, irritated. "Start packing!"
"What should I pack?" John asked.
"Just load as much water as you can into two of those knapsacks," she answered.
John did as he was told and had each stuffed with bottles within a couple of minutes. No one was talking; they were all feverishly occupied with their tasks, so John decided he would take the water up, one knapsack in each hand.
One heartbeat later, John realized that water is heavy. Really heavy. He had roughly 20 2-liter bottles in each bag, probably in the neighborhood of 75 kilograms per bag. In other words, more than one trip would be needed.
John turned to see that others had stopped to monitor his progress. Pablo, in particular, was snickering at John's dilemma.
"Looks like I don't know my own strength," John announced, nervously chuckling.
"Apparently so," said Ally. But she wasn't laughing.
John finished hoisting the bag over his shoulders, turned and slowly marched up the stairs. It was more of a strain than he would have liked.
Once to the top, Kin quickly helped John take the backpack off.
"What's taking so long?" Kyle asked. "C'mon, we have to be quick."
John sensed the urgency in his father's voice, so without comment, he whirled and ran back down the stairs. The others had finished their packing and were already moving single file back to the surface.
"We're going too slow," John announced.
"No, you are," Ally corrected.
John couldn't argue with her on that point. He watched them advance up as he lifted up the last knapsack and moved to follow.
"Tough crowd," he mumbled to himself. Before leaving the store room, John had one more mission to perform. Looking around, he quickly found what he was looking for: candy. Reeese's Peanut Butter Cups, of course. John smiled and grabbed the treasure.
Once back at street level, the group sealed the shelter and quickly obscured the entrance with the debris they had just removed. John had to agree that the camouflage was effective.
The six of them scampered off, more-or-less in the reverse direction of their approach. They were using the same zig-zagging as before, only now their movements were more deliberate because of their cargo. Fortunately, daylight was diminishing rapidly, so they should be harder to spot.
At least in theory.
Kin was still on point when he suddenly signaled for a halt. This time, the reason was abundantly clear as an aircraft immediately swooped down and hovered within five meters of their position, searchlights claiming each of Kyle's team in the process.
"HK!" Kyle screamed, trying unsuccessfully to duck away from the searchlights as he squatted against a wall. John recognized the HK as a larger, more menacing looking version of the hover-craft that had crashed into Weaver's penthouse.
Kyle glanced down the street and saw two endoskeletons emerge from the debris about a block away, rifles primed, marching straight for his group. Looking back the opposite way, he saw virtually a mirror image. It was an ambush and they had walked right into it.
The group was out-maneuvered and outgunned. There was no choice.
"Lay down your weapons," Kyle ordered the group. "And put up your arms. It's our only chance."
But Kin would hear none of it. Impulsively, he dove behind a blown out wall to a corner store and started firing his pulse rifle at the HK.
"Kin, no!" Kyle yelled.
But it was all in vain. The HK absorbed the shots and merely maneuvered around to the exposed side of the wall. From there, it unloaded a series of lasers and automatic weapons at the soldier's position. Kin never had a chance.
Pablo ran into Trudy's arms and the two cowered in fear as the terminators advanced, hoping to avoid Kin's fate. Ally crouched down as a sprinter would before the start of a race, but was frozen in place by what she just witnessed. Kyle's demeanor was more of resignation than fear, as he felt he had failed his team.
In spite of his own apprehension, John tried to take a more studious approach as the machines approached. The terminators were different, somehow, John noted, apparently a primitive version of the T-888s or even the T-101 that he had already seen.
He remembered studying the "Vic" endoskeleton before Cameron incinerated it and was amazed at the machine world's attempt to imitate the human body. There were servos, pulleys, hydraulics and many other mechanisms that John didn't recognize, all working together to emulate human movement and behavior.
Some, like Cameron, were exceptional in their deception. Those leveling their guns at him currently, left a lot to be desired.
Having no skin was obviously a problem, but beyond that, their movement was far more rigid than the terminators he had seen, more deliberate, more robotic. The skull was definitely more Neanderthal than human, with large ridges above and below the eyes, probably serving as armor for the optics. Of course, their expressions never wavered either—a permanent false grin. John knew these things would have to improve or their role as infiltrators would never be fulfilled.
All in all, John decided it was early in terminator evolution. None of that was going to help them now, however.
As the squads of terminators merged, the HK finally departed, leaving an eerie silence and stillness.
Finally, one of the terminators spoke.
"You are now prisoners," it said a metallic, synthesized voice. "Do not speak, resist or run or you will be shot."
The voice was somehow more aggravating than one of those drive-through windows at a fast food restaurant, John thought. Worse still, its "mouth" did not open when it spoke. If it had a puppet sitting on its lap, the terminator would make the perfect ventriloquist. Yet more things for the machines to work on.
"Place all your weapons here," the machine said, gesturing next to its leg. The group, although terrified, complied with the order, each placing a handgun at the indicated spot. Kyle was last, surrendering his pulse rifle and three pistols, including his prized Beretta.
The terminator looked at John, expecting him to do the same.
"I don't have any," John said shrugging. He had only now realized that he was the lone unarmed team member. Trust is earned, he thought.
But the machines didn't trust anyone. Another approached John and gave what he estimated was the most uncomfortable groping a person could possibly receive.
"No weapons," the machine announced, shoving John towards the others.
"We will proceed south-west on Santa Monica Boulevard to the internment camp," the machines' "leader" added, gesturing with its rifle laden right arm. "Move."
Still carrying their knapsacks, the machines marched the group silently down the road. They were in single file with John leading, followed by Pablo, Trudy, Ally and Kyle. The three in the middle had their heads down, walking somberly, but John and Kyle stayed observant, looking for any chance to escape.
The machines made one mistake, John thought. Identifying the road allowed John to get his bearings. Sure enough, Santa Monica Boulevard led straight to the camp.
The journey was not terribly long, perhaps 10 or 15 minutes. John had suspected where they were headed, but his idea was confirmed by a faded and half-mangled sign post indicating their imminent arrival at a mall.
"Century City," John whispered to himself. Was it irony or fate that took him to this camp?