Beep-beep...beep-beep...beep-beep... John stopped pushing the cart as his wristwatch beeped to signal midnight and the floodlights around the hospital shut off instantaneously, as if timed to his watch alarm, and immersed the entire camp into a murky midnight blue hue. John's weary body screamed in relief as he let go of the corpse-laden cart and stood up straight, cracking his back and stretching out the muscles; cramp and tensed up from endless hours hunched over a cart and pushing, pulling, and lifting. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, leaning against the cart once more and simply resting for a few seconds, taking a moment to collect himself.
He no longer cried for the bodies he pushed around for disposal; they were dead, gone, beyond help. Bones and meat, as Cameron would have said. John hated himself for thinking like that, but so much exposure to the organised, institutional slaughter that Skynet wreaked on its prisoners had started to numb him to the sight of bodies. Though he had no doubt that if he ever had to experience the charnel house at the back of the hospital again he'd simply lose it once more and fall apart like last time. But since then the other bodies he'd pushed around hadn't seemed so bad in comparison. He felt sick that he could get used to that kind of thing; it made him as cold and callous as Cameron had described his future self, or worse still, a machine.
He couldn't say he felt nothing towards them; though he no longer cried for them, each and every body was still a tragedy, a cold-blooded murder that he'd sworn Skynet would pay for... somehow. Still, as much of a tragedy as he knew each death was, how each had been an innocent person, their lives snuffed out by Skynet for the simple crime of being human, how each had had a story to tell, they'd had loved ones, family, friends, and a life; he'd hit a wall with his grief and could mourn no more. He could only cry himself to sleep so many times until he broke down again. Instead he'd pushed it down, tried to feel nothing. It was hard and he'd not mastered it yet, but he was learning. He didn't want to throw up at the sight of every body he loaded into the furnaces, that was a start. Plus, he'd soon realised, after finding the Desert Eagle he'd nearly sot himself with, that their deaths were not entirely in vain; in death they had offered up their last possessions as a bounty.
John slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter, flicking it open and closed and fingering its smooth metal shell before he unconsciously flicked it on, lighting up a small orange, glowing flame. Mankind had enjoyed the ability to make fire since the Stone Age; instinctively knowing its heat would keep them warm and cook their food. It was that same instinct that had led John to pocket the lighter when he'd found it on one of the bodies.
"Come on, boyo," Byrne smacked John's back as he walked past, abandoning his own meat wagon and marching back towards their living quarters. "Don't wanna get the bottom of the barrel again, do ye?"
"No... guess not," John sighed and closed the lighter, extinguishing the flame, and slipped it back into his pocket as he caught up with Byrne. He'd not yet told the Irishman or Slater, the other SEAL, what he was up to, though they'd pestered him day after day, asking him what he was up to at night when everyone else ate and slept and fought over scraps of bedding and pillows. He wanted to tell them, but not until he'd fully gotten his head around what he was doing, himself.
"Come on then, lad," Byrne picked up the pace into a fast walk towards their living space, John automatically matching stride to keep up with him. "Otherwise those buggers will have it all and we'll have to scrape out what's left, again."
During the day, all humans were slaves alike; equal in their toil and squalor. But the machines didn't appear to watch or even care what the prisoners did once the lights went out, unless they tried to escape. John had actually wandered alone through the camp several times, and as long as he avoided either the perimeter fence or the hospital building, they left him alone. And when the camp shut down and the machines brought their food for the day, the fights broke out over who got to eat first; the larger and stronger prisoners often eating more than their fair share whilst the weaker ones went hungry.
"Doesn't seem right, Byrne," John said, shaking his head. Incarceration into the camp had turned many of them into animals; civilisation had gone out of the window and it was truly survival of the fittest. Despite all that had happened to him in his short life; living on the run, the pressure of being the future leader of mankind, his world being turned upside down and being hunted by machines and police, and his mother's death, he was still something of an idealist. He wanted to see the good in things, and hated it when there was no good to be found. And Century Work Camp was a place where there was none.
"None of this is right, lad. Ye just figured that out?" Byrne chuckled as they entered the building and the door swung shut behind them. John didn't answer, and he and Byrne both stood in the middle of the room, crowded in with the other prisoners who were jostling for position. He caught Slater's gaze from the other side of the room, the man having been closer to their living space when the camp had shut down for the night. He gave a slight nod to the both of them, which John and Byrne both returned. They had an agreement; whoever got to the front of the queue first got helpings for the other two as well.
The anxious jostling and shuffling stilled as the other entrance to the building opened and the hulking two-handed machine entered, carrying the large barrel full of broth. As excited and nervous as everyone was about making sure they got their fair share, none of them were going to tangle with the machine to get it before anyone else; it wasn't armed but that meant nothing at all; a single swipe of its arm or a blow to the head would easily break a man's neck or crush his skull. Despite being desperate for food – worked half to death and fed next to nothing to keep them going - nobody was that hungry to try it.
The machine held up the barrel and dumped it ungraciously on the floor, resulting in some of the liquid inside splashing out and running down the side. That's one less portion for someone, John thought, and a deep-seated, selfish part of him hoped it wasn't him who went hungry. He'd gone without food two or three times, and as disgusting and unsatisfying as it was, without it he'd felt drained and spent the next day in fear of failing to keep up his workload. Either the machines put something in it to give them the energy to work, or his body had simply learned to adapt to eating next to nothing. He hoped it was the latter; he'd already had many unpleasant thoughts about what was in their food, without the idea the machines were putting something else in there.
The machine silently marched out the building and left them alone. Tense seconds passed, perhaps only two or three in reality, but to John it felt longer. The crowd surged forwards as the prisoners pushed and shoved and kicked and punched and bit, and threw people in their way down to the ground as they fought their way towards the heaving barrel of broth.
John and Byrne stayed clear of the crowd and made no attempt to push to the front. Slater had been close to where the machine had dumped the barrel, anyway, and quickly made his way to the front, dunking three dirty and unwashed bowls into the broth and pushing his way back towards John and Byrne, who took a bowl each and dug in with their spoons, just as filthy as the bowls and probably riddled with germs clinging on to the stuck-on bits of food.
"Mmm, think this one's pork," Byrne grinned, not bothering with a spoon and drinking the thin meaty broth straight from the bowl, unashamedly spilling some down his chin and around his mouth. John said nothing and tried not to think about what he was shovelling into his mouth; it certainly wasn't pork, he knew that. He tried not to think of the skeletal remains that had rained down on him days ago, or what might have happened to their skins. He looked away from his meal in case he saw something he really didn't want to.
"You eat like a pig, man," Slater groaned, watching the slovenly display in front of him. "I'll go ask the tin cans for a bib, how's that?"
"Please do, and ask for a side of chips while you're at it. Broth's getting boring, now."
John ignored their usual dinnertime bickering and rolled his eyes at the shambolic display in front of him, sick of watching people beat the hell out of each other for slops. He was surprised nobody had been killed yet over their meagre rations. It was only a matter of time, he supposed.
Within a minute or two the crowd thinned out as people got their helpings of the broth and made their way away from the barrel to eat down on the ground and close to the walls. Other than food, people fought over bedding and mattresses; there were fifty or so workers in the camp, and maybe twenty mattresses littered on the ground, if that, so after eating, people repeated their struggle to secure a mattress or blanket for the night.
Some of the prisoners hadn't yet managed to eat, and already a pair of large, burly men who'd been among the first to get their helpings shoved them aside. One was tall, black, and muscled, the other white, slightly shorter but equally as bulky, with tattoos covering his neck and the back of his bald head. John had picked up their names over the past days, as they regularly pushed people around to get second helpings. The black one was Simon and the white one was Guy; they seemed to know each other from before the camp, and both looked like gym freaks to John. They'd claimed to be former LA cops, though John didn't believe that for a second. They pushed the other workers out of the way and dipped their bowls into what John knew was probably the last dregs of food.
"Hey!" One of the waiting prisoners snapped at the offenders. "We're still waiting."
"And I'm still hungry, so get out of the way," Guy snarled, glaring eyes full of menace. The prisoner who'd protested was outweighed by at least thirty pounds and several inches shorter; he knew he wasn't going to put forward much of an intimidating image.
"Come on, man," another moaned. "We're starving and you've already eaten. How're we gonna work if we don't eat?"
"Survival of the fittest, my friend," Simon replied, sliding between them and the barrel and muscling the others out of the way. "Better luck tomorrow."
John placed his bowl on the ground and stepped over towards them, unable to take the sight of any more squabbling like animals. Even in this place, he couldn't believe people were just so callous towards each other; fighting over the scraps the machines gave them.
"Just leave it, John," Slater hissed, grasping at John's shoulder. He shrugged it off and approached the pair.
"There's enough to go around," John said simply. "Let them eat."
"Stay out of this, kid," Guy snapped. "This is nothin' to do with you. You've got your food, anyway; they're not your problem."
"Come on, John lad," Byrne said behind him. "Getting your arse kicked ain't gonna help those boys."
Ignoring them, John walked closer, between them and the broth barrel. "There's enough for everyone here," John repeated. "Just let them eat."
"I'm still hungry," Simon smirked, thrusting his face into John's, so close they could smell each other's breath and their respective odours after weeks without bathing.
"We're all hungry," John replied.
"Get lost," Simon made to shove John against the wall, but John reacted with lightning reflexes and grabbed Simon by the wrist, spinning round behind him and twisting the larger man's arm behind his back. He tried to push back and use his superior weight to overpower John, but to no avail. John had been trained by his mother, Derek, and Cameron, in hand-to-hand combat. He couldn't possibly defeat a machine without a weapon, but all three of his teachers had shown him how to duck and weave and dodge to avoid potentially lethal blows. Against a Terminator it was purely defensive and meant to only buy him a few seconds' worth of time to find either a weapon or a means of escape. Against a person, though, it was very effective.
John kicked the back of Simon's leg and his knees buckled and gave out beneath him, causing him to fall to the ground. John's grip kept him upright and wrenched his shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain as John tightened his hold over the man and twisted harder, straining tendons, sinews, and ligaments until Simon's shoulder was on the verge of dislocation. Everyone else in the room turned to watch the spectacle, intrigued at the altercation between John and Simon; any distraction was a welcome form of entertainment to take their minds off of their own suffering. Plus, many had been muscled out and intimidated by Simon and Guy, and were enjoying seeing somebody finally stand up to them for once and giving them a taste of their own medicine.
Guy, who'd been simply watching until now, moved in to attack John, but Byrne stepped in and simply shook his head. Guy flicked his wrist and something silver flashed in his hand. A blade, Byrne knew. He moved to counter the inevitable blow, keeping on arm in front of his stomach to parry the move, but never got the chance as Slater casually cracked his empty broth bowl down on Guy's head, shattering the cheap porcelain and dropping him to the floor like a stone. John nodded his silent thanks to the pair of them; he wouldn't have been able to fight Guy as well as Simon, and the two SEALs had just saved his life.
"It's not my problem," John snarled in his ear in a low voice. "But it might be yours if I break your arm." Simon knew his meaning perfectly; the machines had no use for injured workers and he'd be either gunned down or literally thrown into the other half of the camp and condemned to the gas chambers.
"Help... help yourself..." Simon grimaced and nodded at the men he'd pushed away from the food. John held him in place until they'd all dipped their bowls into the foul meat broth and gotten their share. They nodded their thanks to John and moved away to find somewhere to rest, and John released Simon's arm and pushed him to the floor.
"There's enough food for everyone," John said out loud, keeping an eye on Simon in case he tried to get back up. Many who'd been watching their 'fight' were now paying attention. "There's no point in fighting each other or we're worse than them," he spat, gesturing towards the machines keeping guard outside. It was sickening to him; he'd tried to believe that people were all essentially good and normal, like he'd wanted to be all this time, but now he saw that for the most part they were sheep.
People were fine all the time the supermarkets were open and they could call the cops, but when those things were taken away; when the lights went out, when they had to fend for themselves and all authority was taken away, when they had the shit scared out of them, they became animals. No wonder Skynet wants us all dead, John thought. The machines never screwed each other over like this; John sometimes wondered who was worse.
He snatched up his bowl and the switchblade that Guy had concealed and stormed out, wanting nothing more than to be alone, away from people. He made his way out of the building and towards the generator room; his own safe little haven. In the stillness of the night air he could hear the low moaning from those condemned souls on the other side of the fence who were unable to sleep, knowing what the very immediate future would bring them.
John had stopped crying for the dead, but it was the still-living that made him want to scream out. Their suffering and gruesome ends were still to come. Worse still, they knew it was coming, and they could do nothing to stop it. It was those people, milling around outside like cattle, starving and crying and without hope, who made John feel like a complete failure.
I can't help you, I'm sorry, John inwardly said with a huge weight of guilt hanging around his neck. They couldn't even cooperate and share at mealtimes; how the hell could they ever do anything to help them? Something needed to change in the camp or they'd all end up dead, sooner or later.
He opened the door to the generator room and slipped soundlessly inside, closing the door behind him and switching the lights on. He placed his broth on the floor and slipped the knife and the Zippo lighter out of his pocket, absently flicking them open and closed as he stared down at them. He placed them down into a small box he'd found, along with the other items he'd swiped off the dead. So far, his little treasure trove contained the Desert Eagle and its seven round magazine, a few rags torn off from clothes, blackened by some oil John had found in a soldier's webbing that he'd used to clean the handgun with, a handful of 9mm rounds that didn't match the Desert Eagle but John thought to take anyway, another lighter, and a small flashlight.
He'd taken anything he thought might be useful, though he'd had to abandon a lot of the items he'd found in case the machines caught him. He'd probably be killed on the spot if discovered, he knew, but he had to risk it or he'd be stuck in the camp forever. If he somehow got out, then what would he do? He'd be free, and he'd find Cameron's body first of all, try to salvage her chip or at least put her to rest. After all they'd been through together, for all she'd done for him, it was the least he could do.
Pain; blinding, agonising, mind-numbing pain consumed John as he opened his eyes. Even though his curtains were drawn the limited sunlight that permeated the thin material assaulted his eyes with all the intensity of a thousand suns, burning through his corneas and forcing him to snap his eyes shut once more, blocking out all light and providing the slightest reprieve. His mouth felt like a desert, devoid of even the slightest hint of moisture, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. It hurt to swallow and his throat burned like he'd been forced to drink acid. His head throbbed painfully and it felt like there were road works going on inside his skull. For a short moment his memory left him and he wondered what had happened to him. Was I attacked? He thought, before he fought through the fog in his brain and everything became clear.
"I'm never drinking again," John muttered as he pulled his pillow over his head and pressed it close to him in a vain attempt to block out the world. He had nothing left now; he just wanted to shut himself inside his room and never come out. He didn't want to face Derek, or worse, Cameron. He may have been drunk as a skunk but he remembered clearly her trying to seduce him in the shower. He hated her for that, and worse, hated himself for being tempted. He'd thought for a split second about just fucking her, using her to make himself feel better. Hell, she'd wanted that anyway, even if just to manipulate him; why not turn the tables on her and make him the one in control? But he'd known he couldn't do it, not for a second. It was wrong, and he was disgusted at her for using his basest urges against him. But that's just she was programmed.
It was Skynet's programming that made her that way; it was his future self's programming that made her protect him. It was all just programs and lines of code. He knew that now. He'd seen her as just a machine after she'd tried to kill him, and then after Riley's death he'd started to see more to her than just lights and clockwork. They'd grown closer, she'd become a friend again, and then she'd let his mom die. That was what sealed it for him; a person would have done all they could to save her, she hadn't been dead, not really. Charley had saved Derek from a bullet to the chest; Derek had been on the brink of death and Charley had pulled him back, so it was possible. Charley had done it because he was human, Cameron was just a machine. And only his life was important to her, and only then because of his future self's orders. He'd finally realised there was nothing behind the mask; No hidden spark of humanity, no bitter note of a soul; and that cut him up as badly as his mother's death. He was as angry at himself as he was at her, for letting himself think, once again, that she was more.
John lay in bed for what felt like an eternity, lamenting his mom's death and his final realisation that his cyborg protector was just a machine, and nursing what he thought was probably the worst hangover in human history. He'd never been drunk before – having only the odd beer here and there with Derek – and hadn't thought anything could feel as bad as this. He lay there, unmoving, angry and sorry for himself. He lay there as the clouds covered over the sun and darkened the room slightly. He listened as people drove their cars down the road, heard kids playing down the street, and heard movement downstairs, either Cameron or Derek; either way he hoped they wouldn't come in. He just wanted to be alone.
He knew it wasn't his day when he heard footsteps slowly ascending the staircase, too quiet to be Derek's. He rolled onto his front and screwed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing down to a crawl, futilely hoping to trick Cameron into thinking he was asleep if she did come in. Nothing happened. He heard a faint clink of china, as if someone had just gently bumped into a dinner table, and then silence. He sighed in relief that she wasn't going to come in, that she seemed to have gotten the message from the night before and was going to leave him alone.
After a few minutes something in the room changed. He could smell it. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled good and despite his churning stomach, he realised he'd not eaten properly since his mom died. It was probably Derek making something in the microwave; it smelt sweet, whatever it was. Maybe he could grab something after Derek had left and manage to go the whole day without seeing anyone. Against his body's wishes, he slowly, agonisingly pushed himself up off the bed and stood upright on his feet, the room spun slightly and he leaned against the wall to steady himself.
"Let's try that again," he muttered and pushed away from the wall, taking baby-steps towards the door, his head pounding with each muffled thud of his feet on the linoleum floor. He wished he had a carpet; it'd be quieter for moments like these, even if this was the first. He pulled the door open and saw nothing; no Derek, no Cameron. But the smell was stronger than ever. He started to step forward, out of the doorway, when his toe connected with something on the floor, resulting in another clink. He pulled his foot away in time to avoid knocking over a cup of strong smelling black coffee resting on a large rectangular tray that also held a glass of water, two Tylenol pills, and a pair of pancakes stacked on a plate, drizzled lightly in maple syrup.
"Cameron," John groaned beneath gritted teeth. It had to have been her; Derek's culinary skills amounted to pressing buttons on a microwave. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? He contemplated kicking over the tray as an act of defiance, to show that he didn't want nor need her looking out for him. But his pounding, aching head practically screamed out for the Tylenol, and the pancakes looked pretty damn good. He picked up the tray and took it back into his room, nudging the door closed behind him, and then sat back down on his bed.
First he took the two Tylenol pills and popped them on his tongue, then washed them down with the glass of water; the cool, clear liquid flowed through his mouth and down his gullet as he downed the glass, soothing his parched, throat and helping to quench his thirst. He picked up the fork that Cameron had placed on the tray and took a mouthful of the first pancake, chewing thoughtfully.
"Mmmm!" John couldn't help but moan in pleasure at the gastronomic delight resting on his tongue; these tasted nothing like the pancakes his mom had made for him. They were sweet, but not sickeningly so. The pancakes themselves had a mild, delicate flavour to them, with something else in them. What was it... cinnamon, vanilla? Whatever it was, it was subtle but immensely satisfying. The syrup was drizzled on rather than drenched over the pancakes, like his mom used to, and gave it added sweetness to complete the package. It was immediately clear to John that these pancakes weren't from a box of pancake mix; Cameron had made them from scratch.
"At least she's good for something," he muttered, taking the cup of coffee and taking a gulp of the hot black liquid; the caffeine and sugar coursed through his veins with the promise of invigorating energy. Though if Cameron thought this would get her back in his good graces, he thought bitterly, she was badly mistaken.
Feeling much better after his breakfast in bed, a fully dressed and more sober John Connor crept out of his room. "Might as well face the music," he said, and made his way downstairs. Nobody was in the living room, so he walked into the kitchen, equally as empty. On the kitchen table rested a sheet of paper, with a note written on it.
John. Gone to restock the supply drop, stay out of trouble. The tin can's in charge.
Derek.
P.S., what the hell happened to the shower last night?
John dropped the note back onto the table and grunted in satisfaction. Good, Derek was out, that meant only Cameron for him to worry about. Maybe he could get this over with, let her lecture him, and then storm back to his room. She and Derek could fight the machines, they didn't need him. They never had. His mom had led their crusade to stop Judgement Day; it was her who they all depended on, not him. She kept them all together, and without her, they'd all fall apart pretty soon.
He made his way back up the stairs and decided to take the initiative and go see her. If she was going to nag him over how he'd been acting then he could give just as good back and give her a piece of his mind in return. He opened her door, not bothering to knock, and walked right in, finding it empty. Her room was sparse in the extreme; she didn't have all the decorative touches that a normal girl would have; no stuffed toys, no cushions or throw pillows, no magazines, posters, or photos anywhere.
Her bed, never slept in or even sat on, he assumed, was perfectly made; not a single crease in the sheets, which were tucked in so tightly he could bounce a quarter off of them. She had two rows of shelves on the wall opposite her bed, which held a CD player and a handful of CDs. He flipped through them, curious as to what she'd been listening to, and why she even listened to music. It was mostly old classical music John had never even heard of before, lots of stuff by a guy called Chopin.
He opened her wardrobe and found it much emptier than a normal girl's would be. Riley's room had been a mess and her wardrobe overflowing, the polar opposite of Cameron's. Her clothes were all folded neat and tidy, or hung up from hangars, and she only had a few pairs of shoes; boots, a pair of black sandals, and a pair of pink ballet pumps. The latter had John confused, why did she have them? She'd bought some for ballet classes with Maria Shipkov, but since then their old house had burned down and the shoes with them. Why did she get new ones? And why did she still practice ballet when it was no use to her anymore? Hanging from the wardrobe was her purple leather jacket; her prized possession. He didn't know why she was so attached to it, but his mom had told him all about how she'd acted in the bowling alley, pulling a gun on the kid who'd stolen her jacket.
Things were definitely not as straightforward as they first seemed. John wanted to believe, like Derek, that she was nothing but a machine. Things would be much easier if he could accept that's all she was, but when he really started looking, the evidence pointed to the contrary.
He started snooping around her room even more, opening drawers and rummaging through her limited possessions – deliberately avoiding her underwear drawer. He found some predictable items - 9mm ammunition, a pistol cleaning kit - and some he'd not thought of before. Makeup; lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara, plus concealer - for covering up the cuts she got when she fought other machines, he guessed.
He opened up a drawer in her desk and pulled out two folded sheets of paper; one each addressed to him and his mom, neatly written in black ink. He sat down at her desk and opened the one addressed to his mom, and read it out loud.
"I'm sorry you died. I'll protect John from Skynet." Not exactly poetry, John thought. He opened the one addressed to him next.
I'm sorry, John.
I tried to save her but she lost too much blood; resuscitation was impossible. I removed the weapons and alcohol to protect you, I can't allow anything to happen to you; without you I have no reason to exist.
I'm sorry we're no longer friends. You explained things to me. I liked being your friend.
John put the letter down on the desk and felt a stab of hot guilt in his chest. All the clues had been there that she was more than just a machine; the ballet, the music, the jacket... he'd not wanted to see them, shrugged it off as her simply trying to appear human. This letter, though, was hidden away in her desk, in her room, where he rarely if ever went into. She'd written it but never intended him to read it. Why?
Then he remembered; he'd told her that when people were sad they wrote notes; that crying sometimes wasn't enough. Cameron couldn't cry so she'd written a note instead.
"Nice going, John," he chided himself. Emotions were an alien concept to her but she wasn't just a machine; she did feel, and he'd stamped all over those feelings like they were something to be scraped off his shoes. "I'm so sorry, Cameron," he said quietly. She protected him; she saved his life over and over again and asked for nothing in return. He was going to make it up to her if it was the last thing he did.
"I'm gonna get out and find you, if it's the last thing I do," John said, blinking away the tears that had formed in his eyes.
The door opened with a creak and John reacted with catlike reflexes, rushing to stuff everything back into the box and hide it away, but he wasn't fast enough, and Byrne and Slater passed through the doorway and into the generator room.
"So, this is where ye hide every night, is it?" Byrne said; standing over John as Slater pushed the door closed. "Can't say I blame ye; it bloody reeks in there with the others."
"What's up?" John asked, wondering what they were doing here. This was his private little sanctuary, where he could come and reflect and let everything out in solitude, and he wanted to keep it that way.
"Byrne said you had a plan, John," Slater replied.
"So what if I do?"
"Well, we did just go to the trouble of backing you up back there; not exactly made ourselves popular in the process, so we'd like to know what you're up to out here."
John closed his eyes for a second as he thought it over. Cameron was the only one he'd trusted completely. Almost everyone else had screwed him over somehow. Even Derek, his uncle, had gone against him and tried to kill Cameron. Yet again, he couldn't get out of the camp alone, he needed help.
"Sure," John replied, pulling out the box he'd hidden away moments ago. He tipped it out to reveal the contents; the Desert Eagle, two lighters, switchblade, loose bullets, and other knickknacks that John had collected over the past few days since finding the gun.
"Holy Mary!" Byrne exclaimed. He knew about the gun, havingbeen in John's sights when he'd first followed him into the generator room, but he didn't know about the rest of the stuff John had in there. "Are ye starting a garage sale, or something?"
"Where the hell did you get that thing?" Slater pointed at the pistol.
"I took it," John replied, pausing slightly as he wondered how they'd take it; taking things from the dead was sickening, how would they feel about it? "From one of the bodies we put in the furnaces. Same as the rest of it," he gestured to the rest of his merchandise scattered on the floor. Byrne picked up the Desert Eagle and slid the magazine into place, chambering a round and then unloading it and emptying the chamber, feeling the smoothness of the action.
"Been oiled," he nodded, looking at the blackened rag on the floor. John must have been busy, he thought to himself. Where did the kid ever get the time to sleep when he was hoarding all this around?
"You mean you've been grave robbing?" Slater asked. "That's sick, John. How'd you like it if someone pried the photos of your mom and the other hot chick from your cold dead body?"
"I'd be pissed," John admitted sullenly, his hand moving protectively to the respective photos in his breast pocket of his mom, and him and Cameron. "But we need this stuff. I don't know about you but I don't want to die here."
"Ye sure about that?" Byrne asked. He saw more than John realised, that day. He hadn't seen him point the gun at his own head but he'd seen the cold sweat and the red spot on his temple from where the barrel had been pressed; John had been seconds from blowing his own head off, he knew.
"I am now," John replied defensively, catching Byrne's drift as he pulled the gun out of Byrne's grip and placed the ejected round back into the magazine, ashamed that he'd even thought about killing himself, knowing Cameron would have been mortified if she was still around. She'd have chewed him out harder than his mom ever had. He was still in a living hell, without the cyborg he loved, and surrounded by death and despair, but he a goal now. I swear to God I'll find you, Cam. Whatever it took, he'd get out and get back to her, even if only to lay her to rest. But he needed help to do that.
"I found all this in a few days. It's wrong, I know, but if it gets us out of here then it's the only choice we have." John watched the pair of them as they took in what he'd just said, as they weighed up right against wrong, against the chance of escape. For John, that was the overriding factor. Without Cameron in his life he still didn't care if he died; he just didn't want to die here.
"I need to know," John met their eyes with his hard gaze, brilliant green eyes on fire as he spoke with a dead seriousness Byrne and Slater had never seen in someone so young. "Will you join me?"