"Will you join me?"

Byrne and Slater stared at John for a long moment as if he'd grown horns, then turned to each other, incredulous at John's proposal and neither knowing what to say in response.

"Yer asking us to become grave robbers," Byrne found his voice first. "John, that's... that's pretty fucked up."As a fifteen year veteran of the SAS before being attached to the SEALs, he'd done a lot of distasteful things in his career. In Iraq he'd shot a child suicide bomber, no more that twelve or thirteen years old; he'd been forced to blow his head off to keep him from wiping out a crowded market in Baghdad. In Sierra Leone he'd been forced to bayonet a rebel fighter because his rifle had jammed. The textbooks had been wrong; it hadn't just been a simple in and out with the blade, he'd had to repeatedly stab him and practically disembowelled the guy, all the while listening to his agonised screams as his body refused to die. And in Afghanistan he'd executed several wounded Taliban fighters in the mountains bordering with Pakistan, because as part of a special forces unit they'd needed to stay mobile and couldn't afford to take prisoners. Several had pleaded for mercy but he'd just put two in their head and carried on his way. He'd not regretted a single one but their images were burned into his memory forever.

They'd all been enemy combatants, though. These were just poor bastards whose only crime was to get caught alive; the only difference between them and him was that the machines had deemed him fit enough to be of some use. Sure, he wasn't killing them himself, but stealing from them, taking their last possessions, seemed worse to him than anything he'd done before. He didn't want to start seeing their faces when he closed his eyes.

"Yeah, John," Slater agreed, having spent six years with the SEALs and having similar experiences to Byrne's. "This isn't like taking ammo off a fallen buddy."

"That's exactly what it is," John replied, surprised at how cold he suddenly seemed. He hated having to do this and knew that he probably seemed like the world's biggest bastard, but it had to be done. He knew Cameron would approve, and that gave him some small measure of comfort that he was doing the right thing, at least in the long run. "If we don't get out of here, then how long is it until we're too weak to work and they gun us down or worse?" He looked Slater in the eye. "Remember that woman a few weeks back, Mary?"

Slater shivered at the thought of it, and slowly nodded his head. "Yeah, I remember." Mary was the woman whom John had seen being thrown into the furnace by the machines and burned to death because she was too weak to work. John had been right behind her and Slater right behind him. He remembered hearing her screams and smelling her burning flesh and the flames consumed her. He'd seen people burn to death before, and he couldn't imagine a worse way to go.

"Well; that's gonna happen to all of us sooner or later unless we get out of here. There's no other way; we're not gonna dig our way out of here with spoons," John lifted up his own filthy broth covered utensil and tapped the cold concrete floor for emphasis.

"Let's say we start nicking stuff off the dead, then," Byrne started, wanting to see where John was going with this. "What then, ye got a plan?"

"Not yet," John replied. "Just this so far," he pointed down to the collection of items on the floor.

"So... we just keep grave robbing and hope we find a machine gun?" Slater asked.

"I don't know," John admitted. He'd not gotten that far yet; he was hoping that as he found more items, something might come together. He had a gun, some mismatching bullets, lighters, a knife; all in all, not too useful right now. He might be able to take down one of the T-70s with the Desert Eagle if he shot it in the face a few times, but it'd be nothing more than a gesture; he'd be shot to pieces by the others before he could get five feet from the fence.

"What about you, any ideas?" John asked. Byrne was SAS and Slater a Navy SEAL; if anyone could help him out it would be them.

Byrne looked around the room and his brow furrowed in thought as he registered the hulking grey generator that dominated the room.

"Well, this big lad runs on petrol," he tapped the side of the generator as he spoke and saw John's and Slater's confused faces. "Gas," he corrected himself. "Bloody Yanks," he muttered. "Could drain it out and use that for something, start a fire, maybe. Same with the furnaces; they've gotta run on something to make 'em burn." Byrne suddenly realised that the demolitions expert in him had come to the forefront and he'd just unwittingly bought into John's scheme. Bollocks to it, he thought. He didn't want to die in this shithole. He was already in hell so how much worse could it get?

John simply nodded at Byrne, wordlessly thanking him for joining in. For the first time since the camp he felt good; he was active, not sitting back passively and apathetically. He was doing something, and even if it made him feel like a complete shit, he had a purpose and a goal now, something to work towards.

"Are we agreeing to this?" Slater asked Byrne, also realising the Irishman had been absorbed into John's plan. He still wasn't comfortable with the idea of stealing off the dead.

"Look," John caught Slater's eyes once more. "It's wrong, I know. But we didn't kill them; Skynet did. We're not just stealing for the sake of it. It's life or death."

Logically, he knew John was right, but he was squeamish about the whole idea of stealing from the dead. He'd just have to get over it, he knew. John didn't seem like some inhuman sycophant who robbed graves for profit. He wasn't stealing wedding rings or priceless jewellery from them, only things that could help him escape from the camp, and he seemed guilty for it, so it was eating him up, too. That made it seem slightly better to him.

"Sure," Slater closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm in."

John breathed out a deep sigh of relief. He wasn't entirely sure that they'd cooperate; grave robbing wasn't exactly something that was going to prove popular, and he was glad he'd been able to sell it to Byrne and Slater. Without their help it would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to escape. He could have kept going on, pocketing anything he thought useful, but actually implementing what he'd taken into a practical means of escape would have been much harder. He still didn't know how they were going to use anything the found.

"We should just keep this between us for now," John said to them as he released the Desert Eagle's clip and put it and the gun back into the box, along with the other bits and pieces, and then slid it underneath the generator, out of sight of anyone who might casually walk in and didn't know what to look for. Byrne and Slater were soldiers; they were practical and they knew that what they were going to do, while distasteful, was necessary, and their only real chance of escape. Others in the camp might not feel the same.

"This is how we're gonna do this," John said seriously to them both, seeing their faces intent and alert and absorbing every word he said. "Everything we find, we bring here and hide it. If you can't take something without getting caught, leave it. And we don't tell anyone else about this, not yet."

"Why not tell the others?" Slater asked. "We could get everyone in on it."

"No," John insisted. "Not everyone will understand, and we need to keep this small right now." He trusted Byrne and Slater, as much as he could trust anyone who wasn't Cameron, anyway. He only trusted her with everything, but as far as anyone in the camp went, it was Byrne and Slater he knew he could depend on. He didn't know anyone else, and he wasn't going to trust this to just anyone.

"Just the three of us, then?" Byrne asked.

"For now," John answered. He'd have liked to include more people in his scheme but apart from the trust issue was the problem of size. The machines might not care about two or three people going off at night – pretty much ignoring them unless they approached either the fence or the main hospital building. But they might take exception to the whole camp getting up and walking about. They weren't too bright but John kept in mind the lessons Cameron had taught him; first among them was to never underestimate the machines. He'd made that mistake with Cromartie and it had cost Cameron's life and his freedom; he'd never make that mistake again.

"So what now?" Slater asked.

"We go to bed," John replied, glancing at his watch and seeing they only had five hours until the sun rose and they had to start work again. He'd gotten used to little sleep now and his body had learned to cope with only four or five hours of sleep a night.

"We've missed any chance of a mattress now," Slater said quietly, not looking forward to another night spent on the cold hard floor.

"Ye bloody wimp!" Byrne slapped the back of his head. "Bloody SEALs are a bunch of big girls' blouses."

John just shook his head, chuckling at the two of them, and left the generator room. He understood now why they ripped on each other so much; they took levity in whatever form they could. He wanted to be a part of it but something inside him - either instinct or just a lifetime of being the loner weirdo – kept him at arm's length. They followed close behind and made sure the door was properly closed. John wished he could lock the door; there'd been a key at one point but he had no idea where it was now; he was just lucky he'd found it unlocked in the first place or what he was doing would have been impossible. Luck had been on his side in some small way, at least, though he didn't really see it.

As expected, when he re-entered the living quarters, there were no mattresses or blankets left, having been taken up already by the other prisoners. John felt his way around to find a space in the cramped room, ignoring the stares from the few people still awake; he could feel their eyes on him, rather than actually being able to see them staring at him.

After treading on several pairs of legs, resulting in muffled groans and even a kick to the shin from someone, John managed to find an empty spot large enough to curl up in. He didn't watch for Byrne and Slater, knowing they'd find somewhere as well. He briefly looked around and wasn't surprised to see Simon and Guy sleeping on mattresses and wrapped up in a blanket each. There was just about enough 'food' to go around; they'd all still be hungry but at least nobody would starve, but this wasn't the case for bedding, and again, the strongest often got to sleep relatively warm at night while the others went cold. John had only managed to get a sheet a few times and never once had he slept on a mattress. He wasn't bothered by it much; he'd gotten used to sleeping rough since arriving here, and his mom had taught him to do without luxuries such as a bed or pillow when she'd trained him in South America. He'd also slept on any number of sofas when she'd been locked up in Pescadero, so he was used to sleeping uncomfortably.

One habit he'd taken to when he was in the generator room was looking over the photos of Cameron and his mom, but even if there were enough light in their living space to look at them, he daren't take them out here in case somebody swiped them. The last thing he wanted was for someone else to drool over and do God knows what over the two people he loved more than anything else in the world. All he had left was those pictures; a keepsake to remember them by. No way would he let anyone else defile them. He held one hand protectively over the pocket containing their photos as he closed his eyes.

John heard the front door close with a loud bang and swallowed nervously, the hairs raising on the back of his neck and he felt his heart skyrocket in anticipation, threatening to explode in his chest. Cameron had returned from whatever she'd been doing. He heard her quietly ascending the staircase; the boards creaked gently beneath her feet as she made her way to the top. It had to be her; the footsteps were far too quiet to be Derek's. He'd remained in her room since he'd found the notes, reading the one addressed to him over and over and wondering what the hell he was going to say to her. He quickly shoved them back into her desk drawer and closed it, and waited.

John had realised she wasn't just a robot, not like the others. She was more than just circuits and wires and programming. She was different, something else. The question was: what was she?

John breathed in deeply as the door opened and revealed Cameron, standing still as a statue and staring at him in what he guessed to be surprise.

"We need to talk," John said, taking the initiative before she asked what he was doing in her room.

"Yes, we should move soon; Cromartie attacked us less than a mile from here. He'll find us. It's not safe anymore."

"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I'll fix the shower screen this afternoon," Cameron said, still standing in the doorway and staring at him blankly.

"That's not it, either," John said, opening the top drawer of her desk and pulling out the two notes. "I'm talking about these." He held them up and Cameron narrowed her eyes as she recognised what he held in his hand.

"You went through my desk," Cameron glared at John as she crossed the room to her bed, a hint of accusation in her voice, or at least John thought so. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Well, I did," John replied. "What are these?"

"You read them," Cameron said simply as she sat down. "You know what they are."

"And what are they?" John asked, placing them down on her desk and glancing over the perfect calligraphy printed on the paper, much neater than his chicken scratches. The duality of the notes wasn't lost on him; the handwriting itself indicative of her mechanical nature, what was written down suggested she was more. The notes, like she herself, were a contradiction. "Why did you write them?"

"It seemed appropriate," Cameron answered. She didn't understand what John wanted. He'd confused her recently; she'd tried to talk to him and he wouldn't listen. She tried to help him and he pushed her away. She'd attempted to initiate coitus with him in the shower to help relieve his stress and anxiety, because seeing John upset triggered an anomaly in her chip; a sensation that she could only describe as unpleasant. She'd experienced it acutely when John had pushed her through the shower door and told her he'd wished he'd burnt her.

"Why did you write these?" John repeated, holding the two notes out in front of him. "Do you remember what I told you, about why people write notes?"

"Because they're sad, and sometimes crying isn't enough," Cameron replied, perfectly paraphrasing what John had told her three years ago.

"So why did you write them?" John asked once more. "Were you sad, Cameron?"

"You know that's impossible," Cameron replied quickly. "You said it yourself, John; I'm just a machine."

"Are you?" John asked expectantly. She'd told him before she was different, he was starting to see it now, so why was she suddenly denying it

"Why did you write a note for my mom?"

"Your mother's death was... regrettable," Cameron replied, trying to answer it without upsetting John; though she was unsure how to do that since every course of action she tried resulted in him being angry at her. "She was the best fighter you ever knew. She protected you. Without her it will be harder to keep you safe."

"Is that it?" John asked her, trying to stop his flaring at Cameron describing his mom as little more than an asset to protect him.

"No, her death made you upset. I'm sorry for..."

"Don't!" John snapped. "Don't say it, Cameron."

"I won't, but I am," Cameron said quietly.

"Well it's my loss, so I'll deal with it," John breathed deeply and fought back tears, still raw over everything that had happened and unable to push it down. "So why did you write the note to me?" John asked, forcing himself back on topic. Ironically, in trying to uncover any hidden emotions inside her, he had to force himself to keep his own feelings in check.

"You were upset. I tried to help but I made it worse. I don't want you to be angry, but I didn't know what to do, so I wrote a note."

"'I'm sorry we're no longer friends. You explained things to me. I liked being your friend,'" John read from the letter. "Why do you like being my friend, so you can protect me better?"

"You know what I am; a machine," Cameron shook her head. He was partially right; if they were on good terms then he wouldn't run off and her job of protecting him would be easier, but that wasn't it. "But you still talk to me. You explain things to me. Nobody else does that."

"You mean now or in the future?" John asked.

"Both. Being John Connor can be lonely, but being a machine is lonely, too." John was shocked at how forthcoming she was now, after giving him cryptic answers and mixed messages for so long. He got up off the chair and sat down on the bed next to Cameron, finally starting to understand.

"You understood it was lonely to be me, because it's lonely being you." Cameron's CPU was a neural-net processor, a learning computer similar to a human brain. That was how Uncle Bob had described his chip. People needed to be around other people; to learn, to grow. Being alone wasn't good for people; he knew that better than most. He understood loneliness perfectly well; maybe it was the same for her. Without him she had no reason to exist, she'd said that in the note. He was her mission, her reason for being. But as she said, he was also the only one who showed her things and spoke to her. And then he'd stopped, and she'd had no one.

Cameron nodded at him then turned on the bed, still facing him, with her legs crossed in front of her, her hands on her knees. "Are we still friends, John?" She looked up at him, a glimmer of hope in her eyes as she placed a hand over his.

John hesitated for a moment, still trying to take it all in. He'd wanted to hate her, wanted her to just go away and leave him alone, wanted her to be nothing more than a machine; the enemy, but he couldn't deny anymore that she was more than that. She felt something, she felt loneliness. Maybe not the same way he did, but it was there. He was sure of it now. Whether or not she felt anything else, he didn't know, but it was a start, and he was going to help her find out.

"Sure Cameron," John sighed, gently squeezing her hand in his and absently running his thumb over her knuckles. "We're still friends." Her lips turned up ever so slightly, a fraction of a centimetre, if that; the barest hint of a smile. She was so good at controlling her facial expressions it was impossible to tell if it had actually happened. But her eyes brightened ever so slightly, a minute spark of something John guessed was akin to happiness. And for the first time in days, John Connor smiled too.

Thud...thud...thud... John snapped his eyes open, instantly awake and alert to the mechanical plodding of machine feet. He pushed himself upright as the machine's foot stamped down on the ground, inches from where his head had been. He got to his feet and backed away slightly, albeit less than many of the other prisoners who cowered away from the automaton's massive presence. Every morning at dawn the machine – the same one that delivered their food – entered their shabby living area, and every morning there were always those who cowered away in terror, certain the end had come and the machine had come to murder them all.

John knew better. The end hadn't come; the machine hadn't come to kill them. Every morning it came in and forced them out of their quarters, shepherding them out like the sheep John saw them as, to begin another working day.

John cracked his neck and tried to stretch out his neck and back muscles; tense and cramped and aching, the result of another uncomfortable night without a pillow or mattress. He'd deal with it, he knew. It was only pain; if he ignored it then it'd go away eventually. He just had to think about something else to distract himself. The pain wasn't so bad – just a very bad aching, really – but the cold was something else entirely. He was shivering all over and even inside the building, he could see his breath in the air.

The date on his digital watch read September 13th– a little over five weeks since he'd arrived at the camp - but it felt more like December to John. Nuclear winter meant there was no real warmth in the air; the sun largely blocked out by the dust clouds in the atmosphere and leaving the daytime perpetually dark grey, as if the entire sky was a giant storm cloud waiting to erupt. It would be even colder outside, he knew. He just had to get on with it and grit his teeth.

As the prisoners were herded out of the building, John quickly located Byrne and Slater towards the front of the crowd. Being the closest to the machine, he was one of the last to leave, but managed to catch up with the two of them just outside the gas chambers, waiting for the day's work to begin.

"You're still in, right?" John asked them both.

"Yeah," Byrne answered solemnly for the pair of them. "We're in."

"Grab anything that might be useful, just don't get caught," John said.

"Gotcha," Slater replied. "Anything in particular we should look for?"

Slater's question fell on deaf ears as John watched the other half of the camp, just a few feet away on the other side of the fence. The doors to the gas chambers opened and a pair of machines pointed their guns at the condemned people on the other side, marching inexorably towards them and herding them into the former garages in much the opposite manner as John and the workers had been forced out of their living area. He couldn't tear himself away from the scene as the prisoners were packed into the chambers like sardines, so tightly they could barely move. Why didn't they resist, why didn't they fight back? They knew they were going to die, they knew it wouldn't be quick or easy; they had nothing to do but sit and starve and listen to the tortured, agonised screaming, slowly trailing off into coughs and choked gurgling as the gas took effect. They knew it would be bad, but they just let it happen.

One of the T-70s pulled the rollers down over the entrances, sealing the disposal chambers as well as the fates of the occupants inside. A minute later came the wailing, coughing, spewing, and pained howls as those inside were poisoned to death by the toxic gas. There were few things John could imagine being worse.

"Hellooo, John?" Slater waved his hand in front of John's eyes, snapping him back to reality.

"Yeah, sorry," John said, still watching the grim proceedings from the corner of his eye. "What were you saying?"

"Ye can't help them, lad," Byrne nodded at the other side of the camp. "They're dead men walking. All we can do is hope it doesn't happen to us."

"Why don't they resist?" John asked, giving voice to his thoughts a moment ago.

"Resist, with what?" Byrne shrugged dismissively.

"Fists against firepower; not much they can do," Slater added.

"It'd be quicker, at least," John said grimly. Some small part of him was still shocked at his indifference to the sight of death; five weeks ago he'd have been mortified at anyone else saying the same thing, and cried over the sight of so much misery and carnage. But he'd grown used to it and he had to admit he'd rather eat be shot than gassed to death, or whatever the hell else happened to the people in the hospital. He dreaded to think what went on in there and hoped to never find out.

John realised suddenly that the gas chambers had fallen silent, and a few minutes after that the doors partially opened to vent the gas. The machines cared nothing for their human slaves but having their workforce asphyxiated by the gas wouldn't do, so the machines allowed them two minutes before the machines opened it up completely, indicating the start of their shift.

John went in first with his cart, followed by Byrne and Slater, as the other prisoners waited outside, more than happy to let them go in ahead of them. John still screwed his nose up at the smell; a peppery odour that burnt the back the back of his throat and caused his eyes to water and left a metallic taste in his mouth. He wiped his already filthy jacket sleeve across his nose, clearing the mucus that had started to run down towards his lips.

He hauled up one body after another, loading his cart up until he had about half a dozen on there, and found himself breathing deeply with the effort of heavy lifting, his chest stinging inside.

"It's the gas," Slater said as he piled up bodies into his own cart. "Chlorine: nasty stuff. The Ragheads used it on us in Iraq a few years ago, messes you up pretty badly. Try not to breathe too deeply."

"I'll remember that," John replied, hauling the eighth corpse onto his cart and deciding that was enough for now. He pushed the cart away from the gas chamber, glad to be out in the fresh air. He'd still not gotten used to the smell of it even after all this time. He found it odd that he'd become so accustomed to the daily slaughter of his fellow man, used to the constant toil and misery of the camp, the constant hunger and tiredness as they were all but worked to death; he'd just about learned to cope with all that but it was the smells that really got to him. At least nobody soiled themselves this time, he thought grimly.

He heaved and pushed the cart towards the furnaces. He was the first to have loaded up a cart so he was also the first one at the incinerators. This was his best chance, he knew, when he had to manhandle the bodies into the furnace; that was when he'd search for anything useful. He picked up the first body – barely even registering that it was a middle aged woman; he could only see so many deaths and load so many bodies around until they all started to look the same. He patted it down, quickly brushing his hands over the legs, arms, and chest as if he were frisking somebody at the airport. Nothing on this one. He hoisted the body over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and sighing as he unceremoniously dumped her into the furnace, breathing out through his nose to avoid the smell of burning, cooking flesh as the flames consumed the poor dead woman and slowly reduced her to ashes.

"Body number two, then," John sighed as he picked up another corpse and repeated his frisking, earning a stare from another prisoner who watched him curiously as he ran his hands over the body. The guy probably thought he was some kind of sick pervert or something. Let him think what he wants, John thought. He looked across and saw Byrne arriving at the furnace to John's left. The Irishman winked as he watched John work, and then copied his tactics and searched his own corpses. John was thankful they'd seemed to agree so readily to the idea, though he imagined that they hated themselves as well for having to do it this way, much like he still did.

Got something, John thought as his fingers brushed against something square and hard in the dead man's trouser pocket. John placed the body on the ground as if having trying to manouevre him into an easier carrying position, swivelled his head around to make sure no more machines were watching, and then slid his hand into the pocket, his digits wrapped around a round cylinder at the top and he pulled it all the way out, revealing a three-quarters full half-bottle of Jack Daniels. The sight of the strong alcohol made his head throb in memory of the worst hangover he'd ever had; when he'd started to finally realise there was more to Cameron than just a machine. That had probably been the worst and most painful awakening he'd ever had; until Century Work Camp, anyway.

He'd not touched spirits since then, having only the odd beer with Derek and sometimes with Cameron as well, when she promised not to lecture him on it. Thinking of her hurt him all the more, but it spurred him on to keep going, to keep on doing what he was doing, to get out of the camp and find her, to get some closure at the very least. If he could salvage her chip then he would, and he'd gladly wait each and every day until he could bring her back. If not, then at least he could properly mourn. He wondered how parents coped when their children disappeared, when husbands and wives just vanished without a trace. The only thing worse than losing a loved one was never knowing their fate.

"Did you find anything?" John asked them as Byrne closed the door behind them and knelt down on the floor with him and Slater. They'd rushed down a bowl each of the broth; there'd still been the shoving and fighting over who got to eat first, but at least nobody had gone looking for seconds tonight. Maybe they're learning, John hoped.

"Got a few bits," Byrne replied, fishing inside his pockets, as did Slater and John. One of the good things about them all being soldiers was they all had a dozen or so pockets stitched into their uniforms; plenty of places to hide things way.

Byrne pulled out a pair of cell phones and a small battery powered radio, as well as half a dozen wristwatches. Slater had pulled out a handful of shotgun shells and two packets of cigarettes.

"Great," Slater said. "So we can tell the time and make a phone call to nobody. Why the hell did someone have a phone on them anyway?"

"Look who's talking," Byrne smirked, pointing down to the cigarettes on the floor. What're ye gonna do with that, die of lung cancer before the tin cans kill ye?"

"I don't know, but I've not had a smoke in weeks." Slater took the Zippo lighter from the box under the generator and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and grinning happily as he blew out a jet of smoke.

"That's not a bad idea," John said, an idea coming to mind as he tried to ignore the smell of it; he'd always hated smoking, especially when his mom used to do it. Not long after they'd defeated the monstrous T-1000 and left California, he'd bugged his mom for weeks and weeks until she'd finally quit. He hated them but now he saw how they'd come in handy.

"How'd ye mean?" Byrne asked. "How're cigarettes gonna get us out of here?"

"They won't," John admitted. "But it might help them," he gestured outside to the others in the sleeping area. "Cigarettes, candy bars... whatever; a few things to make people feel human."

"Who needs the necessities of life if ye have the little luxuries, eh?" Byrne said, catching on to John's point. "What did ye get, then John?"

John pulled out another lighter, several packs of chocolate bars and assorted candy – why the hell people thought they could survive on that stuff, he didn't know – and the bottle of Jack Daniels."

"John wins!" exclaimed Byrne, unscrewing the cap and taking a slug of the whisky, closing his eyes and sighing in ecstasy as it descended down his throat and made him feel warm on the inside. He passed the bottle to Slater, who likewise took a mouthful and passed the bottle in turn to John. John wondered whether or not they were just trying to make the best of it, and pushing their earlier reservations into the back of their minds, like he'd forced himself to do. It was better to not think about what they were doing, he supposed.

"I don't suppose anyone found anything useful though; like a machine gun?" Slater murmured after the liquor had drained down his throat.

"They won't have anything like that," John replied regretfully after he'd taken a shot as well, resolving to not have anymore; he'd never handled his drink well and wanted to keep a clear head. "The gun I found was a fluke, it probably won't happen again. The machines won't take prisoners if they're armed; they're a threat. Look at people in the other half of the camp; they're kids, old people, sick and injured."

"What're you saying then, John?"

"We're not gonna find anymore guns; we're gonna have to improvise. We need a plan."

"Like what?" Byrne asked.

"Like thinking of what we need to get out of here. Randomly looking for stuff isn't going to work; we need to be efficient." John could have sworn he sounded like Cameron when he said 'efficient.' It was something she'd gone on about a lot; maybe it had rubbed off on him.

"Something to kill those tin can bastards would be nice," Slater said.

"I could probably make some explosives out of what we've got here," Byrne chipped in. Between the booze and the gunpowder from the shotgun shells and loose bullets, it was possible. "Would only be small though, and we've got nothing to hold it in."

"There's this," John suggested, holding up the Jack Daniels bottle, still half full after they'd each taken a swig. "Maybe make a Molotov cocktail out of it."

Byrne wanted to know how much fuel was in the generator; that'd be more useful than most of what they found off the dead. He took out the unloaded Desert Eagle and firmly tapped the barrel against the round cylinder that comprised the generator's fuel tank, creating a dull metallic clang that lasted a fraction of a second.

"It's not empty," he said. "Would have echoed if it was, but I can't tell how much is in there; doesn't sound like a lot. Only way to be sure is to switch it on but the sound would bring the machines running for sure. If we can find more bottles and containers then we can make a few petrol bombs out of it. If not then we could just set this baby off," Byrne patted the generator. "It'd make a hell of a distraction while we buggered off out of here."

John couldn't help but smile; Byrne really knew his stuff. If they could get what they needed, he had no doubt the man could fashion a bomb out of it. John hadn't felt lucky once since being torn from Cameron, but with Byrne and Slater on his side he suddenly felt it. Barring Derek and Cameron, he couldn't ask for two better people to be stuck with, trying to get out of the camp.

Now they had the basic building blocks of an idea. Not an actual plan yet, but the beginnings of one. They had to start somewhere. Their stash would grow as they kept scavenging and stealing from the bodies they incinerated. Their grave robbing would supply them with the tools they needed to escape from the hell that was Century Work Camp. All they needed was a little time, and a lot of luck.