"Connor to Command, requesting reinforcements at the Wal-Mart on Market Street; the crowd's getting ugly and we could use some backup."
"Negative Connor, we've got no backup to give; riots have broken out at the capital building again; we're rerouting 3rd and 4th Squads there to provide support."
"Shit!" First Lieutenant Dave Connor covered his mic and cursed. Things had not been going his way today. Chaos reigned in Carson City: the vast numbers of refugees taken in daily, fleeing from the machines' unstoppable path of destruction, had grown far too many for the city to handle. Yet they still poured in from Nevada and California in a seemingly endless tide of desperation and despair.
Food, water, and medical supplies had been strictly rationed, flaring anger amongst many in the population who felt the mayor, the military, and the National Guard were holding out on them. Crowds had gathered outside the capital building regularly to demonstrate against the martial law declared by the mayor. Civil Rights campaigners and left-leaning members of the city's population had been aghast when the mayor had handed over policing powers to the National Guard, and protests had started almost around the clock. Soldiers had been posted outside supermarkets and convenience stores as they protected what food there was from looters. Fights had broken out over diminishing supplies and civil unrest had flared.
Dave Connor of the Nevada National Guard had been assigned to protect a Wal-Mart store and to assist with the distribution of supplies. A crowd had gathered outside it to receive food and water, and hadn't been best pleased when they'd rationed it out. There just wasn't enough to go around and they'd had to be stringent. Fights had broken out when some people had tried to queue up twice, or members of the same families had split up in the crowd to gain more food and water for themselves.
The breaking point had come when one group had spread out through the queues and acquired over a dozen large bottles of water and enough food to feed half a dozen families. Other civilians hadn't been content to simply allow them to cheat and steal, and several who'd brought guns from their homes had shot at their car as they'd tried to get away. Shooting had erupted in the crowd as people tried to take from each other by force. When that didn't work, the crowd had rallied against Connor and his squad, demanding they step aside and let them in.
"Give me that," Connor took a bullhorn from the sergeant next to him and stood up atop one of the two Humvees forming a barricade in front of the store entrance. He stood tall on the car's roof as his men held their ground, weapons made ready and held firm in their hands, ready to fire if the crowd tried to rush them. Connor wasn't going to suffer the same fate as some soldiers guarding other stores.
"Everyone back away," he called out, the bullhorn amplifying his voice considerably, even above the din of the crowd as the yelled and screamed and pushed and pulled and clawed and shoved against themselves and Connor's men. "Return to your homes immediately or we will open fire."
The soldiers all brought their weapons to bear on the crowd, fingers hovered over triggers and the air of tension among them was unbearable. None of them wanted to open fire on civvies but at the same time they feared for their lives. Connor's platoon had been divided and there were only twelve of them left to guard the store against a crowd of more than three-hundred.
One of the men cocked the machine gun mounted atop the other Humvee and pointed it at the centre of the crowd, emphasising further that they weren't playing about.
Connor felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and nervous sweat dripped down his face. He hadn't signed up for the National Guard for this; Jesus. H. Christ, he was a schoolteacher; this kind of crap shouldn't be left up to him. Some of his kids' parents could be in the crowd for all he knew. Not that he'd done much teaching since the bombs had fallen, but still.
"This is your final warning!" he yelled at them, nervously clutching his own rifle, as they made no attempt to disperse and instead pushed even further towards them. Some in the mob threw stones and other objects at the soldiers. A brick flew out from the crowd and struck one of his men in the face, felling him instantly. The two men on either side of him opened fire at the perpetrator; their rounds tore through him and penetrated through, hitting the civilians behind them and wounding them as well.
A few people in the crowd started throwing more improvised missiles at them and others at the front pushed forward in response to the soldier's shooting, rage and murder in their eyes as they surged towards the troops.
There was nothing else he could do, Connor knew; the crowd were baying for blood and it was this or allowing himself and his men to be lynched. He gulped and knew he was going to burn in hell for this one day. "Fire at will!" he shouted out at his men, took aim with his own rifle and fired a round into one rioter's chest, killing him before he hit the ground and tripping up those behind him as they advanced. The soldiers fell back behind their Humvees and fired single shots into the rioters, who responded by throwing even more improvised weapons.
A flaming spirit bottle was tomahawked from somewhere in the crowd and exploded on the Humvee, the Molotov cocktail setting the machine gunner and two other men alight and causing them to run around flailing in panic as their clothes and skins burned. Shots were fired at his men by rioters who'd brought their guns from home, and another soldier went down with two bullet wounds in his face.
"Fuck this," Connor growled. They could have the damn Wal-Mart if they wanted it that bad. "Fall back..." Connor fell backwards onto the ground and as two rounds struck him in the groin and thigh. He didn't feel the pain all that much; shock and adrenaline saw to that. As he lay there he looked up and saw several shapes ploughing slowly through the sky, contrails in their wake as they flew up high in the air, too high to be heard. He was in too much shock from the gunshots to count them, but there were a lot; it was like looking at a flock of birds; there were whole squadrons of them. He tried to ignore the pain as it overwhelmed the numbing effect from the shock and took over, burning his crotch and his thigh as if they were on fire. Still, he kept his eyes on the aircraft above and raised his arm to the sky, pointing, trying to show his men.
Explosions rained all around them, erupting into brilliant fireballs that blossomed like deadly, fiery flowers and shattered everything around them; Connor realised that the planes above were heavy bombers. Rioters and soldiers alike stopped in their tracks and simply froze for a long moment as hundreds of explosions could be heard from all around the city, a rapid, unending series of loud bangs like hundreds of giant firecrackers all going off in succession, rocking the ground beneath them. The rioting crowd turned and fled in all directions, screaming, trampling over each other, pushing and shoving to get away in a deranged panic, crushing several of their number underfoot as they fell and were trampled by those behind.
Connor's men stayed put and he was vaguely aware of one of his soldiers working on him, trying to patch him up. One of them must have injected him with morphine at some point, because he felt nothing more than a dull ache below his waist and a giddy sense of euphoria.
The last thing he saw was an explosion of fire, glass, brick, and plaster that erupted outwards and consumed his men stood above him as a 2000lb JDAMS struck the Wal-Mart behind them, obliterating his squad and turning his world black and silent.
Five men stalked through the ruins of the city; all armed with military carbines and equipped with webbing and belt kits, despite being dressed in civilian garb. The leader of this group, a tall, dark haired man in his forties, blazed a trail through the rubble as they passed. Skynet had done a real number on this place, he thought. Taking in too many civvies, he thought. That's what did it; Carson City must have looked like an all-you-can-eat buffet to Skynet's monstrous machines.
He led them past what was left of a Wal-Mart store; the whole thing had been shattered by a direct hit from a bomb and covered the whole area in shattered bricks and masonry, with shards of glass and jagged lengths of steel jutting out here and there, just waiting to be tripped on. Not by him, though; he knew how to handle himself; not like the faggot National Guard who'd tried to run the city like their own personal little empire, then fallen flat on their faces when the civilians got all pissed off. Had he been in charge, he'd have put the fear of God into those ingrate civvies; shoot a few upstarts to get the message across that he was in charge; none of this minimum force bullcrap that the military spouted about these days. He looked at the shattered Humvees, the fallen soldiers, and he was not impressed. The military had gone soft since his day.
"Don't take too long," he said to his men. "Tin cans will follow up after the bombing raid; we don't wanna get caught out in the open." They could handle a pissy little T-70, alright. What he didn't want to see was the T-2s; the National Guard were all armed with just rifles and had nothing that could take on those tank-killing monsters.
"McGinty; we've got a live one, here!" Bates, his second in command and former cellmate called out to him. McGinty turned back towards Bates stood knelt down over a soldier half-buried in the rubble and muttering to himself. The soldier's face was cut and bruised, his uniform torn and dirty, barely concealing two bullet wounds.
"Looks like you're in the shit, soldier," McGinty grinned as he reached out with his left hand and, with Bates' help, pulled the man out from beneath the debris.
"Help me," the soldier begged hoarsely. None of the men made any move to assist him, least of all McGinty.
"Why should I?" he asked; his face darkening and anger setting in as he spoke. "The Army never helped me out; not after fifteen years of service to my country. What did I get; court-martialled and two years in prison." He'd always been pissed off about that; guys like this guy were promoted for keeping quiet and doing as they were told; not showing the slightest bit of initiative. He'd always figured that's what the jarheads on the frontline were for, though; robots who just did as they were told and killed the enemy. But not him; oh no; he'd spent his career in Military Intelligence, been considered promising, too; until he'd been accused of so called 'war crimes,' and 'human rights violations' against captured Taliban insurgents. He'd spent two damn years in prison in Fort Knox, only let out when Skynet had a hissy fit and blew up half the world. He'd then made his way to his native Nevada with a few of the men he'd done time with.
The Army had gone soft in his opinion; he'd done what he'd had to do for his country. And if that had meant slapping around a few ragheads here and there then he didn't see the problem. His 'superiors' however, hadn't seen it that way. Bunch of fags run by a pussy-whipped liberal government. They'd gone soft on terror and they'd gone even softer allowing a damn computer to run the military. Just look how that had worked out, he rolled his eyes in disgust. Right now, to Chris McGinty, this soldier was a symbol for the pathetic military establishment that had turned its back on him; he didn't feel all that sympathetic.
"The way I see it, you guys are responsible for all this: you brought this on us, so why should we help you?"
"P...please," the soldier pleaded. He reached out and grabbed McGinty by the wrist, looking up desperately into his eyes, his pain was all too apparent. McGinty looked down at the invalid form of the soldier, and then saw the Lieutenant's insignia on the shoulders. His disdain for the man, upon seeing his rank, increased tenfold. It was idiots like this that had hung him out to dry for trying to keep his country and his comrades in the Army safe.
He placed his M4 down on the ground and knelt down at his side, just by his head. He slowly pulled a knife out from his belt kit as he rested his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.
"Do you know what I hated most about the Army?" he asked casually. When he saw that the lieutenant was starting to drop out of consciousness he slapped him round the face to bring him round, rather unsuccessfully, and continued regardless. "It's the fucking officers. You don't have a clue, do you? You have no idea what we're fighting right now. The rest of the world is fighting, dying, and you're here playing nanny to a bunch of refugees; pathetic. "
Still, he wasn't a cruel man. Not really. He just did what needed to be done, even if it offended some sensibilities. He pulled the soldier's chin back and ran the his blade across the throat as hard as he could, slicing through skin, muscle, veins and windpipe, turning the man to the side as the blood gushed out of him like a fountain and sprayed onto the ground. The lieutenant kicked and bucked and writhed; he tried to scream but all that came out was a gurgle, accompanied by a wet clicking sound from his severed windpipe.
"I'm doing this to be kind," he whispered to the lieutenant as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he finally lay still. He was still a soldier, even if a pathetic excuse for one, and in McGinty's eyes, didn't deserve to slowly die of his injuries or wait for the machines or scavenging animals to come calling. What he did was an act of compassion.
He wiped his knife on the lieutenant's trousers, trying to get all the blood he could off of it, and then stood away from the body. As the corpse rolled onto its back, McGinty saw the nametag stencilled onto the jacket; he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before: Connor.
This faggot couldn't be the Connor, could he? Had he just slashed the throat of John Connor? That man - that voice on the radio that claimed to know what to do - was meant to be a general, not a lieutenant.
An idea struck him suddenly: people followed Connor; he seemed to know how to fight the machines, so they followed him despite having never met nor even heard of him. He was obviously some old fart sitting in his office in Cheyenne Mountain, issuing orders to the real soldiers like him who did all the chopping and put their necks on the line. The old man would get them all killed, in all likelihood. He'd lost faith in the Army the day he'd been court-martialled.
He only trusted himself to get the job done, and his men trusted him to lead them; they'd all been screwed over by the Army as well, and didn't trust the military to fight the machines. If you want something done, you've gotta do it yourself, he thought. People followed John Connor; he'd give them John Connor. He rolled Connor's body over onto its front and pulled the jacket off, gave thanks that he'd turned the man onto his side and most of the blood had missed the jacket, and donned it himself. It fit well, he thought. It was a lucky coincidence this Connor and himself were a similar size.
He was Connor, now. He'd lead mankind and show them how it was all done; they'd follow him, as John Connor, to victory over the machines. It had to be him; nobody else had a fucking clue.
"Who are you?" Cameron asked as she stared at him, scanning him from head to toe. He wore civilian clothes much like Bates and his men, apart from a DPM print military jacket sporting epaulettes on his shoulders bearing a Lieutenants' insignia, yet Cameron could tell by his appearance, and the way he held himself, that he was clearly not military. Cameron was disturbed by the name stencilled on his bloodstained jacket, however: Connor.
Her hands twitched even more as she processed the myriad possibilities as to why he had the name Connor on his jacket. It wasn't John's; the jacket was too big to be John's. This man, posing as John Connor, was too big for John's jacket to have fitted. His chest and shoulders were too broad – larger than Derek's but smaller than Perry's. Also, the Connor on John's jacket had been obscured by Cromartie's rounds, tearing holes through the uniform before flattening against the coltan-plated flak jacket she'd made him wear.
"I've gotta give it to Bates," the impostor grinned slyly, ignoring Cameron's question as he looked her up and down. "The man has good taste." After a shitty day out in Virginia City - a fruitless recon mission that had been two days of wasted time - today started to look up. One of his men had reported to him that Bates had brought two more in from Carson City; he wasn't expecting such a creature of exquisite beauty as this Cameron, however; lender, sleek – but still with curves – and a long, silky mane of chocolate brown. Yes, he had a feeling tonight would be a good night, indeed.
"Where's John?" Cameron demanded. She was confused; this wasn't her John. This was nobody. Why was he pretending to be John Connor?
"I'm John Connor," he replied evenly. "Don't worry; you're safe from the machines down here."
"You're not John; where is he?" Cameron asked once more. She found her left hand twitching uncontrollably as she realised she'd been lied to. She felt the sudden urge to terminate this man, and had to consciously resist it, for now at least. He might know where John was; she'd find out, either way.
"You're very beautiful, you know that?" He asked, ignoring her once again as he turned back towards a bottle of twelve-year-old whisky he kept near his sleeping bag and poured the brown liquor into a pair of glasses. "Drink?" he held out one glass and offered it to Cameron. "It's twelve years old; great stuff," he smiled amicably. Sometimes the drink helped loosen them up a bit; whatever he could do to make her more comfortable. This one wasn't going to be quick like the others; like a fine wine she had to be savoured and appreciated.
Cameron just stared at him as he held the drink out to her. She stood stock still for a long moment before finally accepting the glass from him. She saw him smile as she took his drink and saw his eyes wonder over her, much like Bates had done with Courtney. She knew what he was expecting; the alcohol was meant to lower her inhibitions and make her more open to his advances. She looked down at the brown liquor in the glass. It wouldn't work on her; she was a machine. She couldn't get drunk, nor could she taste or smell the smoky liquid inside. She did think of one use for the drink, however.
"Why don't we sit down over here," he gestured to the sleeping bags on top of an inflatable mattress. "We can get more comfortable and..." Cameron smashed the tumbler in the centre of his face, the shattered glass cutting him deeply and the strong liquor burning his eyes.
"What the fuck?" He stumbled backwards, hands clawing at his face and groaning in agony as blood poured down from a deep just above his eye, mixing in with the whisky and blinding him further. "What the hell...?"
"Where's John?" Cameron demanded, slapping his hands away from his face and glaring at him. She grabbed him by his jacket with one hand and hoisted him up off his feet.
"I am John Connor, you crazy bitch!" he yelled back as squirmed and struggled to free himself from her grasp. How the hell was this girl even holding him up? She couldn't be more than a hundred-and-ten pounds. He beat at her wrists futilely to break her grip, to no avail. That was the wrong answer for Cameron; she was pissed, to say the least. She'd been led to the mine on false pretences so that this imposter – a man pretending to be John – could have sex with her. Cameron didn't hold grudges – that was a human trait – but her journey here had cost her time that could have been used to find John. Wherever he was, it wasn't here, and every day wasted decreased her chances of finding John.
She loosened her grip on his jacket and launched a palm-strike to his chest with her other hand, forcing the air out of his lungs and propelling him across the room to crash into a steel locker propped up against the wall – likely left behind from when the mine was worked. He struck the locker in a loud clatter and landed on the floor in a battered heap. Cameron offered no respite and marched up to him, grabbing him by the jacket and hoisting him up to his feet.
"Fuck you!" he spat. Cameron slammed his face against the wall, heard and felt the crunch of cartilage against the rock, and slammed him down to the floor on his back, pinning him on the ground by his neck. Cameron wasn't cruel by design, but something inside her felt an odd sense of satisfaction from seeing him suffer.
"Who are you? Where's John Connor?" She asked once more.
"Fuck-" Cameron heard someone approaching and squeezed his throat hard, stealing his breath away as someone knocked on the door from the outside.
"Are you okay in there, sir?"
"I'm fine, fuck off!" Cameron shouted back in a deep male voice, mimicking the impostor flawlessly. He looked up at her in horror as he heard his own voice replicated from her lips, but she was choking him completely, rendering him unable to call out for help or even make the slightest sound.
"Are you sure, sir?"
Cameron changed her voice back to her own and copied something she'd once caught John watching on late-night television between her patrols.
"Oh! Oh my God, baby! Yes! Yes! OH!" She cried out in mock ecstasy. The imposter recoiled as he watched her verbal display of passion; it sounded so real and so convincing yet her face remained completely blank and emotionless.
Cameron kept her iron grip around his neck, watching his eyes roll upwards and the veins starting to bulge in his temples. She could feel his pulse under her fingertips and his heart was rapidly beating in panic, but faltering gradually, becoming irregular. He wouldn't last much longer. She heard the men behind the door walk away and chuckle to themselves, commenting how 'Connor always did like it rough'. When she was satisfied they were out of earshot she finally released him and got back up on her feet, towering over his prone form.
The fake-John wheezed and coughed and spluttered as he desperately tried to suck in more air. She stood over him for a moment, allowing him to regain his breath. She wanted him to talk; he needed to be able to breathe.
"Who... who the hell are you?" He asked, rubbing his red-raw throat, incredulous how such a small girl no older than eighteen or twenty could be so strong.
Cameron didn't answer his question but instead made her eyes glow bright blue under her organic irises. The impostor backed away from her in sheer terror, scared witless at the sight of her now, his confident bravado abandoned him at the sight of her glowing eyes. "What the hell are you?" he gasped as Cameron still stood threateningly over him. She was a damn machine. He'd thought they'd be safe but she'd gotten in right under their noses. To think he'd have fucked a robot!
"I won't ask you again," Cameron tried once more. "I'll kill you if you lie to me again."
"Okay... I'm not John Connor; my name is Chris McGinty. I am... was... a soldier." "Where's John, Chris McGinty?" Cameron asked.
"I don't know," he blurted out, knowing he sounded desperate and pathetic, but not caring one iota as long as this monstrosity in the shape of a girl didn't kill him. "I honestly don't know." He dare not mention that he murdered a lieutenant named Connor, on the off chance that he was the same man she was looking for.
"Last I heard he was in Cheyenne Mountain. That's all I know; I swear to God."
"Why did you bring us here?" Cameron asked. "You said you knew how to fight Skynet. What's your plan?"
"Pretty much what you've seen already, we bring people here. Skynet's done in this area. While Skynet's busy with the rest of mankind we wait here. That's what the women are here for: they have kids, the kids grow into soldiers; twenty years' time we'll have an army to take on Skynet." It had been an ingenious plan, in his opinion. Skynet would busy itself with extermination, never knowing that an army was slowly growing underground. He'd planned to expand his forces into neighbouring cities and towns, amalgamating the useful survivors into his forces.
"That's not what you're doing," Cameron said blankly. That might have been his original intention, but she'd seen people like him in the future; warlords who separated themselves from John Connor's Resistance, only interested in ruling their own territory. Most of them had been located and destroyed by Skynet. Cameron had never understood why they wanted to remain separate; they'd stand a better chance at survival if they'd cooperated with the Resistance. She still didn't fully understand humans; they were unpredictable, they did stupid things.
"You're not fighting Skynet," Cameron accused.
"Wanna bet?" McGinty made a dash for a pistol by his makeshift bed, intent on putting a bullet through whatever the hell she had for a brain. He didn't get far; Cameron shot her hand out with reflexes a preying mantis would have envied, snatched him by the throat once more and started choking the life out of him.
Chris McGinty was a threat; not to her but to John. Not only had he led her away from where John might really be, but his operation was a threat; he was using John's name for personal power. People would turn to him instead of her John. John's reputation would be damaged; people would doubt him, they wouldn't trust him. Chris McGinty would undermine John's Resistance. He was a threat she wouldn't tolerate.
She watched as his eyes bulged in their sockets and he turned red, then blue, as she starved him of oxygen. He clawed helplessly at her hands and tried to loosen her grip, beating at her wrists futilely and struggling like a fly caught in the spider's web. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees, but still Cameron was unrelenting. She felt the life starting to slip away from him as his pulse slowed and his blood pressure dropped. He'd be dead in seconds, and another threat to John would be gone. Then she'd find Courtney and they'd continue on their search...
Courtney: Bates had led her away, just like the other men had with their women, like she'd been led to McGinty. She threw him to the floor and spun on her heel, opened the door and stepped out. She heard a laboured, shallow, desperate breath emanate from him. He wasn't dead, not yet. She'd come back and kill him once she'd found Courtney.
Bates ushered a nervous Courtney into his room and closed the door behind him as he followed, then propped Cameron's SCAR-H and his own rifle against the wall and approached her. Courtney wanted out; her every instinct was to run and hide but Bates was between her and the only exit in the room.
"Sit," he said, grinning. "Make yourself comfortable." Courtney looked around the room and saw a double-sleeping bag on top of a pile of straw. She moved away from it and backed up as Bates approached her. She retreated until her back touched the rocky wall behind her and she had nowhere else to go.
Bates took her hand and pulled her back into the centre of the room, and moved behind her, placing his hands on her petite shoulders and leaning, resting his chin on the back of his left hand so his cheek nestled against the side of her face. Courtney tried to shrug him away and shuddered at Bates' bristly stubble rubbing on the side of her jaw; it was irritating as well as creepy. "You're very beautiful, Courtney."
"I really should go check on Cameron," Courtney shrugged as hard as she could and pulled out of his grasp. She wanted nothing more than to get away from this creep; she hadn't trusted him from the moment she'd laid eyes on him, but she'd trusted Cameron and followed her lead down here. Now she realised that was a big mistake; Cameron was so obsessed with finding John Connor that she'd either not noticed what was going on around her or just blatantly ignored it. Courtney didn't see how either was possible; anyone should have been able to tell what was going on, and if John Connor was behind this then he wasn't the kind of guy she wanted to be around; especially as he was taking advantage of Cameron's naivety.
"Cameron's fine," Bates said, moving to block the doorway before Courtney reached it. "She's with Connor."
"That's what worries me," she replied quietly. Bates took her hand once more and led her – using his superior size and strength - towards his sleeping bag, sitting her down on the ground and wrapping one of his arms around her shoulders.
"Just relax," he said, flicking the blonde bangs away from her face with his other hand. He cupped her chin and pulled her face towards him, quickly lowering himself towards her and pressing his lips against hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth. Courtney pulled back and snapped to her feet in knee-jerk terror, backing away from him and fighting the urge to vomit. Bates shot out his hand once again and pulled her back to him, she refused to sit back down and instead stood there, digging her heels in and pulling away from him.
"Get off me!" she shrieked at him, pulling back but helpless against his grasp. He was twice her size and much stronger than her; and with Cameron preoccupied with John, nobody was coming to help. Bates got up and backhanded her hard across the face, knocking her sprawling to the ground. She tasted blood as one of her teeth cut the inside of her mouth, and she spat it out onto the floor. She looked longingly at the door and tried to get up but Bates was on top of her in an instant, spinning her around onto her back and straddling her, pinning her to the ground.
"Please... just let me go," she sobbed as tears started to well up in her eyes.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, hmm?" Bates leaned down until his face was inches from hers and she could smell the beer and tobacco on his breath, making her stomach churn. "You spoilt little bitch; we brought you in here, we fed you, sheltered you, and you seriously think that all comes for free? Everything has a price."
He remained leaned over her and his hands wandered up her front, sliding under her shirt up her chest and she felt him grow hard against her stomach as he pressed against her. He leaned in once more but she brought her head up as fast and as hard as she could and smacked her forehead against Bates' face, blood gushed out from his mouth and nose and onto her face and he recoiled back, clutching his face in pain.
"Fucking bitch!" he roared out in anger as he drew back a ham-sized fist and punched her in the face with an audible smack. Courtney collapsed back onto the hard floor and starbursts appeared before her as she lay there in a daze. She was vaguely aware of Bates tearing her shirt and unbuckling her belt, but she couldn't summon herself to fight anymore. She closed her eyes and sobbed and cried, and just hoped it would be quick...
Cameron kicked the door open and stepped through, surveying the scene in front of her with a frown. She saw Bates knelt over Courtney, her shirt torn at the front and pink bra exposed underneath. Bates held her pinned down and was working on unbuckling her belt. Courtney was unresponsive, her eyes closed, and Cameron heard her sobbing quietly.
She processed what she saw in a millisecond; the sight of Bates knelt over Courtney brought a painful memory to the surface.
Cameron rounded the corner and marched past the two soldiers, ignoring their comments. Both Wright and Jackson, respectively, had made advances on her previously, and she had bluntly declined them. She felt uncomfortable around them, despite posing no threat to her or John.
Their eyes were slightly glazed over and Cameron deduced they were either fatigued or inebriated, or both. The pair of them sauntered up to her, grins on their faces. Wright moved up closer to Cameron, his face inches from her. She just stared blankly into his eyes, wondering what he was doing as he wrapped one arm around her and pulled her close to him. "So, Cameron, how about we get to know each other better? Anyone told you you're the prettiest one here?"
Cameron ignored his question; her attention was drawn to the man's rifle, which was loaded with the safety off. And now they were closer, Cameron detected alcohol on his breath. He was clearly drunk.
"Never mind this," Wright said, seeing Cameron staring at his rifle. "If you want to see a really big gun, just come see me." He grinned and grabbed his crotch for emphasis as his other hand went around Cameron's waist and down to fondle her backside.
"No, thank you. I'm not interested in small arms." John had taught her that one during their senior year in school after several of the football team jocks had come on to her in a similar manner. Cameron brushed his hand off her and tried to turn away towards the storage room, when Jackson blocked her path.
"Hey, hey, we're just getting to know each other. Don't go spoiling things."
"You're drunk. You should return your weapons to the armoury," Cameron said, hoping they'd leave her alone.
"I'll put my weapon somewhere," Wright said as he ground his crotch into her backside, placed a hand over her right breast and slid the other down towards her crotch. That was enough to overwhelm Cameron; not knowing how to handle unwanted attention like that, she froze. She'd watched enough TV to know what sexual advances were, and she knew that that was exactly what they were doing, and it upset her deeply. She only felt comfortable with John being in such close proximity and touching her in that manner. Not that he ever did, not like that. She replayed memories of the nights they'd made love, remembered the way he'd gently kissed and caressed her, how she'd lovingly returned the gesture.
John was with Jessica Morgan, she thought yet again as Wright started to slide a hand inside her underwear. John didn't want her, she was just a machine. So that's what she would be. She closed her eyes and resigned herself to whatever the two men were going to do to her, and she would feel nothing. She was just a machine...
Cameron advanced on Bates and grabbed him from behind, pulling her off of Courtney and dragging him backwards. Courtney felt Bates' weight disappear from atop her, lifted her head up and opened her eyes to see Bates struggling in Cameron's grip, helpless as an infant as she held his head in an unbreakable iron grip. It was impossible to tell from her face, but Courtney could see the barely contained rage in Cameron's eyes.
She sharply twisted his head around with an audible snap, breaking his neck like a twig with such force she nearly tore his head off. His body instantly became limp and she let him fall to the floor, stepping over him towards Courtney. Cameron held her hand out and pulled Courtney to her feet.
Courtney said nothing but launched herself at Cameron, wrapping her arms around her waist and burying her face into Cameron's shoulder. Sobs wracked her body and she shook all over in shock and cried loudly, her voice muffled by Cameron's T-shirt, becoming stained by Courtney's streaming tears.
Cameron thought she understood what Courtney felt, having gone through the same thing herself before being rescued by John. She stood rigid, unmoving, and let Courtney cry before slowly, awkwardly, closing her arms behind Courtney's back and pulling her into a hug like she'd done to comfort John when he needed it, or when she did.
They stood in place, unmoving, for a little over a minute before Cameron pulled back. "We have to go." More than that, she wanted to go; not only to search for John but simply to get away from this place. She'd lead Courtney out of the mine to safety and come back alone to kill Chris McGinty later. She picked up her SCAR-H, took the webbing and ammunition taken from her by Bates, fished in his pockets for the keys to the Topkick, and took Bate's rifle and his sidearm; slinging the former over her shoulder and stuffing the latter into the waistband of her cargo trousers.
Courtney still said nothing, traumatised and stunned into silence by her ordeal, and took the gun after she tightened her belt. Bates had managed to undo it and unbuckle her jeans but hadn't gotten as far as removing her trousers before Cameron had killed him. All she could think was that if Cameron had been just a minute later...
"Let's go," Cameron said, leading the way out of the room and cutting off her train of thought. She lead Courtney out into the empty tunnel and back towards the dining room where McGinty's men had all gorged themselves before. A few of the civilians hovered around, picking the few remaining scraps that they could. They stared at the two girls as they passed but remained silent. Their packs still rested against the wall and Cameron quickly slung hers over her shoulder. Courtney did the same without saying a word; she was as silent as when they'd first met and had stalked their way through the streets of Cactus Springs. Cameron knew it was shock; she wouldn't say anything for a while. She didn't need to speak, just to do as Cameron said.
They passed through the dining area and into the main chamber where all the other tunnel rats lived. Cameron recognised one woman as the mother with three they'd seen on the way in; she sat with her two older children whilst the baby was on her lap. The two older ones ate small platefuls of rice and vegetables and looked up at Cameron and Courtney strangely. Cameron knew what was going on in the mine now and thought it likely the mother had to give herself to the men to ensure her children were well fed. John had told her that Sarah had acted similarly in the past; becoming involved with men who could teach her how to fight, so she in turn could teach him.
"Where are you going?" the woman asked, standing up. "We're not allowed to leave; it's not safe out there."
"It's not safe here," Cameron replied. "You should go."
"I want to, believe me. This is no place to bring up kids, but it's that or the surface, waiting for the machines to come."
"I'd take my chances with the machines," Courtney muttered, still shaking slightly. She gazed out into space; a thousand-yard-stare, still in shock. Cameron thought it good that she'd said something; she wasn't completely catatonic.
"And go where?" The woman asked. "I know it's bad, but it's a small price to pay to keep my kids safe from the machines. Connor protects us."
"He doesn't protect you," Cameron said. She didn't like how people thought the fraud she'd left for dead in the other room was John; they were nothing alike and his deceit would harm John later. She felt the urge to protect his reputation as well as his life. "And he's not John Connor; he's a liar."
"How can you know that? He keeps us safe; he fights the machines," the woman argued as other civilians in the room approached and listened intently to the discussion. Cameron heard the hushed murmurs and conversations starting among the civilian population of the mine; her words sowing seeds of doubt among them.
"He doesn't," Cameron countered. "What's your name?" She asked.
"Kerry. You?"
"Cameron," she replied. She didn't think to introduce Courtney. "The man you call John Connor is called Chris McGinty."
"How'd you know all this?" Another woman asked.
"I know John Connor," Cameron answered. "That's not him," she pointed down the tunnel to where McGinty lay unconscious and battered.
"What difference does it make?" Kerry asked. "They won't let us leave; they'll kill us if we try."
"Kill him first," Cameron pulled out Bates' pistol and passed it grip-first to Kerry, who held it awkwardly in both hands, even more unfamiliar than Courtney had been when holding her rifle. She pulled the M4 carbine off her back and handed it to another tunnel rat.
She'd planned to put Courtney somewhere safe and then return to kill McGinty, but now she didn't have to. The guerrillas were all busy with the women from dinner; they could leave unnoticed and continue searching for John. Returning to kill McGinty, in her still-damaged condition, was a risk she didn't have to take; the civilians had already started to question 'John Connor' and there was a seventy percent chance that what she'd told Kerry would create open unrest in the tunnels within days.
She turned away from the crowding civilian women and led Courtney down the tunnel and towards the elevator. They rode it all the way up without a word passing between them as they reached the top and marched through the darkened tunnel up to the surface. Cameron neutralised the guards outside the entrance with a few well placed kicks to their faces and groins, collected their weapons, and led Courtney to the black Topkick they'd used to get to the mine.
Cameron sat behind the wheel and drove whilst Courtney took shotgun. They made their way over the rocky, uneven desert terrain, avoiding the dirt road they'd driven in on from Carson City. Cameron had no intention of returning there; she didn't know how many more of McGinty's men were still in the city; he could still have patrols out there and she'd prefer to not have to deal with them.
"That wasn't John?" Courtney finally spoke up after miles of sitting in silence as Cameron drove.
"That wasn't John," Cameron confirmed sadly. She'd wanted to find him, more than anything. She knew she'd become single-minded when she thought that she was close to finding John, and had ignored things she otherwise would have taken notice of. That wasn't like her, she knew. Not normally. Machines didn't make mistakes, but she had. What did that make her?
"Who was he, then?" Courtney asked, staring out the windscreen into the desert hills in the distance.
"A liar."
"You killed Bates when he tried to..." she couldn't even bring herself to say it, what he'd almost done had scarred her deeply; she'd tried to fight back but she couldn't; she was too weak, too useless. "Why?" Did she only come back to help her because she'd not found who she was looking for? If it had really been John Connor, the real one, would Cameron have just left her to Bates' mercy?
"It happened to me, once," Cameron could recall when Jackson and Wright had cornered her in an empty corridor and did the same to her, as vividly as when it had actually happened. She'd been confused and very upset by the ordeal, and the memory was still unpleasant, made no easier by the fact that she could remember it perfectly. "John saved me."
"Like you did me," Courtney nodded, understanding. She wasn't happy that Cameron had abandoned her to go looking for John, but she could tell Cameron was upset, and she'd come back to help her. She'd understood because it had happened to her, too.
Courtney leaned back in her seat and turned her head to the side, looking at Cameron through tear-filled eyes. "Thank you. For saving me, I mean." Cameron said nothing in reply but smiled slightly. Not many people said 'thank you' to her; it was nice to hear.
Cameron continued in silence as exhaustion and shock took their toll on Courtney and she drifted into an uneasy, fitful sleep, inevitably full of nightmares and things that would wake her in terror later on. Cameron had seen the same happen to John regularly. She glanced to the side at her blonde companion and saw her head was slumped against her shoulder; her neck would ache later if she remained in that position. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Cameron pushed Courtney's head gently until it was straight and leaning back against the headrest; a much better position.
Far off in the sky a single aircraft flew southwest towards California. Cameron stared at it intently as she drove and identified it as an Osprey troop transport. It had to be Skynet's; any human-piloted aircraft flying over Nevada now would have been shot down by Nellis' air defences. She also realised that if John was alive and free he'd have come for her; John didn't abandon the people he loved. If John was alive then he must have been captured by Skynet. In the future California had the highest concentration of machines in the United States; if Skynet was taking prisoners then that's where he would be. Now, like before, when Courtney had shown her the radio broadcast from Carson City, she had little else to go on. She just had to hope that this lead would prove better than the last.
Hope - she thought as she turned the Topkick west and drove through the desert towards California - was a human feeling, one she'd never experienced before. Machines didn't hope, but she'd heard saying once, that right now she thought fit her situation perfectly: sometimes hope was all you had.
Hope you all liked it; I managed to get this one done a lot faster than I thought. Anyway, do leave your thoughts and opinions. Also, pancakes for anyone who gets who "Chris McGinty" really is. Clue: it's actually two people.