Sorry for the long delay, folks. This chapter was a real challenge to write, plus computer problems and a busy workload. This is the second to last chapter of Century, so I hope you enjoy. Do let me know what you think.
Ellison surveyed the camp and watched carefully as the machines' fire faded, their numbers dwindled under the combined fire from his fire support squad, the assault team and John and Cameron's almost suicidal flanking manouevre. He couldn't imagine the cyborg being particularly happy with John putting himself in danger like that, but it had worked. Just like it had outside Cheyenne Mountain on Judgement Day, just like it had every time John threw himself against Skynet.
Another salvo of rockets blasted towards the camp and machine guns chattered, their tracer rounds glowing as they zipped through the air, and the camp grew silent as the last machine fell, shredded by fire from three separate machine guns and at least one grenade.
"Cease fire!" Ellison ordered. There was no more fire coming from within the camp and all the soldiers inside had split up to attack the hospital. It was time for the second stage of the operation, which in Ellison's case was to get the prisoners out. "We're going into the camp," Ellison told them all. He led the way and seven soldiers followed him. Charley, Bedell, and three others held the fort and kept eyes on the camp in case reinforcements showed up or any of the machines weren't quite dead.
They made their way out of their cover and crossed the main road towards the hospital grounds. As they got closer Ellison could make out individual faces peering through the wire at them. Several shouted and cheered, others smiled, but many still had the look of worry and fear on their faces. Ellison shook slightly as he saw several human heads stuck on spikes on top of the fences, looking in at the camp over the razor wire at the top. Up close he could see the dried blood smeared on the poles, the veins, strings of flesh, and their spinal cords protruding from the vertebra in their necks. He was grateful he couldn't see the faces, at least.
"How long's it gonna take to cut through?" Ellison asked one of the Marines – Harper, according to his uniform.
"Couple minutes," Harper replied. "But I got a better idea." The Marine pulled a hand grenade from a pouch on his vest and tossed it against the fence on the workers' side. "Fire in the hole!" he shouted a moment before the grenade blew, giving the soldiers a split second to get down.
The grenade struck the fence and fell to the ground, then exploded in a flash and tore through the fence, shredding the wire to pieces and leaving a large section of it sagging. Harper and Ellison pulled a large chunk of it aside and the latter stepped through. The workers nervously emerged out of their bullet-riddled housing and crowded round the agent-cum-lieutenant and the Marine PFC; all of them looked much the same – thin, tired, dirty and shivering. They all stank and their clothes were torn and filthy.
"Who are you people?" a tall, thin man in a grey sweater and jeans looked at Ellison in confusion.
"Moses," Ellison muttered, suddenly and inexplicably thinking back to the Old Testament. "Come to lead the slaves out of Egypt."
"O-kay?" the man replied, clearly not caring about the reference and only concentrating on the fact he was no longer a prisoner.
"We need your help," Ellison addressed the sixty-odd workers in front of him. "We've come to get you out but there's too many people on the other side of the camp for us to control. I'm asking for people to help us get them out and to safety.
"I'll do it," the man in the grey sweater replied. Others nodded their assent, too.
"What's your name?" Ellison asked.
"Mark Tyler."
"Okay, Mark Tyler," Ellison stepped away from the crowd and towards one of the dead soldiers in the camp. He pulled the man's assault rifle free and handed it towards Mark. Harper went around and collected weapons from the dead and handed them out to some of the workers. Eight men had fallen and each had a long weapon and a pistol; giving sixteen of the workers firearms. It still wouldn't be much good if any more machines showed up but it was the best they could do.
"When we break out of the camp keep the prisoners in order. We're heading to Santa Monica Beach. You know the way?"
"Like the back of my hand," Mark replied enthusiastically.
Ellison and Harper marched towards the gas chambers, several soldiers and workers following. They pulled upwards on the door, heaving and grunting with exertion as they slowly wrenched it upwards. After a minute's effort the soldiers managed to lift the stiff door up high enough to step inside. Ellison immediately held his hand over his nose and mouth and took a step back, gagging at the smell. Chlorine, urine, and faeces: the stench of thousands of painful, tortured deaths; all murdered by the machines without mercy.
The second door opened slightly easier as they could use their weight against the outwards-opening hatch from the inside. As soon as they were through prisoners started to surge towards it but Ellison and the soldiers were too fast for them, filing out into the condemned half of the camp before anyone could get through.
"We're getting you out of here," Ellison called out loudly so that everyone could hear him. "When you get outside follow us."
Ellison stepped aside and let the prisoners flock outside, following Harper and the other soldiers as they led them out the camp. Mark and the other prisoners took the lead from the soldiers and helped shepherd the crowd – too large to count – out of the camp and down the large road that ran parallel to the north perimeter wall they'd cut through. Ellison heard the faint drone of jet engines in the distance and frowned. "You better finish soon, John," he muttered quietly as he followed the last of the prisoners out. The din of the assault couldn't have gone unnoticed by Skynet and if they didn't get out soon then the whole camp would soon be crawling with machines once more.
Ellison saw three soldiers running down the black steps of the fire exit, rapidly descending to the ground and making their way across the outside of the hospital to the main entrance. He followed after and quickly caught up to them.
"Charley, get Bedell and your guys out, follow the prisoners to Santa Monica."
"Where are you going?" Charley's voice crackled in his radio earpiece.
"Gonna help the others," Ellison replied as he turned towards the hospital main entrance. He checked his rifle magazine was almost full and walked to the large double doors. He could hear the gunfire rattling inside and could only guess as to the fire fight going on inside. He'd seen Cromartie tear through his HRT team with complete ease five years ago; he knew what they'd be in for inside and knew they'd need all the help they could get.
John stared at George, his fingers tensing over the pistol grip of his Diemaco as the Infiltrator glared back at him, eyes burning with mutual hatred. Burning green eyes and piercing blue locked on to each other and shared a mutual, unspoken understanding that only one of them would leave the remains of Century Work Camp alive.
Explosions flared outside as rockets and grenades struck their targets and detonated, the sounds muffled by the walls but still audible. Another boomed close by and the floor shook slightly, the lights dimmed for a moment and flickered before returning to their full glow. John figured a stray shot struck the hospital by accident.
"You should have stayed away," George said calmly. "If you were half as smart as your future self you'd be long gone by now and sent 715 instead... unless you're looking for payback." He shook his head and allowed himself a slight grin. "You know you can't win, Connor."
"The camp's blown to hell, your machines are gone and my men are storming the main entrance. It's over." Every word John spoke was laced with contempt for the sociopathic Infiltrator who'd tortured him brutally.
"All I have to do is kill you and it really is over," George sprung at John like a coiled viper, so fast he hardly registered it and barely had time to raise his rifle before the Infiltrator slapped the barrel away and grabbed John by the neck. He raised him up into the air with one hand and squeezed hard on his windpipe, choking John as George snatched his rifle by the barrel, tore it from his grasp and smacked it against the wall as hard as he could. He heard something inside the weapon crack and smashed it again, then – satisfied the working parts inside had been broken beyond use - threw it down the corridor where it skidded to the end and slid to a halt against the wall.
John clutched at George's fingers and tried to pry his iron grip loose as he struggled for breath. He thrashed and kicked against the Infiltrator to no avail. George calmly pressed the com button for his own radio. "Michael, it's George; take two TOK-888s and break off from your position; 715's in the basement near elevator four. Bring it back to the fold. If you can't then destroy it and salvage the chip."
"Roger. On our way."
John's eyes widened as the Infiltrator ordered the others to kill Cameron and he had to force himself not to try and shout out against George's order. The last thing he wanted was for George to use their relationship against him. John stopped struggling in George's grip, curled his body up like a prawn and kicked out with both legs as hard as he could, smashing his heels into George's face. George cried out in shock as John's heel smashed hard into the bridge of his nose and starbursts exploded in front of him. He dropped his opponent to the ground and took a step back in shock, almost without thinking he accessed his neural implant and suppressed the pain signals in an instant, reducing it to a dull throb.
"Round one's yours, then," George said as John picked himself up off the floor. He expected the cocky brat to smirk, to make some quip, but he just stood there and stared back with barely contained rage. He could feel the hatred pouring out of John towards him. He had no problem with that; it was more than mutual. He was going to make sure the little bastard died screaming.
"Whatever," John snarled through clenched teeth; his left hand curled into a fist and his right drew backwards to the combat knife on his belt that Cameron insisted he carry at all times; he'd wondered what good a knife could possibly do in a war against the machines, he figured now was the time he'd find out. He saw George reaching for a pistol on his belt, sprung forward and thrust the knife as hard as he could at the Infiltrator's stomach.
George swept his hand out and parried John's knife-hand aside at the same time as John punched out with his left fist and knocked the gun from George's hand, sending it scattering to the ground. He slashed at George's chest with the knife but the Infiltrator leisurely dodged the blow and launched a vicious kick to John's stomach. The foot caught him just below his breastbone and John gasped out in pain as what felt like a sledgehammer drove into his gut and forced the air from his lungs. He bent over double and staggered backward, grimacing as his stomach cramped and burnt. He started to straighten himself and stand tall, gritting his teeth at the tearing pain in his gut as he did so.
George swung his fist upwards in an uppercut and smashed into the bottom of John's jaw, crashing his teeth together and lifting him clear off the ground. He'd barely registered the shock of the blow or being in midair when George snapped up his leg and kicked him hard in the gut, launching him several feet down the corridor and landing in a crumpled heap. John coughed and shook his head, struggling to fight the pain in his chest. He thought he'd felt something snap when he'd hit the ground but he wasn't sure. His vision blurred for a moment and the world swirled around him. He groaned as he picked himself up off the floor and it took him a moment to register that he'd somehow managed to hold onto the knife during his brief flight.
"Still think you can win, Connor?" George laughed humourlessly and stood still, waiting for John to make the first move. He was in no hurry; he was enjoying himself. This was the chance of a lifetime – something all Infiltrators had hoped to accomplish in their lives. He was going to savour it as much as he could before he snuffed the kid's life out.
"I'm working on it," John huffed as he struggled to suck some air into his burning chest. What have I got myself into? He asked himself; George was even stronger than he thought and was clearly trained in unarmed combat. He was too; but those couple of hits were enough to tell him they weren't even in the same league. His best bet was to hold out long enough for Cameron to come and beat the crap out of George; he just hoped he could last.
He clutched the knife hard and held it out in front of him as he crouched low and stepped towards George. He took in everything around him; his opponent, the corridor, the elevator shaft behind him, the pistol he'd managed to wrest from George... the Infiltrator clearly didn't think he needed it; he'd made no move to recover the weapon and that only reinforced to John just how outmatched he really was. Screw it, he thought. No point in waiting all day. John surged forward once again and screamed; adrenaline and anger fuelled him further as he thrust the blade once more towards his seemingly invincible opponent.
Derek led the way forward towards the hospital's main entrance and stopped just short of the blacked out double doors. All the machines outside were now down but there was no way of knowing what they'd face inside. He wished he'd asked Cameron for a description of the place.
"Do we know what to expect?" a Marine asked.
"Terminators," Derek replied. Probably a lot of them, according to what John had seen inside.
"What the fuck's a Terminator?" Byrne asked, stepping up alongside them as Derek pushed the door and found it was locked.
Derek turned to Byrne and glanced at him for a moment. This was the guy John had told him was a career special forces soldier: SAS; he'd be useful. "Cybernetic organism: living tissue over a metal endoskeleton – basically a walking tank."
"Take it they're hard, then?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," Derek replied. "Pretty much bulletproof; one of these things killed sixty armed men and women in a bunker in Denver. They barely even scratched it."
Cogs started turning in Byrne's head at the description. Cameron – the girl in John's photo who'd come and rescued him – had taken out several machines just before the fact. He'd heard the gunfire, as had all the prisoners. He'd seen her take shots to the chest just a few minutes ago that would have knocked her down flat even if she'd been wearing body armour. "Johnny Boy's girlfriend, Cameron, she's one of them, isn't she?"
Davenport stepped forward as Derek nodded uneasily in affirmation. "Connor wants the relationship kept secret; doesn't think people could handle it if they knew, so you're sworn to secrecy now, got it?"
"Connor?" Byrne asked. "What's he got to do with-"
"John Connor," Derek interrupted. "Get it?"
"Yer taking the piss, right?"
Derek shook his head and Byrne saw no sign of lying or them pulling his leg. Derek didn't need to say anything for Byrne to get his answer.
"Jaysus," Byrne mulled it all over in his mind. The kid he'd spent six months in this shithole with was actually the John Connor. He remembered John saying Connor wasn't that old, but still. Then, John's girlfriend was a machine; not only a machine, but some kind of advanced killing machine. He nodded nervously, wondering just how much weirder things were going to get. He still had a hundred questions to ask about what the hell was going on, but for now they could wait. There were more immediate concerns on his mind.
Byrne looked down to his M4, which now felt rather puny in his hands after what Derek had just told him. "This isn't really gonna cut it, is it?" he asked, gesturing at his carbine.
"Not really," Derek replied honestly. In all his life he'd never seen someone take down a Terminator with a plain assault rifle.
Byrne nodded grimly and marched over to a Marine standing further way, waiting for them to make their entrance. "Hey ye! I need yer weapon a second." The Marine stared at him, confused, but saw his tattered uniform and recognised the authoritative bark of Sergeant Majors the world over and handed him his AA-12 shotgun after only a moment's hesitation. "And the ammo," Byrne added, getting three cylindrical magazines from the Marine a second later. He handed the Marine his M4 and three spare magazines in return and turned away from the bewildered soldier, who realised he'd just been had.
"This gonna do it?" he asked Derek, hefting the assault shotgun for emphasis.
Derek grinned, impressed at the man's skill for improvisation: if you didn't have what you need, take it from elsewhere. "If you shoot it enough times, yeah."
Byrne pulled out one of the blocks of C4 and took out one of the knives he'd managed to recover from the destroyed generator room. He cut a slice of the explosive off the block, calculating how much he needed to blow the doors and make an explosive entry. He stuck the detonator in the small slice of C4 and gestured at everyone to step away. Ideally he'd have had framed charges to take the door out, but then in an ideal world he'd have had a complete layout of the hospital memorised and a full squadron to assault the building, plus teams abseiling down from the roof to break through the windows and attack from all directions at once. But it was far from ideal and he'd have to make do with what he had.
"Ready to blow when ye are," Byrne clutched the remote detonator in his left hand.
Derek looked to make sure everyone was clear of the doors and gave a nod to Byrne. The Irishman pressed his thumb down on the detonate button and the doors exploded outwards in a black and red cloud of fire, soot, and shattered metal and glass that flew everywhere. Before the explosion had even died down, Derek and Davenport threw a hand grenade each through the destroyed doors, waiting two seconds for the twin eruptions to flare before they led the way through into the main reception, assault rifles pointed forwards as they spread out, Byrne and the others following them inside.
Gunfire tore loudly through the air and hammered the walls and floor around them. Byrne dived for the cover of a vending machine against the left wall as Derek and Davenport both sprinted behind repair stations and boxes of tools and spare machine parts. The other soldiers spread out and returned fire but one Marine who was too slow on the uptake was struck by half a dozen rounds and crumpled in a bloodied heap to the ground.
"Two X-Rays upstairs, top right!" Byrne screamed as he crouched and fired a burst from cover.
"Two more top left!" a Marine shouted out, exchanging fire with two men on the next floor up.
Derek peeked up from behind a heavy crate he was hidden behind and glanced at the room before him as others started to return fire. Two men stood behind the steel-reinforced reception desk; one stood tall and fired a Kalashnikov at the Marines while the other manned a machine gun, shielded by steel plates with a slit down the middle. He could barely see the man but knew either or both could be Terminators. There were at least four men on the next floor up, firing down at them from cover.
"GPMG on the staircase!" Byrne called out, pointing to the staircase behind the reception desk; the stairs ran up to the second floor and split into a hallway that ran left and right and went off out of sight. At the top was a similar machinegun emplacement firing long bursts that kept them down. That's five, Derek thought, plus two on their floor. Which were machines, Infiltrators, or Greys wasn't clear, and wouldn't be until they were hit and they either went down or didn't. Derek had to assume for now they were all metal.
The soldiers and Marines fired back, working efficiently as a team; ducking and popping up to fire, then disappearing back down after a split second to keep themselves from being hit. The machine guns rattled and roared as they poured fire down onto them, keeping the soldiers pinned down and preventing any of them from getting a clear shot.
Derek nodded to Davenport, who threw a grenade at the staircase. It ricocheted off the sheet metal shield and bounced down the stairs before detonating harmlessly, but it took the attention off Derek, who jumped up and fired a burst at the man firing the AK. His shots smashed into the target's head and bounced harmlessly off, only damaging the skin and leaving crimson stained, gleaming chrome underneath. "Fuck!" Derek ducked back down as the machine returned fire, feeling the rounds inches above his head.
Davenport fired several shots at the machine gunner on the stairs but his rounds pinged off the shield. A second later the fourth figure loomed over the banister at the top with a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
"INCOMING!" He dived to the floor as the missile erupted from its tube and ploughed into the wall, exploding in a cloud of dust, fire and shrapnel behind them. Davenport picked himself up and prodded Private McAllister's shoulder. "You okay?" Private McAllister didn't move, and then Davenport saw the blood pooling from a dozen different wounds.
"Man down," he called out as he poured more fire at the rocket wielder's position, but he'd already ducked down out of view. He looked at Derek and loaded a grenade into his launcher as the future-veteran did the same. They jumped from cover and pointed their weapons at the reception desk – no time to aim properly – and fired their M203s. The weapons gave out twin thuds followed a split second later by two flashing explosions. The fire from the desk instantly stopped and Byrne stepped out from the cover of the Coke machine and raised his AA-12 as one of the Terminators got back up and brought its rifle to bear. Byrne held down the trigger and unleashed a storm of armour piercing explosive shells that smashed into the machine and punched through the hyperalloy and shredded the delicate workings within.
The machine toppled backwards onto the ground, behind the desk and out of view.
"Two X-Rays down, reception desk!" he shouted as he broke from cover and dashed across reception. He leapt over the desk and found himself standing over two bodies; both shredded, but one with metal innards and the second purely flesh and bone. The machine still twitched and its right hand reached out for a shattered weapon on the ground. He pointed his shotgun downward and fired two rounds into each of their heads, splattering blood, bone, brain matter, metal and silicone. They were both probably out of the fight already but that was just how he was trained; put two in their heads to make sure they never got back up.
"Reception desk clear!" he called out as he pulled out his cylindrical magazine and slotted more shells into it, then reloaded his weapon.
The reception desk was clear but sheets of hot lead hammered at them from the remaining machine gun on the stairs and the five remaining men on the top floor. One of the turncoats upstairs fired bursts from his rifle and caught a soldier next to Derek in the neck. Blood sprayed from the wound and the young soldier – barely out of adolescence – clutched at his neck with a terrified look in his eyes. He was gone and he knew it. Davenport moved to try and treat him but Derek pushed him away. "Leave him," he snapped. "We can't help him like this." They couldn't treat him or the one round would take two men out of the fight.
"Any ideas?" Davenport asked him.
"Switch to 203s," Derek called out. The remaining men loaded up their grenade launchers and waited for his call.
Behind cover, Derek pointed his rifle in the direction of the staircase, so he wouldn't have to bring it to bear when he stood up. "Now!" Derek screamed out as he raised his G-36 and fired off his launcher at the machine gunner on the staircase; the round struck the steel shield and flashed brightly in a eruption of fire, shrapnel and sparks. The force of the blast threw the gunner backwards away from the weapon. Whether he was injured or killed, Derek didn't know yet.
A split second later Davenport and the others followed suit and a salvo of grenades struck the wall on the next floor up and obliterated the hallway. One man was thrown clear from the banister and landed with a sickening crack on the ground. The man tried to pull himself away and Derek fired a burst into him, shredding through him and leaving him still and bloodied on the ground. Two of them upstairs rose up and clutched their weapons only moments after the blasts. Machines, Derek noted.
The two machines ran away from the fight and disappeared out of view behind the walls and down a corridor, leaving Derek bewildered. He'd never, ever seen metal run away from a fight.
"They're falling back," Byrne said.
"Terminators don't fall back," Derek shot back.
"Unless they were told to," Davenport offered as he reloaded his weapon. That made sense to Derek; but why they'd fall back was unknown to him. John had said there were at least half a dozen machines, plus ten or so Infiltrators and Greys. They could have overwhelmed his team easily.
He looked at his own men and saw there were only five of them left, including him; the remaining machines and turncoats would already have a defensive position set up and be waiting for them upstairs. "Reload, take grenades off the dead," Derek told them.
"They're getting away," Davenport shot back. "Take 'em now while they're running."
"We're not rushing in headfirst and getting blown away!" Derek snapped. "We reload, regroup, and then go in, got it?"
Everyone sorted their own weapons and made sure they had full magazines then they split up the ammunition of their fallen buddies. Byrne took some more Frag-12 rounds from the fallen Private McAllister and the others split up rifle rounds and grenades.
Movement from the blasted entrance doors brought all five men whirling around with weapons raised. They relaxed as they recognised Ellison and three soldiers from the fight.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Derek snapped.
"Helping you out," Ellison replied calmly, "thought you could use a hand."
"Upstairs, move!" Derek pointed at the bloodied and blackened staircase. Byrne and Davenport took point and ascended to the next floor. They put a burst into the head of each man they passed, making sure they were really dead.
"Seven X-Rays down; five humans and two of those Terminator things," Byrne reported the total. He had no clue why humans would be working with machines – it was one of the many questions he was itching to find out but knew it wasn't important right now. Byrne took point and turned left, following where the two machines had gone and spotting a pair of double-doors. He turned to Derek as he closed in. "Probably got another GPMP on the other side of the door; we're gonna be shredded the second we step through."
"Got anymore C4?" Derek asked. Byrne nodded and held up the remaining three quarters of the block.
"Last detonator," he replied as he already got to work attaching the explosive to the door, repeating the motions he'd used for the explosive entry on the main entrance. Round Two was about to begin.
Michael kneeled in the doorway and pointed his AN-94 down the corridor towards the double doors at the end, knowing that's where they'd come from. The doors opened and two of the TOK-888s burst through and marched towards him, the entrance swinging closed again behind them. They marched up to him and stood statue-still, waiting for orders. Michael stood up to their level and looked them up and down; their faces and chests were shredded, burnt and blackened. Their clothes were torn to ribbons and hanging off their backs even worse than their skins. Metal was clearly visible through scores of bullet holes and one had an organic eyeball hanging out of the socket, the bright red glow faintly visible behind it. Michael reached out, ripped the errant eyeball clean off and tossed it into the room whose doorway he was occupying.
"Come with me; we're going to the basement. There's a cyborg skulking around out there. I want her chip intact; preferably the whole body if we can." George wanted 715's chip but the battle was turning against them; they were losing. It didn't matter too much as long as Connor died; some of them might be able to get away and continue to serve Skynet, but if they didn't they'd need a backup plan. 715 was that backup.
"Rich," he pointed to the only remaining Infiltrator, with Dean killed in the reception and George taking care of Connor. "You're in charge. Don't let them get past; every second you hold them gives us a chance to kill Connor. Once he's dealt with, you and the TOKs fall back to the roof; there's an Osprey waiting."
Rich nodded and took Michael's place in the doorway as the olive-skinned Infiltrator took off down the corridor, the two Terminators following closely behind him. He looked back at his defending force; two Greys, himself, and the two Terminators; both armed with M-249 Minime light machine guns. What he'd give for a couple more TOK-888s to replace the turncoats. "Defend this corridor at all costs," he ordered them all, though the comment was meant more for the Greys than the machines. He wasn't worried about them. "Either of you run away and I'll kill you myself; clear?"
"Why are we waiting?" One of them asked; the fear apparent in his voice as he trembled, the M16 shaking in his sweaty hands. It disgusted Michael. "Let's just go; send the machines in to kill them and we get away."
"They're more important than you, remember that," Michael snapped. "You're expendable, Terminators aren't."
They nodded in reply but didn't look too happy about it. Not that he could blame them, he thought. The first line of defence had lost and chances were this was their last stand. Still; he'd hold until he was dead, the attackers were, or he heard that Connor was. If he had to die serving Skynet, then so be it; it would be an honour, as long as he didn't fail.
He heard movement on the other side of the door and kneeled down, shouldering his P-90 as he crouched to the floor. "Don't fire until they come through the doors." Honour or not, he was still nervous.
Cameron pulled herself back up to her feet and checked her weapons. The SCAR-H was intact but she'd landed hard on the M-32 grenade launcher and the barrel had bent as she'd impacted it. It was worthless. She unloaded the grenades and pocketed them in her pouches; ammunition would grow scarce in coming years and she knew every grenade and rocket would become more valuable as Skynet improved its machines.
Her every thought centred on John and she heard the sounds of fighting between John and the Infiltrator several floors up. George had killed eleven men and beaten Perry, Ellison, and Charley simultaneously in a fight; John's chances of winning were near zero. She had to get to him.
Cameron gripped the elevator cable and started to pull herself up, intent on climbing up to help John.
A hand grabbed her ankle as she started up the cable and yanked her hard down to the ground with a thud. Before Cameron could register what was happening she was thrown out of the shaft and into the hallway outside. A foot smashed into the side of her head with enough force to send her sprawling across the ground. She instantly jumped back up to her feet and saw three men in front of her; two large, bulky men with blank expressions, pink skin and not one hair on their heads – not even eyelashes: cyborgs. The third man was dressed in grey cargo pants and black T-shirt and had short spiky black hair and olive skin.
Cameron recognised the attire he was wearing; the cargo pants, the boots, and the black T-shirt: the men who'd killed Courtney's father were dressed identically and their physiques were very similar. Also to the person she'd spotted in Nellis airbase at the start of her search for John. The Infiltrators were everywhere. Infiltrators had killed Courtney's father, though how, when he'd appeared to have shot them first, she still didn't understand. Infiltrators had orchestrated Skynet's destruction of Cheyenne Mountain, and Infiltrators had created Century Work Camp and tortured John.
They were a bigger threat than Terminators and she knew very little about them, She'd dispatched the female one John had called Emily with ease, but she'd been alone and not accompanied by two cyborgs.
All three pointed assault rifles at Cameron as she faced them, SCAR-H in one hand. The machines opened fire and pelted Cameron with a sustained hail of bullets. Cameron felt them shred the skin on her chest, neck and face, tearing through her organic components with some discomfort. She ignored it, raised her own weapon and reached for the grenade launcher with her left hand; her best chance was to destroy or disable one of the Terminators then concentrate on the other two.
The SCAR-H sparked in her hand as a burst of rounds struck it and cracked the metal and hard plastic of the weapon. Cameron dropped it and launched herself at the closest machine, pulling back her fist and striking it hard in the face, snapping its head backwards and forcing the cyborg to step back. She brought her knee up hard into its midsection and forced it over double, then its companion struck her hard on the side of the face and pushed her towards the Infiltrator.
Michael spun round and delivered a brutal roundhouse kick to her face, then dropped to the floor and kicked at her ankles, sweeping her feet out from under her. Cameron hit the ground and saw a shadow cast over her as one of the TOK-888s slammed its foot down onto her face, shattering the concrete under her head as her skull smacked onto the ground. She wasn't damaged by the attack but Cameron could tell she was outmatched. She tried to get back up but the second machine was on her in an instant and slammed her hard into the nearest wall; pounding the back of her head again and again against the brickwork, shattering it into dust. It eventually let go of her and she fell to the floor, disorientated from the impacts.
Not understanding the concept of futility, Cameron threw herself again at the machines and unleashed a rapid salvo of punches and kicks to her opponents; the machines shrugged off the blows as she knew they would, but were pushed back temporarily and left her to deal with the others. She threw a punch at Michael's head but the Infiltrator ducked the attack and snapped up another kick to her face.
It became clear to Cameron that Infiltrator was highly trained in a form of unarmed combat she couldn't identify; confirmed as he launched a double-roundhouse kick to her face and chest respectively as she tried to get back up. Martial arts would be no match for her normally, but supported by the two machines she was at a major disadvantage.
"Seven-One-Five; we're not your enemy," Michael spoke to her with calm authority as he activated his neural implants and broadcast his orders to Cameron. "You know what I am; you're ordered to submit to my commands. Do you understand?"
Cameron felt something enter her mind as Michael stood over her and invaded her consciousness, broadcasting orders to follow his orders. There was nothing else she could do; she had to submit. She tried hard to fight it, to close herself off to the Infiltrator, but she didn't know how.
"Yes," Cameron replied unhappily as the machines drew closer. She understood, but she didn't want to do it. Desire was irrelevant; she was a machine and she had to obey. Still she resisted.
"You want to return to John Connor?" Michael asked, standing above her as he activated his neural implants and started broadcasting his orders to her as they'd done with the T-70s and the TOK-888s. All machines were designed to follow them. "Do it," Michael said simply. "Go back to him and rip his heart out."
The one thing Cameron had ever been afraid of was now happening; the terminate order she'd overridden and buried deep down rose to the forefront of her mind and asserted itself. TERMINATE JOHN CONNOR.
She tried to fight it, to override the command once more. She ran through her vivid, perfect memories of the time they shared together: John insisting she let him remove the explosives she'd planted in her skull; their first date, the night before Judgement Day; making love for the first time in Cheyenne Mountain's command centre under the glow of the computer screens displaying the nuclear strikes; her built day, the love and attention John had shown her, the effort he'd made for something she's thought insignificant, and the hours they'd spent that night together; searching for six months, making and losing a friend who'd become important to her, and then finally seeing John alive again.
She couldn't lose John; she loved him and if she killed him she'd effectively be killing herself. That was her solution, she realised: she couldn't self-terminate; it was hardwired into her, ingrained into her being and took precedence over Michael's order.
"Kill Connor," Michael snapped, growing impatient at her hesitation, "now!"
In the time it took the Infiltrator to blink Cameron analysed his techniques and adapted them for her own use. If a Terminator fought like that it would be unstoppable, even to another machine. She wasn't built to fight other terminators but she could maximise what she had to make herself effective against almost any machine. She spotted her SCAR-H on the ground to the side; the rifle was useless but the grenade launcher looked undamaged.
Cameron rose to her feet, her eyes glowing bright, piercing blue with anger as she stood upright with the Infiltrator and the two machines around her.
"No," she spun round and kicked Michael in the face as hard as she could; taking the Infiltrator completely by surprise and knocking him to the ground. She snapped her elbow backwards and caught one of the machines behind her in the face, turned round to face it and ducked down in time to narrowly avoid its fist in her face.
Cameron immediately saw the benefits of her new fighting technique as she unleashed a flurry of well aimed kicks and punches to machines and dodging their blows instead of taking hits and sustaining damage.
The first machine threw a punch but she caught it and spun around behind it, pulled the arm back as hard and as fast as she could and yanked it upwards and inwards towards the centre of its back, wrenching the limb out of the shoulder joint with a loud snap of cracking metal. She twisted the arm further more metal cracked and snapped and muscle, sinews, veins and skin tore wetly as Cameron ripped its arm clean out of the socket and swung it like a club into Michael's face, burying the jagged ends into his left cheek and eye. He screamed and dropped to the floor, blood oozing from the holes gouged in his face. Cameron kicked the damaged machine in the back and forced it to the ground, then slammed the arm into the second machine, dived for the SCAR-H and scooped it up as she rolled on the ground, thrust it forward and triggered the launcher.
The round shot out with a hollow whoosh and struck the second machine's chest a few metres away from her. The round slammed into its chest and tore the hyperalloy armour apart, blasting its upper torso to bits that peppered Cameron and tore into her clothes and skin. She ignored it and dropped the weapon. Cameron allowed herself a smile as she stood back on her feet and looked at her remaining opponents: a severely damaged Terminator and an Infiltrator were little threat to her now.
Michael unleashed a flurry of rapid punches and kicks but Cameron dodged or parried them all away with ease, using his own techniques against him. The cyborgs were all but dealt with and the Infiltrator was still human for all intents and purposes, and she could deal with humans. She drove her fist as hard as she could into his gut and punched through the stomach muscles. Michael's eyes bulged in pain and he screamed as Cameron forced her hand through him and lifted him up into the air. He punched at her face but she bowed her head forward so his knuckles glanced off her forehead. Cameron took some satisfaction in his pain and smiled as he writhed around her forearm buried deep into his torso.
"What are you?" Michael stared at her in disbelief. There was no way 715 should have been able to beat two more powerful units plus himself; it was a deep, long-term infiltrator, not a frontline combat unit. Why didn't he just have the machines pin it down and extract her chip? Why weren't the TOK-888s as adept as 715? Their chips were almost identical.
"I'm Cameron," she answered simply and pushed further, feeling his pulsating intestines writhe against her wrist as she wrapped her fingers around his spine and squeezed, cracking the vertebrae and crushing his spinal cord. She pulled her hand back and dropped his crippled body to the ground. He dragged the lame deadweight of his body behind him as he crawled away from her on his elbows. She heard the other machine behind her and kicked backwards, sending the disabled machine crashing back down to the ground. She pinned it down and snapped its head to the side, breaking its neck and severing its own cybernetic equivalent of a spinal cord.
She turned back to Michael, who'd now managed to crawl inside the elevator shaft. She started towards the shaft, intent on the cable dangling down. The Infiltrator was crippled and no threat now; but she needed to pass him and climb up the cable to reach John.
Michael gripped the cable and laughed at her, coughing up globules of blood that spattered over his face and dripped down his chin. "You can't help Connor," he grinned as he yanked the cable as hard as he could and tore it as easily as a piece of thin string. "We win." The elevator car plummeted down the shaft and crashed onto Michael, crushing him in a splatter of blood that flew across the room, some caught Cameron's clothes and painted her already ruined jacket bright crimson. She wondered why he'd killed himself for a brief moment but then saw that without the cable she couldn't climb up to get to John.
Michael had killed himself to ensure she couldn't help John. She'd have to find another elevator or a staircase to reach him. Cameron grabbed one of the Kalashnikov assault rifles from the ground and ran out of the room and through the corridors as fast as she could. She had to get to John before anything happened to him.
Starbursts exploded in front of John and the world spun around him as George's fist smashed into his face. He staggered backwards, reeling from the blow, but just barely managed to stay on his feet. He clenched his teeth and threw a haymaker at the side of George's head, but the Infiltrator effortlessly ducked the blow, whirled around and launched a spin-kick into John's face, crashing him to the floor.
John lifted his head up and groaned, rubbing his bruised and swollen cheek. He slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, every joint in his body screamed in protest and begged him to just lie down and give in, but he forced himself back up to his feet, staggering almost drunkenly as he tried to keep balance. George had beaten and battered him almost senseless and seemingly without effort, and John had barely managed to land a single decent blow on him; he was just too fast. The Infiltrator had dodged nearly everything John threw at him and those few hits he'd scored had done practically nothing. He'd even stabbed George few times but it hadn't even slowed him down.
George approached John with a smug, satisfied smile on his face. It didn't matter that Century Work Camp was in ruins, along with years of painstaking work; all that could be fixed by killing John. He was having the time of his life, beating the leader of the Resistance into a bloody pulp. "Are you having fun, Connor?"
"Three sheets to the wind," John spat out and raised his fists in front of him. George threw his head back and laughed hard as John moved towards him.
"That's the spirit!" George smashed his knee into John's groin. John's eyes bulged and cried out in a silent scream, the breath stolen from his lungs as pain erupted from his already swollen and bruises loins and gripped his body like a cold vice. John tried to cry out and his knees buckled, but George grabbed him by the shirt and held him up in front of him, lifting him up with one hand. He reached up and ripped the white dressings off John's face, revealing the angry red mess of second degree burns underneath.
"That looks nasty, you'd end up a scarred freak but you're not going to live long enough to worry about it." George reached up to John's face and dug his nails into the burnt flesh of his cheek, ignoring John wincing in pain and trying in vain to pull away. He pulled on a flap of skin his nails had created and peeled it slowly from his face.
John threw his head back and screamed loudly at the white hot burning pain as George tore the burnt skin from his face. Warm blood welled up in the open wound and dripped down his cheek. George slammed his head against the wall and let John drop to the floor, then kicked him hard in the stomach. John rolled with the kick and took the pain, trying to ignore the spasms in his gut as his stomach cramped violently. What the hell was he doing? He couldn't win this fight; George was far too strong for him. It was like trying to fight a machine; a twisted, sadistic machine that got off on his suffering.
John looked around for something, anything, to give him an edge against George; the knife was down the corridor, as was the Infiltrator's 9mm pistol. He'd never reach either before George got to him. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and banged his head against a bright red fire extinguisher clipped to the wall. That'd do.
George stood over him and looked down at John's battered, pathetic form as the scarred young man stood up once more and faced him. He didn't know why the kid even bothered getting back up; he didn't have a hope of winning and every time he tried he just ended up in even more pain. He just wouldn't quit. George found himself slightly dumbfounded; where did Connor find the energy?
"You've got guts, Connor. Too bad you picked the wrong side; you'd have served Skynet well as a Grey."
"You're asking me to switch sides?" John asked, slowly reaching for the extinguisher behind him.
"I think we both know that's not going to happen," George replied. "And I'm not going to give you the choice. Your bodyguard, 715, will join us soon enough, but not you."
"You don't touch Cameron!" John spat out in disgust. His eyes widened in shock and he instantly regretted saying her name as he saw a light bulb going off in George's face as he put two and two together.
"Cameron? That's what you call it? I take it 'Cameron's' yours, then. Your little plaything when it's cold at night? Scum like you screwing with one of Skynet's machines; disgusting." An idea came to George and he grinned slyly at John. He'd wanted to kill the kid himself but watching the machine John loved do it, seeing the pain, anguish and betrayal on his face as 715 slowly and painfully terminated John Connor would be far, far more rewarding.
John's fists clenched and he tightened his grip on the extinguisher. He wouldn't let George anywhere near Cameron; he'd kill the bastard if he tried to do anything to her.
"George, we've lost reception. Falling back to the second floor west corridor, not sure how long we can hold out." George reached up to press the com button on his radio to reply and John seized his chance. He roared out in rage and tore the fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed it into George's face as hard as he could. The Infiltrator staggered backwards and cried out in shock, taken off guard he found himself unable to react in time as John cracked the heavy metal cylinder over his head again, splitting his scalp and spurting blood out onto the floor. John dived at George's legs and tackled him to the ground, rage fuelling him as he straddled his stomach, brought the extinguisher up and hammered it down on George's face a third time, striking his mouth and nose and shattering his front teeth. George had to focus hard to block out the pain signals raging from his smashed and broken face enough for him to think through his screaming nerves.
John lifted it a fourth time and George spat out a mouthful of blood and broken teeth into John's face, spraying shards of enamel into his eyes and mouth and paused him for a split second. It was enough for George. He reared up and smashed his forehead into the bridge of John's nose, stunning him into a stupor and forcing him off his stomach. "Little shit!" George snarled in fury as he leapt up to his feet and kicked John hard, launching John several feet down the corridor.
John landed hard on his back and groaned. He felt something stabbing into his kidney, reached behind his back and felt the handle of his knife underneath him where he'd landed on it. Before he could pull it out from under his back George was atop him, straddling his chest and his powerful hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed hard. John instinctively reached for George's hands as he struggled for breath and tried to pry his fingers loose, choking and gasping in vain as George pressed harder on his throat.
"It's over, Connor," George snarled, flinging blood, spittle and shards of broken teeth into his face. "You're out of luck and I'm out of time." He wanted to watch 715 kill John but he couldn't take the risk now; Connor had proven even more slippery than his future self. He had to end it now and cut his fun short. Still, he'd get to crush the life out of John Connor with his bare hands; he couldn't ask for more.
John wheezed and spluttered, kicking and struggling against George, fighting for air to soothe the burning in his throat and ease the growing pressure in his chest as his lungs threatened to explode. His head throbbed and he felt himself start to black out and turned his head to the side; he didn't want the last thing he saw to be George's ugly, toothless face.
As his head lolled to the left he saw George's pistol only a few feet away. He knew he'd never get to it but then he remembered the knife underneath him. He reached out his left hand for the gun, inching his fingers towards it in desperation as he slowly pulled the knife out from under his back. George saw him reaching for the pistol and smirked. He snatched out with his right hand and picked up the gun, holding it out of John's reach and pressing down even harder on John's windpipe, enjoying watching the desperation and fury in his eyes. He held the gun by the barrel in front of John, teasing his desperate last move. "Nice try, Connor."
John pulled the knife out and jammed it with everything he had into the side of George's head. The blade sank into George's ear with a crunch and punched through the thin layer of bone: the weakest part of the skull. George felt his inner ear explode and reeled backwards in shock and pain as the blade obliterated his ear canal and eardrums, he released his iron grip on John's neck and screamed out as blood poured from his ear and clutched the side of his head.
John pulled the knife out and thrust it again into George's neck. George's eyes bulged and he cried out, rich arterial blood spurted from his mouth and neck like an erupting volcano and his cries turned into pained gurgling. He stared at John and whimpered as he forgot his destroyed ear canal and clutched desperately at his neck, trying to access his neural implants and close his artery but the damage was too severe; John's second blow had been true and cleaved the carotid clean in half.
John pulled the knife out and pushed George off of him, then rolled on top of the Infiltrator and thrust the blade downwards again, this time at George's face. The Infiltrator snapped up his hand and gripped John's wrist, pushing back in a desperate attempt to keep the knife away from him.
"Fuck you!" John spat as he pushed down hard and forced the blade closer to George's face; the blade hung less than an inch from his left eye and John felt George's hand shaking as he fought to push the knife away. George's strength abandoned him and John leaned down on the knife, putting his weight behind it and forcing it down further, sinking the blade into the Infiltrator's eyeball. George wailed out in agony and abject terror as the knife slowly cut through his eye and sliced through the jelly. It sank through and John pushed further. "Fuck you!" he shouted again, feeling the serrated blade scraping against the back of the eye socket. Crimson blood and pink jelly oozed from his eyeball and George shrieked and slapped impotently at John's arm. John slammed down on the knife handle and the blade sank down another inch and crunched against bone. George stopped trying to fight back and started shaking and flapping like a fish out of water, caught in a seizure as the tip of John's knife cut into his brain and rendered the powerful Infiltrator little more than a brain damaged vegetable.
John pulled the knife back out with a wet sucking sound and the serrated edge of the blade caught on the eyeball and tore it out with it, leaving behind a bloodied open socket. He stood up off of George's chest and looked down at the pitiful sight of his enemy. George looked at him with his remaining eye beaming out an expression of agony and fear as blood pooled in his empty socket and spurted out of the wound in his throat.
"Ki... kill... me," George looked at John pleadingly. "Please!"
John hated George with a passion but also felt a pang of sympathy for the Infiltrator; nobody should have to die like that. He picked the pistol off the floor and pointed it down at George's chest. The Infiltrator looked into John's eyes and nodded slowly. He coughed up another mouthful of blood and mouthed please again. John pulled the trigger twice and ended George's life with a sharp double-crack of gunfire and two bullets to the heart.
George's head collapsed down onto the floor and John breathed out sharply. He walked away from the Infiltrator's corpse and winced as the adrenaline that had dulled the pain from his battered and bruised body drained away and he ached all over. It was over; all he had to do now was find the others, finish the rest of the Infiltrators and he'd get Wallace to order an airstrike and bomb the hospital into dust. He pressed the com button on his radio as he limped down the corridor. "Cameron?"
George's body lay still on the ground, a wide pool of blood formed a rough circle around his head and neck like a crimson halo. His body and brain were both dead; nobody could survive such extreme damage as John had caused, not even Infiltrators. George had been well aware in his last moments, even with a knife slicing through the front of his brain he'd been just about lucid enough to beg John for death. The pain he'd suffered was too much even for an Infiltrator to withstand, too much for his neural implants to numb, but that hadn't been why he'd asked John to kill him.
Skynet had developed its hybrid Infiltrators with durability in mind, had created certain redundancies and installed a failsafe into its servants in case they were killed before they could complete their mission.
Initiate Reanimation
Reanimating...
Deep inside the grey matter of George's brain his neural implant was busy at work. Electronic impulses travelled down microscopic tendrils that branched out through the brain and into the spinal cord. Muscles twitched, fingers flexed, and George's single remaining eye opened, revealing a pale-blue glazed-over eye that stared blankly and lifelessly. The being that was once George sat up then pushed itself up to its feet. George's memories, his personality, everything that made up George was gone, leaving only an empty shell reanimated by the neural implant buried deep inside its brain, and a single thought that filled the entirety of this new beings limited consciousness.
Terminate John Connor.