Sorry for the long delay, I've spent a fair bit of time working on this chapter and it's taken me a while to get it to a level where I was satisfied enough to post it. Final chapter, folks. Hope you enjoy!
Derek stood outside the blacked-out double doors and clutched his assault rifle firmly to his chest. Davenport stood on the opposite side of the entrance as Byrne knelt between them and worked in silence, quickly cutting another slice of C4 from his block, leaving half remaining in a small cube, and fixing it into place on the heavy wooden fire doors.
"Ready when ye are," Byrne told them as he fixed the detonator and got back to his feet, stepping away from the doors. Derek nodded at him and mouthed clear at Ellison and the remaining soldiers.
"When it blows we go in hard and fast; get in find cover, and give them everything you've got," Derek told the soldiers braced against the wall. They backed away from the entrance and Byrne silently counted down from three with his fingers, then pressed the detonator.
The C4 exploded with a resounding boom and a cloud of fire and smoke that shattered the doors, throwing shards of wood outwards like a claymore.
"Grenades," Derek called out, looking at Ellison and Byrne and pointing towards the corridor. The SAS soldier and the former agent stepped out into the open before the smoke had cleared and threw a hand grenade each through the demolished doors, then stepped back into cover a split second before shots rang out and struck the walls inches from their heads.
Twin explosions erupted and tore through the corridor, and seconds later Derek and Davenport leaned through and followed up the hand grenades with a volley from their M203s into the hallway; exploding violently and shaking the building around them.
"Go!" Derek screamed as he levelled his rifle and searched for targets.
"I'm gone!" Byrne shouted out as he dashed past into the corridor and ran through the smoke, clutching his AA-12 hard as he cleared the debris and spotted several men – or what looked like men – stood in doorways further down the hallway with their weapons raised. "Fuck!" He dropped to the ground in midstride and skidded along the floor towards an open doorway, narrowly missed by the gunfire that tore a fraction of an inch above him.
Byrne slid several feet to the door and pulled himself into the room as the wooden frame splintered from more bullet rounds. He took a quick moment to check he was alone inside then turned his attention back to the corridor. He peeked outside and saw two men stood out in the open firing Minime light machine guns and pouring fire towards the remains of the double doors, threatening to shred anyone that dared follow after him. He fired a burst of rounds as he quickly counted the enemies he could see. "One X-ray down," he called out to Derek and his men as he spotted a ragged and bloodied corpse laid out on the ground, the top of his head missing and bone and brain matter splattered out on the floor. Shame, Byrne thought; would have been handy if one of those Terminator things had been killed rather than a regular old human being. Things never were that easy, though, he shrugged mentally. "Four X-rays left. Fifteen metres from ye; two left, two right."
Another stream of hot lead poured down on his position and forced him to duck back inside the room. He was no good like this; the moment he leaned outside he'd get his head blown off. "I could use a hand!"
Derek leaned against the wall as scores of rounds shot through the entrance and stopped them from getting in without being torn to shreds. One of the Marines who'd come in with Ellison crouched low to the ground on the left of the doorway and leaned out to his right with his weapon shouldered. The back of his head exploded like a ripe melon as a round tore through it and a dozen more rounds smacked into him before he hit the floor.
"No way in," Davenport growled as the barrage of fire continued. Derek hesitated for a moment. The machines were defending and their fields of fire were so accurate that if someone stuck their hand out it'd get shot off. They couldn't get in, it was impossible. But Byrne was already inside.
"Byrne!" Derek shouted out to be heard over the din of multiple automatic weapons. "C4!"
"Aye!" The Irishman's thick accent sounded out from inside the corridor. Byrne kept crouched inside the room he was trapped in and took out the half-block of explosives he had left; it was the last he had so he knew he had to make it count, but there was no way he could throw it at them without being slaughtered. He glanced back into the room he was occupying and looked for anything he could use as a distraction. It looked like a private room of some kind; inside was a wheeled bed and a few oxygen tanks.
Byrne grinned as a plan came to mind and he placed several of the cylindrical oxygen tanks onto the bed and fitted the C4 snugly in the middle of them, then wheeled the bed over to the door. "I need covering fire!" he shouted out to Derek and the others.
Derek and Davenport looked at each other and the younger lieutenant drew out a hand grenade, stepped backwards away from the doorway, pulled the pin and threw the small sphere as hard as he could, bouncing the grenade off the wall at an angle and sending it into the passageway, erupting in midair with a cloud of smoke and debris. Derek turned to his other men and nodded at them. "203s, now!"
Derek and another soldier leaned inside the doorway as the machines' field of fire was blocked by the explosion from Davenport's grenade. He spotted two machines stood upright firing light machine guns, aimed his weapon towards them and triggered his launcher. The projectile smashed into the wall just ahead of the machine and blew it backwards onto the ground.
Davenport, Ellison and the others aimed into the corridor and unleashed a terrific salvo of fire towards the remaining combatants, keeping the humans' heads down and the remaining machine distracted as Byrne pushed the bed out of the room and shoved it along the corridor towards the defenders. The bed rolled along the smooth tiled floor until it gently bumped against the downed machine as it pushed itself upright. He could see the burnt and flayed flesh of the machine and the gleaming chrome beneath; one of they eyes was gone and behind it a red orb glowed brightly, like the eyes of a demon.
"Jaysus!" Byrne gasped at the sight of the thing a moment before pressing the detonator. The C4 exploded outwards in a flash of orange fire and ignited the oxygen tanks, turning the fire into a conflagration that consumed everything in its path and rocked the entire building as if the earth itself had shook beneath it. The overpressure surged outwards and flattened anything caught in it to the wall or floor, shattered every window in the hospital wing. Lights and ceiling tiles shattered and rained debris on throughout the hallway.
Derek picked himself up off the floor and dashed into the corridor with his rifle shouldered, Davenport and Ellison followed behind and the three of them moved forward and split up, taking positions in several doorways along the passageway. Derek fired a long burst into one of the enemy figures on its knees and elbows and dashed towards Byrne's doorway, taking refuge inside.
"Nice move," he nodded at Byrne and crouched on one knee, aimed his assault rifle out into the corridor and fired as Byrne stood upright and loosed a burst from his shotgun. Ellison and Davenport fired their own bursts at the defenders, supported by the remaining soldiers' weapons at the rear of the corridor. Derek looked down the barrel as he fired and saw one of the machines immobilised down on the ground, as well as the dead body on the floor and three more defenders returning fire. One of them stood ablaze with fire burning his clothes and skin, yet he was completely unfazed and carried on firing as if the fire were no more than a mild irritation.
"Tin can's got the Minime!" Byrne commented as he fired a burst of explosive rounds at the humanoid figure sporting a light machine gun and only half a face.
"Target the machine gunner," Derek ordered as he shifted his aim and joined his salvo with Byrne's. Frag-12s and 5.56mm rounds hammered at the machine as Davenport triggered his launcher and struck the Terminator square in the chest, finishing what Byrne's armour piercing shotgun rounds and Derek's assault rifle had started. The broken remains of the machine fell back onto the floor and twitched erratically.
With the machines down the corridor fell eerily silent, the gunshots and grenade explosion echoed faintly through the air and faded away. Derek stepped out of into the corridor and kept his weapon trained forward.
Byrne stepped out and fired a burst into each downed machine; the explosive shells penetrated the tough armour of their skulls and shattered the chips inside their heads. The twitching Terminators fell still and the shots rang out in the otherwise quiet corridor.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Derek warned. They hadn't seen any more bodies and there could be more of them in reserve they hadn't seen yet. "Search and clear."
They started out forward to sweep the corridor when an assault rifle flew out of one of the doorways and clattered onto the floor, followed a second later by a hand sticking out into the corridor, waving a large white hospital bed sheet.
"Hey! I surrender!"
Derek narrowed his eyes in mistrust and kept his rifle pointed towards the hand sticking out. "Keep your weapons trained on the other doorways," he told Ellison and Davenport. Derek stepped forwards and glared at the surrendering figure. If he thought he could just give up because they were losing and they'd go easy on him then he had another thing coming. He was going to beat the crap out of the bastard until he told them everything he knew.
"Show yourself!" Derek called out. A man stepped out into the corridor with his hands above his head. Derek looked him up and down and was distinctly unimpressed. The man was maybe five-eight, verging on overweight, and had close cropped black hair with a receding hairline. He had a paunch that hung slightly over the waistline of his combat trousers and the t-shirt he wore was just slightly too tight for his belly. Clearly not any kind of combat soldier; Derek figured the Infiltrators had pressed the Greys into defending the hospital.
"Keep your hands up!" Derek snapped at him. "Get on your knees." The Grey complied and lowered himself onto his kneecaps, and crossed his legs behind him, anticipating Derek's orders. Derek kept his weapon trained on the Grey, his finger tensed on the trigger and only a millimetre away from opening up the turncoat's skull. The look on his face told the Grey that he wanted nothing more than to do just that.
"Please, I surrender! I'll tell Connor everything he wants to know."
"Damn right you will," Davenport spat at him.
"How many more are there?" Derek asked.
A gunshot cracked out and the Grey's face exploded in a shower of blood, bone and brain matter. The Grey fell to the floor and behind him stood another man, with a more muscular build, short brown hair and wielding a P-90 in one hand. Infiltrator, Derek thought. He couldn't believe he'd killed one of his own like that.
"Coward," the hybrid spat in disgust as he raised his assault rifle at Derek and the others. He'd told the two Greys he'd put them down if they gave themselves up. That was the problem with turncoats; they were only interested in saving their own skins.
"On yer fucking knees!" Byrne snapped. The Infiltrator just stared at him in hateful defiance and held his rifle loosely, aimed in the Irishman's direction.
"You can't win," the Infiltrator snarled at them, hatred burning from his eyes. He knew he was dead but that wasn't the worst of it; he'd failed Skynet. They'd thrown several TOK-888s against the invaders and they'd been swept aside. He had to assume John Connor was still alive, judging from George's silence over the radio. The new breed of machines had been destroyed, the camp was no more and the prisoners freed, and everything they'd worked so hard for had been destroyed by Connor. "Skynet will win eventually. You're all just bleached skulls."
The Infiltrator shouldered his P-90 at Byrne and the others didn't hesitate; Byrne, Davenport, Derek and Ellison all opened fire together. Dozens of rounds struck the hybrid and tore skin, muscles and organs, and shredded him as he fell to the floor. When they ceased fire the remains of the Infiltrator looked like the work of a deranged butcher; limbs had been blown clean off, chunks of charred black and red flesh had spattered around the corridor with pieces of various organs that had been torn out with the weight of bullets that had punched through him. What was left lay in a widening pool of deep crimson blood.
"It's over," Ellison sighed and lowered his carbine, relieved they'd finally won. Derek wasn't so sure; he didn't want to get caught with their pants down.
"Eyes up, search and clear; take out any survivors." The surviving soldiers all fanned out and quickly cleared the floor they were on room by room, finding no more contacts and moving on to find a staircase. They had to clear the hospital soon so they could help John.
John slowly walked through the hospital, limping on his left leg slightly as he searched for a staircase or elevator. He ached all over and his body screamed in pain with every step. His ribs dug sharply into his chest as he breathed in and he winced, sure as hell that they were broken or at least bruised. The side of his face stung where George had peeled his skin away; it had stopped bleeding but every time he winced in pain from one injury or another his face felt like it was tearing open again. The pain was nothing compared to the hot pang of worry that wrapped around his throat.
He hadn't seen or heard a peep from Cameron since George had kicked her down the shaft; that wasn't right. Something had happened to her. John sped up his pace and lengthened his stride down the hospital and fingered the pistol in his right hand; a Browning 9mm. Not that it mattered, he thought; anything that was giving Cameron a hard time would probably shrug off measly pistol fire, but maybe he could get his hands on something more powerful, and even if not he'd still do whatever it took to keep her safe. She risked her life every day to protect him and he'd gladly return the favour.
John broke into an uneasy, half-limping run down the corridor, growing more and more frustrated as he turned another corner and still saw no elevator. He looked through the glass aperture in every door in case there were stairs behind them, slowing his progress down.
The sound of heavy footsteps from behind stopped John in his tracks. He whirled around to face whoever was coming up behind him and for a moment John froze in shock; eyes wide and mouth agape in disbelief. George. The Infiltrator was up and walking towards him.
"No, you're dead," John shook his head in denial. Nobody could have survived a slashed throat and a knife in the brain, surely. He pushed aside the disbelief and took a proper look at him. George's face was blank like a machine's; his skin had turned a deathly pale and his one remaining eye stared vacantly without any sign of emotion, none of the superiority, hatred, or any single sign that John had come to associate with the Infiltrator. He really was dead.
George drew back his fist and smashed it hard into John's face before he could fire. The world spun around John and he fell backwards, reeling from the force of the blow. He rolled to his side just to avoid a swift kick and John pushed himself up to his feet and backed away, rubbing his sore jaw from the blow and shaking his head to clear the fog in his brain. George threw another vicious punch but John managed to barely duck the blow and heard a slight crack as the Infiltrator's fist shattered the plaster on the wall and struck the brick beneath. John came back up and launched an uppercut to George's chin and smacked his head upwards and backwards, then followed it up with a right hook into the side of the Infiltrator's face. John smirked at the slow reactions of the Infiltrator, completely different to their earlier fight when he'd dodged almost everything John threw at him.
His confidence was short lived and visibly faded from his face as he realised George hadn't even flinched. It was as if the Infiltrator hadn't felt the punches, hadn't even noticed them. "Bad idea," John muttered a second George's fist slammed into his cheek, stunning him into a daze and forcing him onto the back foot. He thrust the pistol into George's chest and pulled the trigger. The gun barked loudly and bullets smashed into George, having no effect whatsoever. "What the hell?" John stared confused at the bloody mess and raised the pistol up to aim at George's head. The second shot took a chunk out of the side of George's temple, blowing bone and chunks of brain matter out onto the floor. George hesitated for a moment and swayed slightly, but remained upright and a second later continued towards him.
Before John could get off another shot George punched him in the face again and again with his left fist. One punch caught the side of John's mouth against his canines and cut deep into the skin, spraying a mouthful of blood into the Infiltrator's face. Again, George didn't even seem to notice it.
A final punch landed in John's face and the world around him erupted into starbursts and spun around him as his head snapped backwards and his legs gave out underneath him. John dropped to the floor but George's hands lashed out and caught John's head before he hit the ground. George raised him up into the air with ease like a preying mantis gripping its victim.
John gritted his teeth and grunted out in pain as George's hands clutched his temples and pressed inwards, squeezing his head hard. He cried out and kicked in vain against his opponent and struggled to pry George's fingers away from his head but his grip was like a vice. Unbreakable. John struggled against the overwhelming pressure as George slowly started to crush his skull.
A boot smashed into the side of George's head and the Infiltrator lost his grip, flew across the hallway and crashed against the wall, falling to the floor in a heap. John dropped to the ground and stared at Cameron as she stood over him and held her hand out, offering him a small smile.
"Hey," John smiled back at her as he took her hand and she pulled him upright.
"Hey," Cameron cupped John's face, scanning him as she looked him over. He was injured but it wasn't life threatening. Her smile dropped and her face fell back into her more usual blank expression as she turned towards George and levelled her AK at him as the hybrid got back to his feet and faced her.
Cameron held the trigger down and fired off a storm of hot lead into George. Thirty rounds smashed into his body, tore through flesh and ripped organs apart, shattered bones and burst out his back, splattering a mass of blood, bone and shredded organ tissue against the wall behind him. George staggered back from the inertia of the rounds but still stood as Cameron's Kalashnikov clicked empty. She tilted her head slightly in confusion; nobody could survive thirty rounds to the torso.
"He's dead," John said to her. She confused by his words as George was still upright and approaching them. "I don't understand." He couldn't be dead. She looked at his injuries; slashed throat, a missing eye, and a large bloody hole in the side of his head. She hadn't caused those; John must have inflicted them. That confused her even more.
"He's like a zombie," John told her, staring at the Infiltrator as it moved towards them. Obviously it didn't know what Cameron was or it wouldn't be approaching so blithely. "I killed him and he came back. I don't know how."
"Came back?" Cameron stared at George as she tossed aside her spent AK. Courtney's father had killed Infiltrators in Cactus Springs who were securing an oilfield for Skynet. He'd killed them and been killed at the same time. The Infiltrator she'd found in the room had been killed by Courtney's dad and she'd been unable to explain how, when half the hybrid's head was missing. Now she knew. Something had caused George's body to reanimate after death and continue fighting, and the same had happened to the Infiltrator that had killed Courtney's father.
"Stay back," Cameron told John as she advanced on George. She didn't want him to be hurt anymore than he already was. Cameron spun round on her left heel and smashed her right foot into George's face, then spun and kicked out with her left and knocked him back into the wall.
John watched in stunned silence as Cameron unleashed a barrage of well placed kicks and punches to George and effortlessly dodged every attack the dead Infiltrator made. Her every move was fluid, graceful, and perfectly timed; she fought like she danced, and John had never seen it from her before: where had she learned martial arts like that from?
Cameron kicked George's left knee and shattered the bone, tore cartilage, tendons and ligaments and forced the undead Infiltrator into a kneeling position. She wanted to end this quickly so she could take John away from Century Work Camp and back to the safety of the USS Nimitz before Skynet's machines reached the camp to investigate.
George tried to stand up but his leg collapsed around the shattered kneecap and he fell down again. Cameron wrapped her right arm under his chin and gripped George in a tight headlock, twisted and pulled with all her machine strength, her eyes glowed blue with anger and exertion as she pulled as hard as she could. Bones snapped, skin tore muscles and sinews separated with the sound of tearing meat as Cameron ripped George's head off and threw hard it across the room, trailing a length of spinal cord behind it like the tail of a comet until it bounced off the wall rolled on the floor. George's body dropped limp and inert to the ground.
"It's over," John let out a long breath of relief and leaned against the wall behind him. His whole body felt heavy and limp as the adrenaline once again seeped out of his system and his body screamed out with a hundred different aches and pains as his accumulated injuries made themselves known once more. "Have you heard from Derek?" John asked.
"No," Cameron replied. She hadn't considered Derek's team; John had been her only priority and she hadn't thought about the other soldiers at all.
John reached up to his radio and realised it had been damaged in the fight with George. Cameron took off hers and handed it to John. "Derek, you there?" John asked, worrying about his uncle and the men who'd committed themselves to helping him. Derek, Davenport and Byrne had faced off against the rest of the hospital's defenders, including the rest of the TOK-888s that he'd ran into on the top floor. If Derek's men were up against several of them he dreaded to think what had happened.
"We're here," Derek replied, sounding thoroughly exhausted as he spoke. "Hospital's clear; camp's ours."
"Casualties?" John asked. He knew eight people had died in the fire fight outside, plus another two upstairs. They'd lost a lot of men already; all who'd volunteered to help or rescue John and paid the ultimate price for it.
"Four more dead; could be much worse. We've spoken to Charley and he's at Santa Monica; they're being shipped out to the Nimitz right now."
John shook his head at his uncle's blasé attitude to the men who'd died. He figured that Derek had seen so much death over two wars that it just numbed him. Still, John never wanted to end up like that, not caring at all over people who died; especially when they'd volunteered for his sake. Fourteen dead out of twenty-one; why the hell did people follow him when he led them to their deaths like that? He couldn't see how he was supposed to be some great leader when he was responsible for so many losses.
"It was inevitable," Cameron knew John well enough to know the guilt he was feeling. She didn't feel guilt but she understood that John felt responsible for the deaths of the soldiers he led, that he considered himself a bad leader because of the losses. She disagreed but knew there was little to say to relieve his guilt but decided to use cold, hard logic to help reassure John. "More would have died if we didn't." George and his Infiltrators were dead, their work to create perfect Terminators destroyed, and the work camp was gone. Tens of thousands more would have been killed in the disposal chambers and if Skynet had reverse engineered and mass produced the TOK-888s so early in the war, even more humans would have died. Potentially all humans.
John walked forward, wincing at the aching muscles all over his body that screamed out with every movement. He passed George's corpse as they made their way down the corridor to find a staircase to lead them down to Derek and the others. He spotted movement on the ground as he walked by, stopped and looked down to see George staring up at him. John saw his eyes moving slowly and tracking him and Cameron as they moved. The lips parted slightly to reveal the shattered stumps of George's broken teeth.
"I don't believe it!" John snarled. The bastard was proving as hard to finish off as Cromartie had been.
Cameron lifted her leg up and stamped down as hard as she could on George's head, shattering his skull like an overripe melon and splattering his head across the floor in unrecognisable red and grey globules of bone and gore. She saw a small square with bloodied wires protruding from a lump of grey brain matter and picked it up to inspect it. It was a microprocessor, though she didn't recognise the type. She crushed it in her hand and dropped the broken pieces.
"Now its over," Cameron smiled as she reached her hand out and slid it into his palm. John entwined their fingers together and returned her smile as he squeezed gently.
As night fell, the dim grey permanent overcast of the day faded away, to be replaced with a blanket of darkness that descended upon Century City and the rest of the West Coast of the United States, immersing the devastated post apocalyptic landscapes in almost total blackness.
Two pinpoint streaks of fire streaked high in the night sky and approached the silent, still and deserted Century Work Camp. A pair of F/A-18E Super Hornets soared up in the air above the hospital. One of the jets dived downwards towards the building, descending lower and lower. At fifteen thousand feet the fighter released a pair of 1000lb Paveway II laser guided bombs and pulled up, accelerating back up to a safer altitude whilst the other Hornet used a laser designator from its targeting pod to guide its partner's weapons onto the target.
The two bombs smashed into the concrete hospital roof and ploughed through, dropping through every single floor before impacting against the solid ground under the basement and exploding brilliantly in the night sky. Concrete, glass, and steel shattered outwards in total devastation as half the building erupted outwards in a flaming conflagration that lit up the night into day.
Inside the hospital glass tanks shattered into thousands of tiny shards and their liquid crimson contents splashed out and boiled from the instant searing heat of the explosions. Skin and flesh burnt and tore, and armoured endoskeletons were shattered by the devastating force of the bombs. Arms, legs and heads were torn from bodies, torsos were smashed and flattened, delicate solid state circuitry was fried and melted, and the most efficient killing machines in two timelines were reduced to twisted, burnt and shattered scraps of metal.
Two more Paveways dropped from the second jet and obliterated the rest of Century Work Camp, the Infiltrators, and the TOK-888s. All were gone, incinerated in a roiling sea of fire and debris. The painstaking plans of George and the Infiltrators were wiped out of existence.
The planes loitered high in the sky for a moment, the pilots using infrared sensors to evaluate the damage caused by their weapons before they decided their mission was accomplished and it was best not to stay long enough to attract Skynet's attention. The two F/A-18E Super Hornets turned westwards and accelerated out to sea, back to the safety of their waiting mother ship.
John and Cameron stood in the bridge of the Nimitz with Captain Wallace, Derek, and Byrne. John stared out of the large windows, looking out at the vast expanse of ocean that stretched out to the horizon and seemed to go on forever.
The bridge was staffed with over a dozen officers manning the radar, sonar, communications and propulsion and steering arrays; all working diligently to keep the ship operational and safe from any Skynet attacks. They were all intrigued by the new arrivals – the young General Connor and his cyborg companion, especially. They all glanced over their shoulders once or twice and sneaked a few peeks at the battered and burnt young man and the girl with metal showing beneath various wounds to her face and neck, but were too busy and too professional to chatter or make any comments. Not whilst on duty, at least.
Wallace looked at John's battered, bruised and burnt form with intrigue; he didn't know how the kid was still standing after all he'd been through. Wallace had done what he could to support them and sent out the carrier's entire Marine complement, all the ship's helicopters and dozens of inflatable and rigid boats to ferry the rescued prisoners to the Nimitz.
"Five hundred and fourteen rescued men, women and children; not bad, Connor," Wallace nodded to the younger man. He didn't know what had gone on in the camp and from John's state and that of the prisoners, he didn't really want to know. He'd been pissed at first that he'd lost eight of his Marines in Connor's mission, but the machine girl and John's lieutenants had assured him that it was worth it, that they'd destroyed a potential new Skynet weapon in its development. And seeing five hundred freed prisoners who otherwise would have been gassed to death and incinerated was something noble, more so than anything they'd done on board the Nimitz since the bombs had dropped.
"Thanks," John replied tersely. He was too tired and too uncomfortable for a long chat. He'd debriefed Wallace on what had happened and kept all details of the Infiltrators and anything involving the future out of it. "I'm sorry about your Marines," he added solemnly.
"What now?" Derek asked, changing the subject.
"We're heading back out to sea," Wallace answered. "Staying out of range of Skynet bombers."
"Can't stay at sea forever," John said. He didn't want to, either. Though his body cried out for rest and recovery, after months of being stuck in the prison camp and now hearing of the deterioration of the coordinated resistance efforts he'd started from Cheyenne Mountain he wanted to start the fight back against Skynet once again.
"We're not in any shape to fight," Wallace replied. "We need to resupply and regroup before we do anything."
"Where?" Cameron asked. They had no knowledge of who was still out there, now.
"Nowhere in the Continental U.S.," Wallace answered; he racked his brain to try and remember anywhere that could be considered even relatively safe for now. Until they were fit for combat he wanted to keep well away from the States. "Anywhere in NATO or Russia's probably out, too, same with China and Japan. Pearl Harbour's gone, so is Diego Garcia."
"Try the Falkland Islands," Byrne broke his silence and chipped in.
"Where?" John asked. He'd never heard of it before.
"South Atlantic; about three-hundred miles east of Argentina; ye want somewhere safe it's about as good as ye can get. Miles from anywhere, couple hundred soldiers and there's a squadron of jet fighters for top cover. Skynet wouldn't give a shit about the place; just miles of hills and long grass, and about a million penguins."
"What's there?" Cameron asked. She'd never heard of it either. A military base would be well equipped and defended, but she was concerned the soldiers there would react similarly to most other people they'd encountered so far.
"Apart from the penguins: air base and British Army war stores," Byrne replied. "Weapons and ammo enough for a couple thousand men, easy; should sort us out for a while."
Wallace looked to John, seeing everyone was following his commands. The kid had balls; that was clear from the rescue he'd just achieved. And he clearly had the respect of Perry and the 4th Infantry soldiers, as well as Bedell and the Marines who'd embarked on the mission. "Your call," Wallace said, handing over control with just two words. Connor was in charge now; he just ran the ship.
John looked to Byrne and then to Cameron. He could practically read Cameron's mind; she wanted somewhere safe for him. And they could use the weapons and the soldiers stationed on the islands. "Do it," John nodded. Byrne was SAS, so John would have him act as a liaison between himself and the base commander on the Falklands so they could get off on the right foot this time. He looked to Byrne as he spoke. "Get in touch with them; let them know we're coming."
John closed his eyes and let the hot water cascade all over his aching body, wiping away six months' accumulated sweat and grime and sluicing it from his skin. It hurt when the water fell on the myriad cuts and bruises all over his body and he'd had some trouble washing his more delicate areas.
John still felt racked with guilt over the fourteen soldiers and Marines killed rescuing the prisoners. John supposed that in the long run – taking out George and his Infiltrators and preventing them from irreversibly turning the war in Skynet's favour – it was worth it, but he still didn't feel particularly great about leading those men to their deaths. He'd make sure they didn't die for nothing; he swore on his mother's grave he'd make sure it they weren't lives wasted.
Eventually, and reluctantly, John shut off the water and pulled aside the shower curtain to step outside the small cubicle. He wrapped a towel around his waist, stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiped the steam away from the glass and stared glumly back at his reflection. He barely even recognised the person staring back at him. He knew he'd lost weight during his time in the camp but looking at his battered, bruised and malnourished body shocked him badly. He'd weighed around a hundred and seventy pounds just before Judgement Day; he was down to a little over a hundred-twenty-five, now. He could see his ribs underneath his purple-bruised skin and his arms were like toothpicks; biceps and triceps faded away to near nothing. The image that glanced back at John reminded him slightly of the starving African children he'd seen on the Red Cross charity commercials on TV.
As bad a state as his body was in, he knew in time the bruises would fade, the cuts would heal, and his malnourished and exhausted body would recuperate. His face, however, was another matter. The right side of his face from his eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, stretching almost all the way to his ear was an angry red mass of scabbing tissue that would permanently scar his face. He'd be disfigured for life.
"Great," John mumbled, looking away from the mirror, not wanting to see the scarred freak staring back at him. "I'm a freak."
"You're not a freak," Cameron pressed herself against his back and wrapped her arms around his chest gently. She leaned her head against his left shoulder blade and nuzzled him gently. John felt her lips smiling against his back, warming him up inside, and placed his hands over hers. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then turned round to face her, leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"I guess it doesn't really matter," he murmured against her forehead and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer against him.
"The scars could be an asset," Cameron said as she leaned into his embrace, "evidence of combat against the machines." She didn't think John would see it that way but she wanted to reassure him.
"You're saying I was too pretty before?" John smiled. It faded as the burns started once again to irritate and he reached up one hand to his face.
"Don't scratch it!" Cameron shot out a hand and caught his wrist, his fingers a fraction of an inch away from the scabbing on his skin. She pulled away from his embrace and took out a medical kit she'd taken from the infirmary. She opened it up and took out more salve and wound dressings. John moved out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He sat down on the single bed in the middle of the small room as Cameron came over to him and sat down on the bed next to him, resting one of her knees against his thigh. John placed his hands on the bed behind him and leaned back as Cameron started delicately rub salve into his burns.
"What is this room, anyway?" John asked as the salve started to cool the itching and burning on his face. Once they'd arrived on the carrier and debriefed with Wallace and Perry, John had been shown to a private cabin that looked far more luxurious than what he'd expected. The cabin consisted of three rooms; a simple bedroom, a basic bathroom with shower, sink and toilet, and a separate living room cum office with a desk and three chairs. He'd imagined on a ship like this everyone would be crammed into bunks together.
"Admiral's in-port cabin," Cameron replied.
John looked at her quizzically as she finished rubbing in the salve and took another dressing and fitted it to his face. "We don't have an admiral." He held it in place for her as she tore off several lengths of medical tape and started to secure the dressing to his face.
"We have a general," Cameron answered as she stuck the last length of tape and sealed the dressing over his face. His burns would take several weeks to heal and she was determined to keep it clean until then.
"Is general better than admiral, then?" John wrapped an arm around her and leaned back, pulling her back onto the bed with him.
"This general is." Cameron had insisted with Wallace that John have his own private quarters on the ship. Wallace had offered his sea-cabin but Cameron saw the admiral's quarters presently unoccupied on the ship and had appropriated it for John's use. She'd moved the bags containing their few belongings into the cabin whilst John was in the shower.
"How long until we reach the Falklands?" John asked, pulling her closer. He agreed with her; it sounded like a good place where they could regroup, rearm, and even start training the refugees to fight back against the machines whilst John worked to re-establish contact with whoever was out there.
"Twenty-seven days," Cameron said. That was if they maintained their current speed.
"And until then?" John hated the idea of being cooped up on a ship for nearly four weeks. He'd much rather be out in the open.
"You rest," Cameron said, running a hand over his chest. She tilted her head up and kissed John gently. John deepened the kiss and Cameron opened her mouth and pulled him closer. She kept her eyes open as their lips and tongues reconnected with a fierce passion neither of them had experienced in months as their hands roamed across each other's bodies, stroking and caressing, and all the anguish and pain of the last six months faded away, leaving only two souls comforting each other in the bliss of their new private haven.
John's hands slid under Cameron's shirt and cupped her perfect mounds in his hands as he kissed her hard, and felt Cameron's hand slide between his legs...
"Ahh!" John pulled back and cried out in pain as she wrapped her hand around him. His loins were still swollen and bruised from George's torture but as Cameron pulled her hand away he stopped her. Pain or no, he wanted her as badly as she wanted him, and nothing was going to stop them.
A sly grin formed on Cameron's face as she understood his meaning. She pushed him down onto the bed, tore his towel off and peeled away her clothes piece by piece, leaving her completely nude before him. She crawled atop him and pressed her chest against his. "I'll be gentle," she whispered in his ear as she lowered herself onto him. They both gave out a low moan as they slowly joined together, in pleasure, content, and sheer bliss. The world was in a dire state and Skynet's machines were spreading across the globe, seemingly unstoppable. But for this one moment they could ignore all that as they moved as one and quietly cried out together. John and Cameron were at last reunited and all was right with the world.
That's all for now, folks! A year and a half's work, almost! I really hope you all enjoyed reading it. I plan to continue the story with a pair of sequels, but I'm taking a break for now to work on a post-Born to Run fic for a bit first, which I'll start working on shortly. I'd really like to thank Kaotic 2 for beta-reading much of the fic, and also Flatlander for his contributions. Lastly I'd like to thank you all for reading and reviewing. I hope you all enjoy my future works, too. Bye for now!