'It's finally over,' Sarah said.
'No.' The T-800 touched a finger to the side of its head. 'There is another chip. It must be destroyed also.'
John immediately realized what it meant. But the T-800 had become his friend. In interacting with humans, it had begun to seem human itself. John had already taught it so much. After all that, it couldn't be simply melted down like scrap, like a worn-out machine, just in case the wrong people got hold of it. 'No!' he said.
'I'm sorry, John,' the T-800 said.
'No, no, no! It'll be okay. Stay with us!'
'I have to go away, John.'
Sarah was agreeing silently. As had happened so often in his life, John felt the adults ganging up on him. Surely this couldn't be necessary. He tried ordering the Terminator not to destroy itself, but Sarah overrode him. She lowered the Terminator into the molten steel, using a motorized chain. Soon it was gone.
All over.
Yet the nightmare was never over.
John heard police and ambulance sirens, then shouts. Sarah froze at the sounds, looking about warily, like a hunted animal. They had to get out of here. Though the T-1000 Terminator was destroyed, they were still wanted by the police. If the cops caught them, Sarah would be sent back to the Pescadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. John himself might be placed in some kind of detention. His foster parents were dead, killed by the T-1000, and no one else would want to take him in. Not now.
Despite their bruises and injuries, they had to escape fast, steal a car, get to Tarissa Dyson's hotel in Anaheim— and away.
The mill was now deserted. John helped Sarah hobble down a metal plate staircase to the concrete floor. One of her thighs was covered in blood where a bullet had penetrated. The strength was going out of her.
'You go ahead, John,' she said. Her long, honey-colored hair fanned wildly round her head and shoulders in the dim light. Her face was marked by grime, and by tears of relief, pain, and hope. 'Get back to Enrique's compound. You can trust the Salcedas.' Sarah had accomplished her mission. Now, with John safe, she scarcely cared about herself.
'No!' John said. “Come on. We've got to make it.'
He half-dragged her through the mill, with its glowing fires. They penetrated deeper into its recesses, searching desperately for a way out in the labyrinth of pipes, ladders, conveyor belts, heavy machinery and metal support beams. Glancing over his shoulder, John saw the glow of flashlights sweeping from side to side at the entrance. There were more raised voices and shouts.
'Come on, Mom,' he said in an urgent whisper. 'Please.'
'All right,' she said. 'Just stop for a minute, John. Just one minute.'
'Okay,' he said doubtfully. 'One minute,' she said again, holding up her hand. 'Let me get my breath.' She was panting with the effort. She'd fought like a hero, as she'd trained herself to do for so many years, since the first Terminator attacked her. 'Come here.' She gave a pained smile, then drew him close to her body, holding him tight, as if she'd never let go. 'Whatever happens, John, we won. Even if no one ever believes us, even if they hate us and lock us away, and never understand what they owe us, we've stopped Judgment Day.'
He hugged her round the waist as the emotion welled up through him. 'I know,' he said, tears in his eyes. 'But now we've got to think about our own future.'
'Come on, then. We can make it.'
He flashed a crooked smile. 'Hey, soldier, now you're talking my language.'
As they staggered, half crouched in shadow, over the hard concrete, the noises and lights came closer. Sarah tripped on a piece of sinter, keeping her footing, but grunting with the pain. Though she tried to muffle the sound, their pursuers must have heard, for someone called out, 'You there!' Then running steps, people conferring urgently, and the torch beam playing close by.
As the light swept past, they huddled into a dark corner, behind a staircase, then moved quickly, spotting an illuminated sign that pointed to a fire door. John scurried for it, trying to be quiet He turned the handle carefully, not wanting to make a sound-and pushed. He made it outside to an alleyway, with a dark carpark to the left, lit by a pair of streetlights. One of them flickered erratically. There was a scatter of vehicles, left behind when the mill was evacuated.
He held the fire door open, and Sarah followed him. Still trying to move like mice, they eased the door shut and pushed a trash Dumpster against it. Leaning against the Dumpster, John picked out a 1970s Honda sedan, slightly worn looking but not too battered.
'Stay here,' he said in a whisper. 'I'll be back.'
He found a broken half-brick in the car park, quickly used it to break the driver's side window, and reached in to unlock the door. He threw his backpack into the rear compartment, then fumbled to hotwire the ignition. His heart was pounding as seconds went by. At last he got the car going, shifted it into drive and crawled it back to the alley, leaving its headlights off.
'I'd better drive,' Sarah said. 'You're going to look suspicious. They might not notice me.'
'Okay. Cool. Let's get going, then.' Someone was pounding from inside the building.
Sarah maneuvered her injured leg into the vehicle, groaning slightly, but then she was fine. She drove out of there slowly and quietly, turning on the lights only when she reached a narrow service road. 'You may need to drive later,' she said. 'Once we're out of the city.'
“
She turned right into the service road, then took another turn at a set of traffic lights.
'You know where we are?' John said.
'Yeah, I think so.' Two turns later, they were on the freeway to Anaheim.
At Miles Dyson's home earlier that evening, when they'd planned their 'raid' on Cyberdyne, Sarah had raised an issue about logistics. 'We'll need the Bronco afterwards,' she'd said. 'We shouldn't risk it at the Cyberdyne site.'
John had grasped the point immediately. If they kept using stolen cars, they'd leave a trail-sooner or later, the police would track them down. Where the police were, the T-1000 was never far away. With its shapeshifting abilities it could easily infiltrate them.
The T-800 had turned to Miles. 'We need your car.'
They'd packed their weapons and explosives into the Dysons' Range Rover, then given Tarissa the keys to Enrique Salceda's Bronco. Tarissa had named a hotel in Anaheim for them to contact her when it was over.
Now they cruised past the hotel, checking out its location. They parked one mile away in a dark back street. If someone reported the Honda missing, John and Sarah wanted it found as far from the hotel as they dared leave it. At the same time, they could not risk walking more than a mile. They were both hurting. John felt bruised all over, like someone had stuffed him in a sack and bashed him against a wall for the fun of it. Sarah was trying to be brave, trying not to limp, but the flesh wound in her leg was obvious.
Besides that, her face had been all over the TV from the breakout at the Pescadero Hospital. That was even before the firefight and explosion at the Cyberdyne building. Right now, they were L.A.'s most wanted. Anyone might notice and recognize them. Even without their bruises and wounds, they were far from inconspicuous. It was past 1:00 A.M., so what was a young mother doing out on the streets with her kid? What's more, this young mother wore a striking all-black lighting outfit that left her shoulders bare, displaying her lean, rippling muscles in the streetlights. Sarah had dressed for the battle of her life, and she'd won, but now she stood out like a beacon.
John counted his steps: 1498, 1499, 1500... almost there. Almost He was feeling like the world's oldest nine-year-old. All his life, he'd been force fed with technical know-how and grown-up ideas: everything from information warfare to rifle training, car mechanics, jungle survival and basic urban street skills. He'd lived in so many places, done so many things. Sarah had educated him to grow up and lead the fight against the machines, as the messages from the future said he'd do—to save the world for humankind. Well, now they'd done exactly that, or so he hoped, yet he felt more than ever like a juvenile criminal. Though they'd saved the world from Judgment Day, there was no one they could tell, no one who'd believe them. Only Tarissa—and they had bad news for her.
Still counting: 1599, 1600...The hotel, with its bright neon sign, was within sprinting distance, but they kept walking slowly, trying to look normal. Only about fifty yards to go now, so long as nobody recognized them, or tried
