Terminator Salvation: Cold War

spending more time on the treadmill back on the sub. How dare he let himself get so out of shape!

For the first time since the missiles flew, he realized that he wasn’t ready to die yet.

If they could just get back to the cars!

Gunfire blasted behind him as the maimed robot disposed of more stragglers. Losenko glanced back. The drifting haze of the smoke bombs obscured his view. Was it just his imagination, or was the killing machine falling behind? He thanked providence for the freak explosion that had damaged its treads. How far, he wondered, was the robot willing to chase them before returning to its base of operations? All the way back to the docks?

Desperate minutes felt like hours, and he had begun to doubt whether any of them would see K-115 again, when he finally spied the dilapidated chain-link fence surrounding the junkyard. Hope flared in his heart. Maybe they still had a chance. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the station wagon. From the looks of things, the wagon alone might have room enough to carry all that remained of the patrol. Besides himself, there looked to be only seven or eight men left alive... out of a team of twenty-five brave volunteers.

Someone will pay for this, he vowed silently. I swear it upon the lives of my men!

“Thank heaven!” Ostrovosky gasped, appearing a few meters ahead of the captain. The sight of the junkyard gave the exhausted sailors a second wind. They dashed toward the front gate with renewed hope and alacrity. The assistant radio operator slowed to catch his breath. “I never thought we were going to make it!”

Neither did I, Losenko agreed.

A shocking burst of gunfire, coming from inside the junkyard, froze the men in their tracks. Losenko skidded to a halt, his heart sinking like an anchor. By now, he recognized the telltale rat-a-tat of the robots’ ever-firing chain guns.

A crazed shout was cut off mid-expletive.

The guards! Losenko realized. The ones left behind to watch the cars.

A gas tank exploded within the auto graveyard. The station wagon? One of the other vehicles? A bright orange fireball rose into the sky. Clouds of pungent black smoke billowed upward. Mangled pieces of steel were thrown into the air, only to clatter to the ground like a metal hailstorm. Losenko felt the heat of the blaze upon his face. He choked on the fumes.

“Nyet!” Ostrovosky dropped to his knees. Anguish contorted his face. His military discipline faltered, exposing the overwhelmed human being beneath the uniform. “It’s not fair! We were almost there!”

Losenko knew just how he felt. It seemed as if fate was conspiring against them. Mother Russia had become a slaughterhouse overrun by heartless mechanical butchers.

We should have stayed at sea where we were safe!

A scorching wind drove them back, away from the searing flames. For a brief moment, Losenko entertained a desperate hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the robot in the junkyard had been destroyed by the explosion, along with the patrol’s only means of transportation.

He scanned the open road that lay before them. The junkyard had been located at the outer fringe of the industrial center. Nearly a hundred kilometers of barren tundra stretched between them and the remote fishing village where the Gorshkov was docked. He could hear the second robot rumbling behind them. His eyes searched the surrounding territory for the safest route back. Alas, the rugged terrain, carpeted by moss and sedge, offered little in the way of shelter.

Perhaps if they scattered and headed cross-country?

Such strategies evaporated as a third robot tore out of the burning junkyard, smashing straight through the dump’s locked front gate. Its burnished armor hadn’t even been scorched by the conflagration. Smoke rose from the muzzles of its twin chain guns. Speeding onto the highway, it wheeled around to face the panicky humans, blocking their escape. Its upper body straightened, assuming its full height as it staked out the high ground atop another low hill. A burst of fire sent the men darting for cover.

Ostrovosky did not get off his knees fast enough. Rapid-fire rounds shredded the hard-living young man. He went down in a geyser of scarlet mist. Sticky red droplets sprayed across Losenko’s face.

We’re trapped, the captain realized. The other robot had herded them straight into the sights of the mechanized assassin that stood before them. He wondered how long they had been under the machines’ surveillance. And why they had been marked for death in the first place. This is our homeland, which we killed millions to defend. We should be welcome here!

To their credit, his men refused to be slaughtered without a fight. Darting for cover, they opened fire on the homicidal robot. The smell of cordite added to the suffocating fumes blowing from the raging fire that had engulfed the junkyard. An impressive display of fire-power actually succeeded in holding the robot off for a moment or two.

Losenko drew his own pistol and took aim at the neck assembly, just as Gorski had done earlier. The marksman’s ugly demise flashed across his mind’s eye, but he savagely pushed the image out of his thoughts. He needed all his wits about him now.

Don’t think, he commanded himself. Just shoot, damnit!

Then one of his shots struck home. Circuits shorted in the junction connecting the monster’s left gun-arm to its torso. Discharged electricity crackled. The arm twitched and drooped limply to one side. Hydraulic fluid spurted onto the pavement.

But even crippled, the robot still had one good arm left with which to fight. Its upper body rotated toward Losenko, the whir of the chain gun promising high-caliber retaliation. The captain swore he saw a flash of anger in the robot’s luminous red sensors.

Impossible.

Braving the scorching heat and smoke, he retreated toward the junkyard, only to find himself backed against an intact length of the chain-link fencing. The metal links were hot to the touch; he could feel them through the back of his heavy wool coat.

The robot’s head tracked the captain’s movements. Random fire bounced off its armor plating. It raised its single working gun-arm.

His back against the red-hot fence, Losenko had no place left to run. Insanely, his ex-wife’s face surfaced from some forgotten corner of his memory. Katerina. He wondered if she would be waiting for him, despite everything....

He braced himself for death. If he was lucky, it would be quick, like facing a firing squad. He kept his eyes open, willing himself to meet his end like a man—tempted to spit in defiance, but what was the point? The gesture would mean nothing to a machine. Instead he merely glared at the hateful mechanism, wishing he had its anonymous inventor in his sights.

If only Zamyatin had never laid eyes on that goddamn factory.

Well, he thought impatiently. What are you waiting for?

To his surprise, the robot’s head swiveled from left to right, its optical sensors scanning for its prey. Losenko’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He didn’t understand.

Why didn’t it fire?

Unless....

He recalled how the emergency flares had distracted the other robot. If the machine’s targeting circuits relied on auditory, heat, and motion sensors, then maybe the raging fire was blinding it, concealing his precise location. That’s got to be it, he thought. If I just stand still, it can’t “see” me against the blaze!

Unfortunately, the intense heat was hard on human flesh as well. Spreading flames consumed the junkyard, moving ever closer to where Losenko stood. Smoke stung his throat and nostrils, and he bit down on his knuckles to keep from coughing. His back felt like it was on fire, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay where he was.

Soon he would be forced to choose between burning to death or being gunned down by a trigger-happy robot....