stringing the deer up to a branch and preparing to butcher it. They turned with startled speed as the Terminator approached over the last ten yards. One wrinkled his nose.
'Hell, what's that smell, man?' the shorter one said.
The Terminator's machine mind drew a wire diagram over them both. The larger human's clothes would be suitable; its own were saturated with decay products.
If they did not see him clearly, there would be no need to arouse potential attention by terminating them. At present, both orders and its own estimation of the proper maximization of mission goals indicated stealth tactics.
'You,' it said. 'Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and
boots, and then go away. This is private property.'
The flat gravel of his voice seemed to paralyze both men for an instant. Then the bigger of the two spoke. '
'I said: You. Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and boots, and then go away. This is private property.'
'The
The bigger man's accent held a good deal of Western twang, over-laying somethingelse—the Terminator's speech-recognition software estimated his birthplace as within twenty kilometers of Newark, New Jersey.
'He didn't even say 'please,' ' the smaller man put in.
'Please,' the Terminator added.
'Mister, your ideas stink worse than you do,' the bigger man said, and reached for the angle-headed flashlight at his belt.
'Don't turn on that light.'
'The
The light speared out and shone full on the Terminator's face, glittering in the reflective lenses no longer hidden by False flesh, highlighting the shreds of rotten skin hanging from his lips and the white teeth behind.
A sharp smell of urine and feces reached the Terminator's chemoreceptors from
the smaller man. The bigger snatched in his rifle—
The Terminator appropriated the big man's hunting jacket and hat as well as his boots. Then it dragged the two corpses deep into the woods for the wild animals to finish off; after a thoughtful pause it carved a short slogan into their chests with a hunting knife: PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF
ANIMALS.
Their truck's windows were only partially darkened, so that the driver could still be seen, but dimly. It found a pair of sunglasses on the dash and put them on, trimmed away the strips dangling from its lips, started the engine, and began to drive. Except for the smell and the Band-Aid on its nose that hid exposed steel, it could pass for human again, in a dim light and as long as the human didn't get too close.
Waylon Bridges and Luke Hardy sat sipping their Cokes and watching the TV
mounted over the counter. Conversation was over for the time being and they were just waiting for their customer. One of their favorite 'reality' programs was on. a show called
Tonight they were showing exclusive footage of a murderous raid on a police station in California. The host grimly warned that this sequence was not suitable for children or very sensitive viewers. Then the blurry tape began to roll and a huge man in sunglasses, carrying guns in both hands, began murdering cops by the dozen.
Waylon and Luke sat with their mouths open and watched the carnage. 'My God,' Luke murmured.
'Damn!' Waylon agreed.
The camera froze on the man's face. 'If you have any information on this man,'
the host intoned, 'call this number, or contact this Web address.'
Waylon quickly wrote the numbers down on a napkin. 'Love to git my hands on that sucker,' he said.
Luke lit up a cigarette, blew a speck of tobacco off his lip, and shook his head.
'You 'n me both, brother,' he said. 'Wonder what they're offerin' for 'im.'
'E-nough,' Waylon said, slapping the pen on the table. He lit a cigarette of his own and leaned back to watch the show.
A kid of about seventeen came into the diner and paused inside the doorway, looking around. He spotted the two men and walked over to them. Waylon and Luke pretended not to notice.
'Excuse me,' John said.
They looked him over thoroughly before one of them condescended to answer.
'Ye-ah,' Waylon drawled.
'I'm looking to buy a used car,' John said.
John assumed these were the men he was supposed to speak to. They were the only two customers in here. The Jeep with the 'For Sale' sign in the window was supposed to be the signal that the gun dealers were in. He waited politely for them to make the next move.
Waylon and Luke exchanged glances… at length.
'Not from us you're not,' Luke said, his blue eyes cold. 'I ain't gonna sell nothin'
to no kid. I don't wanna be responsible for no high-school shootin' spree.'
'Maybe you'd like to speak to my dad,' John suggested. 'He's out in the car.'
Luke and Waylon exchanged another meaningful look. Luke turned his eyes to stare at John while Waylon examined his thumbnail closely, then he looked up at Connor from under his eyebrows.
'How come yore daddy dint come in hisself?' he asked.
They dragged themselves up like they'd been bustin' broncos all day and adjusted their hats carefully, then sauntered out of the diner. Behind them John rolled his eyes.
They all walked through the reddish dust to the white Ford Dieter had rented. He was leaning over, putting something back into the glove compartment. Von Rossbach straightened up and looked at them, and Luke and Waylon froze. It only lasted an instant, but to men as experienced as John and Dieter, it was the equivalent of a shout.
'Do I know you?' Waylon asked.
John gave him a sharp look; he could have sworn there was a slight tremor in the man's voice.
'No,' Dieter said crisply. He got out of the car and the two men stepped back.
Von Rossbach leaned against the door and casually crossed his arms over his chest. 'But we have mutual
