Not that the first group wasn’t a wave and a half all by itself. Orozco counted ten heavy weapons among the four men, plus holstered sidearms and whatever hidden grenades or knives they might be carrying.
They were well-armed, well-trained, and at least slightly better-fed than the average L.A. citizen.
If they had been a new gang trying to move into the area, Orozco would have been worried.
But they weren’t a gang. The red sashes tied around their sleeves showed that. They were, in fact, Resistance.
Which made it even worse.
“Morning,” Orozco called courteously, keeping the muzzle of his M16 moving gently back and forth between them. “Just passing through?”
“Mostly,” one of them said. He was a big black man with a fringe of a beard and a totally bald head. Along with his guns he was also carrying a couple of ammo packs, but he didn’t even seem to notice all the weight. His eyes flicked once to the M16, then came back to Orozco’s face. “You must be the Orozco everyone talks about.”
The other gave a snort that seemed to double as a laugh.
“That supposed to impress me?”
“Just want to make it clear I know how to use this,” Orozco said, hefting the M16 a bit. “You have a name?”
“Barnes,” the man said. He nodded toward the red armband. “This is
“Yeah, I see it,” Orozco said. “Is that supposed to impress me?”
“It should,” Barnes growled. “We’re the ones keeping Skynet off your back.”
“Or you’re the ones drawing Skynet’s fire onto everyone else,” Orozco countered. “That’s the way a lot of people around here see it.”
Barnes gave him a long, measuring look.
“You can’t be that stupid,” he said at last. “Not if you were really a soldier.”
“Marine,” Orozco corrected automatically.
“Whatever.” Barnes nodded past Orozco’s shoulder.
“Mind if we come in? We’ve got some snacks to share out with your people in there.”
Orozco suppressed a grimace. He’d called it, all right, straight from the top, the minute he’d seen those red armbands. These guys were here to recruit.
Grimaldi, if he were here instead of up on the balcony, would absolutely forbid them to pass the archway. He saw the people of Moldering Lost Ashes the same way he’d seen his inventory list back in the day, and he took it badly—and personally—when any of them chose to leave. The best thing Orozco could do right now would be to send Barnes and his team away.
And then, Orozco’s eyes fell on all the weaponry the men were carrying.
A hard knot settled into his stomach. Recruiters didn’t lug that much stuff around. Not if all they were doing was looking for fresh faces and able bodies.
Something was about to go down. Something bad.
And if Barnes’ recruitment pitch meant even a couple of the people here got out before it was too late…
“If you’re here to sign folks up, you’re going to be disappointed,” he warned. Some people, he knew, worked better and harder if you told them something couldn’t be done. Barnes looked like that type. “But if you want to try, it’s your time to waste.”
“Thanks,” Barnes said. He lifted his left hand above his head—
“But you’ll have to leave your weapons here at the archway,” Orozco added. Grimaldi, he knew, would insist on that.
Barnes froze, his arm still lifted.
“You thinking about trading up?” he asked, looking pointedly at Orozco’s M16.
“Not at all,” Orozco assured him. “You’re welcome to leave a guard with the gear. Two or three of your six backstops should be enough.”
Barnes grinned suddenly, bright white teeth against his dark skin.
“I guess maybe you
“I appreciate your concern,” Orozco said dryly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just call ’em in and line ’em up,” Barnes said as he and the other three men walked in under the archway. “Tell ’em we’re springing for breakfast.”
Orozco nodded. “I’ll pass the word.”
This whole “Breakfast with the Resistance” thing had been one hundred percent Connor’s brainstorm, and Barnes had disliked it right from the start.
He’d argued vigorously against it, in fact, the minute he’d been able to get Connor alone. The group barely had enough food for its own, and the idea of handing out freebies to a hunch of civilian parasites had struck him as complete and utter insanity.
But he had to admit that the scheme had gotten them into a lot more places over the past two days than they probably could have managed without it.
Not that they’d actually gotten any new recruits out of all that time and effort. Most of the people they’d talked to were small, close-knit family groups that you couldn’t break up if you lobbed in a brick of C4.
But for once, Barnes didn’t mind the lack of results. When you were in the process of infiltrating a Skynet staging area, every hour spent off the street and out of sight was a good hour. Even if all the civilians did was eat your food, listen to your sales pitch, and then throw you out.
This place was the last one on Connor’s list, and it was looking to be more of the same. Barnes couldn’t tell about Orozco—the man had a poker face like a T-600. But the boss man who’d showed up as soon as the team had cached their weapons had been as easy to read as a Terminator’s footprint.
Grimaldi didn’t like Barnes, he didn’t like the Resistance, and he especially didn’t like these intruders breathing his nice, clean non-violent head-in-the-sand civilian air. He’d been picking restlessly at the strap of his shotgun ever since slinging it, and Barnes could tell the man would like nothing better than to swing that gun back up to firing position and order Barnes and the others back onto the street.
But the man also knew better than to buck the crowd, and the swarm of children, teens, and adults that had come out of the woodwork at the mention of free food was definitely a crowd and a half.
“So what exactly are you offering my people?” Grimaldi asked as he stood beside Barnes, watching as the team passed out snack bars to the eager residents.
“Mostly, the chance to fight back,” Barnes told him.
“And to die while they’re doing it?” Grimaldi countered, raising his volume a little. A few nearby heads turned toward them in response. “Very heroic, I suppose, if you buy into all that glorious epic hero nonsense. But what I meant was what can you offer in the way of safety or community compared to what we have here already?”
Barnes snorted a laugh.
“Safety?” he bit out. “You think you’re safe here? From T-600s and HKs? Here?”
“Gentlemen, please,” a soft voice came from behind Barnes. “There’s no need to frighten the children.”
Barnes turned to see a slender, almost gaunt man standing a respectful two paces behind him.
The man’s skin was darker even than Barnes’, his face pockmarked with tiny scars, probably from some childhood disease. First or maybe second generation African, Barnes guessed.
“You have a problem with fear?” he challenged the newcomer.
“Not at all,” the man said calmly. “Fear is an excellent motivator, though not as strong as duty, honor, or love.” He inclined his head toward three young children digging eagerly and blissfully into their snack bars. “But hopelessness isn’t.” He held out his hand. “Reverend Jiri Sibanda.”
