Terminator Salvation - From the Ashes

of hunters. If Rats had let them go like Kyle had wanted, he and Star would probably both be dead now.

And even as the narrowness of their escape shivered through him, it occurred to him that Skynet’s little neighborhood containment setup had suddenly been blown to hell. Between the Terminator he’d shattered in the alley and the four now embroiled in this battle with the Death’s-Heads, there had to be a huge open gap in their sentry line.

He could only hope that Orozco would figure that out, and would take advantage of this chance to get the residents of the Ashes to safety.

The gunfire was intensifying, and acrid smoke was starting to drift in through the car’s missing windows. Pulling Star closer to him, trying not to choke or sneeze, he settled down to wait it out.

Orozco stared at the pile of broken concrete and dirt stretching three-quarters of the way up to the drainage tunnel’s ceiling.

“So that’s it,” he said, his words echoing oddly in the confined space.

“I guess so,” Wadleigh said. “Sorry.”

Sorry. Orozco felt a surge of unreasoning anger. Sorry. Like the two of them had lost a race, or a bet, instead of losing the one chance the people of the Ashes had of surviving the night.

He took a deep breath. Stop it, he told himself firmly. He had more urgent things to do than be annoyed at someone else’s poor choice of words.

He turned around, lifting his torch higher, studying the tunnel roof. If there were any other manhole shafts up there that might offer a way out, this could still work.

But there weren’t. The only shaft that was visible in the flickering torchlight was the one they’d come down, fifty meters back from the blockage.

“We could try heading northwest,” Wadleigh suggested hesitantly. “That has to be the direction Connor and her people came in from.”

“Which is exactly why we can’t use it,” Orozco said. “I don’t believe for a minute that they came here just to recruit new talent. They were hunting Terminators; and if they came in from the northwest, that’s probably where they were hunting them.”

Wadleigh grunted. “In that case, we’d damn well better seal the place down, but good. Just in case the Terminators start hunting back.”

“You’re probably right,” Orozco conceded, eyeing the pile of debris. If he and Wadleigh tackled it together…

But no. Several of the pieces of broken concrete were bigger than even the two of them could handle, especially in such a cramped space. There was no escape for anyone here.

Or anywhere else. All that was left now was to dig in as best they could and prepare for war.

“Time to get back,” he said, nudging Wadleigh back along the tunnel.

“So after we seal the cover, what then?” Wadleigh asked as they picked their way carefully over the curved concrete.

“We start by getting the fire teams together,” Orozco told him. “That’ll be your job. Break out all the weapons, including the ones in the reserve cache, and get them into the hands of people who know how to use them. Pull out all the ammo, too. If Grimaldi gives you static over any of this, you send him to me.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t,” Wadleigh said grimly. “What about you?”

“I’m going to set up a few booby traps,” Orozco said. “If I have any time left after that’s done, I’ll see about making some more bombs.”

They reached the shaft and climbed carefully up the rusted rungs to the rabbit warren of broken steel and concrete that lay just outside the northern edge of Moldering Lost Ashes. Zigzagging their way over and through the debris, they climbed through the empty window that led back into the building.

After his confrontation with Grimaldi, Orozco had rather expected there to be a reception committee waiting for him in the lobby. He was right. Grimaldi and Killough were standing near the corridor entrance, flanked by Barney and Copeland. The latter two were holding rifles at the ready.

“Sergeant Justo Orozco,” Grimaldi said in his most pompous corporate CEO voice, “as the leader of Moldavia—”

“Stuff it,” Orozco said shortly, striding past the group.

Grimaldi was apparently expecting him to do that. He took a quick step forward as Orozco passed and grabbed the sergeant’s arm. “You are ordered confined to your room until—”

The speech cut off with a yelp as Orozco reached over with his other hand and grabbed Grimaldi’s arm, prying it off and twisting it over at the wrist.

“Let him go,” Copeland snapped. He started to lift his rifle.

And froze. “No,” Wadleigh said quietly.

Orozco turned to look. Wadleigh’s face was pale and his throat was tight, but the Smith &c Wesson 9mm he was pointing at Copeland was rock-steady.

“He’s right,” Wadleigh continued. “The Terminators aren’t going to give us a pass. They’re machines. They’re programmed. They’re going to kill us all.”

“That’s enough, Wadleigh,” Grimaldi bit out. “Sergeant Orozco—”

Orozco twisted his arm a little harder, and again the chief broke off with grunt. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Orozco said, keeping his voice low. “We’re going to prepare for an attack. The fire teams are going to be assembled, and they’re going to answer to me. You can either help, or you can stay out of our way. Is that clear?”

“And if I don’t?” Grimaldi gritted out. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“That’s twice you’ve offered me that choice,” Orozco reminded him. “Keep it up, and one of these times I may take you up on it.”

For a half dozen heartbeats the lobby was silent. “All right, Sergeant,” Grimaldi said at last.

“You go ahead and make your preparations. Take anyone you need; take any resources you need. But.”

He let the word hang in the air a moment. “If we’re still here in the morning,” the chief continued, “you won’t be. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Orozco said.

Letting go of Grimaldi’s arm, he stepped back. Grimaldi straightened back up, and once again briefly locked eyes with Orozco. Then, without another word, he gestured to his men, and the four of them headed back across the lobby toward Grimaldi’s office.

Orozco turned to Wadleigh. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” Wadleigh said as he holstered his gun. “Just remember this when they kick me out, too.”

“I will.” Orozco turned back again.

And for the first time noticed Reverend Sibanda seated on the rim of the fountain where Grimaldi and the others had blocked Orozco’s view of him. “Can I help you, Reverend?” he asked.

“I understood there was trouble brewing,” Sibanda said, standing up and walking over to them.

“I see it was more serious than I thought.”

“Actually, no matter how serious you thought it was, it’s worse,” Orozco told him.

“So I gather,” Sibanda said soberly. “What can I do to help?”

“At this point, I really don’t know,” Orozco said.

“Chief Grimaldi said you were to use all resources,” Sibanda said quietly, his dark eyes burning into Orozco’s. “I’m one of those resources. Please tell me what I can do.”

Orozco eyed the man, trying to think. There was a huge amount of work to do, but with the preacher’s hands half crippled with arthritis he was out of the running for most of it.

“Do what you can to keep the people calm, I guess,” he said. “About the only thing that would make this situation worse would be mass panic.”

“I can do that,” Sibanda promised. “And when the time comes, I’ll help you lead them to the Promised Land.”