Terminator Salvation_ The Official Movie Novelization - Alan Dean Foster [19]
There was barely enough room at the top of the mound of rubble that blocked the entrance to the ruined factory for the youth to wriggle through. Wright had a harder time, having to rely more on brute force to make his way to the other side. Standing at the base of a disintegrating stairwell, the youth gestured impatiently for Wright to follow. Too stunned to argue, the older man complied wordlessly.
On the street outside, the stymied T-600 fired twice at the cable that had wrapped around its right foot. Most shells missed the gleaming, slender target. Those that struck it glanced off. Responding to the overriding resolve of its pursuit programming, it proceeded to shoot off the restraining foot. Thus freed, it slammed into the pavement below with enough force and weight to buckle the old concrete.
Proceeding to right itself, it limped toward the entrance to the factory.
***
By the time he and his guide reached the roof of the building, Wright thought he ought to be out of breath. That he was not he attributed to the inevitable surge of adrenalin that always accompanied being shot at.
Halting, the teen flashed a succession of hand signals across the flat surface. A second figure emerged from the shadows. Slight of build and grimy of appearance, the little girl was clad in layers of salvaged clothing, child-sized cowboy boots, and an old police hat with a flipped-back brim. A single metal star gleamed on the front of the hat, above eyes that were preternaturally hard. With brown hair that exploded wire-like from beneath this singular chapeau, she looked to be about nine or ten.
In response to the older boy’s gestures she turned toward what looked like an old railcar wheel assembly. The enormous hunk of rusting metal sat on the edge of the rooftop where at one time it might have handled cargo deliveries. Having long since eroded away, a portion of the underlying structure had been replaced with a series of shims and props.
As she leaned over the edge of the building, the girl was intent on something below. When the moment suited her, she shoved hard against a pole that was centered on the mass of shims. They promptly gave way, followed immediately by several tons of abandoned industrial manufacture. The noise this all made when it struck the street far below was eminently satisfying.
Hurrying to the edge, Wright peered over and down, and drew back as a burst of automatic fire erupted from below. When none of the shells whizzed in his direction, he took a second look. Pinned beneath the mass of metal, the exposed gun arm of the crushed machine was still firing, but wildly and seemingly without control. It continued to do so until the weapon’s magazine ran out.
Shaking his head, he straightened and turned to his youthful savior.
“What the hell was that?”
Stone-face, the teen shook his head curtly. He had the build and look of a lone wolf.
“You first. Who are you?”
Ignoring him, Wright shifted his attention to the little girl.
“What was that?”
Taking a step forward, the youth partially interposed himself between the ingenuous stranger and the girl.
“She doesn’t talk, but you need to. Who are you?” His voice did not change. All the emphasis it required was provided by the gun he drew and aimed. Wright regarded it as dispassionately as he did the question.
“I’m—Marcus.”
This concise response was inadequate to reassure the teen.
“Why are you wearing a Resistance uniform when you’re obviously not a member of the Resistance?”
Wright glanced down at himself, then back up at the youth.
“I—needed clothes. The dead guy I took it off didn’t.”
Still wary, the teen began rifling the pockets of the older man’s jacket with one hand while keeping the pistol trained on him with the other.
“Well, if you’re one of those crazies whose brains turned to oatmeal from radiation poisoning, jump off this roof right now ’cause I’m not letting you get us killed.” He continued fishing through the jacket