Terminator Salvation_ The Official Movie Novelization - Alan Dean Foster [23]
The pages of indifferently strewn books rustled fitfully in the wind, their words seeming to drift away to rejoin the vanished spirits of those who had originally set them down.
Marching steadily downslope and across the cracked and shattered parking lot without regard to the priorities or interests of either men or machines, the uninhibited chaparral vegetation that had been cleared for the construction of the observatory was now reclaiming its ancient territory. Trees thrust upward through weakened asphalt, while vines, creepers, and incongruously flowered bushes assailed crumbling walls or pushed their way through windows devoid of glass.
For all the destruction, the place was not quite deserted.
While the war with the machines had cost much of mankind access to electricity, fire had never left him. Around the makeshift pit filled with carefully piled kindling and a couple of chair legs had been gathered the remnants of a devastated civilization: several useless televisions, a couple of radios, a microwave oven suitable for storing if not preparing food. Into this dovetailed detritus came three tired figures. Though their discrepancy in size and shape suggested they might as well have represented three separate species, they were in fact all of the same.
A species that was, at present, not doing very well at all.
Wright studied the debris. “Where are the cars?”
“You don’t want to go out after dark,” Reese told him. “Hunter-Killers have infrared and who knows what else. They hunt even better at night.” He stepped over a line of crushed metal and plastic. “We can make a run for it in the morning.”
Settling down beside a scorched depression that had obviously been used as a firepit, he began the work of starting a small blaze. Returning from rummaging through a bigger heap of broken furniture and other unidentifiable detritus, Star passed him a double handful of meat—also unidentifiable.
Wright looked on. In his time he had done plenty of scavenging of his own.
“So what’s dinner?”
Reese nodded at the unappetizing bounty.
“Two-day old coyote.” He paused to let that sink in. “Better than three-day old coyote.” Pausing again, he added, “There’s enough for everyone.”
Wright smiled. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Sorry, but we’re fresh out of mustard. And everything else.”
Looking to occupy himself as the youth started cooking the single mass of meat, Wright’s gaze settled on the shotgun. Searching the surrounding debris, he found a decent length of intact cord. When he reached for the gun, the teen tensed visibly. Smiling without having to say “take it easy,” Wright positioned the holster around his shoulder.
“Grab it.”
Reese frowned at him. “What?”
“Grab it.”
Letting the meat sizzle on its stick, Reese leaned over sharply and clutched the shotgun. But he couldn’t pull it away—the new cord kept it connected to the older man.
“Magic.” Wright smiled at the youngster. “Got it?”
Reese’s uncertainty turned to understanding. He almost, but not quite, smiled back.
“Got it. Thanks.”
Wright passed the gun, holster, and cord back to its owner. Reese glanced at it thoughtfully. His expression suggested that the stranger was still a stranger. Just—a little less strange, now.
As he turned away from the children and the incipient supper, a spark of interest flared in Wright as he examined the collection of decrepit electronics. Working his way through the pile, he picked up a radio and tried several of the controls. One produced an agonized scraping sound. Holding it at arm’s length, he studied it closely.
“Does this radio work? Looks like it’s in better shape than anything else.”
Reese shook his head. “It’s broken. My dad tried to fix it. But we could never get it to work.” He shrugged. “Better broken anyway. Don’t want to make too much noise.”
Turning it over in his hands, Wright studied the fasteners, then pried open