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The pile he was assembling alongside the waiting jeep grew steadily. Batteries, wires still flaunting their insulation, spark plugs that looked as if, given the right encouragement, they might still spark, an air filter that was less dirty than others, a fuel filter so clean it must have come from somewhere other than L.A.... Some of his finds stayed on the parts mountain while others found their way into the heart of the 4x4.

The sun was well up by the time he felt he had put together something under the hood of the jeep that might pass for an engine. Finding a battery that still had juice was hardest of all, given how long the automotive graveyard had been in existence. Satisfied that he had done the best he could with the materials available, he carried the battery over to the jeep and began bolting it onto the waiting support plate.

The necessary connections were almost complete when the bent and rusted prop that had been holding up the hood finally gave way. He yanked his arm back sharply, but the falling metal still scraped his withdrawing arm. Blood appeared against the skin, seeping. He stared at it as if seeing it for the first time, ignoring the return of his old companion.

Pain.

Off to his right, something moved. Reaching into one of her many pockets, the girl fumbled a moment before removing a single band-aid. On it was imprinted the image of a white cartoon dog with a black nose and a contented smile. What was the character’s name? Wright tried to remember as she carefully applied the child’s bandage to the fresh wound. It was far from broad enough to cover the slash and blood continued to ooze from around the adhesive’s edge.

Stepping back, she eyed her handiwork with all the dignity and professional gratification of a surgeon who had just closed up a patient’s exposed spine.

He ought to say something, he realized. “Thank you” would probably be appropriate. They locked eyes for an instant. Then he carefully lifted up the jeep’s hood, fashioned a new temporary prop, and resumed installing the battery.

How much Reese had observed of what had just transpired between himself and the girl Wright didn’t know, and didn’t care. But there was suspicion and uncertainty in the teen’s manner as he approached the jeep. For a while he said nothing; just stood and watched as the older man connected wires and cables. Eventually curiosity overcame any attempt at appearing disinterested.

“You get it working?”

Wright spoke without taking his head out from under the hood.

“Almost. Won’t know ’til I try. Parts seem to work okay separately. Next we’ll see how well they work together. At least the gas in the tank hasn’t turned to varnish.” He indicated the assembled wrecks. “Managed to siphon enough to fill ’er up.”

Turning, Reese gazed off into the distance.

“We should head east. Into the desert. That’s the best place to get away from the machines. If we’re lucky, we might run into some real Resistance fighters.” Long-suppressed excitement crept unbidden into his voice. “Maybe they’ll give me something to fight the machines with besides spring traps.”

Wright was tightening a bolt deep within the engine compartment. It wouldn’t do to get the jeep up and running only to have some vital part fall out halfway to his destination. He doubted a call to the Automobile Club would bring much in the way of a response. If there still was an Automobile Club. If he had anything to call with.

“I’m heading north.”

That didn’t sound good, Reese decided. Not just the “north” part. The “I’m” part. He immediately protested.

“No—why—you can’t. That was one of the first places the machines took over. Machines control the whole Northern Sector. It’s Skynet Central. You can’t get in there. Why would you even want to try?”

Something went clang under the hood and Wright cursed. The expletive was short and pungent. Reese twitched while Star looked on in continued and blissful ignorance.

“I’ve got to find someone,” Wright finally responded.

It was enough to solidify Reese’s suspicions. Not “we