Terminator Salvation_ The Official Movie Novelization - Alan Dean Foster [92]
Before long, the frequency that connected them with the Command sub went silent, until there was nothing left hissing from the speakers but static. Stunned, the comms officer looked up at those clustered around his station.
“They’re—they’re gone.”
Barnes pivoted to stare in the direction of the wreckage of the broadcast unit that had been so meticulously assembled by the base’s engineering staff. The one that an absent John Connor had taken the time to blow to bits.
“Connor was right about the signal. He’s no traitor. He saved us.” Looking around, his gaze settled on Kate Connor—who said nothing.
Frustrated and angry in equal measure, the lieutenant searched the faces of his fellow fighters.
“What the hell do we do now?”
Having moved to begin loading a shotgun, it was Kate who supplied the answer.
“We save him.”
The Terminator was in no special hurry. It would follow its quarry to the end of the hallway, the walls of Central, or if necessary to the ends of the Earth. Termination was simply a matter of time. The outcome was as certain as if it had been predetermined. Humans could move fast, but only for a brief period and over a short distance. The frail organic engines that powered them required constant refueling and hydration and quickly ran down. The individual it was presently tracking was no different.
A small object in the center of the floor ahead drew the attention of the machine’s visual perceptions. Leaning forward, it looked closer with the intention of analyzing the anomaly and adding this new information to its individual database. While the half brick of plastic explosive was of known chemical composition, the Terminator was not concerned. In the absence of a detonator the material was harmless.
Unlike the not-quite-so frail human who was standing at the far end of the hallway carefully balancing a 25mm grenade launcher against his shoulder.
Before the Terminator could react, Connor fired.
The resultant explosion was deafening. It blew him backward off his feet and sent him skidding several yards down the hallway. As the smoke and particulates began to clear, he climbed to his feet and made his way cautiously toward where he had planted the explosive.
Of the machine there was no sign. There was, however, a gaping, ragged-edged hole in the floor from which smoke continued to rise. The Terminator was down there somewhere. Damaged, if Connor was lucky. More likely just momentarily stunned and disoriented. That would not last. A mere grenade might slow it down but it wouldn’t stop it. The ploy had bought Connor some time, but nothing more. He needed to use it.
Limping down the hallway, he gritted his teeth as he ignored the pain from assorted bumps and bruises. He shouted as he ran.
“Reese! Kyle Reese!”
The absence of a response did not keep him from yelling out the name, nor from running. As for the Terminator, he did not look back to see if it might be gaining. There was no need to do so.
Eventually, it would be.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He was alone. Star was gone, Virginia was gone, Marcus Wright—who he had thought of as a friend—was gone. Reese sat in the tiny cell and waited. He knew not for what, except that at the hands of the machines he could only hope it would be quick.
It was not much longer in coming. The door drew back unexpectedly. As he scrambled to try and get away, the T-600 grabbed him and dragged him, kicking and fighting, down a short corridor and into a larger chamber. In contrast to his holding room this space was larger and more brightly lit.
It also was not empty.
Mostly, it was clean. No, not clean, he told himself with rising dread. Sterile. Everything was shiny and chromed and gleaming. The instruments, the machines of varying sizes, the overhead illuminators. Everything except the blood that was draining off a metal table in the