Terminator Salvation: From the Ashes

CHAPTER

SIX

The storm drainage tunnel was dank, fungus-infested, shin-high in fetid water, and tight enough that Connor and David couldn’t walk without stooping over.

But it was underground and out of sight of HKs and T-600s. That alone elevated the experience to the level of a walk in the park.

They were nearly to their target when Connor spotted a narrow slit of pale light angling in from the tunnel’s roof. David, in the lead, noticed it about the same time and signaled for a halt.

“Does that look suspicious to you, too?” he whispered to Connor.

Connor studied the dim light. They’d passed beneath similar openings at various points along their journey, most of them a result of warped or broken manhole covers that had once protected access points into the tunnels.

But none of those other covers had been inside a Skynet staging area. This one was, and it demanded a higher degree of caution.

“We’ve come this far,” Connor whispered back. “Let’s take a look.”

David nodded, taking a moment to fold up the strip map he’d made of the tunnel and tucking it away inside his jacket. Then, getting a grip on his shoulder-slung MP5 submachine gun, he started forward.

They reached the ray of light without anything jumping out of the darkness or, worse, opening fire. The manhole cover was at the top of a five-meter concrete cylinder, accessible via a set of rusty rungs set into the cylinder’s side.

Connor peered up at it. This particular cover wasn’t cracked, but had merely been angled slightly up out of its proper position, either by movement of the ground around it or by a small warping of the cover’s seating. The gap itself was very small, no more than half a centimeter across at its widest.

More significant than the gap’s origin was the fact that it had clearly been there a long time. A single tenacious vine had taken root in the tunnel wall where the light shone, its roots poking through cracks in the concrete, its leaves positioned to drink in the meager bit of sunlight.

Of even greater significance was the thick layer of rust and grime visible on the cover itself, which meant it had lain undisturbed since long before Skynet had set up its staging area in the warehouse above. Possibly since Judgment Day itself.

David had apparently come to the same set of conclusions.

“Looks clean,” he whispered. “Be careful not to move it.”

Connor nodded, rotated his own MP5 downward on its shoulder sling, and started up the rungs.

Caution was definitely the order of the day—if there was a similar layer of rust on the upper side of the cover, moving the plate would probably disturb it. Skynet’s Terminators were experts at ferreting out such subtle clues of Resistance presence.

The rungs, fortunately, were sturdier than their coating of rust suggested, and Connor reached the top without incident. Hooking his right arm through the top rung, he pulled out the snoop kit with his left and unrolled its length of bendable but slightly stiff fiber optic cable. He slipped the elastic band around his head, adjusted the eyepiece over his right eye, then bent the tip of the cable into a right angle and eased it up through the opening.

The good news was that David’s map and navigation had been right on the mark. They had indeed reached the warehouse Blair had spotted the previous night. Turning the optic cable in a slow circle, Connor could see two of the HKs she’d described, still maintaining their silent guard at the parking lot’s corners.

The bad news was that the tunnel wasn’t going to take them beneath the warehouse itself, as David had suggested might be the case. It was close, certainly—the tunnel ran nearly parallel to the building, angling slightly away at the far end. Unfortunately, the entire passageway was very definitely outside the wall.

He looked down at David, still waiting at the bottom of the shaft, and shook his head. The other grimaced and nodded acknowledgment.

Connor raised his head and once again focused on the view through the eyepiece. The wall the tunnel was paralleling didn’t look all that healthy, he noted. In fact, it looked way too fragile to still be holding up that much roof. Some trick of the warehouse’s internal structure, perhaps, that made the wall look weaker than it actually was?

Or had Skynet actually taken the time and trouble to reinforce the building?

There was no way to tell without actually getting inside. But whatever the situation, it probably wasn’t anything they couldn’t fix with a few chunks of C4 along the bottom edge of the wall.

He was figuring out the best places to set the charges when a T-600 appeared around the far corner, striding alongside the south warehouse wall like a sentry on patrol.

Coming directly toward the manhole cover.

Connor’s first impulse was to yank the optical fiber down out of sight. But movement attracted the eye, especially a Terminator’s eye, and the machine was already close enough to notice even a movement that small.

But if Connor could mask that movement with something else…

Shifting control of the optic cable to his right hand, he reached over to the vine and pinched off the largest leaf and its stem with his fingernails. He held it up against the opening, making sure to keep it below ground level. Then, watching the Terminator closely, he eased the leaf a couple of centimeters up through the opening as he simultaneously pulled the end of the cable back down.

Holding the leaf in place, feeling the breeze tugging at it, he held his breath.

Even through the ground and the concrete of the shaft, he could feel the vibration of the T-600’s steps as the machine approached and then came to a halt. For a moment nothing happened. Connor forced himself to hold the leaf steady, wishing he could see what the Terminator was doing, wondering if it and Skynet were merely contemplating this green intruder into their lifeless domain or whether they’d seen through the deception and had spotted the soft, vulnerable humans below.

And then, abruptly, the cover was slammed back into position, sealing the gap, cutting off the faint light and crushing the leaf.

And as a soft rain of rust particles drifted down onto Connor’s face and shoulders, he felt the fading thuds as the Terminator continued on its way.

Carefully, in full darkness now, he made his way down the shaft to where David was waiting.

“Terminator?” David whispered.

Connor nodded. “Regular sentry patrol, I assume.”

“What were you doing with that leaf?”

“I didn’t want the T-600 to spot the cable vanishing,” Connor explained, “and I sure as hell couldn’t risk leaving it out there. So I gave the Terminator something more innocuous to notice.”

David grunted. “Good thing their motion sensors require a visual follow-up,” he said. “Who knew they hated plants, too?”

Connor grimaced. “Of course they hate plants. Plants exhale oxygen, which oxidizes metals. If and when they wipe out humans, you can bet animals and plants will be next.”

“Well, as long as they start with lima beans, I’m good with it,” David said philosophically. “So what’s the story with the warehouse?”

“I think there’ll be something we can do from the tunnel,” Connor told him. “It wasn’t a wasted trip, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good,” David said. “So now we get the hell out of here?”

“In a bit,” Connor said as he carefully coiled up the snoop kit and returned it to its case. “As long as we’re down here anyway, let’s take some time and see where else these tunnels go.”

There was a short pause.

“Any particular reason you want to know?” David asked at last.

“Not really,” Connor said. “Any particular reason you don’t?”

“Not really,” David said. “After you.”

One of Orozco’s fondest childhood memories was the farmer’s market that came to his neighborhood every Saturday. He could still remember the sights and sounds of the people and vendors, the spicy aromas from the food carts mixed in with the subtler scents of melon and strawberry and fresh corn. He could feel his mother’s grip on his hand, lest they be separated in the crowds, and the precious weight of the grocery bag he’d been entrusted with clutched tightly to his chest.

Nguyen’s display of goods wasn’t nearly up to those memories. But in the world beyond Judgment Day, it was as close as anyone was likely to get.

“These are apple seeds,” Nguyen said, pointing to a small collection of black seeds. “Not for everyone—they take a lot of space and soil. But if you’ve got all that, I guarantee you’ll love them.”

“Afraid we don’t have that kind of space here,” Grimaldi said, gazing over the collection of seeds, seedlings, ripe vegetables, and grains Nguyen’s people had laid out on a long plastic display sheet. “We could use some of that lettuce, though.”

“Good choice,” Nguyen said. “But you really need some zucchini to go with it.”

“Yes, that does sound good,” Grimaldi agreed, stroking his lip carefully.

Standing back against the conference room wall, Orozco gave a quiet sigh. They had some pretty extensive gardens in Moldering Lost Ashes, and they could certainly use more vegetables to supplement the canned and packaged goods they continued to scrounge from the wreckage of the city.

The problem was that they really didn’t have any room available for expansion. The only practical areas for gardens were on the third and fourth floors, and every square centimeter up there that received even limited sunshine was already packed with either traditional dirt-grown plants or the hydroponic setups Morris and Clementi had put together. There was literally nowhere else in the building where they could set up more gardens.

Just as importantly, they didn’t have any more of the wire mesh they used to shield the plants from casual observation by either Skynet or potential raiders who might be lurking in nearby buildings.

But Grimaldi didn’t care about that. He was still locked into the corporate grow-or-fold mindset that he’d ridden to the top of the stack before Judgment Day, and he was hell-bent on applying that philosophy to this struggling colony he’d built amid the ruins of his former dukedom. In his eyes, Moldavia Los Angeles—as he still insisted on calling it—was destined to become a thriving community, a self-contained city-within-a-city that would someday pull the rest of L.A. out of the ashes along with it.

It wouldn’t happen, of course. What Moldering Lost Ashes was really destined to become was a shattered graveyard. Sooner or later, Skynet would see to that.

Orozco looked over at Kyle and Star, standing at the edge of one of the clumps of residents who were drooling over Nguyen’s display. Kyle, like a good bargainer, was pretending he wasn’t nearly as interested as he really was. Star, without Kyle’s sophistication or craftiness, was gazing at the wares in open, wide-eyed fascination.

“…for ten gallons of gasoline,” Grimaldi finished.

Orozco snapped out of his reverie. What the hell had the chief just promised?

“Wait a minute,” he spoke up, leaving his wall and working his way through the crowd to the chief’s side. “Ten gallons?”

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Grimaldi asked coolly, his eyes daring Orozco to argue with him in front of everyone.

“I just wanted to point out to Mr. Nguyen that we have many other items available for trade,”

Orozco said. “We’ve got mechanical systems, tools, plumbing equipment, electrical parts—”

“I appreciate the reminder of our current inventory,” Grimaldi interrupted. “I’m sure Mr.

Nguyen does, too. But he seems mostly interested in our gasoline supply.”

Orozco looked at Nguyen, noting the cautious fervor in the man’s eyes. He wanted their gasoline, all right. Wanted it very badly.

“I trust you to remember that our supply is not unlimited.”

“Of course,” Grimaldi said evenly. “But gasoline is a promise for the future. Food is a promise for the present.”

Orozco grimaced. So much for any further argument. Once Grimaldi started in with the slogans and aphorisms, it meant his mind was completely made up. From that point on, not even the Board could sway him.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll get it first thing tomorrow.”

“I’d prefer to have it now, if you don’t mind,” Nguyen spoke up. “Chief Grimaldi indicated that he wanted to start transplanting the seedlings as soon as possible, and I’m sure you understand that once our plants are mixed in with yours, it will be very difficult to tell which ones are which.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that we might renege on our promise,” Grimaldi said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Of course not,” Nguyen assured him. “But things happen. You understand.”

“All the same—” Grimaldi began.

“It’s not a problem,” Orozco said, cutting off what could only be a useless argument. It was still plenty light out, and most of the gangs in the area didn’t come out until it was full dark. “Give me one of your burros, and Kyle and I will go get it. You brought your own containers, I trust?”

“Yes, we have some collapsible plastic ones,” Nguyen said. “If you’d like, I or some of my men can come with you and give you a hand.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Orozco assured him, gesturing to Kyle. Like he was naive enough to show a group of perfect strangers where their stash of gasoline was hidden. “Kyle, go check out the Colt from the weapons locker and put it on. Mr. Nguyen, just bring the burro to the front entrance, if you would.”

Five minutes later, Orozco and Kyle left the archway, crossed the street, and headed down the somewhat narrower cross street that ran along the north side of their sniper nest building. A container-laden burro led by a frayed rope walked beside Orozco. Star, as always, walked beside Kyle.

“Keep your eyes open,” Orozco warned quietly as they reached the first corner and turned south.

He glanced back, checking to make sure none of Nguyen’s men were following. “We should be okay, but one of the gangs could be out trying for an early-bird special.”

“What’s an early-bird special?” Kyle asked.

Orozco grimaced. “Something restaurants and stores used to use to draw in customers. People who got there early could snatch up the easiest pickings. We don’t want those easy pickings to be us.”

“Oh,” Kyle said. “Speaking of stores, the blanket that’s supposed to be stored at the southeast sentry post is missing.”

“I know,” Orozco said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Did Ellis take it?” Kyle persisted. “I checked, and he was the one on shift before Star and me.”

Orozco sighed.

“Yes, he took it,” he said. “He also took some food and one of the .22s.”

Kyle stared at him.

“He left?”

“So it would seem,” Orozco said. “Keep that to yourself, please. I haven’t told the chief yet, and there’s going to be hell to pay when he finds out. Might as well wait until our visitors leave and we can hash it out in private.”

“Okay,” Kyle said, still sounding confused. “Why would he just leave like that?”

“Probably just got tired of the place,” Orozco told him. “Or got tired of the people, or the food, or the work. Or he’s just one of those kids who can’t stand to stay in one place very long. I’ve known some like that.”

Their gasoline stash, the underground fiberglass storage tank from a long-demolished service station, was located three blocks from the main Moldering Lost Ashes building. There had been hundreds of such stations in the L.A. area, and Orozco suspected that a large percentage of that supply was still down there, just waiting to be found.

The trick, as always, was to make sure that once you found something valuable, it stayed yours.

The passageway Grimaldi and his people had created leading to the tank went a long way toward accomplishing that, with the main entrance disguised as just another section of demolished building and a couple of decoy tunnels leading off the main route to guide any casual visitors harmlessly back to the surface.

But Grimaldi’s real genius was the hidden door he’d constructed that led into the storage tank chamber. He’d rigged a sliding door that would only open far enough for a child of ten or younger to squeeze through. Once inside, it was a simple matter of shifting a couple of two-by-fours to allow the door to open the rest of the way. Until that was done, though, adults and teens were out of luck.

The door was strong enough to stand up against all but the most determined physical attacks, and even if someone managed to force it open all he would get for his trouble would be a booby-trapped ceiling collapsing on top of him.

Orozco’s personal contribution to that genius was in tapping Kyle for this particular duty whenever possible. Very few people in the Ashes even knew where the gasoline was located, and of those only Orozco, Grimaldi, and a couple of others knew about the special door and how it operated. Star was so much a part of Kyle’s every movement that no one gave her a second thought anymore as she wandered around in the boy’s shadow.

Certainly no one would ever dream that her presence on a gasoline run had anything to do with the operation itself, let alone provided a vital key to it.

Which was exactly the way Orozco and Grimaldi wanted it. The gasoline was used almost exclusively as a trade good, and then only sparingly, with virtually none of it going to the building’s own activities. As a result, after five years of gradually drawing down the supply the tank was probably still half full.

Orozco had every intention of making sure that it was Moldering Lost Ashes—and only Moldering Lost Ashes—that finally drew down the last drop.

Unlike some of the beasts of burden Orozco had dealt with over the years, this particular burro had no problem letting itself be led into the cramped tunnel beyond the disguised entryway. Orozco kept a firm hand on the animal’s lead, alert to any sign that it might suddenly bolt. They reached the door, Star slipped inside, and two minutes later Orozco was carefully filling Nguyen’s canisters from the tap they’d drilled into the gasoline tank.

The tap had been specifically designed for low flow in order to minimize the chance of spillage, and drawing the promised ten gallons took over fifteen minutes. Orozco made sure the tap was securely closed, reset the backup safety system that would hopefully prevent a catastrophic spill if the tap’s seals somehow failed, then led the way out of the chamber back to the tunnel.

Star closed the door back down to its usual crack, reset the two-by-fours, and rejoined them.

Turning the burro around would have been difficult, so Orozco opted instead to leave via one of the decoy tunnels. It brought them back to street level a block from where they’d entered; getting his bearings, Orozco turned them back toward home.

They still had two blocks to go when a pair of gaunt and filthy teenaged boys suddenly appeared from broken doorways on opposite sides of the street five meters ahead.

“Freeze or bleed,” one of them ordered, hefting a long-barreled revolver in both hands and pointing it at Orozco’s chest.

Orozco felt his stomach tighten. Neither of the kids was a local, or at least not a local he recognized. Was this the vanguard of the gang Nguyen and his people had spotted on their way in?

“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure we can make a deal.”

“Well, would ya look at that?” another voice came from the right. Orozco turned, to see six more youths file out of a long ganghouse shack that seemed to be built mostly from cracked pieces of drywall. The boy in front was gripping an even bigger revolver than the sentry, the others sporting knives or clubs made from pieces of broken rebar. “We’ve hit the jackpot tonight, kiddies,” the teen with the revolver went on. He pointed the gun at the burro. “We got dinner—” he shifted his aim to Orozco’s holstered Beretta—“we got more guns—”

He leveled the gun at Star.

“And we even got ourselves some entertainment.”