Terminator Salvation: From the Ashes (8 page)

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.”

43

“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.

44

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.”

45

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Never panic.

Orozco’s frequently repeated warning echoed through Kyle’s mind as the six teens spread out into a loose semicircle and started toward the three of them. Never, ever
panic.

But it was very hard not to. He and Orozco had guns of their own, but they were still holstered at their sides. The teens’ two guns were already out and aimed.

“Take it easy,” Orozco called again. “There’s no need for trouble.”

“Maybe we
like
trouble,” the leader retorted. He had pulled a couple of paces ahead of the rest of his pack, his revolver pointed at Orozco’s stomach as he strode toward his victims.

“Maybe so, but I’ll bet your buddies would rather have goodies than broken bones,” Orozco countered, reaching behind him to give Kyle a gentle but imperative push backward and a little to the right.

Star plucked at Kyle’s sleeve.

“Not now,” Kyle muttered, trying desperately to come up with a plan. If he took a long step to his right, the direction Orozco had just nudged him, he would end up with the burro between him and the main group of teens.

That might at least give him a chance to draw his Colt and even the odds a little.

But no, that wouldn’t work. Even though the burro might block shots coming from that direction, Kyle would still be exposed to the kid with the revolver standing down the street.

Unless Orozco was planning to block that line of fire with his own body. Was that what the little push had meant? Was Kyle supposed to duck into shelter, and try to take down as many of the attackers as he could before one of them got Orozco? Or him? Or Star?

There was another tug at Kyle’s arm, even more insistent than the first.

“What?” Kyle bit out, glaring at her.

Her eyes met his evenly, her hands tracing out a single word.
Empty.

Kyle frowned. Empty? What was that supposed to—?

And then he got it, and his eyes lifted from Star to the gun pointed at them from down the street.

To the gun, and the faint hints of light he could see peeking coyly through the revolver’s cylinder.

The gun was empty.

Kyle looked back at the gang leader, still bearing down on Orozco. Was his gun empty, too? The kid was holding it low, pointed at Orozco’s waist instead of his chest or head, too low for Kyle to see if its cylinder was also empty.

But it almost didn’t matter. The minute the boy reached them and got his hands on either Orozco’s Beretta or Kyle’s Colt, he
would
have a loaded gun. If Kyle was going to do something, he had to do it right now.

The kid was nearly there, his free hand reaching toward Orozco’s holster. Setting his teeth, Kyle took a quick step to his right, ducked down behind the burro’s side, and yanked out his Colt.

“Freeze!” he ordered.

The gang leader’s head snapped toward Kyle, his eyes burning with surprise and rage, his gun swiveling toward this sudden new threat. As he did so, Orozco took half a step forward.

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And in a haze of motion that Kyle never did completely figure out, the gang leader was spun 180

degrees around, his gun hand yanked up behind his back with the revolver pointed harmlessly down the street, and Orozco’s left arm snaking its way around the kid’s neck to press tightly against his throat.

“Like my friend says,” Orozco said. “Freeze.”

“Let him go!” the gunman down the street snarled, jabbing his empty revolver threateningly toward Orozco as he and his friend unglued themselves from their positions and charged toward the would-be victims.

There was a sudden muffled crack from the direction of the gang leader’s twisted arm. The kid cried out in pain, and his revolver thudded onto the broken pavement. An instant later, Orozco had released the kid’s wrist, drawn his Beretta, and had his arm crooked around the front of the leader’s face with the gun pointed toward the two incoming teens.

“We only say
freeze
twice,” he warned quietly.

The boys came to a sudden halt.

“Join the group,” Orozco invited them, twitching the Beretta’s muzzle toward the five who were still spread out in front of him. “Put the gun on the ground first.”

Silently, the two teens complied. Orozco’s Beretta followed them the whole way over to the rest of the pack, and now there were seven sets of hate-filled glares washing at Kyle over the muzzle of his Colt.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Orozco said into the brittle silence. “You’re going to put down your weapons—
all
of them—and you’re going to walk away. And you’re not going to come back.

Ever.”

The leader began cursing. Orozco tightened his grip slightly around the other’s neck, and the swearing abruptly stopped.

“That’s the easy way,” Orozco continued. “The hard way is that we make sure you don’t bother us again by killing all of you.” He cocked back the hammer on the Beretta. “Right now.”

Kyle felt sweat gathering on the back of his neck. He’d seen Orozco use this same threat on other gangs, and so far all of them had backed down.

What if this one didn’t?
Would Kyle be able to cold-bloodedly open fire on other human beings if they decided to make a fight of it? Even to save his own life?

Beside him, he felt Star brush his arm…and with that, all the questions and indecision faded into a cold determination. Because he wouldn’t just be protecting himself. He would be protecting Star.

And whatever it took, he would do that.
Whatever
it took.

Maybe the other teens saw the subtle change in his face. Maybe they didn’t, but had just finished running the odds. Whichever it was, one of them took a deep breath and dropped his knife onto the pavement. A moment later a second followed suit, and then a third, until all of them were standing unarmed, looking forlorn and a little ridiculous, as they continued to glare with impotent rage.

“Good,” Orozco said. Removing his arm from the leader’s throat, he gave the kid a shove toward the rest of the group. The kid stopped a couple of feet in front of the pack and turned around, adding his glare to the others’ as he clutched his wrist.

“I suggest you head south,” Orozco went on. “The population density goes down as you get closer to NukeZero, so there should still be places where you can carve out a home for yourselves.

And the radiation should be well below danger levels by now.”

“Like we care about that when we’re starving to death,” one of them muttered.

“There’s still plenty of food to be had for the scrounging,” Orozco assured him. “Or you can starve, if you’d rather. Makes no difference to me.”

Abruptly, Kyle heard the sound of running feet coming from his left. He turned, to see Wadleigh and three more Moldering Lost Ashes men appear around the corner, rifles and shotguns at the ready.

47

The teens saw them, too, and with that the last thoughts of resistance or treachery crumbled away. They might be vicious and depraved, but the fact they’d survived this long proved they weren’t stupid.

“But wherever you go,” Orozco went on, “please believe me when I say that you have no future in this neighborhood.”

The leader’s eyes came reluctantly back to Orozco.

“Yeah, we got it,” he bit out.

“Good,” Orozco said. “Now go collect whatever you’ve got in your flophouse and hit the road.

I’ll give you half an hour. After that, if we see any of you around here again, you’ll be shot on sight.”

“Go to hell,” the leader muttered. But the words had no fire behind them, only dull resignation.

“I’m already there,” Orozco said grimly. “So is everyone else. Save your strength for fighting Skynet and the Terminators, not your fellow humans.”

The kid snorted. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” Orozco insisted. “You like leading? Fine. We need leaders. But lead a Resistance cell, not a gang.”

The kid just grunted and turned his back. Pushing his way through the rest of the group, he stomped back into their flimsy ganghouse. One by one the others followed, some of them glancing at Orozco as they went, others ignoring him completely.

They had all disappeared inside by the time Wadleigh and the others arrived.

“You okay?” Wadleigh asked, panting as he trotted to a halt. “The sentry signaled that you were in trouble.”

“We were, but we’re not anymore,” Orozco assured him. “Thanks for the timely arrival. Made it much easier to convince them to vacate the premises.”

“Let’s hope so,” Wadleigh growled. “What about that stuff?” He gestured at the knives and revolvers scattered around the street.

“We’ll take it with us,” Orozco said. “Kyle, you and Star go gather everything up. You can put it in that extra bag on the burro’s harness.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. Gesturing to Star, he holstered his Colt and grabbed the bag. Walking around the burro, he went to the abandoned weapons and started collecting them. One of the knives in particular caught his eye, and he took a moment to heft it in his hand, feeling the weight nestle comfortably in his grip.

A couple of the teens, he had noticed, had held their knives like they really knew what they were doing. Carefully setting the weapon in the bag with the others, Kyle made a mental note to ask Orozco about that later. Orozco had already taught him how to shoot and make explosives. Maybe later Kyle could learn how to fight with a knife, too.

The sun was setting behind a line of drab, pink-edged clouds when Blair finally arrived at the new hangar where she and Yoshi had stashed their A-10s.

Considering the shape her plane had been in when she delivered it to Wince last night, she’d expected to find the place buzzing with activity. But the big open space was quiet and dark, with no hum of grinding wheels or flicker of welder fire.

“Hello?” she called softly into the darkness, stepping back to put her shoulder blades against the wall beside the door, her hand dropping to the grip of her Desert Eagle. “Anyone home?”

There was another moment of silence. Then, a shadow behind her A-10 shifted subtly and Wince’s familiar shock of white hair appeared around the tail.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

“You were expecting someone else?” Blair growled, looking around the otherwise deserted hangar. This was nor the level of security they were supposed to have around here.

48

“Yoshi, actually,” Wince said. “He’s been here all day, and I finally sent him back to the bunker to get some sleep. But you know how well he obeys that kind of order.”

“About as well as I do?”

“About that, yes,” Wince agreed. “But since you’re here and he isn’t, could you give me a hand?”

“What do you need?” Blair asked, keeping her grip on the Desert Eagle as she headed toward him. If there was someone back there holding a gun on the old man…

But she rounded the tail to find that Wince was indeed alone.

“I’m trying to get this attached without attracting attention,” he told her, pointing to a replacement armor plate lying beneath an open section of her A-10’s tail, a section completely surrounded by bullet holes. Those HKs last night had really done a job on her plane. “HKs have been buzzing the neighborhood all afternoon,” Wince continued, “and I’ve been afraid to fire up the welders.”

“So what are you going to use, duct tape?” Blair asked, eyeing the hole. It looked way too small for the plate Wince was planning to jam into it.

“Close,” Wince said with a grin as he pried the top off an unlabeled one-quart can. “I’m going to glue it in.”

Blair cocked her head.

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, temporarily, anyway,” he said. “Tomorrow when I don’t have to worry so much about stray light leaking out I’ll do a proper welding. But the glue should hold it together until then.”

“Okay,” Blair said, looking at all the other bullet holes on the tail as the scent of the adhesive curled her nose hairs. Wince’s inventory included some of the worst-smelling concoctions in all of creation. “Don’t you think you should take off all those other plates before you glue this one down?”

“By that I assume you mean I should take them off so that I can replace them?” Wince suggested as he selected a paintbrush and started to layer the glue onto the exposed section of fuselage. “I’d love to do just that.

“Problem is, we haven’t got anything to replace them with.”

Blair looked at the other damaged plates.

“Oh.”

“It’s worse than just ‘oh’,” Wince said grimly. “Another round like last night and you and Connor can say goodbye to any hope of continuing air support. My inventory of spare parts and armor is going fast, and as for jet fuel, we’re down to a single fill-up each.” He glanced over at her.

“Just between us, I’m starting to get a bit concerned.”

“Join the club,” Blair said. “I just hope we’ll find some useful stuff in that depot.”

“The Skynet staging area,” Wince said, nodding. “Yes, Yoshi told me about that. Sounds perfectly insane, if you ask me.”

“No argument there,” Blair agreed. “But it’s better than going out with a whimper. Besides, in theory all the Terminators will be out making trouble when Connor hits it.”

Wince snorted. “In theory. Right. Famous last words if I’ve ever heard ’em.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Blair said. “You ever hear that bumblebees can’t fly?”

“Unscientific urban legend,” Wince scoffed, studying his new layer of glue and reaching the brush in to touch up a few spots. “There’s not enough wing surface if the bumblebee functioned like a fixed-wing aircraft, but its wings actually work more like reverse-pitch semi-rotary helicopter blades. You get a lot more lift that way, obviously more than enough for a bumblebee to tootle along just fine.”

“That’s my point,” Blair said. “Skynet’s got its rules and logic, and if we play by them it’ll eventually grind us down. So we have to find new ways and new logic.”

“Such as hitting a staging area?”

49

“Exactly.”

Wince shook his head.

“I’m just a simple country mechanic. Okay, I think we’re ready. You get that end of the plate, and I’ll take this end.”