And froze. “No,” Wadleigh said quietly.
Orozco turned to look. Wadleigh’s face was pale and his throat was tight, but the Smith &c Wesson 9mm he was pointing at Copeland was rock-steady.
“He’s right,” Wadleigh continued. “The Terminators aren’t going to give us a pass. They’re machines. They’re programmed. They’re going to kill us all.”
“That’s enough, Wadleigh,” Grimaldi bit out. “Sergeant Orozco—”
Orozco twisted his arm a little harder, and again the chief broke off with grunt. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Orozco said, keeping his voice low. “We’re going to prepare for an attack. The fire teams are going to be assembled, and they’re going to answer to me. You can either help, or you can stay out of our way. Is that clear?”
“And if I don’t?” Grimaldi gritted out. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“That’s twice you’ve offered me that choice,” Orozco reminded him. “Keep it up, and one of these times I may take you up on it.”
For a half dozen heartbeats the lobby was silent. “All right, Sergeant,” Grimaldi said at last.
“You go ahead and make your preparations. Take anyone you need; take any resources you need. But.”
He let the word hang in the air a moment. “If we’re still here in the morning,” the chief continued, “you won’t be. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Orozco said.
Letting go of Grimaldi’s arm, he stepped back. Grimaldi straightened back up, and once again briefly locked eyes with Orozco. Then, without another word, he gestured to his men, and the four of them headed back across the lobby toward Grimaldi’s office.
Orozco turned to Wadleigh. “Thanks,” he said.
“No problem,” Wadleigh said as he holstered his gun. “Just remember this when they kick me out, too.”
“I will.” Orozco turned back again.
And for the first time noticed Reverend Sibanda seated on the rim of the fountain where Grimaldi and the others had blocked Orozco’s view of him. “Can I help you, Reverend?” he asked.
“I understood there was trouble brewing,” Sibanda said, standing up and walking over to them.
“I see it was more serious than I thought.”
“Actually, no matter how serious you thought it was, it’s worse,” Orozco told him.
“So I gather,” Sibanda said soberly. “What can I do to help?”
“At this point, I really don’t know,” Orozco said.
“Chief Grimaldi said you were to use all resources,” Sibanda said quietly, his dark eyes burning into Orozco’s. “I’m one of those resources. Please tell me what I can do.”
Orozco eyed the man, trying to think. There was a huge amount of work to do, but with the preacher’s hands half crippled with arthritis he was out of the running for most of it.
“Do what you can to keep the people calm, I guess,” he said. “About the only thing that would make this situation worse would be mass panic.”
“I can do that,” Sibanda promised. “And when the time comes, I’ll help you lead them to the Promised Land.”
Orozco looked away, his mind flicking back to the dark thought of a couple of days ago. The thought that the truly chosen ones of Judgment Day had been those who’d been granted a quick death.
“We’ll be going to the Promised Land soon enough,” he agreed quietly. “I’d be honored to have you along for the journey.”
“I’ll be there,” Sibanda said, his voice calm and assured. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go begin my preparations.”
He turned and walked off across the lobby.
“So will we,” Orozco murmured after him.
Because he, for one, had no intention of going to this particular Promised Land without a fight.
He slapped the backs of his fingertips against Wadleigh’s chest.
“Break time’s over. Let’s get to work.”
The gunfire in the Death’s-Head compound seemed to go on and on, punctuated by the occasional thunder of explosions and the whoosh and reflected glare of more of the gang’s napalm firebombs.
One of them hit the ground close enough to Kyle and Star’s sideways car that the fire blazed through both the windshield and rear window openings, heating the roof three feet in front of them hot enough to glow a dull red.
There were probably screams and curses amid all the commotion, too. Fortunately, perhaps, the hammering of the gunfire drowned out all such sounds of human agony.
But in the end, neither the gang’s weapons nor their stubbornness did them any good. One by one, the guns fell silent, and the running footsteps came to a halt, and silence again descended on the world.
Slowly, Kyle eased his eye back to the rip in the jacket that still covered their faces. Very little of the compound was visible through the open windshield of their sanctuary car, but even that was enough to turn his stomach. There were dead bodies everywhere, some of them mostly whole, some looking like they’d been ripped apart where they stood.
He was still gazing at the carnage when one of the Terminators stepped into his field of view.
The machine was a mess. Its skin and clothing had been almost entirely burned away, exposing not only its entire metal body but also dozens of small dents and blackened scorch marks. It was limping badly, hardly able to walk, its right leg bending oddly with each step. Its left leg wasn’t much better, and its entire right arm up to the elbow was a twisted mass of torn metal.
The Death’s-Heads might have lost the battle, but they’d given a good account of themselves along the way.
Kyle felt a stirring inside him. With its weapon gone, and with that limp, this was one Terminator that wasn’t going to be chasing down anyone any time soon. This might be his and Star’s one chance to make a run for it.
He was still trying to decide whether or not they should try when three more Terminators strode into view. Two of them were in the same shape as the first one, nothing but skinless machines with broken leg servos and mangled right arms.
But the fourth Terminator stood in sharp contrast to its fellow machines. It still had most of its skin and clothing, with no perceptible limp and all its limbs intact. More importantly, it still had its minigun.
Kyle grimaced. It was just as well that he and Star hadn’t tried to run.
Star touched his arm. Carefully, Kyle turned his head beneath the jacket to look at her. What’s happening? she signed, her face drawn and anxious.
They’re still there, he signed back.
Her lip twitched. So we stay here?
For the moment, Kyle signed, trying to smile reassuringly. Don’t worry, we’ll get away soon enough. Just be patient.
He turned back to the Terminators. The three damaged ones had opened up a pack of tools they must have found somewhere in the compound, and in complete and eerie silence each was starting repair work on itself.
Kyle felt his lip twist. What, were you expecting them to sing? he told himself sarcastically. Of course they were fixing themselves in silence. They were machines, not living beings.
More to the point, they were machines that could be damaged—and even destroyed.
And that was what Kyle needed to focus on. Not on all the dead bodies lying on the ground out there, but on the fact that the Terminators themselves could be killed.
No battle plan, Orozco had once told Kyle, ever survives contact with the enemy. That being said, though, a plan is always the place to start.
Reaching beneath the jacket to take Star’s hand, Kyle settled down to watch the Terminators making their repairs, and began working out his plan.