Only then did he see that Wadleigh’s shirt was drenched in blood.
“Hang in there,” Orozco urged him. “As soon as we get a few more people here to help, we’ll get you back to the medics.”
“Never mind that,” Wadleigh said, his voice gurgling a little, bubbles of blood flecking the corners of his mouth. “Where’s my rifle? What happened to my rifle?”
“Here, take this,” Orozco said, drawing his Beretta and pressing it into the other’s hand.
Wadleigh smiled weakly in thanks, and Orozco turned back to the barrier.
“Where’s everyone else?” he asked Bauman.
“Run out or dead,” Bauman said, his voice sounding more weary than bitter. “Not here, anyway.” He looked sideways at Orozco. “So why are we here?”
“Because someone needs to slow them down while everyone who’s left gets back to the lobby and regroups,” Orozco told him.
Bauman snorted.
“Why? So they can die up there instead of back here?”
“So they can have the best possible chance to live,” Orozco told him brusquely. “Because protecting them is our job right now.” He looked Bauman squarely in the eye. “Because if we’re going to die, that’s how men die.”
Bauman took a deep breath.
“Yeah,” he said. He took another deep breath. “Okay. As long as there’s a good reason.”
Behind Orozco came a sudden gasp, and then silence, and he turned to find that Wadleigh was dead. Reaching down, he closed the man’s eyes, then gently retrieved the Beretta from his limp hand.
“But we’re not doing a Little Bighorn here, either,” he told Bauman as he holstered the pistol and pulled out one of his two remaining pipe bombs. “As soon as the first metal bastard sticks his nose around that corner, you and the others are going to lay down enough fire to hold him back while I blow the floor out from under him.”
“Okay,” Bauman said. “Sure. Let’s give it a try.”
The sound of breaking sheetrock faded away. They must all be inside, Orozco guessed.
“Steady,” he told his men as he got out his lighter. If this was a Western, the thought whispered through his mind, this would be the time Barnes would lead a cavalry charge to the rescue.
But this wasn’t a movie. And no one came charging to the rescue anymore.
But this was still bow men died.
Through the floor he felt the faint vibrations as heavy footsteps approached. Flicking the cap on his lighter, he held the bomb ready and waited.
Connor had noticed the bus that morning as Barnes’ group was having their confrontation at the Moldavia. Had not only noticed it, but had gauged its usefulness as a bunker, and had also done a quick mental inventory of all the possible ways it could be successfully taken out.
Which was why he and his squad were currently making their approach along the street just north of the bus instead of taking the time to go an extra block south and come up behind it. Just ahead, on the southwest corner of the street, was the burned-out remnant of what had once been a corner store, with glassless windows that looked out onto both the bus’ north-south street and Connor’s own east-west street.
Once the squad reached the store, it would be a straightforward matter of slipping through the windows on their side, crossing under cover to the other side, and sending their last C4 grenade directly into the bus.
At which point Barnes and his squad should be able to duck through the more distant and less effective fire from the north end of the street and go to Orozco’s aid.
Connor just hoped they would be in time to do something useful.
They were nearly to the store when some instinct made Connor glance over his shoulder. There, striding silently toward them along the far side of the street, were a brand new set of four T-600s.
Before Connor could even open his mouth to shout a warning, they opened fire.
McFarland took the brunt of that first salvo, his body all but disintegrating under the hail of bullets, dead long before he hit the pavement. Connor swung his MP5 around, flicking the selector to full auto and opening fire, striking the Terminators and sending their next salvo wide.
“Through the window!” he shouted at the rest of his squad.
Peripherally, he saw them charging toward the corner store as he continued to fire. His clip ran dry, and he slammed in a fresh one, ignoring the bullets hammering into the wall behind him.
“Clear!” he heard Tony’s shout as a hail of cover fire opened up at the Terminators from behind him. “Connor!”
He turned and sprinted toward the store. Bishop and Tony were crouched by the window, their rifles blazing as he dived headlong through the opening. He hit the floor and rolled onto his shoulder and back, coming awkwardly up into a crouch.
“Everyone okay?” he called.
“For now,” Joey said grimly. “But that may not last much longer.”
And only then did Connor’s brain catch up with his combat reflexes, and he recognized the trap Skynet had maneuvered them into.
Because if those ambushing T-600s had attacked while Connor’s squad was still in the middle of the block, they would have stopped right there, hammering the machines with enough gunfire to keep them off balance long enough for Joey to take them out with their last C4 grenade.
Instead, by waiting until the squad had this convenient bunker to retreat to, Skynet had put them within range of both the T-600s on the street and those in the bus.
Two targets. Only one grenade.
It wasn’t really a choice, Connor knew with a sinking heart. Tactically, the only viable move would be to ignore the bus, use the grenade against the group to their west, and then slip out that way. Taking out the bus wouldn’t be of any help, since Skynet could still pull in the Terminators from the north end of the street to block any exit in that direction, leaving Connor and his squad still pinned.
But if Connor did it that way, if he left the bus alone, Skynet would maintain its control of the street, blocking all access to the Moldavia.
And the people in there would all die.
Joey was crouching beside him, the grenade launcher in his hands, his eyes steady on Connor’s face. Probably he’d run through the same train of logic, and knew that the people in the Moldavia were doomed.
“Get the launcher ready,” Connor told him evenly. “We’re taking out the bus.”
The hallways were filled with smoke and the thunder of machinegun fire, the screams of the wounded, and the bodies of the dead.
Orozco continued backing slowly down the hall, firing at every pair of red eyes he could make out through the drifting smoke. There were a lot of them, at least five sets he could see at the moment. The Terminators were working their way toward him, pausing at each doorway along the hall to check for potential victims.
Sometimes the room was empty, and the Terminators would continue their march forward. Far too often, though, there was someone hiding in there. Then there would be yet another burst of minigun fire, and another person would join the ranks of the dead.
Orozco was alone now. All those who’d once stood with him had either been killed or had turned and fled. He still nursed some frail tendrils of hope that at least some of those who’d run hadn’t actually deserted, but had instead headed back to the lobby to regroup for a counterattack.
He wasn’t really expecting that. But he also didn’t blame them. The Terminators had brought a living, pulsating hell to their home, and men and women who’d never before been through such sound and fury and death could hardly be expected to stand against it for long.