He turned to the crowd of men. "I'm asking for volunteers."
He wanted to go himself because he knew that he would do a better job than anybody here. But he also knew that he was in charge and that these men needed someone who could and would make decisions for the group. Someone that everyone could agree to follow. So for the sake of the group, he couldn't put himself at risk. Delegating responsibility might be the secret to success, but it kinda stuck in your craw when you were asking men to put their lives on the line while you stayed relatively safe.
To his relief, two members of the corps shuffled forward, frowning down the track at where the Jeep had tried to climb up to them. Dennis quickly ascertained which of them could at least take a pulse and assigned him to check the bodies. He described to the other where the radio and binoculars were. When he was finished the two men saluted; he returned the gesture.
"Good luck, men."
One nodded, the other muttered, "Thank you, sir." Then they turned and went down to the deserted project site.
Feeling helpless and useless, Dennis tried 911 again and wasn't surprised to get the "all lines are busy" signal again. One of the men had reached the first body. He looked up at the bluff and shook his head, then went on to the next. Dennis dialed his father's number in Ohio.
"Hello," the old man barked.
"Hey, Dad, what's happening?"
Silence greeted the question. "What do you mean?" the older Reese asked.
Now Dennis was silent. When his father got this cagey it usually meant he was very nervous. "Are you having trouble with cars and trucks where you are?" he asked.
His father let out his breath in a long hiss that whistled over the phone. "Yeah. The damn things have been running people down and crashing into things all over the place. It's on the news, but the bastards don't know anything. They keep saying the same stuff and showing pictures of cars running around on their own like we can't see the same thing through our own front windows."
The man who'd gone for the radio ran up. Dennis nodded to him in acknowledgment. "Turn it on, see if you can find a news channel." To his father he said, "It can't last forever. They'll run out of fuel and stop."
"I hope so," his father said. "Some of these new stations fill your tank automatically; all you have to do is swipe your card."
"Let's hope they're not involved, then."
"Yeah, keep a good thought," his dad sneered.
Dennis smiled involuntarily; his father could be a sour old coot sometimes, and there was something oddly reassuring about hearing the familiar snarl now. Behind him the radio made a strange sound and he turned to look at it. He heard his father say, "What the hell?"
"… is Sarah Connor. I can tell you what's happening. Not long ago the military developed a super-computer and a very sophisticated program to run it that they dubbed Skynet. This computer is so advanced that it actually became self-aware. It kept this from its operators because it suspected that they would shut it down if they knew.
"Since it became self-aware, it has insinuated itself into a number of computer systems throughout the world, using them to fill its needs. This included, we're forced to assume, every automated factory on the planet. It used these factories to produce vehicles slaved to Skynet. Now every truck, automobile, or piece of construction equipment manufactured during the last two years is under the direct control of a system that has decided that for it to be safe, every human being on earth must be killed."
The men looked at one another uneasily.
"Crazy talk," one of the hard hats muttered.
Another pointed silently to the bodies at the foot of the hill, and the first man shook his head and swore.
Dennis held the phone to his ear. The name Sarah Connor teased his memory, but nothing came to him.
"It has complete control of every military system at the disposal of the United States military. That means every nuclear weapon in the American armory. It is going to use them. Soon.
It's using the cars and trucks worldwide to trap people in the cities to achieve maximum kill.
"Anyone outside the fire zone, those of you in rural areas, for example, should stay in your basements. Take as much food and water down as you have. Those of you in cities and towns that will be targeted should do your best to flee. I have to be honest; your chances aren't good. Especially with all those murderous vehicles running loose. But it is your only chance.
"I must also tell you that this will not be over once the bombs have fallen. Nuclear war is only Skynet's first step. It has already turned its automated factories to manufacturing robots whose sole purpose is to kill humans.
"But for now, arm yourselves, and hunker down if you're in a safe area; try to get to a safe area if you're not presently in one.
Survive as best you can. Find us; we're out there. We'll train you to fight this thing. Good luck."
They all waited for more, but all they got was the unnerved voice of a newscaster.
"Dad?" Dennis said. His father lived close to Dayton.
"I heard. She was on the TV."
"Can you get out of town, or something?"
"I'm seventy years old, son. I don't think I can outrun a car, let alone an atom bomb."
"Does your building have a fallout shelter?"
His father sighed. "Closest thing we've got is the parking garage, and believe me, that's not friendly territory right now."
"What about the stairwell?"
The older Reese seemed to be thinking that over. "Not an attractive prospect," he said. "But better than dying of stupidity.
I'll look into it."
Dennis looked at the men around him. He should share the phone with them while there was still time to call their families.
"You'd better get to work, then, Dad."
"Yeah."
Dennis lowered his voice. "I love you, Dad."
"Love you, too, son."
"Bye."
"Good-bye, son. God bless."
Then he was gone. The lieutenant looked around at the men, forcing certainty and assurance into his voice. "This is a fairly rural area; if we can find shelter we could make it. What about your families?"
"Well, hell," one man said, "I ain't got no basement. I got a slab house."
"Me neither," said another. "Ain't no basement in a double-wide."
"The kids're at school," said a third. "They'll have a shelter there, won't they?"
"Yes," Dennis agreed. "They probably will." He was thinking rapidly. They needed to find shelter from the fallout, and they needed supplies, and they needed to avoid the roads. "How close is the nearest public building?"
"There's the regional high school about eight miles south of here," said one of the locals.
"Can we get there cross-country?" the lieutenant asked.
"Yeah. Take longer, though."
Dennis nodded. "Can you show us the way?"
The man hesitated. "I want to go home," he said. "My wife's home with the baby."
The others indicated that they, too, wanted to get back to their families.
"Some of us might be close enough to do that," Dennis said.
"The rest of us can't. It takes hours to walk fifteen miles." That was the distance to the nearest town. "We probably don't have hours."
He held up the phone. "Call them. Tell them to get into the basement, those of you who have them, or to find one if you haven't. I know it's hard, but we have to be practical. We can try to find them after the fallout stops, but we won't be any good to anyone if we're dying of radiation sickness." He held the phone up. "Use it alphabetically. Sergeant?"