John Connor ran for his life. The last terminator was still functional, still after him. His entire bodyguard had been slaughtered, but not before they got rid of the 8 terminators in the bunch. The ninth was waiting abovedecks on the USS Ronald Reagan, a large naval vessel docked at San Diego.
John wiped sweat from his brow as raced for the steel ladder set in the wall. He gripped it with both hands and swung himself up. He could already hear the terminator coming. Its injured foot made a SLISH-WHUMP sound as it slid along and then bumped steel-on-steel with the ship’s floor.
Connor climbed. He was out in the open now, ocean wind blowing in his hair. Most of the Pacific fleet had been sunk by nuclear concussion blasts in the opening salvos of the Skynet war, 20 years ago. The ships jutted out of the shallow waters of the Pacific, and the blasted ruins of San Diego looked on.
Connor looked back and saw the hand of the terminator emerging from the square hole, a meter by meter across.
He ran again. Only later did it occur to him he could have dived off the side of the ship and swam for shore. The terminator, being made of metal, would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean trying to follow him.
For now, he was in a state of controlled panic. The Resistance depended on him. The survival of the entire human race was in his hands. Not only had John Connor shown them the way by elementary survival techniques, but he was currently the supreme general leading the fight against the sentient & evil machines. Terminators were everywhere across the land. Hunter-Killer aircraft, hovering and maneuvering nimbly in the sky, were predators of day and night. Skynet nested in one of NORAD’s secure mountains, awaiting its final victory against the puny humans. Only John Connor stood in the way.
Connor jumped down a hole and landed in a crouch. The machine was still coming. It wasn’t far behind. He went to the nuclear power room, which was still generating power after a generation of disuse. Irradiated skeletons were strewn in piles of bones across the steel matte gray floor. Connor stepped gingerly around them, believing it bad luck to step on the dead. He went to the control panel.
Which showed a televised view of the hallways all around. The terminator was shown in one of these hallways, looking around, having lost the scent. Its metal skull with gleaming red eyes was prominent in the camera as it moved directly under one lens. So Connor had a little time to improvise.
He punched in the sequence of computer commands that would release the spent fuel rods. The command asked for verification. He gave it.
The rods ejected from the watery storage chamber into the hallway where the terminator was. The radiation triggered the fuel pods in the terminator’s chest, activating an explosive detonation. In moments the terminator was wreathed in fire as a booooom could be heard down the distant ways. John Connor grinned. Bits and pieces of the destroyed terminator floated in the water outside, where they had been thrown loose by the force of the explosion.
Whistling, Connor stuck his hands in his pockets and prepared to return to shore.
Dark Sport 