by Greg Cox
A blinding white flash, many miles to the south, drove the smoking embers from her mind. The ranger threw up an arm to shield her eyes. A thunderous blast echoed in the distance. She watched in horror as a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon.
Oh God, she thought. That was Anchorage.
The forgotten campfire meant nothing now. A larger blaze was consuming the world.
The ranger knew her life had just changed forever.
CHAPTER TWO
2018
“Heads down. It’s coming.”
Molly Kookesh took cover in the Alaskan brush. She wriggled forward on her belly atop the hard-packed winter snow until she had a better view of the remote river canyon below. The wooded slope provided an ideal vantage point. Frosted evergreens, their branches weighed down by snow, hid her from the moonlight. A damp mist hung over the valley—and the massive timber bridge spanning the river. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.
“Where?” Sitka’s head popped up beside her. A mane of wild ginger hair that barely knew what a comb was framed the teenager’s face. An oversized army surplus jacket hung like a tent upon her gangly frame. Her pockets bulged with miscellaneous odds and ends, scavenged from wherever. Freckles accented her gleeful expression. She brushed her bangs away from her eyes.
“Wanna see!” she said eagerly.
“Down, packrat.” Geir Svenson shoved the girl’s head back behind a ridge. A scruffy blond beard just enhanced the bush pilot’s rakish good looks, at least as far as Molly was concerned. A battered aviator’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, the better to keep out the bitter cold. A wool cap kept his head warm. His breath frosted from his lips. “Unless you think that silly head of yours needs a couple of extra holes in it,” he added.
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” the teen muttered, but she got the message and hunkered down in the snow between the two adults. “Wanted a peek, that’s all. Wasn’t gonna get spotted.” Sitka doled out pronouns sparingly, as if they were too valuable to be wasted. “Not a child anymore, you know.”
Molly let out an exasperated sigh. She should have known better than to let Sitka tag along but, eager to earn her colors, the girl had been pestering her for months to be included in an operation. Tonight’s outing—a simple recon gig—had seemed like a good opportunity to test the teenager in the field. Now Molly wasn’t so sure.
“Quiet, both of you!” she hissed. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along.”
That shut Sitka up, at least for the moment. Geir adopted a wounded look.
“Whoa! What did I do?”
“Nothing,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a hard-ass reputation to keep up.”
Geir shot her an appreciative once-over.
“Trust me, chief, that ass speaks for itself.”
“Gag!” Sitka feigned sticking a finger down her throat. “Nauseous now.”
Molly tried not to grin.
“Enough banter. Eyes on the prize.”
A fur-lined parka matched her tight sealskin trousers. She tossed back the hood, exposing a head of lustrous black hair tied up in a ponytail. High cheekbones, dark almond eyes, and copper skin proclaimed her Native Alaskan roots. A carved ivory Raven totem dangled on a leather strap around her neck. A scarlet armband marked her as a member of the Resistance, the red dye symbolizing the blood spilt by all the brave men and women who had died fighting the machines over the last fifteen years.
Sitka eyed it enviously. She had yet to earn an armband of her own.
Propped up on her elbows, Molly squinted through her binoculars. Half a mile away, the huge trestle bridge stretched across the valley, looming more than 300 feet above the raging river below. Icebergs collided harmlessly against the massive concrete piers. Bolted timber struts and trusses supported the bridge, which was over 700-feet long. Iron train tracks ran across its deck. An electrified third rail eliminated the need for old-fashioned diesel or steam engines. The high-tech transportation system had been built on top of an old mining company railway, dating back to the Gold Rush.
The more things change....
The tracks appeared empty, except for a bald eagle roosting midway across the bridge. A low rumble rattled the tracks, audible even at this distance, and the raptor shot up into the air.
Smart bird, Molly thought. The rumble grew louder by the moment. A tunnel carved into the hillside on the northern side of the canyon hid the source of the noise from view until the train came zooming out onto the bridge.
Molly’s eyes widened.
“Wow!” Sitka whispered in awe. “Way skookum!”
Like all of Skynet’s mechanical offspring, the driverless train was ugly, brutal in its design, making no concession to human aesthetics. Gray armor-plating covered its streamlined contours. Sealed gun-ports ran along the length of its sides. Red optical sensors glowed like demonic eyes above its bullet-shaped nose. Razor-sharp skewers jutted like fangs from the bloody steel “cowcatcher” at the prow. The rotting carcass of an unlucky moose was impaled upon the spikes.
Bright blue sparks flared beneath the train cars, where their contacts met the electric rail. The deafening clamor of its passage drowned out everything else, even the rapid beating of Molly’s pulse. On straightaways, she knew, the bullet train clocked at least 180 miles an hour.
And to think I used to find trains romantic....
The “Skynet Express” carried uranium, copper, and other strategic minerals necessary to the war effort, transporting them from automated mining operations in the Yukon. Unrestricted by environmental or conservation concerns, Skynet had gouged the wilderness, wresting raw materials from Mother Earth for its own unholy purposes. Preexisting rail lines running across hundreds of miles of rugged terrain had been linked and upgraded to fit the cybernetic intelligence’s specifications. Weekly runs transported the ore to a Terminator construction plant in Valdez.
But not for much longer, Molly vowed. Not if I have anything to say about it.
The value Skynet placed on the ore was driven home by the transport’s daunting defenses. Not only was the armored juggernaut loaded with concealed weapons, but the supply train rated air support, as well. Molly ducked lower into the brush as a Hunter-Killer glided over the canyon. The steady thrum of the aircraft’s VTOL turbofans contrasted with the noisy clatter from the train tracks. High-speed impellers kept it aloft, and its ugly gunmetal exterior matched that of the train it was escorting. Usually HKs preceded the trains they were protecting; Molly guessed that this one had hung back to check on some disturbance prior to the tunnel. Maybe a noisy herd of caribou, or a falling tree.
Going into hover mode, the HK hung in the sky above the bridge. Powerful floodlights scoured the vicinity, on the lookout for human targets.
“Nobody move!” she whispered urgently. The HKs relied on infrared motion trackers to locate prey. The best way to escape their notice was to blend into the surroundings and not move a muscle. They had to be still as a corpse—or risk becoming one.
Geir and Sitka followed her example. Thank heaven for small favors!
A cold wind rustled the branches overhead. A glop of wet snow fell onto her head and shoulders, most likely dislodged by the passing of the damned HK, and she had to resist the urge to shake it off. Melted ice trickled down the back of her neck and it took all of her self-control not to shiver. Sandwiched between the frozen whiteness beneath and the freshly deposited snow on her back, it was hard to ignore the chill creeping into her bones. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Was it just her imagination, or had the harsh Alaskan winters gotten even worse since Judgment Day?
Nothing like a nuclear winter to let the air out of global warming. She couldn’t wait until spring. Assuming I last that long....
The Hunter-Killer wasn’t alone. Aerostats—slender football-sized surveillance drones with glowing red eyes at one end—buzzed around the train like mosquitos. Some scanned the track ahead of the train, while others darted amidst the bridge’s supports.
A brown bear, fishing for salmon further downstream, attracted an Aerostat’s attention, and the mechanical sentinel buzzed down for a better look, scanning the startled bear with ruby lasers that transmitted a digitized profile of the animal back to Skynet. The bear reared up on its hind legs and swatted at the levitating pest, which expertly stayed out of reach of the massive paws. The animal was tempting fate by attacking the drone, but apparently Skynet judged it no actual threat to the train, so the Aerostat flew back up toward the tracks.
The bear went back to its fishing.
Molly filed the encounter in her memory. Now that the data was stored in the massive computer, would it be possible to use a bear costume to deceive Skynet in the future? It was something to think about.
Lord knows I wouldn’t mind being stuffed inside a toasty bearskin right now!
The train seemed to go on forever. Molly lost count of how many linked cars rattled over the bridge. Several minutes passed before the last one exited the tunnel. Its bullet-shaped nose matched the lead car at the other end. Evil red eyes watched behind as the train finally pulled away, disappearing into the wilderness that lay across the river. A swarm of watchful Aerostats chased after it.
The HK rotated in midair, sweeping the canyon one last time with its blinding floodlights, before rising to a higher elevation. Its turbofans tilted to the side as it flew south above the train tracks. Molly watched its airborne bulk glide away, defying gravity. The eerily weightless way they flew never failed to send a chill down her spine.
“Wicked!” Sitka started to spring up from the ground, but Geir held her down by placing a heavy hand between her shoulders. HKs and Aerostats had been known to circle back for a second look. “Yeah. Right,” she muttered.
Better safe than sorry, Molly mused silently.
She waited for the echoes of the train to fade away, then counted to fifty before sitting up and shaking the snow from her head and shoulders. She gave Geir and Sitka the all-clear sign, and the pair climbed to their feet. Geir brushed the snow from his jacket and heavy-duty denim jeans. Sitka acted oblivious to the cold. Molly sometimes suspected her of being part polar bear.
She hastily consulted her watch: an antique, spring-operated gizmo she had salvaged from the ruins of an old pawnshop. She preferred manual timepieces these days. It was easier to re-wind them than to try to scrounge up batteries.
“It’s 10:48 exactly,” she announced.
“10:48,” Geir confirmed, consulting his own watch. He cracked a wry smile. “Gotta hand it to Skynet. It’s got the trains running on time.”
Molly wasn’t inclined to give Skynet credit for anything. “So did Mussolini.”
“Muso-who?” Sitka asked.
No surprise that the teenager didn’t recognize the name. Only sixteen years old, the orphaned girl had no memory of life before Judgment Day, nor much in the way of an old-fashioned education. Nobody even knew what her real name was; Molly had found her living as a scavenger in the ruins of the town of Sitka over ten years ago, and that had become her name. She had literally grown up in the Resistance, having never known a world that wasn’t overrun by Terminators.
“Ask Doc back at the camp,” Molly said. Now was no time for a history lesson. “He’ll fill you in.”
“Never shut up either.” Sitka rolled her eyes. “Know how he is once he gets going ‘bout the old days. Borrrrring.”
Molly envied the teen her blithe disregard for the past. There were times she wished she could forget how good life used to be, before Judgment Day.
What I wouldn’t give for a vacation at a luxury hotel—or even just cable television.
Sitka didn’t miss any of that.
How could she?
“So that’s the infamous Skynet Express,” Geir said, changing the subject. “Pretty big train.”
“Ginormous,” Sitka agreed. She peered across the canyon, as though hoping to catch another glimpse of the evil locomotive. “Makes a Hydrobot look like an earthworm!” Eager green eyes sought out Molly. “So when do we blow it up?”
The uranium train was a tempting target. If the Resistance could somehow intercept it, not only would they disrupt the enemy’s supply lines, but they might also come away with valuable resources. Molly was sure the uniforms in Command could make use of some unprocessed uranium, not to mention copper, zinc, and other essential metals.
“Could be quite a haul,” she mused aloud. “Maybe put us on Command’s radar. Show them what we’re really capable of.”
Even though her small band of Resistance fighters had been waging a guerilla war against Skynet for more than a decade now, she often got the impression that the top military brass didn’t take citizen soldiers like her seriously. They got the occasional pat on the back, sure, but not much in the way of serious material support. Old-school Pentagon types like Ashdown hogged all the resources for their own troops.
It’s not fair, she thought, a familiar frustration raising her blood pressure. My people may have started out as loggers, park rangers, pipeline workers, refugees, and half-feral kids, but we’re all soldiers now, and have been since the first Russian bombs fell fifteen years ago. It’s like John Connor always says—if you’re still breathing, you’re the Resistance.
So why couldn’t Command get that through their thick skulls?
“Not going to be easy, Molly.” Towering over her, Geir draped an arm around her, sharing some of his body warmth, for which she was silently grateful. He stared out at the bridge below. “You’re talking several hundred tons of rolling Terminator, with air support and back-up.” He whistled in anticipation of the fight the train and its escort could put up. “Minor raids are one thing, but this would be the biggest operation we’ve ever attempted.... by far.”
A worried look came over his rugged face.
“You really think we can pull it off?”
Molly thought of all the T-600s and Hunter-Killers Skynet could power with the uranium each train carried, all the new surveillance and tracking systems it could set up. Who knew how many people would die because of the weekly supply runs? Who knew the cost to the very planet itself?
She had been a U.S. park ranger before the bombs fell. It killed her to see the land raped by Skynet.
“If we don’t, who will?”
CHAPTER THREE
2003
It is a perfect summer afternoon. A clear blue sky unfolds above the skyscrapers. Warm sunlight bathes the bustling city streets and sidewalks.
Pedestrians crowd the pavement. Office workers fetch coffee from a sidewalk vendor. Giggling teenagers hurry home from school. A beautiful young mother pushes a stroller. Infant twins gurgle happily. An old man walks a bulldog. Vendors hawk frozen treats from carts. Cars, trucks, and taxis honk impatiently. Flowers sprout from window boxes. Pigeons flutter and coo as they perch upon the granite facades of the downtown buildings. A gentle breeze blows down the street. A mouth-watering aroma spills from the open doorway of a busy bakery.
Losenko smiles. He is glad to be alive.
The sudden blare of an air-raid siren drowns out the everyday hubbub. Frightened eyes turn upward. People scatter and run. Her eyes wide with fear, the young mother places her body protectively over her babies, glancing around frantically to locate the source of the danger. The old man tugs on the bulldog’s leash, but the dog stubbornly refuses to hurry. Panicked birds take flight.
No, Losenko thinks. Not now. Not again!
A blinding white flash lights up the sky. He shields his eyes with his arm, but it’s too late. A fireball rises from the heart of the city, many blocks away. A shock wave knocks him from his feet. A scorching wind flays the flesh from his bones. His skin and clothing burst into flames.
A mushroom cloud swallows up his screams....
Losenko woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. His bunk enclosed him like a coffin. The violet glow of the tactical display screen revealed the dimly lit contours of his cabin aboard the Gorshkov. He lay still, waiting for his ra
cing heart to settle.
A weary sigh escaped his lips.
“Again,” he whispered hoarsely. He had no trouble recalling the details of the apocalyptic nightmare, and the sensations it left had become all too familiar to him. He had suffered through the same dream, or variations thereof, every night since that horrible day some four weeks ago when K-115 had unleashed its missiles. Sometimes he woke thinking the entire war was just a bad dream. Then the awful reality came crashing back down again.
Thanks to its nuclear engines, the Gorshkov could stay submerged indefinitely, limited only by its food supplies. A distilling plant in the engine provided a steady supply of fresh water for the men and batteries. The sub had been hiding from the enemy for a month now without word from Fleet Command. Losenko rather suspected there was no one left in Moscow to issue any new orders, so he clung to the ocean floor and waited for the conflagration to die out overhead. Radioactive fallout decayed at an exponential rate; in theory, it might finally be safe to breach the surface again.
He shuddered to think what they might find. The Americans had possessed enough bombs to reduce the Motherland to a cinder.
For a moment he flirted with the notion of trying to get back to sleep, but decided against it. A glance at the plasma screen display revealed that the next watch was due to begin in less than an hour anyway. Moreover, he was in no hurry to experience his nightmare once more, at least not so soon.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see the horrified face of the young mother as she tried in vain to shield her children from the coming holocaust. That she bore a distinct resemblance to his ex-wife, back when they were still young and in love, was surely no coincidence. His subconscious mind had a cruel streak.
Forcing the troubling images from his mind as much as was possible, he rose and dressed. Now, more than ever, he considered it important to take care in his appearance, in order to provide a strong and reassuring example for the crew. Maintaining morale and discipline—even after the end of the world—was crucial. He couldn’t allow the men to sink into apathy and despair. He could not allow himself to falter, not even for a moment. An abyss, deeper than any ocean, would suck them all down if they surrendered to the full horror of their situation.
