Assault on Cyberdyne

“Mom!  It’s gaining on us!” The boy shrieked as he pointed a finger towards the pickup’s rear tinted window.  Dr. Miles Bennett Dyson glanced in the direction of the quivering digit, twisting his head until his black eyes registered something closing in.  He lurched onto his right side until his nose nearly touched the glass pane.  Given his semi-reclined position and the bed door, he could only see the bust of a clean-cut policeman whose chiseled face bore sharp, angular features of a drill sergeant.  Judging by the break-neck speed he was traveling; Dr. Dyson assumed he was a motorcycle cop and probably an experienced one by his calm demeanor despite this crazy chase.  Yet the doctor felt there was something creepy in the officer’s determined looks.  It was as if his gray eyes were locked solely onto the kid like a hungry dog on a bone. 

         “Gun it!” The woman’s shout cut through the roar of the pickup’s 390 horsepower V 8 engine.  “I’ll keep our friend busy, just keep the truck steady!” 

She jostled Dr. Dyson with her shoulder as she cocked her AK-47.  The slamming metal mechanism startled Dyson more than her brisk shove. The truck’s engine bawled like an enrage monster as its tires aggressively gripped the hot urban asphalt, its momentum slightly jerking the occupants backwards.  The female quickly regained her posture and aimed her rifle at the cop.

“Are you crazy?” Screamed Dyson.  “You can’t shoot, it’s a cop out there!”

“Yeah, watch me.”

A burst of automatic fire erupted, spraying shards of glass onto the pickup’s bed.  The rapid deflagrations shot sheering pain into the teenager and Dyson’s ears, forcing the duo to cup them and scream.  Only the driver, a mountain of a man dress in biker gear and sunglasses remained stoic.  The doctor’s eyes began to swell with tears.  This is not happening!  This is not happening!

Grey smoke spilled out from the screeching tires, drawing thick black lines in their wake as the driver hauled the steering wheel to the left, broadsiding a pile of roadside garbage cans.  The resulting momentum propelled the occupants to the right, landing Dr. Dyson’s cheek against her flexed arm.  He could feel the sweat pouring from her. The Chevy groaned as the driver shifted up a gear.  With an effort, Dr. Dyson pushed away from her arm and peered through the shattered rear window with horror.  The semi-automatic rounds had torn half of the officer’s face, leaving gaping silver holes that resembled liquid mercury donuts.

“That’s no cop!  What the hell is that?” screamed the doctor in near panic.

The driver turned his head, creaking his leather jacket.

“It’s a T-1000 model liquid metal mimetic poly-alloy terminator.  It is superior to the T-800 Infiltration model by its strength, by its resistance to weapons and by its regenerative qualities.  Its fluidic structure allows it to survive severe trauma while allowing it to protect vital operational systems.“

A face slowly emerged from the churning pool of reflective liquid that absorbed the bullet holes.  Dyson jaw dropped as sunglasses and helmet took shape like the drawings on his son’s “Etch-A-Sketch” pad.

“T-1000 model what?” demanded Miles Dyson.

         “One of your grandsons.” Spat the woman as she dropped the empty magazine and reloaded.  The venom in her words sent a chill down the doctor’s spine.  How could I have known that the discovery of the CPU and titanium endoskeleton arm in a hydraulic press thirteen years ago would lead to mankind’s demise?  Certainly, this was not my fault!  Dyson felt bile reach his throat in a sudden wave of nausea.  All he had worked for in his life, his family’s happiness and future was based on his research that would ultimately lead to their oblivion. 

         “Mom!  Watch out, it’s changing shape!” howled the boy; his voice yanked the doctor from his train of thought.

         The T-1000’s fingers on each hand fused into a single blade, each stretching a meter upwards before ending in a curve resembling two grotesque crowbars.  The truck bounced as the blades struck the chassis, both tearing gashes that sounded like fingernails scratching a blackboard.

         Wild flashes danced inside the pickup’s cabin as the AK-47 sprang to life.  The T-1000 bobbed and weaved, dodging the hail of sparks and wheezing bullets.  With one hook firmly grasped into the truck’s body, the T-1000 brandished the other and slammed it, ripping another hole the size of a baseball.  With both hooks embedded, it climbed another inch towards the rear window.  Two more pulls and Dyson knew that it will be aboard.

         “Hand me the shotgun!” bellowed the woman as she tossed aside the smoking AK-47.  Miles clumsily rummaged inside the canvas bag laid by his feet until his fingers felt the cold, steel barrel.  Trembling like a glass of water in an earthquake, he removed the weapon from the bag and slid it into her waiting grasp.  She cocked it as the T-1000 raised the other blade.

         “Try shaking it off!” she screamed at the driver without losing sight of her target.

         The driver nodded and twisted the steering wheel to the right.  A shower of orange sparks erupted as the Dodge bashed into the flank of a parked car.  The sudden impact propelled the T-1000 onto its right side teetering precariously of the edge, its raised blade swinging madly in the air in a feeble attempt to regain its balance.  That’s when the blast of the first shotgun round ripped through the air, puncturing a hole the size of a human head in the cargo door.  Like pebbles cast in a pool of water, the few pellets that struck their target left small rippling waves. 

         “Goddamnit” cursed the woman as she engaged another round into the chamber.  Dyson was not used to hearing women swear but as he watched her lean muscles flex under her para-military tank top, he was reminded that she was no ordinary woman.

The wielding blade whistled as it plunged closer to the cabin. Like a snake, the T-1000 gingerly slithered its waist past the top of the damaged cargo door.  Immediately, the vehicle barreled towards the other side of the street where it lunged towards more parked cars.  In a clamor of metallic screeches, the pickup whined as the collision whisked the driver side wheels off the smoldering summer asphalt.  For a moment, the tires vigorously grabbed air until they banged down, quavering the vehicle with such force, expelling the hubcaps.  Dyson screamed as he narrowly missed bashing his head against his side window.

The T-1000 flapped off the side of the truck like a flag in a lazy wind.  A trail of sparks followed him as one of his blades sliced the pavement.  It cocked its head scanning the vehicle.  Instantly, a column of numbers scrolled to the left side of his vision while dissecting the pickup into multiple grids.  From its current angle, two blinking targets emerged from the column of hundreds of probabilities that skittered down the right side. 

Tires - 92%
Gas Tank - 98%

Gingerly, it lifted its trailing blade, white hot with friction.  Poised in a blind angle, it stretched its appendage, adding another 10 centimeters.  The ensuing explosion would completely obliterate the vehicle with a 99.9745% chance that John Connor would be terminated.  The same calculations gave a 74% chance of survival for the T-800 with a 95% probability of being severely damaged.  Satisfied with the predicted outcome, it traced the glowing, razor-sharp point along the paint, marking the calculated point of entry.  It lifted its head only to see an 18 Wheeler rumbling towards it, horns blaring.

Glancing at the battered side mirror, the boy viewed the extensive carnage the attack left on the Silverado’s chassis.  The metal was gored and twisted outwards like the white innards of a half-popped popcorn seed.  A deathly chill ran down his spine.  Where the hell is he?  Frantic, his eyes scanned for his mortal enemy but all he saw was the Mammoth truck disappearing into the horizon.

“I can’t see him!”

“I can’t see him either.  He’s not on the bed floor.” exclaimed the woman, her shotgun still leveled through the open space.

Dyson reached for the bag and found a .357 Custom Magnum.  Although he never fired a gun before, the cold, hard pistol grip felt as protective as a mother’s hug.

“He’ll be back.”

The driver downshifted as they turned at an intersection, ignoring the red light and the angry horns that followed.  Cyberdyne complex stood at the edge of the horizon with the sun glaring off the central tower of mirrored polarized glass.  Miles Dyson gulped as the female squeezed his shoulder.

“It’s show time.”