Terminator Salvation: The Official Movie Novelization by Alan Dean Foster Page A

had the build and look of a lone wolf.
    “You first. Who are you?”
    Ignoring him, Wright shifted his attention to the little girl.
    “What was that?”
    Taking a step forward, the youth partially interposed himself between the ingenuous stranger and the girl.
    “She doesn’t talk, but you need to. Who are you?” His voice did not change. All the emphasis it required was provided by the gun he drew and aimed. Wright regarded it as dispassionately as he did the question.
    “I’m—Marcus.”
    This concise response was inadequate to reassure the teen.
    “Why are you wearing a Resistance uniform when you’re obviously not a member of the Resistance?”
    Wright glanced down at himself, then back up at the youth.
    “I—needed clothes. The dead guy I took it off didn’t.”
    Still wary, the teen began rifling the pockets of the older man’s jacket with one hand while keeping the pistol trained on him with the other.
    “Well, if you’re one of those crazies whose brains turned to oatmeal from radiation poisoning, jump off this roof right now ’cause I’m not letting you get us killed.” He continued fishing through the jacket pockets and continued coming up empty.
    Wright stared blankly back at him. Everything that had happened, everything that was happening, was happening too quickly, giving him no time to analyze, no time to digest—only to react.
    “I—I don’t know what happened to me,” he explained sincerely.
    His honesty was insufficient for the teen.
    “Nice handle on reality, roadkill.” He licked his lips. “Where’s your food ?”
    Wright mumbled a response. “Roadkill?”
    “That’s what you’re gonna be, you don’t start waking up to certain facts. Like who’s looking to smoke you and who isn’t.”
    Wright’s memory might have been shocked and his perception stunned, but there was nothing wrong with a lifetime of instinctive reactions. In a single swift, smooth motion he reached out, grabbed the teen’s wrist, twisted him around, relieved him of the gun, and shoved. Barely aware of what had taken place, the teen abruptly found himself lying on his back on the rooftop with the muzzle of the gun positioned frighteningly close to his face.
    Nearby, the now terrified girl had retreated several steps.
    Wright gazed down at the prone teenager. The boy was shaking, and Wright knew exactly what he was feeling. Because there had been a time, long ago, when he had all too often found himself in similar situations.
    “You want to rip a guy off, make him empty his own pockets. If you do it yourself, you get too close, it gives him a chance to turn things on you. Never get closer than two arm-lengths to whoever you’re locking down.” Taking no notice of whatever the teen might chose to do, Wright turned slightly to one side, popped the clip out of the gun, pocketed it, and tossed the weapon onto the teen’s chest.
    “You point a gun at someone, you better be ready to pull the trigger.” He stared down at the youth, who stared back a long moment before finally nodding.
    “Right,” the teen muttered.
    Reaching down, Wright extended an open hand. As he picked up the gun that had been stripped from his grasp the teen regarded the powerful fingers warily, but decided to accept the offer. The stranger, helping him stand, all but lifted him off the ground.
    “Now I’m gonna ask you one more time.” Wright indicated the edge of the building. “What the hell was that?”
    Back on familiar ground, some of the teen’s former boldness returned.
    “Terminator. T-600. It kills. And once it locks on to you it won’t stop—ever. Until you’re dead.”
    Lifting his gaze, Wright surveyed the surrounding devastation, letting his eyes roam across the ravaged Los Angeles basin as far as heat and haze would allow.
    “What day is it?” When the boy looked at him as if he really was crazy, Wright revised his question. “What year?”
    “2018,” the kid replied.
    Wright stared at the panorama of