"The human body is an amazing machine," her orthopedist had said. In fact he was very fond of this phrase and said it often. You have no idea, Sarah thought as she looked at Kyle's semi-conscious form lying supine on the bed. Sheets and blankets covered all but one arm. IVs and oxygen tubes snaked around his upper body. Monitors on steel poles blinked at her silently. She propelled herself forward in the chair, not because she truly required it, but because it was the rule and the more she obeyed the rules here, the less the nurses bothered them. Their welcome had gone quickly from sought-after celebrity to annoyance with their nutty story, lack of insurance and disruptions by police, various hangers on and media types. Since she was inexperienced in maneuvering the chair and because she was in a rush, she whanged the foot rest against the bed. Kyle's face registered a flicker of pain. "Sorry." Sarah noted the morphine pump read no dose available. She knew that meant he had just given in and taken a hit of pain meds. Kyle's shattered jaw was wired shut and he had two horrific black eyes. Each time Sarah saw him, she relived hearing the sound of that first punch from the terminator as it snapped four ribs and knocked the metal rod, Kyle's makeshift weapon out of his hand. She remembered the wave of despair realizing that Kyle had known he was in a fight to the death for her and he would most certainly lose. Even though they had both survived, the sensation of helplessness and grief in that moment still overwhelmed her. She knew some day somewhere, they would be in that battle again. Now, when she considered the incident, she felt inexpressible hatred for the machine. She now realized it was being coldly efficient by injuring Kyle methodically, hurting him precisely enough to prevent any further interference with its programmed mission to kill her. It knew the male human had sustained two gunshot wounds minutes before the two fled into the factory. It had calculated that statistically, further threat from the male and especially the female was now minor. Fortunately, that calculation had been in error.
Sarah picked up Kyle's hand, squeezed it gently and enclosed it between her own. She watched his chest rise and fall, wondering what it was like trying to breathe, encased in broken bones.
"Have to go," he said through his clenched teeth.
"I know. I'll be careful." She had no idea what that meant or what, specifically she should do to be careful. She was in many ways more afraid now than a week ago when the terminator and Kyle had first appeared. Instead of one identifiable, relentless killer there now were infinite, unknowable threats.
"Get a car, money. Pay attention!!" She couldn't tell if he was instructing her or talking to himself.
"I will, I promise." Sarah pulled herself up to stand on her one good leg and lean over him. She very softly kissed the bandages covering his forehead, his now closed eyes, then his bruised lips.
"I love you Sarah, I always will." The words were distorted by the surgical appliances, but they sounded alarmingly like a goodbye. She chose to dismiss it, knowing the drugs were causing some drift in lucidity. An orderly appeared to retrieve her. She obediently sat down and they disappeared into the hallway.
Sarah's leg began to ache with an unexpected fierceness almost as soon as the cab started moving, so she stretched it across the back seat. That wasn't much better. She also worried that returning to her apartment was somehow an unsafe behavior. Tactically wrong. That felt like something Kyle would say, anyway.
She paid the driver and awkwardly exited the cab. He helped her put on the small backpack that had served as her overnight bag from the hospital then watched from the street as she attempted and then gave up on scaling the stairs on crutches. She hobbled stiffly up the four cement steps, only then realizing with a rush of embarrassment and shock that her front door was still wreathed in crime scene tape, and that she had no key. The cabbie had gotten back into his car, but was still watching her curiously. Take a deep breath. Think. Making a show of digging through her purse she turned and waved him on with a smile. He turned in the seat and drove off. Relieved, she now thought of Ginger's key-hiding place under a flower pot on the back patio.
Her self-congratulation turned to chagrin as she rounded the corner of the building. The sliding glass door was gone. Someone had swept up most of the shards, but more yellow police tape was the only barrier. All she had to do was step inside.
Sarah was not prepared for the scene before her. The wadded bedding from the last few moments of Matt and Ginger's lives, the smashed furniture or the broken interior door. It was still closed, but most of it had been punched out into the hallway. She limped past the splintered shelves and stained floor. The living room carpet was shredded where bullets had smacked into it. Dried blood was everywhere, so much it did not look real. An enormous hand of fear closed over her.
Kyle's thoughts waded through the morphine. Where are you, Sarah? Are you safe? Pain sliced through his body when he tried to move, but it cleared his head slightly. He took inventory. Both hands were stiff as if he had jammed all of his fingers or they had been smashed under something heavy. One arm, encased in thick surgical dressings was painfully sore, but otherwise seemed OK. He could feel the tape holding the IV in the other. His face, however, felt like it was peeling off his skull. His entire jaw and neck were one giant hurt which jolted up several notches higher as he tried testing his legs, shifting them a bit, trying to locate any possible injuries. Controlling his breathing became an instant priority as well. The sharp reflex of sucking in more air with each new hurt hit a wall of agony from the broken ribs and the gun shot wound in his chest. His body tensed in response and now the sore arm felt like it was on fire, every shredded or bruised muscle protesting. He forced himself to unclench his hands, to breathe shallowly. Ease back down, don't go rigid. Pain can be controlled.
Tears of despair and fear spilled out of Sarah. Her breath was caught somewhere but not going in or out as she backed against one of the barstools by the apartment kitchen and sat there grieving, unable to think. Panic and blind urgency overwhelmed her. Sadness for Ginger and Matt, Mom and all the others the Terminator had killed. Fear for her self and Kyle. So many things she needed to accomplish and no idea how to begin. She was alone, for now at least, and for a long time she just stared at the floor.
At some point, Sarah realized it was getting dark and unease with her surroundings snapped her back into focus. She thought of the contempt in Kyle's voice as he had described the miserable scavengers from his time that did nothing but thieve and complain about their lot. She imagined his reaction if he could see her at this moment, cringing at the memory of things she had said to him in the car when she was afraid and certain he would kill her.
She made her way to the kitchen sink and washed her face not daring to turn on the light. She was hungry, starving actually, but the refrigerator only contained spoiled milk and part of a weeks-old take-out salad. The pantry didn't have much to offer either. Finally, she settled on a box of Cheerios, gathered up her crutches and hobbled down the hall.
Her room seemed undisturbed, although she now saw it through different eyes. Gratefully, she crawled into bed and munched on the cereal. She thought about how people of the future survived on scavenged food, and savored every handful of the crunchy Cheerios. Kyle and she needed safe shelter and a way to get there. Money was the first priority, then transportation. What was in her checking account? Certainly not enough to buy a car and they couldn't just steal one as they had before. Kyle would instinctively know how to do this type of planning and already Sarah was out of ideas. He was depending on her and he would be disappointed. Terrified as she had been, it was easier to trust him than to move forward on her own. She craved his physical presence. Eventually she drifted off, her last conscious thought an image of Kyle holding her while she slept, the same way he had held her that night in the culvert.
The nurses switched his IV cocktail every few hours. Clear-headed now, Kyle remained outwardly stoic during the painful ordeal of changing the original surgical dressings. Dr. Kowen, the orthognathic surgeon, checked Kyle's jaw during morning rounds and informed him the wires and appliances could be removed in six to eight weeks. Someone took his temperature and drew blood into a little vial with a blue colored label. The orthopedist came in and examined his arm and hands, telling him he was lucky his ribs and jaw were the only bones broken, and that given time and rest they would heal up, probably stronger than before. "The human body is an amazing machine," he said. Where are you Sarah?