James Gunn - The Immortals

Behind him was the mail chute. He was still leaning against it, but he felt disembodied, as if he were somewhere else receiving these odd sensations distantly, attenuated and distorted. He had blacked out for a moment, he thought feverishly. Give him a few minutes; he’d be all right.

“Eddy!” The voice was getting hysterical. “What’s happened? You’re bleeding!”

“Hello, Bobs,” Sibert said weakly. “Funny thing—” He began to laugh, but it brought back the coughing. When the spell was over, his hand was freckled with blood. It sobered him. “You’re—dangerous companion, Bobs,” he panted. “Come on—got to get out of here.”

He caught her arm and tried to start for the stairs. She held him back. “You’re hurt. You need a doctor. We can’t go anywhere until you’ve had medical attention. And these bodies—one of them is Missus Gentry—”

“Lovely woman, Missus Gentry,” Sibert said. “Especially dead. Shot me, she did. Come on, Bobs—no time. Explanations later. They’re—after you.”

She let him pull her to the head of the stairs. There he sagged. She took his right hand and pulled it across her shoulders; she put her left arm around his waist. She was surprisingly strong. Together, his left hand clinging desperately to the handrail, they descended the never-ending stairs, down and around and down, until, at last, they came to the bottom and his knees buckled.

The broad first-floor hall was blurred like an old photograph. Sibert frowned, trying to bring it into focus, thinking: This is what it is like to grow old, to have the senses fail, the muscles weaken, the living organs and functions of the body die inside. And finally death.

Someone was talking. Barbara again, trying to make him say something. “Where do we go now?” she kept saying.

He tried to think, but thought was torture. “Hide. Anyplace. Trust nobody. Everyone—against us.”

And then there was no memory at all, only the irony that stayed with him, that edged his dreams about a young man who went hunting for life but found the dark companion instead. He woke to a pearl-gray mustiness and thought it was a dream. He was alone. His chest burned. He pressed it with his hand. When he brought it away, the hand was dark. He tried to make out the color in the dimness, but it was too difficult. It dripped unconsciousness into his eyes.

The second time was reality. This time he was sure. He was in a basement. He raised himself on one elbow, finding the strength in some hidden reservoir. He was lying on a cot. Barbara knelt beside him. Kneeling beside the cot was a white-coated stranger. He had a syringe in his hand.

“Get away from me!” Sibert shouted hoarsely. “It’s no use—”

Gently Barbara pushed him back. “It’s a doctor, Eddy. I got a doctor.”

He lay back, feeling stronger, watching. Maybe the man was a doctor. Maybe he was something else, too. Everyone was suspect.

He sneaked his hand down his side, but the pocket was empty. The gun was gone. The syringe was slipped back into its case, and the case was deposited in its slot in the black bag. That meant the injection had already been given, Sibert thought.

“I’ve done all I can,” the doctor said sullenly. “I’ve patched the holes in his shoulder, but there’s no way to patch the holes in his lung. Only time can do that, and the proper care. I think it’s too late now. The man’s dying. It’s a wonder to me he isn’t in shock already.”

“Would a transfusion help?” Barbara asked quietly.

“At this stage, I doubt it. No point in pouring water into a sieve. Besides, I’ve no blood with me. If you would let me get him to a hospital—”

“Use my blood.”

“Impossible! There’s no equipment here for typing and crossmatching, not to mention the unsanitary conditions—”

“I said, ‘Use my blood.’ ” Barbara’s voice was hard.

Sibert looked at her. She had a gun in her hand—his gun. It pointed unwaveringly at the doctor, Barbara’s knuckles white where they gripped the handle.

The doctor frowned uncertainly. “What’s your blood type?” he asked Sibert.

“O negative,” Sibert said. His voice seemed a long way off.

“Yours?” the doctor said, turning toward Barbara.

“What does it matter? If you don’t use it, he dies anyway.”

That was callous, Sibert thought vaguely. He had not suspected that Barbara could be so hard.

Silently the doctor removed a small square box from his bag. A fractionating machine, Sibert thought. The doctor brought out plastic tubing equipped with needles and fastened them to the box…

“Whole blood,” Barbara said, “not just the plasma!”

Things were getting distant. Sibert felt weak again, and old and used up. He fought to stay conscious.

Barbara sank down beside the cot, the gun steady in her right hand. The basement was dark and dirty, littered with trash, the accumulation of decades of neglect.

Dimly, Sibert felt the doctor swab his arm and the distant pressure of the needle. But as the blood began to flow, he felt stronger. It was like liquid life.

“That’s a liter,” the doctor said.

“All right. Shut it off.”

“I’ll have to report this, you know. That’s a gunshot wound.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll be gone by then.”

“Try to move this man again, and he’ll die of shock.”

The voices were fading. He was going to sleep again, Sibert realized with dismay. He struggled against the rich, black tide, but it was hopeless.

Just before he went under, he saw the doctor turn his head to replace the equipment. A hand swept in front of Sibert’s eyes. There was something metallic in it. It made a queer, hollow sound when it hit the doctor’s head.

“Wake up, Eddy! You’ve got to wake up!”

The coolness came against his face again, soothing his fever. He stirred. A groan escaped him.

“You’ve got to get up, Eddy. We have to find another place to hide.”

He worked his eyes open. Barbara’s face was above him, her eyes wide and concerned, her face haggard.

She wiped his face again with a damp cloth. “Try, Eddy!” she urged. “We can’t stay here much longer.”

I’ll die, he thought. That’s what the doctor said. Then he remembered Locke, and what he was fighting for.

He tried to get up. After a few seconds of futile struggle, he slumped back, moaning. The second time, Barbara helped him. She slipped an arm under him and lifted him. He sat up and the dark basement reeled, spun crazily around him.

A little later he was standing, although he couldn’t remember how he got to his feet. His legs were miles away. He told them to move, but they were stubborn. He had to lift each one carefully and as carefully put it down. Only Barbara beside him kept him upright.

Against the dark old octopus that was an ancient, gas-fueled furnace, the doctor was propped, his chin against his chest. “Dead?” Sibert asked. His voice sounded thin.

“Don’t talk. He’s drugged, that’s all. They’ll be looking for him soon. He was just leaving the hospital when I made him come with me. Nobody saw us, but they’ll begin to wonder when he doesn’t show up for duty. I let you rest as long as I could, but now we’ve got to leave.”

Somehow they reached the rickety steps that led upward toward brightness. Beside him, holding him up, Barbara sobbed suddenly. “Eddy, Eddy! What are we going to do?”

Sibert called for strength, silently, and straightened his shoulders and scarcely leaned on her at all. “Come on, Bobs,” he said, “we can’t give up now.”

“All right, Eddy.” Her voice was stronger, firmer. “It’s you they’ll kill, isn’t it, Eddy? Not me?”