Stephen King - The Plant

Carlos kicks the file-drawer shut, goes across to Kenton's desk, and sits down in Kenton's chair. He feels like Goldilocks, only with a pretty decent stiffy. He sits there for a little while, drumming the fingers of one hand on the Sakrifice Case and idly boinking his hardon with the fingers of the other. Later, he thinks, he'll probably masturbate—it is something he does often and well. Not knowing, of course, that his days of self-abuse are now gone.

In the office across the corridor, Iron-Guts has taken up a position against the wall to the left of Herb Porter's door. He can see a reflection of the office across the way in Herb's window—faint, but good enough. When “Carlos” comes out to further recon the area, as sooner or later he will, the General will be ready.

It occurs to Carlos that he's hungry. It further occurs to him that he has forgotten to bring any food. There might be candy bars or something in Kenton's desk—gum, at least, everyone has a few sticks of gum lying around—but the jeezly bastardly thing is locked. Prying open the drawers in search of something that might not be there seems like too much work.

What about the other offices, though? Maybe there's even a canteen, with sodas and everything. Carlos decides to check. He has nothing but time, after all.

He gets up, goes to the door, and steps out. Once again the ivy in the hall touches his shoes; one strand curls around his ankle. Once again Carlos stands patiently until the strand lets go. The words pass, friend whisper in his head.

Carlos goes to the next door down the hall, the one marked JACKSON. He doesn't hear Herb Porter's door as it opens squeaklessly behind him; doesn't sense the tall old man with the knife in his hand who's measuring distances with cold blue eyes and finding them acceptable.

As Carlos opens the door to Sandra's office, Iron-Guts springs. One forearm—old, scrawny, hideously strong—hooks around Carlos's throat and shuts off his air. Carlos has a moment to feel a new emotion: utter terror. Then a lightning-bright line of heat prints itself across his lower midsection. He thinks he has been burned with something, perhaps even branded, and would have screamed if not for his closed windpipe. He hasn't the slightest idea that he's been partially disemboweled, and has only avoided the total deal by staggering to his left, bumping the General against the edge of Sandra Jackson's door, and causing him to slash a little high and nowhere near as deeply as he intended.

“You're one dead SOB.” Hecksler whispers these words in Carlos's ear as tenderly as a lover. Carlos smells Rolaids and madness. He throws himself to the right, against the other side of the door, but the General is ready for this trick and rides him as easily as a cowpoke on an old nag. He raises the knife again, meaning to open Carlos's throat for him. Then he hesitates.

“What kind of spic has blond hair and blue eyes?” he asks. “What—”

He feels the moth-flutter of Carlos's hand against his thigh an instant too late. Before he can draw back, the designated spic has grabbed his testicles and crushed them in the iron grip of one who is fighting for his life and knows it.

“YOWWW!” Hecksler cries, and for just one moment the armlock on Carlos's throat weakens. It isn't the pain, enormous though it is, that causes the death-grip to weaken; Iron-Guts has devoted years to living with pain and through it. No, it's surprise. The D. S. is being choked, the D. S. has been slashed, and still he is fighting back.

Carlos throws himself to the left again, slamming the General's bony shoulder against the doorjamb. Hecksler's grip loosens a bit more, and before he can re-establish it, Zenith—more in the spirit of puckish good humor than anything else—takes a hand.

It's actually the General's feet the ivy takes, wrapping a loose green fist around both and yanking backward. Although the branches are still new and thin (some are pulled apart by Hecksler's weight), Z's grip is surprisingly strong. And surprise, of course, is the key word. If Iron-Guts had expected such a cowardly sneak attack, he almost certainly would have kept his feet. Instead, he thumps heavily to his knees. Carlos whirls in the doorway, gasping and gagging and hacking for air. He still feels that band of heat across his belly, and it seems to be spreading. The bastard shocked me, he thinks. He had one of those things, those illegal laser things.

He has to get back to Kenton's office, where he has foolishly left the Sakrifice Case, but when he starts forward, the General slashes his knife through the air. Carlos recoils just fast enough to keep from losing his nose. The General bares his teeth at Carlos—those that have survived the Shady Rest Mortuary, at least. Bright color blazons his cheeks.

“Get out of my way!” Carlos squalls. “Abbalah! Abbalah can tak! Demeter can tah! Gah! Gam!”

“Save your spic gabble for someone who gives a rip,” the General says. He makes no attempt to get off his knees, simply sways from side to side, looking as mystic (and as deadly) as any snake ever piped out of a fakir's basket. “You want to get past me, son? Then come on. Try for it.”

Carlos looks over the old man's shoulder and sees there are still green boughs of ivy looped around the old man's ankles.

“Kadath!” Carlos calls. “Cam-ma! Can tak!” These words mean nothing in themselves. They are invocatory in nature, Carlos Detweiller's way of shaping a telepathic command. He has told Zenith to yank the old man again, to pull him right down the hall into the main growth and crush him.

Instead, the knots around the General's ankles untie themselves and slither away.

“No!” Carlos bawls. He cannot believe that the Dark Powers have deserted him. “No, come back! Kadath! Kadath can tak!”

“Better take a look at yourself, son,” General Hecksler advises slyly.

Carlos looks down and sees that his sand-colored suit has turned bright red from the coat pockets on down. There's a long, tattered rip across his midsection; the end of his tie has actually been lopped off. He can see something shiny and purple in the slash and realizes with disbelieving dismay that those are his guts.

While he's distracted, Hecksler lunges forward and swipes with his knife again. This time he opens Carlos's shoulder down to the bone. “Olay!” Iron-Guts screams.

“You crazy old fuck!” Carlos screams back, and lashes out a foot. This sends a terrible dull cramp of pain through his belly and a freshet of blood down the front of his pants, but the shoe catches General Hecksler square in the skinny beak and breaks it. He goes flopping back. Carlos starts forward but the evil old bastard is up on his knees again in a goddamned flash, slashing everywhere. What is he made of, iron?

Carlos dodges back into Sandra's office, panting, and slams the door just as Hecksler curls the fingers of his free hand around the jamb. Hecksler utters a howl as his fingers are crushed, and it is music to Carlos's ears. But the old son of a bitch won't stop. He's like a robot with its selector switch frozen on KILL. Carlos hears the office door bang open behind him as he staggers across Sandra's office with the left arm of his jacket turning crimson and one hand on his slashed midsection, trying to keep those purple things in where they belong. He hears a harsh, doglike panting as air rushes in and out of the madman's old lungs. In a moment the robot will be on him again. The robot has a weapon; Carlos has none. Even if he had his Sakrifice Case, the robot would give him no time to work the combination.

I'm going to die, Carlos thinks wonderingly. If I don't do something right away, I'm actually going to die. He has known that death was coming, of course, but until this minute it has been an academic concept. There is nothing academic about having a crazy robot after you while blood pours down your arm and legs, however.