Free The Immortals by James Gunn

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.
    â€œGet 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 slotin the black bag. That meant the injection had already been given, Sibert thought.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œWould a transfusion help?” Barbara asked quietly.
    â€œAt 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—”
    â€œUse my blood.”
    â€œImpossible! There’s no equipment here for typing and crossmatching, not to mention the unsanitary conditions—”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œO negative,” Sibert said. His voice seemed a long way off.
    â€œYours?” the doctor said, turning toward Barbara.
    â€œWhat 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. Thedoctor brought out plastic tubing equipped with needles and fastened them to the box. . . .
    â€œWhole 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.
    â€œThat’s a liter,” the doctor said.
    â€œAll right. Shut it off.”
    â€œI’ll have to report this, you know. That’s a gunshot wound.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. We’ll be gone by then.”
    â€œTry 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.
    â€œWake up, Eddy! You’ve got to wake up!”
    The coolness came against his face again, soothing his fever. He stirred. A groan escaped him.
    â€œYou’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