Free The Immortals by James Gunn Page A

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.
    â€œDon’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 straightenedhis shoulders and scarcely leaned on her at all. “Come on, Bobs,” he said, “we can’t give up now.”
    â€œAll right, Eddy.” Her voice was stronger, firmer. “It’s you they’ll kill, isn’t it, Eddy? Not me?”
    â€œHow do you—know?”
    â€œYou were out of your head. You were trying to tell me things.”
    â€œYeah.” Painfully they climbed the shaky steps. The old wooden boards sagged dangerously as their weight came down upon them. “They’ll kill me, all right. Not you. Anybody but you.”
    As they came out into the sunshine pitilessly revealing an aridity of cracked concrete heaped with refuse—ashes, old boards, tin cans, bottles, boxes—Sibert felt a sort of giddy strength. It came and went, like a low pulse, leaving blank spots.
    Suddenly they were past the clutter and into an alley. It held the sleek, molded beauty of a two-year-old Cadillac Turbojet 500. As he sagged against the polished side, Barbara slid the door open.
    â€œWhere’d you get it?” he asked weakly.
    â€œStole it.”
    â€œIt’s no good. Too bright. They’ll pick us up.”
    â€œI don’t think so. Anyway, there’s no time to change. Get in the back. Curl up on the floor.”
    The plastic surface of the car felt wonderfully cool against his hot body. He tried to think of an alternative, but his brain wouldn’t work. He let Barbara help him into the car. He sagged gratefully to the floor. His chest felt sticky and hot; he was bleeding again.
    There were suitcases in the backseat. Barbara stacked them around him carefully until he was completely hidden.
    A single spot of sunlight filtered through. He watched it mindlessly as the car started and then moved away with the powerful acceleration of the 500-horsepower turbine. As the car moved, the spot of light jiggled and swayed. . . . Sibert slept.
    *  *  *
    When he woke, the car was stopped and a harsh voice was saying, close to his ear, “Sorry, miss. My orders are to stop all cars leaving the city. We’re looking for a wounded man. He’s got someone with him.”
    They didn’t know about Barbara, then, Sibert thought, or how badly he was injured. They were far behind.
    Cold reason crept in. Optimism was foolish. They were powerful enough to command the aid of the police; discovery was only a few feet away. And they would know a great deal more as soon as the doctor recovered consciousness. It would have been wiser to kill him.
    â€œThen I can’t help you.”