The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,74

the framed photo back into the drawer and the glass front shatters. In the quiet office, the sound is satisfyingly loud. Across the hall, General Hecksler jumps slightly in Herb's chair, almost pricking himself with his own knife.

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.

11:15 A. M.

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