The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,75

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.

Carlos looks at Sandra's desk, which is a cluttery, paper-strewn mess. Scissors? A letter-opener? Even a damned nail-file? Anything - Good Demeter, what's that?

Lying beside her blotter, partly obscured by a framed photo of Sandra and Dina taken on their trip to Nova Scotia two years before, is a large silver object which looks like a gunshell. Sandra, her mind full of books and plants and manuscripts and tales of