Hell's Gate

CHAPTER 9

It had come up the cellar stairs with the stealth of a cat, its movements further concealed by the activities of the first robot, the excitement of that fight. It was a mirror image of the first and exactly like the robot of the previous night. The lizard-things wasted no money on a variety of molds. He only wished they would have seen fit to endow the mechanicals with something other than those two blue penny eyes that seemed to eat into everything they settled upon. Now, as they stood congratulating themselves, it moved through the cellar door, coming fast, leaped the couch, came down heavily on cushions, bouncing, and was almost on top of them.

Victor raised his vibratube to fire, not very hopeful about getting a shot in. The mechanical swung its arm, cracked Salsbury's wrist a solid blow that rattled his teeth in his jaw like pearls on a string, set every bone between his hand and teeth vibrating like tuning forks. The tube sailed into the air, arcing backwards out of reach, turning lazily over and over to clatter in a dark corner somewhere… completely beyond reach.

Lynda screamed.

Victor grabbed her, pushed her backward, turned in time to feel the rush of air preceding the mechanical, then the full impact of its heavy, component packed body. He was catapulted to the left, struck an oblong coffee table with his knees and went over that with a great deal of explosive grunting and even more pain. His chin cracked the end of a lamp base exactly where it had been bruised in his fall the night before, then skidded on the rug, brush burning it. It was almost as if some hostile fairy sprite were sitting overhead planning the choreography. He spat out a piece of tooth, tasted blood. His chin burned. The weight of the mechanical adversary was pressing upon him.

He strained, heaved, pushed the robot sideways enough to squirm out from under it. He rolled quickly to see where it was and to get out of the thing's immediate range. He flopped onto his back just in time to see that it was directly overhead, coming down in a crushing body slam. Then the thing was on his chest, had knocked every ounce of air out of his lungs in one heavy gush. It threw a thick arm across his throat to hold him still. It brought the other hand around; the one with the vibrabeam finger.

Salsbury heaved again, only succeeding in making the mechanical increase the pressure on his throat. He gagged, wondered vaguely why he had to be vibra-beamed and strangled. One should be enough surely.

The brass tip pointed somewhere above and between Victor's eyes. The top of his head would go easily, wetly.

Abruptly, there was another impact as something struck the back of the robot. The thing pitched over Salsbury, carried forward by whatever had slammed into it. He rolled sideways, sat up, gasping to get air into his aching lungs, massaging his sore throat. Now, as his watering eyes cleared, he could see what had thrown the mechanical off balance in the last moments before its success. Intrepid had bolted down the stairs (or had stumbled) and had leaped into the battle without a single reservation. He had his teeth sunk into the robot's neck, his claws scrabbling on the broad back. The mechanical stood, swaying, and tried to shake the beast off. It reached behind itself and pounded a heavy fist into the furious mutt. Intrepid squealed with pain but held on, Seemed to chew his teeth in more deeply.

After a few more useless attempts to dissuade that noble canine, the robot stood, wavering under the weight of the mongrel and the fury of his attack, pointed his laser at Salsbury and fired, realizing his duty was not to himself, but to the masters who had sent him to kill.

Salsbury rolled, came in under the destructive swath of golden light. Behind, the sofa whuffed with the beam boring its interior. The corded covering caught fire. The flames illuminated the room, sent dancing shafts of light off the mechanical's pale skin, off Intrepid's bristled fur.

The robot fired again.

This time Victor did not move fast enough, slowed by the pain that still arced through him, by his certainty that a second shot could not come so fast, that the mechanical would have to orient itself. The beam seared his shoulder, sent fragments of flesh exploding outward. A shot any more direct would have burst him like a ripe fruit fallen from a tree. Blood dribbled down his arm, hot and sticky.

The room swayed.

He thought he heard Lynda shouting.

He fell, came to his knees, agonizingly aware that he would have to move fast if he were to avoid the next burst. When he looked up, he was staring directly into the gleaming brass tip.

Then there was the sound of the vibratube, and Salsbury waited for the worst. But it was not the mechanical that had fired. It was the target now, the gold illumination blossoming on its chest. It turned, seeking the source of the beam. When it found Lynda standing in the corner where the other tube had fallen, it raised its arm to shoot her.

And it was all over.

The robot's chest, under the concentrated beam from Lynda's tube, bulged outward, burst and spewed glass and wire and plastic shrapnel. It stood, eyes dimming through lighter and lighter shades of blue. When they were utterly dark, it toppled onto its face, dead as a machine could get, Intrepid still on its back with his teeth sunk into the artificial flesh.

Salsbury started for the cellar steps, stepping around the dead machine, then remembered that it was Lynda who had the weapon, not him. His arm ached dully, and his head was spinning. He turned back to find her just as she came to him. “Give me the tube,” he said, reaching for it.

“Why?”

“Got to go down… see if there are more of them.”

“I'll go along.”

“You'll stay here,” he said, taking the tube from her.

“Damnit, who killed the last one?”

He looked to the mechanical that Intrepid still toyed with. He shook his head. “All right. Be careful.”

They switched on the light and looked down the steps. There were no more mechanicals on them. They went down, Lynda behind and holding onto him. In the basement, they found nothing. The portal in the wall was gone again. After checking the basement three times, they went back upstairs and turned off the light, closed the door. The shooting was over. At least until tomorrow night.

“Come on and let me look at your arm,” she said, dragging him into the kitchen. He followed like a dumb animal.

He sat in a straight-back chair while she washed the burn. It was approximately two inches long, an inch wide, and an inch deep. That was a goodly sized chunk of flesh for anyone to lose, even for a man who seemed to heal miraculously fast. “I told you about healing so quickly,” he said. “It won't need medicines.”

“I'm putting a dressing on it all the same.”

“It's already stopped bleeding. It'll be heavily scabbed by tomorrow night and healed in a few days.”

She ignored him, got alcohol, gauze and tape. By the time she had finished bandaging it, the pain was gone. They cleaned up the mess, made something to eat. They were both ravenous. Just as they were finishing, Intrepid came padding in for some bits of lunchmeat.

Later, in bed, she said, “Are you sure it's safe?”

“Positive. The portal only opens at that one time. Besides, there's Intrepid.”

He whined from his position by the door.

“But what do we do next, Vic? Call the police?”

“No. They'd get curious about Jacobi.” He said it before he thought. Then he could have bitten off his tongue.

“You think they killed him?” she asked.

He tried to answer, could not.

“What is it?”

“I-” Well, he decided, it was best to get it over with. She would listen, leave. She would not want to stay with a killer. He told her swiftly, though not without emotion, conveying to her his own horror at having murdered a real, flesh and blood man.

She did not go. She said nothing, merely accepted and understood. He felt warm hands on his chest. Then her comforting arms were around him. He tried to fight, to tell her that she would taint herself; that it would be no good; that she could never adjust to him as a killer. But she was softness, warmth. He let his sensations carry him like a roller coaster. They clutched each other to keep from falling out, riding higher and higher, growing ever more dizzy, breathless as the speed of their rollicking, rocketing love carried them faster and faster

He gave no thought to lizards or robots.

It was not the time. Besides, they would not encounter the demons again until tomorrow night, twenty-four hours from now, at the witching hour of one-thirty.

Now they were safe; or so he thought.

He was making a big mistake.