"Come on you ugly metal bastard, what are you waiting for? Do it! You almost killed my old man, now take me. Come on!"
As the robot made its move, so did I: I hit the starter button and plunged the chainsaw into the waist joint in the small of the thing's back.
The robot stopped and tried to straighten up.
I worked the saw backwards and forwards, trying to cause as much internal damage as possible.
The robot threw back its head and let out an inhuman howl of rage and pain. It turned and swung at me. I let go of the saw and stepped back, raising my arm to ward off a blow which would have taken my head off: I felt, and heard, the bone in my forearm snap. I backed away. The robot came after me, dragging one of its legs, the chainsaw still buzzing away, wedged inside it. I could see the point of the saw, about where the robot's navel would have been, if it had had one.
"Take my car, get yourself to the hospital!" I shouted to Phyllis.
"I'm not leaving you!" Phyllis struggled to her feet and picked up a length of steel pipe, a piece of old scaffolding by the look of it, and swung it at the robot's head.
Thwack!
The robot's head went over sideways onto its left shoulder. Then straightened again. It gave a near-human shrug and rolled its head. Then it pivoted on its dead leg, turning towards Phyllis.
"How do you stop this fracking thing?" She asked. She took another swing at it.
I ducked in behind the robot and seized the hilt of the chainsaw in my good hand, throwing all my weight behind it, keeping my head low. There was a tearing and rending of metal, as the saw turned inside the robot.
I felt the chainsaw go dead, stalled or out of power, and threw myself backwards, away from the robot, screaming as I hit the ground, jarring my arm.
Phyllis backed away too.
The robot was motionless. The chainsaw had almost cut it in two. Had that been enough? A knee buckled, and it fell face forwards into the cinders.
"Stay back," I warned Phyllis.
One of the robot's hands twitched, the fingers digging into the ground.
"Get the Land Rover," I said, getting to my feet. "I'll finish this thing off." Famous last words. "Go on! I'll be there in a second."
She hesitated for a moment, then turned and limped towards the pick-up.
I picked up the four-foot length of scaffolding and turned back towards the robot, intending to pound any last signs of life into the dirt.
The robot seemed to be trying to crawl: its legs were completely useless, but it had raised itself onto its elbows and was trying to drag itself forwards.
"Well, aren't we a sad freaking sight?" I said, raising my makeshift club.
Never underestimate a psychotic killing machine: I should know that, I've seen enough movies. It wasn't crawling, it was finishing the job I'd started, tearing its torso away from its legs. Once free of its dead-weight lower limbs, it could move freely again, using its arms to carry its body around: like the half-man in Freaks. Scuttling like a steel spider, it moved quicker than I would have thought possible. It came at me.
Raoul's old flat-bed truck came sliding into view – the keys to the Land Rover were in my pocket, so Phyllis'd had to use the bigger vehicle – headlights blazing, bearing down on the half-robot. The robot balanced on one hand, raising its other arm to shield its face in an oddly human way.
The truck hit the robot full on and sent it flying, end over end, into the darkness.
"Come on," Phyllis urged.
I shook my head. "I want to make sure that thing is down for good: you go on ahead, I'll follow when I'm finished here."
Phyllis hesitated.
"Go!" I said.
I could see she was in a lot of pain, her face pale and wet with sweat; eventually the pain won out, and Phyllis put the truck into gear.
"You'll get that arm seen to as soon as you're finished?" She asked.
"Scout's honour," I said, whatever that meant. "I'll see you at the hospital in half-an-hour, okay?"
"Okay."
I watched her leave. The scrap yard was silent then. I picked up the scaffold club in my good hand and went over towards the spot where I thought the robot had landed. I peered into the shadows, but couldn't see anything. There were no sounds either. I turned back towards the repair shop, intending to fetch a flashlight. The robot dropped on me from above.
I staggered, fell to my knees under the impact. It wrapped its arms around my neck. And squeezed. I rolled sideways, aiming to knock the robot off my back, but it clung tight. I tried to pull its arms free of my throat, gasping for breath, but it only squeezed harder. I had to dislodge the robot somehow, and quickly: already the blood was pounding in my ears, and I felt dizzy; unconsciousness wasn't far away.
I spotted a seven-foot angle-iron post sticking out of the ground, an old fence post, the chain-link long since rusted and gone. If I could find something like that, only shorter, that I could impale the half-robot on, that might be enough to dislodge it, maybe even disable it altogether.
I blinked to clear my vision: there was nothing suitable that I could see within a reachable distance. Seeing no other way out, I began to climb the auto-wreck cliff-face nearest the angle-iron fence post: it was going to have to do.
I looked down, and it seemed a huge drop: ten or twelve feet onto the top of the post. I was only going to get one chance at this: if I misjudged, I'd end up shish kebabbed myself.
Drawing breath was virtually impossible, my throat was swollen and my chest burned. I was swaying on my feet, barely conscious: lack of blood to the brain, I guess. I had to blink hard to clear the red fog that was threatening to blind me.
I jumped.
The robot hit the post, I felt it jar, and as I carried on down, it almost tore my head off. Its grip loosened. My feet hit the ground, and I bent my knees, rolling forwards, away from the machine's grasping hands, trying to keep my broken arm from hitting the ground.
I looked back: the robot was reaching down, trying to grasp the post under its mid-section and push itself upwards and off. I had to move, before it was free again.
I retrieved my scaffold club, for what I hoped was the last time, and got to my feet, breath rasping in my bruised throat. I dragged the pipe after me then lifted it, turning to put my whole body weight into the one-handed swing. The first blow hit the robot in the temple, almost lifting it free of the post. Its neck joint cracked, and the steel skull lolled as its muscles contracted, trying to keep the head upright. Strike two, another single-handed swing, sent the head flying from the shoulders and skittering across the ground. I raised the scaffold-cudgel above my head and brought it down once, twice, to take off its right arm, then the same for the left. I used the scaffold like a pile-driver then, to smash the arms and hands into small, dead pieces: I didn't want them coming after me like severed horror movie hands.
After I'd split the robot's chest and torn out its CPU, I went in search of the head.
In the repair shop's kitchen, I microwaved the CPU until its components were a seething mass of molten plastic, solder and biochip waste, which I washed down the kitchen sink. I zapped the head for ten minutes too. I was taking no chances: there'd be no sudden resurrection for this monster when I turned my back this time.
I piled up what was left – head, arm, and leg bits – around the bottom of the fence post where the torso was impaled: I doused the whole lot in alcohol from a fuel can, and set them alight. Burnt at the stake.
I crawled into the Land Rover then, and set off in the direction of the hospital. I hoped Phyllis was okay. I hoped I didn't pass out and die in car wreck before I got to hospital.
Chapter Twenty-One
"They reckon I've got a mild concussion," Phyllis said. "And my ankle's sprained where I landed with it under me: other than that, I'm okay." She was sitting up in her bed in Raoul's room. "They want to keep me in overnight – for observation."
"That's normal with concussion," I assured her: I'd heard them say that in soap operas.
They'd fitted me up with a light-weight cast and a sling, and sealed up the cuts. The nurse had managed to find a bit of flesh that wasn't bruised, and stuck a needle in it: they'd dosed me up with antibiotics and pain-killers, and I was ready to take on the world. Apparently they'd had to stop me from heading off in search of a curry and a few beers, but I don't remember that even now.
"Mr. Houston?" A nurse from the reception area asked. "There's a 'phone call for you."
"Who knows I'm here?" I asked.
Phyllis shrugged.
The nurse led me to the Matron's desk and sat me down in front of the screen.
"Houston?" The face on the screen asked.
I blinked and peered at the face. It was Jonathan Riordon, the Schroeder-Youngmay hotshot.
"Mr. Riordan, how wonderful to see you again!"
"Have you been drinking?" Rordan asked.
"Not yet."
"Where are you?"
"In hospital."
"Are you ill?"
"Nope, I feel fine. Got into a bit of a fight earlier," I confided.
"I see."
Riordan leaned forward, looking closely at the image on his monitor. "Did you win?" He asked.
"Yeah, I think I did."
"Then I would hate to see the other chap," Riordan said.
"Is this call business or social?" I asked: it came out sho-shul.
"Business, I'm afraid. It would seem that Nathan Rhodes did not die in the explosion which destroyed the police vehicle." Riordan seemed almost embarrassed: I liked that. "We think he might come after you and the others; you especially. We also think he has the robot with him, the one they called the Wrecker."
"Thanks for the warning," I said. "How come you didn't tell me this three days ago?"
Riordan shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?" He asked.
"I mean, it doesn't take three days to discover that a body you expect to find in a car crash is missing," I said. "You've known for at least a couple of days that Nathan wasn't dead. Why didn't you tell me before now?"
"We were hoping to apprehend him before now: his being on the loose is something of an embarrassment to us. We didn't want to have to admit that he had eluded us."
"Well, if I see him around, I'll be sure to call and let you know where he is," I said.
"You must understand that since Nathan Rhodes never actually had a contract of employment with us, his actions have never officially been our responsibility," Riordan said.
"You're washing your hands of the whole thing?" I said. "I have to face Nathan and your killer robot alone?"
"In my capacity as a Schroeder-Youngmay co-ordinator, I cannot actually offer you any form of protection, or provide any help in defeating Nathan Rhodes: however we do intend to have him brought in, and will continue in our efforts to track him down," Riordan said. Is this something they teach them in 'plausible deniability' classes?
"You have no idea how reassuring it is to hear that," I said. "Well, thanks for the call."
"There is one other thing."
"Oh?"
"We would like to retrieve the robot in one piece, if at all possible: it is a very expensive piece of machinery," Riordan said.
"I'll bear that in mind if Nathan sends it after me," I said.
"I knew I could count on you to understand," Riordan said. "Goodbye."
"Take care now," I said. "Don't go falling out of any windows." I turned off the screen and leaned back in the Matron's chair: maybe I'd parcel up all the charred bits of the Wrecker and send them C.O.D. to Jonathan Riordan.
"These just came for you," the nurse said, placing a bouquet of white lilies on the desk.
"For me?"
She nodded. She could see I was confused.
"There's a card," she said, and turned to go.
Just me and you now, Houston. I'm ready, are you?
– Nathan
"Nurse? Did you see who brought these?" I called after her.
She turned, placing a finger on her lips.
“Was he thin, blond hair, very pale grey eyes?” I asked.
The nurse nodded. "Don't people usually send lilies to funerals?" She asked.
"That's probably what he was thinking."
Raoul and Phyllis were now both residents of the hospital: I didn't fancy going back to the repair shop alone, and I wasn't really in any fit state to drive, so I took a taxi to the nearest hotel and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
I woke around eleven next morning and 'phoned down to have some breakfast brought to my room. My voice was croaky, my throat swollen.
"I have a message for you, sir," the concierge said. "Just a telephone number and a note asking you to call as soon as possible."
I wrote down the number.
I called the hospital first and spoke to Phyllis: she was fine, and it seemed that Raoul was fussing over her like a mother hen.
"He's treating me like an invalid," she complained. "I'm sure he's just getting his own back." She told me that when the two of them were 'up and about again' that they were going to take some time off to go and stay with Phyllis' sister in Brighton for a couple of weeks, and would I mind keeping an eye on the repair shop while they were gone? I said I'd be happy to take care of the shop. I never knew Phyllis had a sister.
I showered and then examined my poor bruised body in the mirror: you could almost make images out of some of the colours and shapes – a smiling face under my left arm, over the bruised ribs; a spider shape over my right shoulder blade, where I'd landed on a scrap robot hand or something; and a perfectly clear zig-zag on my thigh where I'd come into sudden and violent contact with some sort of cog-wheel.
I dried myself and the plastic arm splint as best I could, then looked down at yesterday's muddied and bloodied clothes. I couldn't face getting into them again: I slid my credit rod into the telephone terminal and called up a menswear catalogue, requesting immediate delivery on the 'casual wear' items I ordered. They were guaranteed to be delivered within the hour.
Fortunately they arrived thirty-seven minutes later: any longer and I might have put my foot through the TV screen. Who watches daytime television? I'd almost forgotten how to think by the time the delivery robot knocked on my door.
Once dressed, I called the mysterious telephone number. It turned out to be the number for the hospital again. I thought I'd dialled wrong, but then they put me through to Beth Civardi's room.
"How're you?" She asked. "I heard you'd had another run in with Nathan Rhodes."
"He sent a robot to kill me," I shrugged. "It didn't."
"He'll try something else," Beth said.
"Probably."
"I want to help you," she said. "Provide you with a little something that'll help you meet him on equal terms when he drops in on you."
I needed all the help I could get, so I wasn't about to refuse. But it turned out there was one slight catch: if I wanted Beth's help, I had to help her in return. She wanted out of the hospital, and apparently she had an escape plan. But she needed some assistance in bringing it off. I felt I owed her, since she'd been injured on two occasions as a result of her association with me, so I agreed to drop by the hospital and pick her up as soon as she'd discharged herself. Maybe the two of us could swap stories about being tortured at the hands of Nathan Rhodes.
"Nice car," Beth said as we approached the Land Rover in the hospital car park.
"You'd sooner walk?" I asked.
She was on crutches, and her face was pale and streaming with sweat as a result of the pain.
"Nah, I'll just duck down in my seat, hope we don't pass anyone who knows me."
She'd had a compound fracture of the femur, you know the kind where the broken bone pokes out through a gash in the flesh? And several cracked ribs: "So please, don't make me laugh," she said. Now there was a challenge. She'd suffered a lot of general bruising too, and one side of her face was swelled up like a basketball. The two of us looked like extras from a disaster mov
ie. Walking wounded.
Beth had taken pain killers before we left the hospital, and she was soon slumped in the passenger seat, asleep. She'd given me directions before she nodded off: head north along the old A60 towards Mansfield. Go past the Seven Mile House on the left, and about a mile after the junction there, you'll see an unpaved road going off to the right – that's us. If you get as far as the left turn for Papplewick, you've missed it.
After the Seven Mile House – an abandoned out of town, restaurant – I slowed to a snail's pace. The area was as close to countryside as makes no difference, which made me uneasy. I didn't want to get lost in this green wilderness. There were greyish lumps in some of the fields I passed, they might have been sheep; and on the left, just before the restaurant, a couple of pony-type creatures had been standing around doing nothing much. In the city, everything has a place and a purpose; in the countryside, things seemed to exist in a state of chaos. Maybe I'm just a control freak, but all that open space, the irrationality of it all, gives me the creeps.
The narrow unpaved lane seemed to exist with the sole purpose of getting to Beth's house. In places, the weeds and hedges grew so far into the road that they scraped against the sides of the car: like the countryside was trying to get at me. It reminded me of Day of the Triffids. Then the lane opened out into a broad weed-infested gravel drive, which curved around what might once have been a small, neat island of shrubs in front of the house. The house was an old red brick place, two storeys, old-fashioned diamond leaded windows. Black and white paintwork, peeling now. A huge oak door with black iron studs in it, and a fat iron ring for a door handle. I parked the Land Rover and Beth stirred beside me.
"It's not quite Bruce Wayne Manor," she said. "But it's the old family home. My grandparents lived here, before the Devaluation. I came back here a few years ago and found that no one was living here, so I sort of reclaimed it. I don't know who actually owns it now, or if anyone does. I like to think of it as my country home."
I helped her out of the Land Rover, trying to avoid her taped up ribs, and got the front door unlocked. We stepped into the cool, shadowy hallway.
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