Chapter 19
Stewart McQueen knew that it was the intervention of Old Scratch and all of his hellish minions of evil that brought him safely back home to Maine. The front door accepted the writer's key, and the security system-which was wired around the entire mansion-yielded to his special access code.
His gimpy leg ached. Limping under the weight of his precious bundle, the novelist steered his mutant spider-man into the living room.
Mr. Gordons had fallen silent during the plane ride up from Florida. Good thing, too. It was hard enough to hide all those extra furry legs under an overcoat, but McQueen doubted he could have avoided extra attention if the creature had continued to mutter "survive, survive" over and over again as he had on the car ride to the airport.
Once on the ground in Maine, McQueen had been startled when he started to help his monster up from his first-class seat and discovered that the spider legs had disappeared at some point during the flight. All that was left were the two human appendages. When McQueen looked closely, he could still see the slices in the blue fabric of the jacket through which the extra legs had jutted.
He was home now, and his creature still had but two arms as Stewart McQueen dumped Mr. Gordons into his old living-room chair. A thick cloud of white dust escaped into the air as the heavy bundle settled into the cushions.
Coughing and limping, McQueen collapsed exhausted to the high-backed Victorian-era sofa.
"We made it," the novelist gasped to himself. He blinked away the sharp pain that suddenly gripped his knee.
As if in response, a noise sounded deep within the chest of his guest. It was as if he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Even his lips failed to move.
Stewart strained to hear what he was saying. It came slowly, as if echoing up from the depths of a dark well. The same word, repeated over and over.
"...survive, survive, survive, survive..."
McQueen's shoulders slumped. "Not again," he sighed.
"...survive, survive, survive..."
The word grew louder. He had been quiescent during the flight, but it now seemed almost as if the spider creature had been recharging its batteries.
All at once Mr. Gordons snapped alert. His eyes opened wide, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. His head twisted to one side.
On a stand next to the chair was a television remote control. As the word survive cut out, Gordons lifted his right hand and dropped it on the sleek black device.
There was a crack of plastic.
When he took his hand away a moment later, all that remained was the shattered casing and two crushed batteries. The guts of the remote had been absorbed into Gordons' s hand.
His head twisted again, right then left. He seemed to be absorbing every minute detail of the room he was in. At last he turned his flat gaze on Stewart McQueen.
"I am not home," Gordons pronounced.
"Home?" McQueen asked, still amazed by what his monster had done to the remote control. Gordons resumed scanning his surroundings. Artificial cobwebs hung from beamed ceilings. Above the black stone fireplace, a pair of carved gargoyles stared back at him.
"This is not NASA," Gordons stated. "It is an environment unfamiliar to me. Where am I?"
"You're at my home," McQueen explained. "In Maine. I rescued you from that bar. You were pretty beat up."
Gordons seemed to be remembering, accessing those parts of his stored memory not damaged after his deadly confrontation at the Roadkill Tavern.
"I encountered an entity of a nature unknown to me," he said. "From what I was able to ascertain before and during his attack, he was a cybernetic being."
"Yeah," McQueen nodded. "He seemed to pack a real wallop." A hopeful glint sparked in his eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have his address, would you?"
"No."
"Too bad," McQueen said. "That guy had inspiration written all over him. Just like you."
Standing, the android examined his arms and hands. "There are no words inscribed on my body," he disagreed. "Nor would the presence of such a disfigurement be effective camouflage. As for the cybernetic man I encountered, he is irrelevant. I do not have the time to engage another enemy. My primary targets remain the same."
"Targets? What targets? Hey, that's my computer."
Gordons was at the desk in the corner. "I require components to complete repairs."
Placing his palms firmly on either side of McQueen's PC, the android's hands began to shudder. As the writer watched, fascinated, the hands seemed to melt through the chassis, disappearing inside the machine. They rested that way for a moment, bare wrists fused to metal. A few crunches and whirs later, the hands reappeared, apparently as good as new.
The same couldn't be said for McQueen's computer. The device now sported two perfectly round holes in each side.
"Hey, the first drafts of my next fifteen books were stored on that thing," the novelist complained. "I wrote them before I got hit by that car. That's three weeks' worth of work you just ruined."
Gordons didn't seem to care about the great loss to modem literature. Bringing one hand back, he rabbit-punched forward, shattering the computer screen. He began rooting around inside the monitor for parts.
"It's okay," McQueen quickly declared. "Take whatever you want. I can always type up a couple more books. Usually takes me about two days to do three hundred pages anyway." He bit his lip with his rodentlike incisors. "Although lately it's been a little harder than it used to. That's why I went to find you. A real live monster could maybe help to shake things up for me. Um, you are a monster, aren't you?"
"I am an android," Mr. Gordons explained.
He ripped two green motherboards from the interior of the shattered monitor. When he turned to face the novelist, McQueen saw that a wide gash had opened in the being's stomach. The computer components disappeared in the freshly created slot. After they were accepted inside, the wound sealed back up behind them. So, too, Stewart McQueen noted, did the creature's dress shirt.
"Android, huh?" McQueen said, trying to hide his disappointment. "I don't know about that. Kind of sci-fi, you know what I mean? The readers might complain if I start shoving robots into my books."
"I must go," Gordons announced abruptly.
Without another word he started across the room. "Whoa, there, Charlie," McQueen blurted, jumping to his feet. His leg nearly buckled beneath him in his dash to get out in front of the departing android.
"My name is Mr. Gordons, not Charlie. And if you do not step from my path, I will assume that you are an enemy to my survival, as well."
"I'm not an enemy," McQueen argued. "I saved you. And I can help you with whatever you need. I'm loaded. You want computers? I can feed them to you three squares a day. You want sanctuary? You got it here. This is still a small town. No one knows I brought you here."
"Even if that is true now, it will not remain so," Gordons disagreed. "My enemies have the resources to locate me if they so desire."
"Then let me help you stop them," McQueen pleaded.
He dropped to his knees. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes. Most from the buzz-saw pain in his injured leg.
Gordons seemed to consider his words. "The resources of NASA are far greater than yours. It is unlikely that you will be able to assist me. However, the information I have absorbed from your computer's hard drive indicates to me that you are a creative individual. This is a trait that I lack. Perhaps it would be wiser from a tactical standpoint to accept your offer. If you fail, I will always have my fallback position with Colonel Codwin and NASA. Two lines of attack are always preferable to one."
"Sure," Stewart McQueen agreed. He had no idea what the hell the screwy robot was talking about. Probably had a few gears loose in the old noggin.
As the novelist dragged himself back to his feet, Mr. Gordons crossed back into the room, walking over to the TV.