Shivers (38 page)

Eric held his bleeding shoulder and followed as best he could.

It was almost impossible for Steven or Eric to see anything ahead of them. Steven could just barely make out three figures. Two large ones, carrying a third, struggling, smaller shape between them.

“Joey!”

The young man answered. Steven would have known that voice anywhere. “Steven? Help me!
Help me!”

Back in the operations room the members of the committee were over at a console adjusting dials and pressing buttons. “The system is
down!”
the first woman yelled. Staring past the running figures of Steven and Eric she tried in vain to catch sight of the three forms they were pursuing. Referring to the latter, she said, “We’ve got to stop them!” But it was too late. The biocomp was
aroused
and could not wait even if it would incur the wrath of its god.

Steven put on a burst of speed and tried to catch up to his brother. It was no use. One of the bodyguards knocked Steven to the ground with such force he had all the wind knocked out of him. As he tried to rise and clear his head, a huge door began to open, and a white hot stab of brilliant light illuminated the hallway. He saw Joey thrown into that room, where the stench was so overpowering, the air so acrid and thick. He heard Joey screaming. And, as the door began to close, he caught a glimpse of some enormous living thing, a throbbing mass of tissue, and he saw an eye, a gigantic eye, and it was
looking
right at him with disdain.
The firstborn, but the second best.
Steven screamed out loud to keep from fainting. Drawing upon a well of bravery he never knew he had, he jumped up, brushed away one of the guards as he tried to grab him again, and slipped into the lair of the biocomp just as the wide, massive door thudded shut behind him.

The stench was unbearable. Steven’s eyes stung so badly he could only keep them open for moments at a time. He heard his brother squealing with pain, saw him being pulled toward the throbbing semi-mechanical orifice of the monstrosity. He ran in the direction of his brother’s voice, hit something soft and squishy, yet firm and unyielding. He saw his brother at his side, grabbed him, and tried to pull him out, tried to get him away from the creature’s consuming embrace, but couldn’t.

Steven felt something tight surround his waist, then his chest and neck. Tentacles—if that’s what they were—were pulling him away from Joey and from the beast. He was flung up in the air, his whole body going up and over, twirling furiously until he hit the hard concrete of the wall. He fell to the ground in a heap, covered in blood, his own blood. Something wet and heavy slammed into Steven’s forehead. He had to fight to stay conscious.

Through the haze Steven saw that another figure was in the room with them. Their father.
He knew what he was going to do.
No.
No!
He wanted to save his brother, but not at that price! He didn’t want to lose his father just as he’d found him again. There had to be another way!

Steven was too weak to stop his father, and really didn’t know what he would have done had he been able to rise to his feet. Would he have taken his father’s place, sacrificed himself? But would that have done any good?

He’d never know.

Bradford Everson pushed Joey to one side and took the boy’s place in “the ceremony.”

In a moment the man was being sucked into the thing, being devoured by the very “sexual act” he was forced to take part in. He was being engulfed by the viscous substance that made up the creature’s reproductive region.

Dad! No! I still need you!

The biocomp ingested the man, made love to him.

But then something happened.

Bradford Everson’s heart stopped. Bradford Everson died . . . before the biocomp had a chance to complete its task.

And when Bradford Everson died . . .

The creature squealed in agony. Its flesh, its mechanical fibers and organic tissues began to quiver.

Steven thought:
My father died a hero and no one will even know it.

Huge appendages slapped against the walls in defiance. A jelly-like substance flowed across the floor. The biocomp’s tremendous “eye” revolved and bulged in its socket. The hulking, nightmarish monstrosity was in its death throes.

Harry. Poor Lina. All of you. You have been avenged.

Steven saw that the door was opening. Eric and the others—at last free from the alien’s control—were entering, dragging him and Joey to safety while the creature dissolved into an odorous stew of lifeless limbs and metallic organs. There was a final spasm . . . and the beast succumbed.

The beast succumbed and died.

EPILOGUE

W
HEN
S
TEVEN WOKE
up he was in a hospital bed.

Had it all be a dream? No—it had happened. His father had come back from the dead, only to die again. An alien invader had landed on Earth and been defeated. It had enslaved, driven crazy, and murdered hundreds of people, but the human race had prevailed.
But would anyone believe it?

They would have to believe it. Even now liberated slaves were making their way back to their homes and their loved ones. One person might not be believed; two, a dozen, two dozen. But a hundred, two hundred?
The world would have to believe.

Something from the stars had come and nearly conquered the earth. Something devious and merciless. Something dead. Yet how could they hate a thing that had only been doing what it had been bred and programmed to do? Better to hate the
Marikai,
who had sent it.

Would they ever send another? Another biocomp? He assumed the colonizers would never arrive because of the biocomp’s failure. Was there already
another
biocomp on earth somewhere, waiting to awaken, or already working its wiles? Steven’s head hurt—he was too tired to think, too weary to worry.
Let the police round up the renegades, I’m too busy.

Steven heard a rustle to one side. Someone was standing beside the bed.

“Andrea!
Is that you?”

She bent down and kissed him.

It just came out. “Shouldn’t you be with Donald?” There was no rancor in his voice; it was just a question.

“ “If all you can do is worry about that Steven Everson,’ “ she quoted, “ “you can’t build a life with me.’ And that’s that. It’s over with Donald.” She leaned down and whispered with all her heart, “I want to try with you again.”

Steven smiled. He could hardly contain his joy. “You’re not just feeling sorry for me?”

Andrea shook her head. “Uh uh. You’re not getting out of this
that
easily.”

“How did you know I was here?”
How much she she know, period?

“I got a call from an Eric Thorne. Nice man.”

When Eric Thorne read your mind,
Steven thought,
he didn’t kid around.

“Said he was there when you got hit by the car. Really Steven,” she jokingly chided, “you
must
watch where you’re going in a blackout. At least your injuries aren’t serious. You’ll be out of here soon.”

She didn’t “know” anything yet, but soon . . . soon everyone would know.

“Mr. Thorne said to tell you his shoulder was okay. Also . . . I didn’t get it, but he said, ‘If there’s any more trouble, I can take care of it.’ And he told me to tap my head when I said it. Does it mean anything to you?”

Good old Eric Thorne. The paranormal wonder had a swelled head, but that was all right. His services
might
be needed some day.

Steven would have something to say to the members of “the committee” who had refused to help his father. Yet, if he had been in their place . . . ?

“The lights are back on,” Steven said.

“Yes, the blackout is over.”

“Good.”

“Somebody
else
is here to see you. He finally came home, the bad boy. And
you
were so worried.”

Yes. Yes—there had to be someone else. After all they had gone through he had to be all right.

Andrea made room for someone tall and familiar who was smiling down at Steven. Someone who had haunted his thoughts for days. Someone he had gone through hell for.

A blond-haired, freckled-face young man was grinning. “How are you, Stevie?”

Steven couldn’t control the tears. He reached up and held his brother close.

“Joey!”