Infected (29 page)

He quickly turned to the “red” pages, the alphabetical listing of all the businesses in the area. He flipped to the
T
’s. There they were. There were two entries.

Triangle Fence Co. in Ypsilanti and Triangle Mobile Home Sales in Ann Arbor. Who the fuck would name a business “Triangle”? What sense did that make? There had to be a connection. One or both of these had to be government fronts.
That
made sense—it made
perfect
sense! People in Perry’s predicament were, sooner or later, going to pick up the phone and try to find help. And wouldn’t everybody get the hunch to see if anything was named “Triangle” in the phone book? And the government had to be ready to jump on the situation, so they probably had an office in every decent-size town in the country—or at least in the area of the invasion. So people would call, and then the Triangle Fence boys would come out in their Triangle Fence shirts with “Bob” and “Lou” stitched over the Triangle Fence Co. patch on their left breast (for effect, so none of the locals would think anything of it, because all repair/installation guys have their name on their shirt). They would come in to the house and quietly take Perry out to the van and drive him somewhere with Men in White Lab Coats, who would quickly and painlessly take the Triangles out of Perry’s body. Sure, he’d be sworn to secrecy and all, but that was a small price to pay. This was a chance. This was
hope
. If nothing else, it was an opportunity to make sure that these little fuckers got what they deserved.

He opened his cell phone and dialed.

A woman’s pleasant voice answered, “Triangle Fence Company.”

Perry’s words were a whisper, yet each syllable sounded cacophonously loud in the quiet apartment. “Um, yes. I need help with…with…”

He grasped for words—should he come out and ask? What should he say? Was the secretary in on it? Was his phone bugged?

“Help with what, sir?” the pleasant voice asked.

Perry quickly and quietly folded the phone, hanging up without so much as a click. Just how was he supposed to ask? Was there a code word? His phone could be bugged. If he asked for help, would the Triangles know somehow? Would they punish him?

Stop it! How could they have bugged my phone? They don’t even have
arms.
And they’re not testing me, they can’t be—they’re going to kill me anyway. They wouldn’t be testing my loyalty or anything when I’ve already killed three of them. That’s not logical. Think, man, tune them out…think!

Perry breathed with slow control. A choking feeling of anxiety circled his consciousness—he might have only moments left in his big chance. And if the phone was bugged, it meant that someone knew of his condition and wasn’t doing anything about it, which meant that any call he made was a waste of time anyway. He had to calm down and act now if he had any chance for survival. Time was running out.

He opened the phone again, this time dialing Triangle Mobile Home Sales. It only made sense—of course it would be the mobile-home place. They could drive out in an RV, you could hop in for a test drive and off you went. None of your neighbors would be the wiser, not even a little bit suspicious. It all made sense now.

“Triangle Mobile Home Sales,” a gruff male voice answered. This was more like it.

“Yes,” Perry said quietly, cupping the phone to his chin with his free hand. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Well, that depends on what you need help with,” the gravelly voice responded, a tinge of lighthearted humor hanging in the words. “What can we do ya for?”

Depends on what you need help with,
the man had said. Now why would he say that? This had to be the right one. Had to be.

“I had seven to start with, but I got three,” Perry said in a rush. “I think the others are still growing. I don’t know how much longer I have.”

“Excuse me? Seven what?”

“Seven Triangles,” Perry said, unable to keep the grin off his face.

“Triangles?”

“Yes! That’s right!” Perry fidgeted in his seat, as if his body couldn’t contain the renewed energy coursing through his veins. “You’ve got to help me. Tell me it’s not too late for me!”

“Mister, I’m afraid I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Help you with what?”

“The Triangles, man!” Perry didn’t hear his voice rising in volume.

“Stop playing games. I don’t know your fucking code or keyword or whatever, I’m not James Bond, okay? All I know is that these things are growing in me and I can’t stop them. Fuck your password shit, just put some people in one of those mobile homes and get them over here!”

Perry’s blood went cold as he heard low-volume buzzing in his brain. It was softer than he’d ever felt before, but it was there.

The Triangles were waking up.

“Mister, I don’t have time for these games. I don’t appreciate—”

“I’m
not
fucking around here!” Perry’s voice rang thick with desperate frustration. “Goddamn it! I’m out of time I’m out of time! You’ve got to—”

who are you talking to

Perry’s heart lurched in his chest. Adrenaline shot through his body. He reactively flung the cell phone across the room, where it landed softly on the carpet.

Panic clutched him as if he were a rabbit frozen in the headlights of an onrushing semi.

who are you talking to

“No one! I…was just talking to myself, that’s all.”

why are you talking to yourself

“No reason, okay? Just drop it.” Perry hopped up and moved to the bathroom; suddenly he needed to piss very badly. He felt the high-pitched buzz in his head, loud and intense.

They were searching, and it was stronger than before.

He stopped at the bathroom door, mentally grasping for a way to avoid what he knew had to be coming—the mindscream. He
had
to get that out of his thoughts. A song. Think of a song. Something intense…something from Rage Against the Machine. “Bombtrack.”

Perry’s brow furrowed as he focused his concentration on the song. (
“Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn”
were the only words he could remember.) Perry thought it as “loudly” as he could, not allowing anything else to enter his brain. (
“Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn!”
) He let the words of Rage’s singer, Zack de la Rocha, rip through his mind as if he were at a concert, drunk out of his gourd, swarming with thousands of other people in a violent mosh pit.

why did you kill

Perry was concentrating so hard he almost didn’t register the question.

why why why why why

He couldn’t believe it. They wanted to know
why
he’d killed the three Triangles. Fury welled up inside him, pushing aside his concentration, drowning his fear, crushing his panic. They had the audacity to ask
why
?

why why why whywhywhywhy

“Because he was in me! What other fucking reason do I need? He was inside my body and I wanted him out. I want you all out!”

he wasn’t hurting you

neither are we

“Not hurting me? I can barely walk, my shoulder is fucked up and my house is covered with blood. My blood!”

our blood too you did

it to yourself

“Fuck you, you little cocksuckers! I didn’t do it to myself! I have to get you guys out of me before you eat me up from the inside! I may look like the amazing walking incubator to you, but it’s not going to happen!”

calm down relax calm down relax

“Relax? Sure, I’ll relax, when the rest of you fucks are dead!” Somewhere in his weary mind, he realized that his rage had boiled over, slipped beyond his control. He wanted to hit something, anything, hit something and break it into a million pieces. “If I have to cut myself into chunks to get every last one of you, I’ll do it and I’ll laugh—you hear me? I’ll laugh my ass off the whole time!”

calm down someone

coming calm down

“No one’s coming, you bastards!” He shook with unbridled, primitive fury. He made little hops to keep his balance.

Three knocks on the door ended the debate.

someone is here calm down calm down

HOWDY, NEIGHBOR (PART TWO)

Perry stared at the door, not sure he’d actually heard it, hoping he hadn’t.

Then came three more knocks.

columbo Columbo

columbo columbo

“Shut up!” Perry hissed through clenched teeth, the stress wiring his jaws tight. “It’s not Columbo.”

“Hey in there!” the voice called in. A male voice. He recognized the distinctively deep baritone of Al Turner, who lived in the apartment directly above Perry’s. “Would you stop your screaming? You’re driving me nuts.”

Al Turner was Mr. Blue Collar. One of those guys who, despite having passed the thirty-year mark, still measured his manhood by how much alcohol he could consume on a night out with the boys. A car mechanic, or something like that.

“Don’t bother ignoring me, I know you’re there!” Three more knocks. He was pissed. Perry heard the anger in his voice. “Are you okay? What’s going on in there?”

“Nothing,” Perry called back through the closed, locked and chained door. “I’m sorry, I was having an argument on the phone.” Perry felt relief with that top-of-the-head lie. That would work. That made sense. That was logical.

Al yelled back through the door, “Yeah? I’ve heard nothing but yelling from down here, and it’s starting to get on my nerves, you know?”

Perry had been screaming his head off for one reason or another in his battles against the Triangles and

kill him

he’d never thought about how much noise he was making. Al was

kill him

probably at wits’ end from all the commotion.

“Sorry Al,” Perry said. “I’ll keep it down, I promise. Woman problems, you know?”

“You can open the door, man. I don’t have a gun or anything.” Al’s voice sounded calmer.

“I’m buck naked, Al, just got out of the shower. Thanks for stopping by, I’ll keep

kill him

it down.”

Perry heard footsteps shuffle down the hallway. That had been as rude as can be, Perry knew, but he wasn’t about to open the door and let Al see the Blood-O-Rama inside the apartment.

kill him

They’d said “kill him” again and again. Perry hadn’t heard them the first few times…or maybe he hadn’t
wanted
to hear them.

Perry whispered, “Why the hell would I kill him?”

he knows,

he’s a threat,

kill him kill him

“He is not a threat!” Perry heard his voice rise again before he caught himself in midsentence, making “threat” come out several decibels lower than the rest of his words. “He’s my neighbor, he lives upstairs.”

High-pitch.

Fuzzy noise.

Perry assumed they were accessing the term
upstairs,
or perhaps the building’s layout. He was growing adept at knowing what they searched for; their retrieval process seemed to make images flash into his mind as well, bits and pieces of what they wanted.

he lives right above us fucker he knows kill him he knows kill him—

“Shut up,” Perry said calmly, quietly, but with as much authority as he could muster. He might be as good as dead, but he wasn’t going to take Al with him. “You can just fuck off, how’s that? I’m not going to kill him. Forget it and stop asking. It’s not going to happen. The only one I’m thinking of killing is myself and you four along with me. So shut up.”

The lumpy sound came again, low and long. Perry laughed inwardly. It was like they were lovers; the Triangles searched for the right words to avoid an argument.

don’t kill us or kill yourself fucker don’t we’re trying to stop Columbo

Trying to stop Columbo.

Trying to stop the Soldiers.

Had the right people at Triangle Mobile Home Sales gotten the message? Maybe he should have called 911 a long time ago—maybe they could have gotten the things out when it still mattered, because it was too late now.

Perry felt tired and drained. It really
was
like an argument with a lover. Whenever he had a knock-down, drag-out fight with a girlfriend, anger and other emotions flew around his head like dead leaves in an October storm. Such arguments exhausted him. He didn’t need to sleep after sex—he needed to sleep after fighting. This felt exactly the same. It was only about 6:30
P.M
., but it was time to turn in.

He entered the bedroom but didn’t want to sleep there; the sheets remained spotted and streaked with blood. He was in there only long enough to grab a clean gray long-sleeved Detroit Lions T-shirt. Then he hopped to the bathroom, pounded four Tylenol and headed to the couch. He let himself fall into the inviting cushions.