Infected Page 47

He’d made the first cut before he really knew what he was doing. He found himself staring drunkenly at a two-inch gash. Hot, tickling blood spilled down the side of his calf, spreading across the tabletop, then falling in thick red splatters against the white linoleum floor. He heard the dripping of the blood before he felt the pain, which was severe but distant — separated, as if it were pain seen on TV while Perry was curled up on the couch under a fuzzy blanket with a cold c.o.ke in one hand and the remote control in the other.

no kill no pleaseno kill

He felt as if he were on autopilot, gliding through this bizarre action like a spectator. Who knew there would be this much blood? It covered his leg, smeared against his pale skin, made it difficult to see the triangle’s edge, yet he pushed down hard on the fork, put the knife blade perpendicular to his skin and made another fast cut. More blood spilled across

the table and onto the floor. The pain didn’t feel distant now, not at all. Perry ground his teeth in an effort to control himself, to finish the job.

The blood somehow found its way up the knife blade and onto his hands. He heard the steady stream-drip of his own blood pattering to the floor below.

“How’s it feel, you little f.u.c.ker?” Perry’s words were slow and slurred. “How’s it feel? Do you like that? Kill me? No-no-no, I’ll kill you. You’ve got to have discipline.”

Perry steeled himself, forcing his vision to clear once more and his mind to center on the next task. Despite his drunken state, his hands remained amazingly steady — he’d definitely missed his calling in life.

no kill please no kill no

His face furrowed in confusion. Something tickled at the edge of his mind, like a dream trying to crawl in and stir up nocturnal secrets. He violently shook his head, then stared with new focus at the b.l.o.o.d.y fork and knife. The second cut had left one side of the triangle in place, like a door hinge — he slid the blade under the angular flap and flipped it back like a b.l.o.o.d.y piece of raw bacon.

cold no kill cold cold

What he saw stopped him instantly. A low hiss leaked from his mouth like air from a punctured tire.

“How’s that for a prize in your Cracker Jacks?”

He stared at the thing that had made him itch, made him tear into himself like a wild animal in a trap — at what was undoubtedly killing him. Blood pooled and flowed around a dark blue triangular lump. Perry wiped away the pulsating blood to get a better look.

It was deep blue, shiny, although maybe that was from the wetness of the blood rather than its true color. The triangle’s surface wasn’t smooth, but gnarled, twisted . . . malignant, like tree roots ma.s.sed together and exposed to the soil surface, or like the texture of steel cable without the orderly lines.

Sobriety suddenly swam its way to the surface, spurred on by a horrorfueled fight-or-flight response. This was a whole ’nother ball game from the rashes, a completely different league than the thick orange blisters. His body hadn’t made this thing, couldn’t have — where the h.e.l.l had it come from?

Perry snarled. The growling voice of a rabid animal escaped his throat. He not-so-gently slid the fork under the b.l.o.o.d.y blue triangle. The metal tines sc.r.a.ped against his own raw flesh. He’d never felt pain so

no feel no kill no kill

pure, so dense, so all-encompa.s.sing, but he ignored it completely, focusing instead on the abomination buried in his shin.

Play through the pain.

He felt the tines of the fork meet the slightly giving resistance of the triangle’s stem. He gently fished around until the fork slid all the way through, its red-smeared p.r.o.ngs poking their little heads out from underneath the triangle’s other side.

The blood-covered table felt cold and sticky under his calf. Perry raised the fork. The triangle seemed to lift easily. The stem itself, however, was another affair, far more solid and firm than before. It would take strength to pull this one out.

Sweat poured from his face as pain sheared through his leg. It was slammingly intense, but he held it in check with the promise of purging this abomination from his body. Perry yanked up hard on the

no kill no kill

fork, but the stem held firm. Blood spilled anew from the leg, splashing into the puddle that blazed red against the white linoleum floor.

His head lolled to the right. Spots appeared before his eyes. He scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head, blinking fast as his equilibrium and vision returned. He’d almost pa.s.sed out. Had he lost that much blood? His head started to spin — he didn’t know if it was from the Wild Turkey or blood loss. He felt control slipping away.

please no no no no no no no

He jammed the fork in deeper, allowing more of the tines to poke through the other side, enough for him to get a decent hold with his free hand. He held the fork as if it were a curling bar and he was ripping off a few quick reps. His meaty biceps twitched in antic.i.p.ation. He took a breath and

NO NO NO NO NO NO

NO NO NO NO

yanked.

He heard a ripping sound and felt a blast of searing nuclear fire rage through his leg. Something in the stem snapped. Perry’s momentum carried him backward over his chair and spilled him onto the floor.

Blood had trickled before — now it gushed, this time from the back of the leg. A wave of gray washed across his eyes.

Have to stop the bleeding. I’m not gonna die on the kitchen floor . . .

He pulled off his T-shirt and leaned forward, a.s.s and legs spreading blood all across the linoleum. Perry wrapped the shirt around his gushing calf, tied a granny knot, then yanked it tight with all his strength. His short scream filled the small apartment.