Infected Page 51

“This is Cooper,” the voice said in Dew’s earpiece. “Downstairs, one more body.”

Yep, going to get his ticket punched.

Dew reached the top of the stairs. He checked in each room, ready to fire instantly if he saw a weapon. Every room was messy, the casual decor of college kids. This wasn’t one of the houses for the rich kids. This one was full — correction, had been full — of kids that actually worked to get through school. Even so, every room had a computer. Every computer had a neat bullet hole through the screen.

The last room, of course, held the answers. And the answers were some s.h.i.t Dew Phillips really didn’t want to see.

A bloated body tied to a chair. A body missing both feet. Both hands. Half the head gone, a f.u.c.king hammer sticking out of the skull like a handle. Flies swarming, showing a real preference for the brains.

And on the floor, a pitted black skeleton sitting in a giant black stain on the green carpet.

Gonna need a steam cleaner for that, Dew thought, then instantly wondered if he was going just a little bit crazy.

The skeleton lay on top of a .22 rifle. The back of the skull had a neat little hole in it. f.u.c.king gook had shot himself in the eye.

Dew quickly looked around the room. What he saw on the back wall made him shake his head in near exhaustion. These infected victims, if you could manage to call the murdering a.s.sholes that, were some seriously crazy f.u.c.kers.

“This is Phillips. Primary objective found, deceased. Let’s get this scene locked down tight, and as soon as we do, get Doctor Montoya over here. Squad One, lose the Racal suits and take up positions at the entrances, two at the front door, two at the back. No one gets in unless I let ’em in. Squad Two, start cataloging the crime scene. Get a s.h.i.tload of pictures, and bring in the photo printer. Montoya is only going to be here long enough to see the scene firsthand, then I want her out and I want pictures ready for her to take with. And get into the university’s database and get me pictures of these kids when they were alive, she’ll need that for comparison. Let’s move, people. The locals aren’t going to be happy when they hear about the body count.”

Another miss. He wondered if Otto and Margaret would fare any better with the other lead from Cheng’s files. Couldn’t be worse — ma.s.s-murdering art student versus a seven-year-old girl with one of those strange fiber things, which itself had been removed six days ago.

Hopefully, they could find something important.

At least they didn’t have to look at a scene like this.

The SARS story wouldn’t cover six bodies. People might make a sad face when they hear about a seventy-year-old woman killing her son, or some random guy going nutso and whacking his family, but six dead college kids . . . that was another matter. A ma.s.s murder like this would be on every station in the country if Dew didn’t lock this s.h.i.t down tight, and right now.

Fortunately, even in a game of big swingers, Dew had the president of the United States of America hitting cleanup. And the president carried a d.a.m.n big bat.

Dew knew exactly what he needed even before he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Murray Longworth.

38.

COUCH-POTATO BUG

The throbbing of the leg brought him out of his dead-man sleep. It was a double-pulse thump, just a hair off time with the rhythm of his heart.

Perry wasn’t medically inclined enough to know what had happened, to know the disaster that lurked in his left leg just beneath the surface of his skin. He had no way of knowing that his Achilles tendon floated in two useless pieces, torn to shreds by the sharp hooks of the Triangle’s tail.

What he did know was that it hurt. Hurt like a b.i.t.c.h. Throbbed. Thumped. Thump-thumped. He had to take something for the pain. He groaned as he sat up on the couch and gingerly slid his legs over the edge, resting his feet on the floor. Despite the pulsating body aches, his head felt a bit better. But how much better could he feel knowing what twisted and grew and wormed about inside his body? They were killing him, of that there was no doubt — but why? What did they want?

Where had these things come from? Perry had never heard of any parasite like this, one that somehow “talked” in his head, capable of . . . intelligence. No, this was definitely something new. Maybe it was some government experiment. Maybe he was a guinea pig for some sinister plot. Possibilities began to flood his mind. He wanted some answers.

“Hey,” Perry hissed. “Hey, you f.u.c.kers.”

y es w e ar e here

“What do you want with me?” There was a pause, then a . . . scratching sound in his head. Or maybe it sounded like static. He concentrated on the sensation — it reminded him of turning a radio tuning k.n.o.b very fast, so that static, music and voices all blended together into one indiscernible ma.s.s of sound.

A lumpy sound.

Perry waited for their answer, wondering what they were up to.

what do yo u mean

The voice was monotone, short and to the point. No inflection, a steady stream of syllables that shot forth almost too fast to understand. It was nearly comical, like the voice of an alien in a cheap sci-fi flick —

the ones who spout trite and overused lines like “resistance is futile” and “you humans are inferior” or other such drivel.

“You know d.a.m.n well what I mean.” Perry felt more than a little frustrated. Not only were these things anch.o.r.ed inside his body, but they were playing dumb to boot. Another pause, more scratching, more lumpy sound.

what do yo u mean

Perhaps he’d been too generous when he called them “intelligent.” Maybe they weren’t playing dumb. Maybe they were just plain stupid.