Infected Page 66

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 h.e.l.l 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 f.u.c.king 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. f.u.c.k your pa.s.sword s.h.i.t, 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 f.u.c.king around here!” Perry’s voice rang thick with desperate frustration. “G.o.dd.a.m.n it! I’m out of time I’m out of time! You’ve got to — ”

who ar e y ou 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 ar e y ou talking to

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

why ar e y ou talking to yourself

“No reason, okay? Just drop it.” Perry hopped up and moved to the bathroom; suddenly he needed to p.i.s.s very badly. He felt the highpitched 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 y ou 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 f.u.c.king reason do I need? He was inside my body and I wanted him out. I want you all out!” he wasn ’ t hur ting y ou