Infected Page 69

Well screw this. Perry didn’t get to hide in that tiny apartment, not when football Sunday was on. Bill needed to see him, needed to know everything was all right. Perry was capable of such violent outbursts — one incident might put him in jail. Bill had to reach him, just to make sure his friend wasn’t about to f.u.c.k up his life yet again.

Bill picked up the phone and called his best friend one more time.

COOKING UP A STORM

“Somebody knockin’ at the duh-or, somebody ringin’ the bell.”

He recognized the voice. Paul McCartney. Must be some Beatles tune, from when they were all whacked out on drugs and spouting that Peace and Love s.h.i.t.

It was that f.u.c.king door again. Still rotting and spongy soft, although this time Perry wasn’t walking down the dark hall. He was standing still, yet the door kept getting closer.

The door was coming for him.

A hundred tiny tentacles jutted from the door’s bottom like the arms of a black anemone, wiggling, pulling, always moving forward. The door came toward him, slowly but steadily, the spongy green wood hungry for a meal.

Perry turned and ran, but at the other end of the hall stood another green door, this one also moving closer, this one also hungry.

Nowhere to go. One door or the other . . . or both. No matter what he did, what waited behind those doors would take him. In the dream, Perry started to scream . . .

Perry awoke, his eyelids flickering against the early morning light that sifted harshly through his window. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, head resting on the back of the couch. The position had made his neck stiff and tight. He rubbed at it with his good arm, trying to loosen up the muscles. He sc.r.a.ped his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an automatic effort to relieve the pasty feeling that comes from bad sleep. It wouldn’t go away until he could get some water.

His cell phone rang loudly. Barely awake, he answered it before he could think of the consequences.

“h.e.l.lo?”

h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo sonofab.i.t.c.h

“Perry! You’re home! Where the h.e.l.l have you been, man?” “I’ve been here . . .” Perry blinked his eyes against the rude sunlight. He slowly pushed his lethargic body upright. His voice still carried the

grogginess of the morning, the sound of words that came out automatically without the guidance of an attentive brain. “Been in my apartment.” w e kno w w e ’ v e been her e too

“You’ve been gone for days!” The voice on the other end rang with anxiety and excitement. “We thought you’d skipped town or something. You’ve been home all this time?”

It was almost like a split personality, a sprint between intelligence and stupidity. Half of his mind raced in a dead panic (the pain is coming!), rushing to wrest control from the other half, the I-just-woke-up-andI’m-d.a.m.n-stupid half that was currently talking on the phone, oblivious to the disastrous situation rapidly surging to the boiling-over point.

“Perry, you there?”

Perry gave his head a little shake, still trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Who is this?”

who is who, what ar e y ou talking about

“It’s Bill, stupid. You know, Bill? Your best friend? Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

The intelligent, panicked part of Perry’s mind slammed into control with the force of a missile hitting a pa.s.senger jet. He flung the phone away as if it were a tarantula. It landed on the floor only a few feet from him.

“h.e.l.lo?” The word came faint, thin and tinny from the receiver. who is her e, who ar e y ou talking to, who is here

Bill’s voice sounded impossibly distant and small. Like an abused dog cowering at the sound of its master’s angry call, Perry flinched with each word that trickled from the phone.

“h.e.l.lo? Perry?”

He reached down and flipped the phone shut.

who is there, who is

there, who who who is

it columbo

Perry’s breath still came in shallow, quiet bursts. Like a kid caught doing something very wrong, his mind raced for an excuse, a lie, anything that would keep him out of trouble.

who is there, who is

there, who is there

“No one is here,” Perry said quietly.

columbo is here isn’t he

“No!” Perry fought back panic, tried to keep his voice low — he didn’t want another visit from Big Al upstairs. “No one is here. It was just the telephone. It’s nothing to worry about.” High-pitched noise ripped through his thoughts as the Triangles rooted around in his brain. Perry sat very, very still, wondering if a blast of angry shouting would hammer the inside of his head.

Low-pitched noise followed as the Four Hors.e.m.e.n added new words and phrases to their growing vocabulary.

telephone so y ou can

talk to ones who ar en ’ t

her e right

Perry worked his way through the Triangle sentence. They put right at the end of the sentence. They were asking a question.

“Yes, that’s right, so we can talk to ones that aren’t here.” He remained frozen on the couch like a hunted rabbit, waiting for the pain to sear through his head, a weed whacker tr.i.m.m.i.n.g up his brain.

w e do that without

telephones talk to Triangles

“Are you talking to some of them now?” Perry carefully led the conversation away from the telephone call, still wary of the mindscreaming although he sensed no anxious emotions from the Triangles. It seemed that they understood the concept of a phone and realized that no one was in the room. There was a bit of high-pitched fuzzy noise before the Hors.e.m.e.n’s response.