Infected Page 77

Bill had come to check on the experiment. He’d probably freaked when Perry stopped going to work. When Perry filled out the online form, they sent Bill to look in on him. Why else would he be here right now? Bill was a f.u.c.king narc, waiting to sell Perry out to the Soldiers. Well, the backstabbing, traitorous snitch wasn’t going to be telling his government b.u.t.t buddies anything.

Not now.

Not later.

Not ever.

“I’m fine,” Perry said. “Come on in.”

He took a small hop back into the apartment, making room for Bill to enter. Strange odors filtered out the open door. Bill’s instincts clamored louder, swelling in volume and intensity, beseeching him to turn tail and run, baby, run.

“Well . . . uh, I have to be getting back to work, no bout-a-doubt-it,” Bill said. “I just came out to see if you were okay, buddy. You don’t look so good — are you sure you feel all right?”

Did Perry have any idea how bad he looked? Was he on drugs, maybe strung out on heroin or something? Bill couldn’t stop looking at his eyes, the way they burned with intensity and simmering emotions. Bill had seen that look many times during the past ten years — it was the look that came over Perry’s face just before he punched someone, the look just before the snap of the ball. That look was predatory, and it meant serious trouble.

But in those ten years, that look had never been fixed on Bill — until now.

Time to go.

Bill looked scared . He obviously hadn’t counted on Perry figuring out The Plan. n.o.body thought Good Ol’ Perry was smart enough to figure out The Plan. They’d underestimated him. Bill had underestimated him. And now that Bill knew the depth of his soon-to-be-fatal mistake, there was nothing he could do. Nothing except run.

But Scary Perry Dawsey was way ahead of the game.

Bill concentrated on speaking in a calm, neutral voice. “Perry, you’re freaking me out, and you look like you’re about to get violent.”

He slowly backed away from the door. “I’m going to leave now. You’re going to go into your apartment and calm down. You relax and I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Wait!” Perry’s word was a plea, pregnant with need, although he kept his voice almost as low and calm as Bill’s placating tone. “You gotta help me...I...” Perry swayed a little bit, his one good leg sagging under him. “I . . . just can’t . . .”

Perry collapsed, falling into the hall like a sack of rotten meat and bones.

Bill instinctively reached out to help his friend. Perry knew that he would. People just couldn’t help such things. Especially the Government People, because the government is here to help you, right? But for Bill, it was too late. Too late to react, too —

— late Bill realized the trick. He tried to jump back, even before he saw the knife, but he was too close. He tried to jump back, to get —

— away, but Perry wasn’t going to let that happen. As soon as Perry hit the floor, the rush of adrenaline blocked out all feelings of pain from his abused body. He rolled over his left shoulder and swung wide with the six-inch steak knife clutched unforgivingly in his right hand. The blade struck Bill’s right inside thigh, sliding noiselessly through jeans, through skin, through quadriceps. It finally thudded to a stop at the femur, the tip embedding in the bone and snapping free. Perry watched Bill’s eyes go —

— wide with shock, fear and pain. Bill stared down at the knife, at the blade sunk deep into his thigh. The blood didn’t come until Perry wrenched the blade back for a second strike. Blood squirted out in a deep red stream, splattering on the hallway’s off-white walls and landing on the burnt-orange acrylic carpet that had been ugly even when it was new.

Perry rolled up to his knees, head tilted forward, eyes flashing, lips curled in a demonic grin of anger and predation. He thrust the blade upward with the power of a knockout uppercut.

Bill tried to jump clear, but his wounded leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He fell weakly backward, the knife’s upward arc whizzing

through the air, its jagged tip just barely missing his face. He landed on his back, blood still gushing from his leg.

Perry lurched forward, snarling, spittle flying from his sneering lips. He was a monster, a growling, six-foot-five vision from h.e.l.l. He brought the blade down in an overhand thrust. Bill reactively brought his hands up, palms out, to protect himself from the slashing knife. Perry’s strength drove the ragged, broken knife point clear through Bill’s upturned right palm. Jagged metal tore through cartilage, tendons and sc.r.a.ped across metacarpals until the knife’s wooden handle slammed into the palm, leaving five inches of the b.l.o.o.d.y blade jutting forth from the back of Bill’s hand.

Bill’s eyes reactively closed as hot blood splattered on his face. He never saw Perry’s left hand ball up into a gnarled fist. The fist blasted into Bill’s nose with a m.u.f.fled crunch. A second blow hammered home, spraying fine droplets of blood onto his face and hair.

Bill’s traitorous body fell limp.

Perry hopped off him immediately, grabbed his wrist and hopdragged him into the apartment. Bill weighed maybe a buck-fifty; dragging him was effortless, even with a b.u.m leg. Perry shut and locked the door.

H e ’ s not dead kill him

killhimkillhim

“We’re not going to kill him until I get some answers,” Perry said, his breath ragged from excitement and exertion. Blood, steady and red, pulsed from the cut in Bill’s thigh, giving his jeans a rapidly spreading dark purple patch.