Infected Page 81

kill him killhimkill him

“Shut the f.u.c.k up!” Perry screamed at the top of his lungs. He’d had just about enough of the Triangles, oh yes sir he had. They were in his house, after all, his house, and a Dawsey was always the master of his castle. He knew if he didn’t take control, if he didn’t take charge, he’d go crazy. He just couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t stand that voice in his head every f.u.c.king minute of every f.u.c.king day. “You shut your

little mouths or I swear as soon as I’m done with the informant here I’ll turn the Three Stooges into the Dynamic Duo, no matter what it does to me!”

There was an ultrabrief burst of high-pitch as the Triangles accessed Dynamic Duo, then nothing.

He felt something inside him change, as suddenly and definitely as the switch thrown on an electric chair. The power structure had just traded hands — he knew it, and the Triangles knew it. He wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

It’s my house, Perry thought. A confident smile parted his bleeding, cracked lips. It’s my house, and you’re all going to live by my rules.

Bill’s arms grew heavy, weak, yet he couldn’t relax, couldn’t let them drop and pull against the blades stuck through his palms. Only by keeping his hands very, very still could he maintain the pain at just below a screaming level. The tension of facing that agony and the fear he felt antic.i.p.ating Perry’s next move had his muscles taut with stress, tiring them quickly.

Perry started blinking rapidly. He shook his head, violently, like a dog shaking off after a swim. Then he looked right at Bill, his bloodshot eyes suddenly wide with terror.

“Bill, help me,” Perry said. The affected accent was gone. It was his friend again, not the creature that was torturing him to death.

“Perry . . .” Bill fought for the words. He had to act now. “Perry, you have to . . . call . . .”

He wasn’t sure how long he had before his strength gave out and his hands fell, the weight pulling down against the knives in grinding torture. For some odd reason, that thought rang worse than the concept of a knife through the eye — how much longer till his arms would give out? He already felt the burn, his deltoids and biceps simmering with fatigue. He didn’t have much time, not much time . . . hard to believe he was going to die like this.

“Call . . . the police.”

The word seemed to rebound inside Perry’s head. He’d been free, free of their control, for just a few seconds. He could have kept them at bay, too, would have, but Bill had to go and prove them right.

242 Call the police, Bill had said. The mothaf.u.c.kin’ po-lice.

W e told y ou.

Could they sound smug? They sounded smug. Without conscious thought, Perry let go of his friendship for Bill Miller.

Enough f.u.c.king around. He had to get the info and get it now.

“When are they coming for me, Billy?”

Bill said nothing. Perry grabbed a handful of shirt and roughly shook Bill to emphasize his words. “When are they coming to get me?”

Bill’s eyes showed clear and fearful for only a moment, then went gla.s.sy again for the last time. His head nodded down limply. He didn’t move.

Perry hit him until his own palms bled. It didn’t make any difference — Bill wasn’t coming out of it this time. Perry felt at Bill’s neck, not knowing how to check for a pulse. Perry checked his own neck, found the jugular, which beat strong and true. He probed the same spot on Bill’s neck and felt nothing.

Kill him , yo u hav e got to kill him, please do it now.

“You got your wish. He’s dead.”

The informant’s eyes remained open, fixed in a perpetual, empty, half-lidded stare. Perry stood on his good leg and looked at the corpse.

Bill was dead. A traitor’s death, and well deserved — he’d been one of them.

No bout-a-doubt it.

THE CALL

Al Turner fumed. Not only was that d.a.m.n freak-of-nature kid raising holy h.e.l.l again, but Al’s hemorrhoids were worse than ever. He’d used what seemed like a gallon of Preparation H, but he might as well have been smearing mayonnaise on his a.s.shole for all the good it did.

“My name is Al Turner,” he said into the phone. “I already called once. I’m in apartment B-303. He lives right downstairs, and he’s been screaming his head off for days. I’ve had it.”

“Sir, a car is on the way. You’re willing to file a formal complaint?” “Absolutely. I’ve been down there and asked him to shut up and I’m not dealing with it. He’s nuts. I think you better tell your people to be careful, though — he’s a huge guy. I mean pro-wrestling huge.”

“Thank you, sir. The officers will be there as soon as possible. Please stay away from the apartment. The officers will handle it.”

“No problem. I’m not going down there. That guy is a freaking fruitcake.”

STEPPIN’ OUT

W e want to see.

Perry stood quietly.

“So whose eyes are working now?”

All of us can see.

He’d be d.a.m.ned if he’d let his b.a.l.l.s see anything. That was just too f.u.c.king much. He slid his T-shirt sleeve up past his elbow, giving the Triangle on his forearm a full view of Bill Miller’s corpse.

Yes, he ’ s dead,

y ou ar e right.

Perry pulled down the shirt and turned to stare vacantly at his former friend. The situation hit home, coming to rest in his mind with a heavy, cold-iron weight. Bill’s blank eyes stared at the floor. The trickle of blood easing out of his nose had slowed to a stop. Blood covered the couch and carpet as if Bill had just come out of the shower, fully dressed with his clothes soaking wet, and sat down to watch CSI. Except he hadn’t just sat down. Perry had put him there. Bill’s hands had steak knives jammed through the palms, nailing them to the wall. Blood streaked the wallpaper, sticky, gooey and red.