Infected

45.

He didn’t know who sang the song, but he knew the words.

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

Perry found himself in a dark hallway, the lilting melody filling the air with not only sound, but also a warning. The place seemed alive, pulsating, throbbing with a shadowy warmth; it seemed more like a throat than a hallway. At the hall’s end stood a single door made of a spongy, rotten green wood covered with a vile, mucal slime. The door thumped in time with his own heartbeat. It was a living thing. Or maybe had been living once.

Or maybe…maybe it was waiting for its chance to live.

He knew it was a dream, but it still scared him shitless. In a life where waking hours are draped in the costume of horrid nightmare, where reality has suddenly become questionable, it’s easy to be scared by dreams.

Perry walked toward the door. Something unspeakable lay behind it, something wet, something hot, something waiting for a chance to rage, to murder, to dominate. He reached for the handle, and the handle reached for him; it was a long, thick, black tentacle, wrapping around his arm, pulling him into the spongy green wood. Perry fought, but for all his might he was yanked forward like a child by an angry father.

The door didn’t open-it sucked him in, joyous in a sudden meal of body and mind. The green wood engulfed him, the dank rot caressed him. Perry tried to scream, but the oozing tentacle forced its way into his mouth, cutting off all sound, cutting off his air. The door enveloped him, held him motionless. Mindless terror pulled at him, dragging his sanity under…

When he awoke, the fork remained stuck in his shoulder. The sweatshirt had tried to pull back to its natural position, catching on the fork and pushing it at an angle; the end of the utensil rested against his cheekbone. The wound didn’t hurt because it was completely numb. He didn’t know how long he’d been out.

He grimaced as he grabbed the fork with his right hand and gently removed it from his trapezius-it made a wet, sucking sound as it came out. Thick trickles of blood coursed down his collarbone and curled under his armpit. The front of his sweatshirt had changed from white to bright red with thin streaks of the dark purple. The stab wound alone wouldn’t have been that bad, but twisting the fork had ripped open a large chunk of flesh. He gently fingered the wound, trying to ascertain the damage without setting off the pain button. His fingers also hit the corpse of the Triangle, which was no longer firm, but soft and pliable.

The hooks of this one were undoubtedly still stuck in his body, maybe wrapped around his collarbone, maybe wrapped around a rib or even his sternum. If that was the case, ripping it out might cause one of the hooks to puncture a lung, or even his heart. That wasn’t an option. But it was dead, over which he felt an indescribably sick satisfaction. The fact that he would have to carry a corpse around embedded in his shoulder, however, tugged at the back of his mind, tweaking at the last vestiges of normality clinging to his tortured soul.

He carefully stood up and hopped to the bathroom. His ruined leg didn’t hurt as much now, but it still throbbed complaint. Too bad he couldn’t ride this game out on the bench, let one of the second-stringers come in and fill in his position.

Play through the pain.

Rub some dirt on it and get back in there.

Sacrifice your body.

Lines of dried brown blood patterned the linoleum floor. Chunks of orangish skin still floated in the tub, although the water level had dropped. He could tell the original depth by the tub ring left from tiny scab flecks.

Blood trickled from his shoulder. He grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. The bottle was almost empty, just enough left to clean the wound. Setting it down on the counter, he tried to pull off his sweatshirt, but a shooting pain in his left shoulder stopped him. He slowly raised the arm-it was sore and painful, but it still worked, thank God.

He clumsily peeled off the blood-wet sweatshirt using just his right arm, then dropped it on the floor and kicked it into the corner where he didn’t have to look at it.

Perry wanted a shower, but he didn’t want to clean the tub, and he was too grossed out by the floating scabs to stand in the ankle-deep water. He’d have to make do.

He grabbed a clean washcloth out from under the sink-he wasn’t about to use anything that had touched the scabs or the Starting Five. Only now it wasn’t the Starting Five anymore, was it? Perry smiled with the small victory. Now they were four. The Four Horsemen.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

His smile vanished. The new name didn’t exactly make him feel any better.

His head pulsed like a dying star. He wet the white washcloth and tried to wipe the smeared blood off his chest, ribs, shoulder and out from under his armpit. He dabbed at the wound itself; the washcloth quickly turned a sick shade of pink.

The wound didn’t look all that bad. The Triangle, however, looked awful. Its “face” was ripped open along with the skin that had covered it. At first it was hard to tell the difference between his flesh and the flesh of the dead Triangle, but after looking closely he could see that the thing’s tissue was paler than his own, a gray-pink fading to white. It sure didn’t look healthy. But then again Perry figured that if he’d been stabbed to death with a fork, he wouldn’t look that great either.

He poured peroxide over the wound. Most of it ran quickly down his chest to soak into his pants and underwear. It was chilly. He didn’t care. He dabbed at the fizzing wound with the washcloth.

He had only three Band-Aids-that would be just enough to cover the wound. He pinched together the ripped skin over the Triangle’s dead head, then used the Band-Aids like sutures to pin everything down. The white absorbent patches on the tan strips instantly turned pink. It was just superficial blood now; it would clot up in only a minute or two.

The smell of Band-Aids briefly lifted his spirits. That smell carried a childhood association, the feeling that you were done hurting. When he was a kid, he’d get cut or scraped, he’d bleed and his mom would put a Band-Aid on it. Whether it was the Band-Aid or the TLC, the pain would be greatly reduced and he’d be back to playtime in nothing flat-unless, of course, his father wanted to teach him a lesson about crying.

Signs of weakness were not allowed in the Dawsey household. Perry couldn’t count the number of beatings prefaced by his father’s angry declaration, “I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Despite the pain, the Band-Aids did provide a little positive energy. The plastic scent filled his nostrils, and he couldn’t help but relax a bit.

As he grew calm, he realized that it was quiet. Not just in the empty apartment, but in his head. There was no fuzzy noise, no lumpy sound, not even a little bit of static. There was nothing. He didn’t bother to kid himself that they were all dead-he could still feel them. He felt a low buzz at the back of his skull. They weren’t dead, but it felt different. Maybe they were…asleep.

If they were asleep, could he call someone? The cops? Maybe the FBI? The little bastards were deathly afraid of people in uniform-what kind of uniform, Perry didn’t know. If they were out, he could try something.

He had to try.

“Hello?” Perry whispered, testing the waters. “Fellas? Are you there?”

Nothing.

His mind raced like a windup toy that bounced off wall after wall, moving around quickly but with nowhere to go. He had to think. His cell phone was the obvious choice; it wasn’t like he could get in his car and drive away from the danger.

But who to call? Just how many people knew about these Triangles?

Call…who? The FBI? The CIA? There was obviously an airtight lid on leaks to the media regarding this situation, or he’d have heard about it long ago. He hopped quietly to the kitchen table and grabbed his cell phone. He hopped back to the couch and pulled the phone book out from under the end table. He started to flip to government agencies in the Yellow Pages, then inspiration hit him.

He quickly turned to the “red” pages, the alphabetical listing of all the businesses in the area. He flipped to the T ’s. There they were. There were two entries.

Triangle Fence Co. in Ypsilanti and Triangle Mobile Home Sales in Ann Arbor. Who the fuck would name a business “Triangle”? What sense did that make? There had to be a connection. One or both of these had to be government fronts. That made sense-it made perfect sense! People in Perry’s predicament were, sooner or later, going to pick up the phone and try to find help. And wouldn’t everybody get the hunch to see if anything was named “Triangle” in the phone book? And the government had to be ready to jump on the situation, so they probably had an office in every decent-size town in the country-or at least in the area of the invasion. So people would call, and then the Triangle Fence boys would come out in their Triangle Fence shirts with “Bob” and “Lou” stitched over the Triangle Fence Co. patch on their left breast (for effect, so none of the locals would think anything of it, because all repair/installation guys have their name on their shirt). They would come in to the house and quietly take Perry out to the van and drive him somewhere with Men in White Lab Coats, who would quickly and painlessly take the Triangles out of Perry’s body. Sure, he’d be sworn to secrecy and all, but that was a small price to pay. This was a chance. This was hope. If nothing else, it was an opportunity to make sure that these little fuckers got what they deserved.

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 hell 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 fucking 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. Fuck your password shit, 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 fucking around here!” Perry’s voice rang thick with desperate frustration. “Goddamn it! I’m out of time I’m out of time! You’ve got to-” who are you 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 are you talking to

“No one! I…was just talking to myself, that’s all.” why are you talking to yourself

“No reason, okay? Just drop it.” Perry hopped up and moved to the bathroom; suddenly he needed to piss very badly. He felt the high-pitched 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 you 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 fucking reason do I need? He was inside my body and I wanted him out. I want you all out!” he wasn’t hurting you neither are we

“Not hurting me? I can barely walk, my shoulder is fucked up and my house is covered with blood. My blood!” our blood too you did it to yourself

“Fuck you, you little cocksuckers! I didn’t do it to myself! I have to get you guys out of me before you eat me up from the inside! I may look like the amazing walking incubator to you, but it’s not going to happen!” calm down relax calm down relax

“Relax? Sure, I’ll relax, when the rest of you fucks are dead!” Somewhere in his weary mind, he realized that his rage had boiled over, slipped beyond his control. He wanted to hit something, anything, hit something and break it into a million pieces. “If I have to cut myself into chunks to get every last one of you, I’ll do it and I’ll laugh-you hear me? I’ll laugh my ass off the whole time!” calm down someone coming calm down

“No one’s coming, you bastards!” He shook with unbridled, primitive fury. He made little hops to keep his balance.

Three knocks on the door ended the debate. someone is here calm down calm down