Infected

YOU ARE NOT ALONE

If you have found this page, then you know what we’re all about. We’re here to help you. We know what’s happening to you, and we can save you, but you have to act quickly. Your condition gets worse by the second. Click here to fill out the form with your address, and we will send doctors to you immediately. Be patient, be calm, we’re here to help you. Do not panic, as it will only make things worse. Do not tell anyone else about your condition, not even your doctors-there are people out there that want to harm you. Stay where you are, fill out the form, and wait. Everything will be fine. Do not tell anyone about the Triangles. If you think you can’t wait, dial 206-222-2898.

Perry almost wanted to get up and dance around the room. He’d found the way out. He’d hit the “eject” button before the damaged fighter crashed into a mountain. He’d gotten the call from the governor just before they’d thrown the switch. He’d rushed out of the burning building-beautiful costar over his shoulder-just before the gas mains caught and the credits rolled over a mushroom cloud of fire and death. All he had to do was wait. He wrote down the number; he’d call as soon as he finished with the computer.

The form asked for his name, then his street address. He flew through it, backing up only to fill in a few typos made as his hasty fingers danced frantically across the keyboard.

It asked for his phone number; he typed it in.

He stopped for a brief second at the next question, wanting to finish and click “send,” but the oddity of the query gave him pause.

Who have you told about your condition? List their full names and addresses, please.

Now why the fuck would they want to know that? Who cared? It didn’t matter-he hadn’t told anyone. He typed in “none.”

Describe your current condition. Be as detailed as possible on what THEY look like.

He didn’t have time for this shit. He needed help now. He clicked “send,” completing the form. It didn’t matter-they had enough information and he couldn’t put it off anymore. They’d be here soon. All he had to do was wait. Wait for the cavalry.

His computer beeped. An instant-message window appeared.

From StickyFingazWhitey.

Bill Miller’s handle.

StickyFingazWhitey: Good god, man! You’re finally online!!!!!