Infected

63.

A hatching is coming!

Perry’s mouth went dry. His face flushed with hot blood, he felt his very soul shrivel and blacken like an ant burned by a magnifying glass. Hatching. It was coming. He’d been right, it was like the caterpillar and the wasps-he’d served his purpose, and now it was time for their gruesome exit.

His big body began to shiver uncontrollably.

“You’re hatching?”

Not us, someone else is nearby nearby.

He felt a minor wave of relief combined with a trace of hope-not the hope that he had been saved, but the feeling that there was someone else, someone in the same predicament, someone like him who could understand.

Perry hopped toward the stairs that led to the outside door. He didn’t notice his foot hit the blood-soaked carpet; subsequent hops left a string of footprints with wet red traces that echoed his boot’s tread pattern.

It felt good to be dressed again. He’d felt scummy all covered in blood, in clothes that should have been incinerated rather than washed. He was dressed and getting out of the apartment that had held him prisoner for days.

His shoulder throbbed loudly where he’d scooped out the rotting Triangle. The jostling backpack straps pulled against the washcloth and the wound, but the duct tape held firm. It was going to be a bitch removing that “bandage.” Maybe he’d be dead by then, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

We’re hungry.

Feed us feed us.

Perry ignored their words, concentrating instead on managing the stairs. He leaned heavily against the sturdy metal rail, cautiously taking one step at a time. It was amazing how much easier things were when you had two feet.

Feed us now.

Feed us now a hatching is coming. A hatching!

“Just shut up. I don’t have any food.”

He made it to the ground floor without incident. After days in the cramped apartment, it would be nice to be back outside again, no matter what the weather-it could be the burning pits of hell past that door, and he’d hop out whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”

A wave of overflow panic hit him, a blindside tackle that had his adrenaline level soaring before he realized the fear wasn’t his own.

“What is it? What’s happening?”

Columbo is coming!

Columbo is coming!

The Soldiers. Perry hopped out the door into the winter wind and blinding sun. The temperature was only a smidgen above zero, but it was a beautiful day. He made it to his car and put the key in the lock when his eyes caught the lines and colors of a familiar vehicle; his mind exploded with warning.

About fifty yards away, an Ann Arbor police cruiser pulled into the apartment’s entryway and headed in his direction.

Perry hopped around the front of his car, which was tucked neatly under the carport’s metal overhang. He wedged himself between the front bumper and the overhang, hiding from view.

The cruiser slowed and pulled up against the sidewalk directly in front of the main door to Perry’s building. Perry’s instincts screamed at him-the enemy was only fifteen feet away.

Two cops stepped out of the car, but didn’t look in his direction. They popped their batons into their belts, then walked toward the building with that relaxed, confident cop attitude.

They entered his building, the dented metal door slowly swinging shut behind them. They were too late to save their little informant. They’d find the body within seconds, then they’d come looking for Perry, shooting all the way.

Brian Vanderpine was first up the stairs. His feet thudded on the steps, which suffered the full brunt of his 215 pounds. Ed McKinley followed without a sound; Ed was always lighter on his feet, despite the fact that he outweighed Brian by ten pounds.

They didn’t need to say anything going up the stairs to the second floor. It was just a noise complaint, no big deal, but given the day’s events every call had them on edge. Brian hoped Dawsey lived alone; he didn’t really want to deal with a domestic dispute.

They were called to this apartment complex at least twice a week. Most of the time people didn’t realize how thin the apartment walls were, and how noise carried. Usually the appearance of uniformed cops at the door embarrassed the hell out of them, and they shut up quite nicely.

Brian and Ed climbed the first half flight of six stairs and turned to head up the next six when Brian stopped so suddenly that Ed bumped into him. Brian was looking down. Ed automatically looked at the same spot.

Traces of red marked large footprints on the stairs.

Brian knelt next to one of the footprints. He gently touched the print-his fingers came away with dabs of red. He rolled it around his fingertips for a second, then looked up at Ed.

“It’s blood,” Brian said. He’d known that it was blood even before he examined it; he knew the smell.

Brian stood. They both pulled their guns, then moved quietly up the steps, careful not to step on other red footprints. As they came up to the second floor, they saw the blood on the wall and the bright red puddles in the carpet. It was a lot of blood, probably from a severe wound.

Large blood streaks led right under the door to Apartment B-203. Someone who was bleeding badly had crawled-or been dragged-into that apartment.

They took positions on either side of the door, pulses rocketing, backs to the wall, guns pointed to the floor. Brian’s mind worked feverishly. This blood was fresh, and there was enough to indicate the victim might even be bleeding to death. He had no doubt that the wound was caused by some kind of weapon. And if the victim was still in that apartment, he or she might be trapped in there with the assailant.

Adrenaline surged through Brian’s system. He reached down with his right hand and knocked hard on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

No one answered. The hallway remained deathly quiet.

Brian knocked again, hitting the door harder. “Police! Open this door!” Still no answer.

He spun out to stand in front of the door. Giving a quick look to Ed, who nodded agreement and readiness, Brian put all of his 215 pounds into a push-kick aimed just below the door’s handle. The wood crunched, but the door held fast. He kicked it again, harder this time. The lock’s bolt ripped from the wall with a splintering of wood. The door slammed open.

It suddenly occurred to Perry that his car was useless. The cops would be out of the apartment in seconds. They knew who he was; they would be looking for his car. Probably wouldn’t make it fifty miles, but he also wouldn’t make it far on foot.

The hatching is coming soon.

The hatching. Some poor bastard was at the end of the Triangle rope. What would it look like? How bad would the pain be?

The trip to Wahjamega would have to wait. He’d be lucky if he made it out of the parking lot, let alone all the way to Wahjamega. There was only one place he could go. Someone was close, someone who was also infected. That person would understand Perry’s condition, understand what he had done with Bill, hide him from the cops who would be swarming all over this place in minutes.

“Can we watch the hatching?”

Yes, we should watch.

Yes, watch and see, see.

“Where is it? Tell me where to go, quickly.”

Come this way.

Perry froze. The other voice, the female voice. It was faint, but clear.

Turn around.

He put his hands over his ears, his face a childlike expression of pure fear. It was all too much, too damn much, but he couldn’t panic now, not when the cops would be rushing out the apartment door in a matter of moments. He turned and found himself facing Building G.

Hurry hurry, this way to safety.

He didn’t understand, didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was get away from the cops. Perry launched himself forward at a dead run-hop, sprinting on the verge of losing his balance. He fell twice, hitting the snow-covered blacktop, landing facedown both times before scrambling madly to his feet.

It took him fifteen seconds to reach Building G.

Brian Vanderpine and Ed McKinley would both remember every moment with total clarity. In their combined twenty-five years of police work (Brian’s fourteen and Ed’s eleven), they had never seen anything like the crazy shit in Apartment B-203.

The door slammed open. Despite Brian’s desire to point the gun into the apartment, he kept it trained at the floor. Nothing moved. Brian stepped inside. He immediately saw the body on the couch, bloody hands nailed to the wall with steak knives in some horrible parody of the crucifixion.

Brian would check the body, of course, but he already knew that the man was dead. He tore his gaze from the corpse-the perp might still be in the apartment. There was blood everywhere.

The smell hit him like a fist: the odor of sweat, of blood, of something horribly rotten and wrong in a way he couldn’t immediately define.

Brian pointed his gun straight down the short hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. He was suddenly grateful for the dozens of calls he’d made to this complex, calls that had made him familiar with these apartments, all of which had the same layout.

Ed swung around to the right, pointing his gun into the tiny excuse for a kitchen. “Holy shit. Brian, look at this.”

Brian took a quick peek. Dried blood covered the kitchen floor, so much that in most places the white linoleum looked a dull shade of reddish-brown. Even the dining table was covered with dried blood.

Brian moved down the hall, Ed only a few steps behind him. The tiny hall closet hung open and empty except for one long coat, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, and a large University of Michigan varsity jacket. That left only the bedroom and the bathroom.

That smell, that wrong smell, was stronger as they reached the closed bedroom door. Brian stood half-covered by the hall corner and waved Ed to check the bathroom, which was open. Ed was in and out in three seconds, shaking his head to signify it was empty. He mouthed the words more blood.

Brian knelt in front of the bedroom door. Ed stood behind him, a step back. They avoided standing close enough for one shotgun blast to take out both of them. Feeling his heart hammering in his chest and throat, Brian turned the handle and pushed the door open. Nothing. They quickly checked the closet and under the bed.

Ed spoke. “Check the wounded man, Brian, I’m calling this in.” As Ed grabbed his handset and started talking to the dispatcher, Brian ran to the body. No pulse; the body was still warm. The man had just died, probably within the last hour.

The victim sat on the couch, head hanging down, arms outstretched, a steak knife pinning each hand to the wall. Blood covered the area, soaking the victim’s leg and leaving huge red stains on the worn couch cushions. The victim’s nose was a disaster, broken and ravaged. The face: swollen, cut, completely black-and-blue. Blood had spilled down the man’s face and soaked his shirt.

Brian mentally pieced together the story, feeling his anger rise at the attack’s savagery. The perp had attacked this victim in the hall, cut him (either with one of these knives or another weapon), then dragged him into the apartment and knifed him to the wall. The blows to the face either came in the hall or after his hands had been pinned.

Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in Ann Arbor. Fuck, this shit wasn’t supposed to happen anywhere.

Violence in a domestic dispute was almost always followed up with remorse. Many times the assailant would call the cops after he or she had done something to hurt a loved one. That wasn’t the case here. Whoever had done this hadn’t felt a damn shred of remorse-people who felt remorse didn’t leave messages written on the wall in the blood of the dead victim.

It was the worst butchering Brian had ever seen, and it would remain the Number One Smash Hit throughout his career. Although he’d never forget a single horrible detail, it was the writing on the wall that forever symbolized the savage slaying.

Numerous bloody palm and fingerprints showed that the murderer had used his hands to smear a message above the victim’s hanging head. A single word written in bloody three-foot-high letters that left still-wet snail trails of red running down the wall:

Discipline.