Infected

80.

Perry lurched out of the tub, bloody water sloshing all over the floor. He grabbed a clean towel, looped it into a granny knot, then bit back the screams as he pulled it tight against his mangled forearm.

He was in serious pain, but he could handle it. Why? Because he had discipline, that’s why. His arm bled like a proverbial stuck pig. The towel quickly soaked through with bright red-he didn’t know if he’d hit an artery and he didn’t care, because he’d punched through all three of the Triangle’s eyes. A thin, greasy black tentacle hung from the cut, blood coursing down it to piddle on the floor.

It didn’t matter. He’d be in an ambulance inside of five minutes.

He grabbed the towel’s ends, took a deep breath, and pulled the terry-cloth tourniquet even tighter. A fresh wave of pain erupted from his arm, but he bit back the scream.

The Triangles awoke.

No, not Triangles, Triangle.

The one on his back was dead, burned to a crispy-crisp, and the one on his arm was sliced in half. Only one remained.

Which meant there really was only one thing left to do.

No bout-a-doubt-it. stop STOp StoP

FucKEjer Fueklrr a Shwhoeld

The voice in his head sounded weak, thin, frail. He couldn’t understand many of the words.

“Shouldn’t have fucked with a Dawsey, big dog. You understand that now, don’t you?” He shuffled slowly forward, resting against the sink counter. bastarty fuckert fuckert Stope STOPE

Help hELP

“There’s no help for you,” Perry said. “Now you know what it’s like.” The butcher’s block sat on the sink counter. It called to him.

The bathroom door rattled violently. Tentacles slid under the door and squirmed like lunatic black snakes. In jagged disbelief that cut through his hazy vision, Perry watched the doorknob turn.

He launched himself against the door just as it began to open, his right shoulder slamming it closed. He locked the door and took a step back, eyes wide with shock as the black, ropy tentacles continued to worm their way under the door.

He heard the clicks and pops of the hatchlings, but he heard more-he heard their womanly voice in his head, not as strong as the confused pleas of his own Triangle, but strong enough, and desperate, angry. The voices were separate now. They all sounded the same, but were individual instead of the group they had been while still inside Fatty Patty’s body.

So many words crushed together. It was like trying to focus in on one snowflake during a blizzard, but he picked out bits and pieces.

Stop!

Don’t do it!

Sinner!

You’ll burn in hell!

Don’t kill him don’t kill him!

The tentacles pushed and pulled at the door, rattling it, trying to force it open, but they didn’t have enough strength. Perry watched in horror as they slithered in, pulled at the door, slid back under-too many to count, moving too fast to track.

He turned back to the sink. He ignored their pleading voices. They couldn’t get in, and he had unfinished business. He looked at the butcher’s block.

Looked at the Chicken Scissors.

He shook his head, he couldn’t do it. The doctors could cut it out, the doctors could fix it!

The sink’s top was at waist level; he reached into his wet underwear to lift his scrotum and rest it on the counter, but when he touched it, his hand instinctively flinched as if he’d just unknowingly grabbed a rattlesnake.

It hadn’t felt right. It hadn’t been soft and pliant; it had been hard, crusty, swollen, with solid bumps that didn’t belong. stttop StoP STopej you cag’t Do NO NOG