Infected Page 35

“The two Toledo cases were weeks apart, but within a few blocks of each other physically. There seems to be some proximity effect. The transmission vector is unknown, but Murray still thinks there’s a terrorist out there deliberately infecting random people.”

“That fits with our observations,” Amos said. “I’m more and more convinced that Brewbaker and the others may have been contaminated but weren’t contagious. We’ve found nothing on him indicative of eggs, an embryonic form, or anything else that could be responsible for new parasites. Besides, Dew hasn’t shown any symptoms, nor has anyone who came in contact with Brewbaker’s body.”

Margaret rubbed her eyes. God, she needed a nap. Shit, what she needed was a week in Bora-Bora with a sleek cabana boy named Marco catering to her every need. But she didn’t have Bora-Bora, she had Toledo, Ohio. And she didn’t have a cabana boy named Marco — she had a gossamer-mold-covered, pitted black skeleton formerly known as Martin Brewbaker.

24.

THE BATHROOM FLOOR

The genetic blueprint recognized when the shells reached the proper thickness; energies then turned to the body’s growth. Cells split again and again and again, a nonstop engine of creation. Internal organs began to take shape, but they wouldn’t fully develop until later. Because the host still provided all food and warmth, most of the internal organs could wait — right now the most important needs were the tendrils, the tails and the brain.

The brain developed rapidly but remained a long way from forming anything that resembled an intelligent thought. The tendrils, however, were of a relatively simple design. They grew like wildfire, branching out in all directions, spreading into the host. The tendrils sought out the host’s nerve cells, intertwining with the dendrites like fingered hands clasping tightly together.

Starting slowly, almost tentatively, the organisms released complex chemical compounds called neurotransmitters into the synaptic cleft, the space between the tendrils and the dendrites. Each neurotransmitter was part of a signal, a message — they slid into the axons’ receptor sites, just like a key into a lock, causing that nerve cell to generate its own neurotransmitters with its own specific message. As in the host’s normal sensory process, the action produced an electrochemical chain reaction: the messages repeated through the nervous system until they reached the host’s brain. The process — from the time the message fires until it finally reaches the brain — takes less than one-thousandth of a second.

Although they had yet to achieve conscious thought, at a primitive level the organisms inside Perry knew they had been attacked. They instinctively triggered an immediate growth process. The tail began a phase change of its own. Specialized cells grew, ensuring the organisms would remain anchored in their environment long enough to fully develop.

The six remaining organisms grew, rapidly and unimpeded, as the host lay passed out on his bathroom floor.

The linoleum felt nice and cool on Perry’s face. He didn’t really want to try to sit up. As long as he lay still, the pain was only mildly intolerable.

When was the last time he’d been knocked out? Eight years ago? No, it was nine, when his dad had hit him in the back of the head with a full bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey. He’d wound up with nine stitches in his scalp.

Had it hurt this bad after Dad hit him with the bottle? That was so long ago, and it seemed like nothing compared to the dull waves of pain that now washed through his head. He tried to sit up, which only made it worse. It was like a tequila hangover times ten.

He felt sick to his stomach. Every little move toward an upright position shot more thick blasts of pain through his skull. He felt a puke coming on, working its way around his lukewarm, queasy stomach.

He reached up and gingerly touched his abused forehead. At least he wasn’t bleeding. He felt a pronounced bump, a half golf ball embedded in his skull.

He realized his pants were around his ankles, which added to the difficulty of sitting up. This was going to be a wonderful story to tell at parties — just as soon as he remembered what that story was. He slowly rolled to his back and pulled up his jeans. The room looked fuzzy and out of focus.

Perry grabbed the toilet seat. It wobbled weirdly as he used it to pull himself up. The seat was cracked in two at the oval’s front edge. Must have done that with his head.

His stomach churned once, twice, then rebelled. Perry leaned forward and vomited into the toilet, spilling a large quantity of bile into the water, a guttural grunt echoing in the ceramic bowl. His clenched stomach relaxed its grip, allowing him to breathe, but the air froze in his throat as shearing pain cut through his head.

His eyes shut tight. He groaned weakly against the rhythmic pounding of his skull. The pain immobilized him as assuredly as a straitjacket. He couldn’t even get to his feet to find a dozen or so Excedrin.

Somewhere in his head he remembered hearing that people puke when they get a concussion. He wondered how boxers or pro quarterbacks put up with it. This feeling wasn’t worth any amount of money.

Another wave of nausea slammed into his stomach, pushing more bile into the cloudy bowl. The acrid odor of vomit filled the bathroom.

The smell made him even more nauseous, which made his head hurt more, which made him feel like puking yet again. It was one of those vicious circles that make even nonreligious people ask God what they had done to deserve such trauma.

“Must have been a child molester in a previous life,” he muttered to himself. “That or Genghis Khan.”

Chapter end