Infected Page 56

four w eeks in a month

complexity of the Triangles’ ability was daunting. And they learned quickly; their search times seemed to grow progressively faster. They were also learning not only to pick up the single memory or word he had spoken, but associated words and memories as well. So far it looked like they could only tap into his long-term memory: time concepts, vocabulary, words with images attached in order to define meanings.

These creatures

tw elv e months in

a year

had the ability to read his brain like a hard drive, but they had no initial concept of simple things like

ten y ears in a decade

time, or the technology of television, or that voices could be projected, not real.

Something was missing from this mystery, or perhaps something was just a bit out of place. He still didn’t know what the Triangles were, where they came from or how long he had until they took over his body.

But maybe he could stop them. Maybe . . . if he got help. The mythical Soldiers were out there, and they knew. They knew about the Triangles. They wanted to kill the Triangles. Fuck up the Starting Five and send them packing. The big question, Perry old boy, the big twenty-thousand-dollar question is who are these “soldiers”?

This wasn’t Hollywood. There were no Men in Black to save the day with a handsome smile and a witty comment. No X-Files agents crashing through his door to cast plaintive looks his way. No superhero from another planet with a special gun to blast the boogers right out of his body. He didn’t know whom to call, where to go, but there had to be somebody out there.

ten decades in a century

A sudden thought froze him. If they could scan his brain, how much longer until they could read his active thoughts? And when that happened, what would they do if they knew he wanted to contact the Soldiers? They’d scream so loud his brain would turn to puree, drip out of his ears and dribble out his nose like snot.

Maybe they were listening right now.

He had to stop thinking about it. But if he didn’t think about it, how was he going to contact anybody? He couldn’t even think about killing the Triangles — they’d fry him from the inside out first. Cook his brain like a microwave potato. But he couldn’t stop thinking, could he? And if he did stop, if he did tune such thoughts of survival from his brain, then he was surely doomed.

Stress steadily built up inside him, gaining steam like a wall of bricks crashing down from an exploding building.

The buzzer on the stove loudly announced that the rice was done. His mind grabbed on to this new distraction like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, gripping it with all he had, focusing all his thoughts on the thrilling subject of dinner.

Perry didn’t realize that it was a temporary escape. He didn’t realize that his mind was already beginning to crack and fissure under the stress of the impossible-to-believe situation that unfolded around him and inside him. The floodwaters were slowly rising, inevitable, unstoppable, irresistible — and the high ground would only stay above the waterline for so long.

39.

MOMMY’S LITTLE GIRL

Clarence Otto stopped the car. Cell phone pressed to her ear, Margaret looked out the window at a neat, two-story brick house on Miller Avenue. White shutters and trim. Dead-looking ivy branches covering one side of the house — in the summer that side would be a flat wall of leafy green, the very epitome of old-school collegiate housing.

Amos sat in the backseat, clearly annoyed at the whole process. While he was indefatigable in the confines of a hospital, being outdoors in the cold brought out his surly side.

“We just pulled up to the girl’s house,” Margaret said into her cell phone.

“Tell Otto to stay sharp,” Dew said. “I’ve got six bodies over here, it’s spinning out of control. Your backup team is there?”

Margaret turned in the seat to look back, even though she knew what she’d see. Gray van, unmarked, parked right behind them.

“It’s here. We’ll let Otto lead, of course, but I think we’re okay — the girl just had the Morgellons fibers, no triangles.”

“Fine, just stay sharp,” Dew said. “These guys are psychos. And as soon as you’re done, get over here.”

“What have you found?”

Dew paused. “Seems our college boy was an artist. I think you’ll want to see this.”

“All right, Dew. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Dew hung up without another word.

“What did he say?” Amos asked.

“Six more bodies,” Margaret said absently. “The other side of town. We’re heading over there when we’re done here.”

In the backseat Amos hung his head. This was wearing on him, Margaret knew. Behind his sunglasses, Agent Clarence Otto showed no sign of emotion, but the muscles in his jaw twinged slightly.

“Are you ready?” Otto asked. She nodded.

They approached the house, Margaret and Amos keeping two steps

behind Otto. Otto knocked on the door with his left hand — his right hand hidden inside his jacket, resting on the hilt of his weapon.

There was little chance of danger. Cheng’s report showed he had given the girl a careful examination, and would have certainly seen anything resembling a triangle or triangle-to-be. They still had to keep things as quiet as possible — if they kicked in the door to find a perfectly normal family, a little bit more of the secrecy would die, and Americans would be a little bit closer to discovering the nightmare blossoming in their midst.

Chapter end