Infected Page 91

He stared out the window, careful to stay in the shadows, and wondered if they knew he was watching. But that didn’t make sense: if they knew where he was, they’d come after him.

Unless they were already watching him.

Perry’s eyes narrowed. He flicked his gaze about the apartment. Could there be a secret camera in here somewhere? A bug? Were they listening to him? They’d been watching him in his apartment, of that he had no bout-a-doubt-it, so maybe they were set up to monitor Fatty Patty as well. If that was the case, his great escape was nothing more than jumping out of the fire and back into the frying pan.

And, come to think of it, how did he know for sure that she even had the Triangles at all? Maybe she didn’t have any. Maybe this was a setup. Maybe she had some machine that told his Triangles that this was a safe haven. Maybe she was just there to keep an eye on him. Maybe they were combing through his apartment “gathering data” while they knew damn fucking well that he sat up here with Fatty Patty, chewing away on a chicken sandwich and Fritos.

Perry’s gaze nailed her to the yellow chair. She had that expression gazelles wear after being brought down by a lion, before the bite to the jugular, before the final coup de grâce. He set his plate down on the coffee table.

“Where are they?” Perry asked quietly.

“Wha . . . what?” New tears filled her eyes and rolled down her fat cheeks. Did she still think this was a game? He picked up his butcher

knife and patted the flat of the ten-inch blade against his palm — each time the blade slapped lightly against his skin, she winced as if hit by a tiny electric shock.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Perry whispered, smiling all the while, not because he liked this or because he was trying to scare her, but because he was in control. “Where are they? Show me.”

Her chubby face changed as the words fell into place like the clicking tumblers of a lock.

“You mean my Triangles, right?” She rushed the words out with an incredibly servile tone. He felt a powerful stab of homesickness — the eagerness to placate, the desperate desire to avoid a beating; it reminded him of his mother.

His mother talking to his father.

“You know damn well that’s what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not playing games, I swear.” She was terrified, he could see that as plain as day. Despite her tangible fear, she kept her voice low and controlled. That was good.

She stood up and pulled off her huge nightshirt. She did it quickly and without noise, but the expression on her reddening face revealed humiliation. Her tits hung pendulously — huge, round mountains with massive aureoles and nipples the size of a dime. She was still fat, yet her stretch-marked skin seemed far too big for her body. Perry revised his earlier estimate of 225 pounds — before the Triangles, Fatty Patty must have weighed 260 if she’d weighed an ounce.

She had the Triangles, all right, three on her stomach. Tears streamed down her face and leaped from her quivering chin to fall in bright sparkles on her tits. She turned to the left without being asked. He saw the Triangle on her left hip, its black eyes staring coldly back at him, blinking every few seconds.

It was a much deeper shade of blue than his. Something black and solid like thin rope stretched out from under each of the Triangle’s sides, snaking under her flesh with one spreading farther around her hip.

Her skin didn’t look healthy at all. Pus-oozing blisters marked the Triangles’ edges. Above the Triangles’ body, her skin showed signs of stretching, as if the creature had grown too large for the pliable tissue to contain. When he looked at his own Triangles, their eyes held a glassy, unfocused stare. The one on her hip was different. It stared back at him malevolently, the triple-blinking eyes conveying the universal emotion of hatred as clearly as the beam of a high-powered flashlight through a snowy winter night.

“Fork you, buddy,” Perry said quietly. When he made his move on

Fatty Patty, he’d kill that one first.

“Lose the pants and spin,” Perry said. She didn’t hesitate; she dropped

the pajama bottoms and stepped out of them. She wasn’t wearing panties. She spun slowly, revealing a Triangle on each ass cheek and one on

the back of her right thigh. They all stared at him with an unmistakable

hatred. He wondered what they were saying about him, what messages

they were sending into her head.

It struck him as odd how healthy all her Triangles looked. The pusoozing sores were her own, of course. It had never occurred to him that

someone might not fight, that someone might just let it happen. The

concept was pathetic, but apparently she’d done just that. Daddy was right. Everything Daddy had ever said, it seemed, was

right. Perry wondered in amazement how he could have ever thought

different.

“You weak-ass bitch,” Perry said. “You didn’t try and do anything, did

you? You just let them grow?”

She stood in front of him, naked, trembling with fear and humiliation, her hands unconsciously covering her pubic region.

“What was I supposed to do? Cut them out of me?”

Perry didn’t answer. He set the knife on the coffee table, his stare a

clear warning against any sudden movements. He pulled off his shirt.

The duct tape had turned black around the edges, a little line of stickum

nicely framing the silver straps that held the blood-soaked washcloth in

place. He picked up the knife and slid the blade under the duct tape.

Chapter end