simple Band-Aids.
He scooped up the bloody washcloth from the floor and hopped into the kitchen. He pressed the cloth to the wound, jamming it painfully into the hole, trying to stem the flow of blood. The duct tape was in the junk drawer, silver and big and ever so sticky. He had to let go of the wound so he could use both hands to tear off big strips of tape, which he stuck to the edge of the counter.
He again crammed the washcloth deep into the gaping, bleeding wound. He lashed a piece of tape on top of the cloth, then stuck it firmly to his back and chest. Repeating the process five more times, he had a duct-tape starburst with arms spreading out from the wound, over his shoulder, over his chest, down his chest and under his arm. Wasn’t exactly the Mayo Clinic, but, as Daddy used to say, good enough for who it’s for.
Bill’s friends would be here any minute.
It was time to go.
He used a handful of paper towels to wipe the blood off his body as he hopped for the bedroom. He jammed clothes into the backpack. Two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, a sweatshirt and all the clean underwear and socks he could find.
With one leg rendered nearly useless and his left shoulder screaming with pain every time he moved, he pulled on his jeans. Each second was an eternity of anxiety; he expected the door to crash inward, smashed open by one of those heavy door rammers you see on Cops when the police break into yet another slime pit of a house. The door rammer (on which some clever soul would stencil the witty words knock-knock) would be followed by goons in biowarfare suits, every inch of their bodies covered so they wouldn’t come into contact with the Triangles. They’d be toting big-ass guns, and they’d have itchy trigger fingers.
He threw on a black Oakland Raiders sweatshirt and struggled with socks and hiking boots, his ravaged leg making even this simple task difficult.
Perry wanted a weapon, anything he could get his hands on, something to let him go down fighting, go down like a Dawsey. In the kitchen, he tossed the whole knife rack, Chicken Scissors and all, into his backpack. He grabbed his keys and coat. He didn’t even give a second glance at Bill, who still stared blankly at the carpet.
Bill, rudely enough, didn’t bother to get up and see him out.
Perry left the apartment, his eyes scanning up and down the hall, looking for Soldiers. He saw no one. He realized he’d left the map inside, but he didn’t need it-if he made it out of Ann Arbor alive, he knew exactly where he was going. He started to move down the hall, which was still bloody from his battle with Bill, when the Triangles spoke again.
And their words stunned him. It was the worst thing he’d heard yet.
A hatching is coming.
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.
