64.
Margaret kicked open the swinging men’s-room door. She leaned in and shouted urgently. “Amos! Let’s go, man! We’ve got another one!”
A toilet flushed. Amos lurched out of a stall, stumbling as he fought to pull up his pants. Margaret turned and sprinted down the hallway. Amos ran to keep up.
She skidded to a halt in front of the elevator. Clarence Otto held the doors open. She and Amos entered, the doors shut and Otto hit the button for the parking garage.
“How far is it from here?” Margaret asked.
Clarence pulled out a map and gave it a quick study. “About ten minutes, give or take,” he said.
Margaret grabbed Clarence’s strong arm, her face electric with urgency. “What’s the victim’s condition? What are his symptoms?”
“I don’t know that, ma’am. Dew is en route, backed up by two rapid-response teams in full biosuits. I believe it’s an apartment complex.”
Margaret let go of his arm and tried to compose herself. “Do you think we’ll get this one alive?”
“I think so, ma’am,” Clarence said. “Dew should already be there. The victim filled out a computer form. Instructions on that say to stay put and wait for help. I can’t imagine anything going wrong at this point.”
65.
Perry shut the outside door behind him, took a quick look up the empty hallway, then glanced back through the window just in time to see one of the cops sprint out of Building B and jump into the police cruiser. The car’s red and blue bubble lights flashed.
Perry grinned sadistically. “Fuck you, coppers,” he whispered. “You’ll never take me alive.”
Maybe they hadn’t known what to expect when they pulled up. They probably thought Bill would have Perry all hog-tied and ready for delivery. They’d underestimated Perry. He was sure they wouldn’t do it again.
He turned and looked down the hallway of Building G. He felt something, something strange. A kind of buttery warmth in his chest, perhaps an oily feeling deep inside. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Perry realized he’d felt that feeling coming on as he’d sprinted for Building G, but once inside, it grew stronger.
The hatching is coming, the hatching is coming.
The Triangles’ rambling reminded Perry that his escape was only temporary. More cars were surely on the way. It was only a matter of time before the cops spotted him. He’d be shot down, of course, killed while “trying to escape” whether he hopped his little ass off or lay down on the ground in front of twenty witnesses. It wouldn’t matter; the Soldiers would either buy the witnesses’ silence or make them disappear as well. He had to get inside- he had to find the other Triangle victim.
“Which way do we go, fellas?” They had been the ones, after all, who’d shown him the truth about the Soldiers, about Billy the Informant. They had been the ones to tell him that men in uniforms would come, and they were right. They had been the ones to warn him in time to escape the cops.
Go to the third floor.
Damn they learned fast. There was now almost no delay between their hearing a new concept, like directions, and their mastery of the terminology.
He hopped up the stairs. With each step the oily feeling in his chest grew a little bit stronger. By the time Perry reached the third floor, he felt the strange sensation in every fiber of his being.
He moved down the hall until his Triangles stopped him.
This is it.
Apartment G-304.
On the door was a little branch wreath, painted in soft pastels, with little wooden ducks holding a pink Welcome sign. Country art. Perry hated country art. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder and faster.
Again no answer.
Perry leaned in so his mouth almost touched the door’s edge. He spoke quietly, but loud enough to be heard on the other side. “I’m not leaving. I know what you’re going through. I know about the Triangles.”
The door opened a crack, snapping taut the chain lock. Perry heard a stereo softly playing Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman.” A chubby face peered through, a face that might have been attractive had the woman had any sleep in the past four or five days. She looked angry, harried and scared all at the same time.
As soon as he saw the face, the oily sensation damn near overwhelmed him. Now he knew what it was-he somehow sensed the presence of another host. Before she even said a word, Perry knew she was infected.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He couldn’t miss the tinge of hope in her voice, hope that this man had come to save her.
Perry spoke in a calm voice. “I live in this complex. My name is Perry. Let me in so we can talk about what we’re going to do.”
Through the crack of the door he could only see two inches of her face, but it was enough to show she wasn’t convinced.
“Are you from the government? From… CSI?” Fear hung from her words. Perry felt his patience running thin.
“Look, lady, I’m in the same fucking boat you are-I’ve got the Triangles too, okay? Don’t you feel it? Now open the door before someone sees us and calls the Soldiers.”
The last word struck home. Her eyes opened up wide as she took in a quick hiss of breath, and held it. She blinked twice, trying to decide if she should believe, then shut the door. Perry heard the chain slide free. The door opened, and she looked at him expectantly, hopefully.
Perry hopped in quickly, shoved her out of the way, then slammed the door shut and locked it (chain and deadbolt and even the shitty lock on the knob, thank you very much). He turned around with a light hop-and found himself staring at a huge butcher knife poised only a few inches from his chest.
He put his hands up lightly, at shoulder level, and leaned away from the blade until his back hit the door.
A mixture of emotions etched her brown eyes, anger and fear predominant above all else. If he said one wrong word he’d find that knife buried in his chest. She was a tall woman, about five-foot-seven, but fat pushed her weight to around 170 pounds. She wore a yellow housecoat with a green and blue flower pattern. It hung on her, like a hand-me-down four sizes too big. The Triangle Diet Plan had done wonders for her as well-she must have been at least 225 before she was infected. Fuzzy gray bunny slippers adorned her feet. Her blond hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail, looked out of place against her middle-aged face, a face that radiated fear and hopelessness.
He was much bigger than she was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. One thing he’d learned on the playground early in life was that fat people were strong people. They didn’t look it, but carrying all that extra weight made for powerful muscles that could be surprisingly quick at things like punching or grabbing-or stabbing.
“Jesus, lady, put the knife down.”
“How do I know you’re not with the government? Let’s see some ID.” Her voice quavered, as did the knife’s point.
“Come on,” Perry said, his temper steadily creeping higher. “If I was from the government, do you think they’d send me out with government ID? Use your head! Tell you what-let me roll up my sleeve, okay? I’ll show you.”
He slowly dropped his backpack to the floor, wishing he’d left the top open so he could quickly grab his own
