Infected

She expected a huge fight, a battle of wills, but Murray just sighed. "Okay, you can talk to him. But you cannot, and I repeat it just to be perfectly clear, cannot tell him about the triangles. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Find out what they’ve got. And I’m giving you executive-order clearance on this. Otto, make a call to the CDC director. Doctor Cheng will cooperate with Doctor Montoya, and he doesn’t need to know why."

"Yes, sir," Otto said. He smiled at Margaret. It was a small smile, but she couldn’t miss it.

"Okay, Montoya, you get your little chat," Murray said. "But if that doesn’t turn up anything, we need alternatives. Give me something to work with."

"The excess neurotransmitters create a biochemical disorder," Margaret said. "Based on what we’ve seen of living hosts, they suffer symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, possibly complete with intense hallucinations. Based on reported behavior, the hosts’ paranoia is quite acute, with elaborate threats and conspiracies, but I’m sure that doesn’t just happen

overnight. There’s probably a buildup process, an amplification of paranoia. These hosts may be looking for help in the early stages, but according to what we’ve seen in the five known cases, they are very suspicious and tend to stay away from inst.i.tutions like hospitals and doctors. We have to make ourselves available to these calls for help."

"How do we do that?" Murray asked.

"We could run ads in the paper. Vague ads, things that might appeal to the host’s paranoid nature, but wouldn’t attract attention from anyone else. Perhaps businesses with the name Triangle or something like that, something the hosts would see and instantly a.s.sociate with. Paranoids construct elaborate fantasies about the world around them. If we play into likely fantasies, we might draw them in."

Murray nodded. "Newspaper ads are good. It will take a little time to create a fake business and we have to avoid anything unusual that might draw the press, but we’ll get it going. What other ideas do you have?"

Otto cleared his throat. "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but most people don’t get their news from papers anymore, they get it from the Internet. You can set up a web page

Murray’s nod picked up speed. "Yes, yes I see your point. I’ll get people on it right now. We’ll come up with some different ways to attract the hosts. What else have you got, Doctor?"

"That’s about it," Margaret said. "The triangles decompose so fast we haven’t been able to get a good, clean look at one. We either need a live host or one that’s only been dead for an hour at the most — and I stress, Murray, the need to see a live host above all other possibilities. That’s the only way we’re going to learn more."

31.

WASH THAT THING RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HAIR

Perry stepped out of the shower into the steam-filled bathroom, toweling off lightly and feeling oddly peaceful now that all his senses (and his wayward memory) had returned. It might well have been the longest shower of his life, and it was worth every second. His head pain had faded to a mere whisper of its former screaming strength. He was hungry. Really hungry. Cleaning up the bathroom would have to wait until he’d hit the fridge. Some Pop-Tarts would hit the spot, for starters.

The strange thing was how he didn’t itch anymore. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t itched a bit since waking up on the floor, except for a scratchy growth of bright red beard that itched plenty.

Trying to keep his newly clean feet from stepping in the gunk on the floor, he moved over to the steam-covered mirror. He used his hand to clear a patch. The water-beaded reflection showed beard growth, looked like two days’ worth.

Jesus... just how long had he been out?

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked into the living room and turned on the TV. Channel 23, the Preview Channel, always listed the time and date in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen.

It was 12:40 P.M. But it wasn’t Thursday, December 13. It was December 14.

Friday.

He’d been unconscious since returning home from work on Wednesday. Somewhere in the vicinity of forty-eight hours. Almost two full days.

That wasn’t pa.s.sing out, that was a f.u.c.king coma. Two days? He’d lain in a pool of his own vomit for two days? No wonder he was so hungry.

Perry grabbed his cell phone. Sixteen messages waited for him. Most of them probably from Sandy, wondering if he planned on showing up for work.

Work. Counting when he’d been sent home, he’d missed two full days of work. He was probably fired by now. There was no way he could stroll in at 1:00 P.M. on a Friday. What a great story this would be:"Sorry, boss, but I tripped in my own bathroom, clunked my head on the toilet seat and slipped into a coma while lying in a puddle of my own sick."

Perry sat down on the couch and sorted through the messages. Sure enough, two were from Sandy, seven were from Bill, the rest hang-ups from telemarketers. Four of the work messages were from Thursday. Bill sounded concerned. On the final message from Friday, Bill said he was coming over to see if Perry was all right.

Perry erased the messages. He turned off the phone’s ringer; the last thing he wanted to do was talk to anyone, even Bill. Perry moved to the front door. Sure enough, tacked to the outside was a note.