Infected

He rolled to his back, body tightly tense with agony, the gray was.h.i.+ng over him yet again. He fell limp.

His chest moved in regular breaths as he lay on the blood-smeared floor.

COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN

The five remaining organisms conducted a "poll" of sorts. Following deeply ingrained instructions, they measured densities of thyroxine and triiodothyronine, hormones that stimulate the metabolic rate. Both hormones are produced by the thyroid gland, which is located in the neck region of all vertebrates. By measuring the densities of these chemicals in the bloodstream, the five organisms detected which of their number was closest to the neck.

Or, more accurately, which was closest to the brain.

The triangle on the host’s back, the one on the spine, just below the shoulder blades, came out the winner. This new discovery stimulated additional specialized cell development from that triangle — like a stealthy snake approaching an unknowing victim, a new tendril slowly grew along the spinal column toward the brain.

Once there, the tendril split into hundreds of long strands, each microscopically thin. The tendrils sought out the brain’s convergence zones. These zones act like mental switching stations, providing access to information and linking that information to other relevant data. The tendrils sought out specific areas: the thalamus, the amygdala, the caudate nucleus, the hypothalamus, the hippocampus, the septum, and particular areas of the cerebral cortex. The tendrils’ growth was very specific, very directed.

Sentience was limited but progressing — they had only just begun to think, to be aware of themselves. Words had floated about their environment, and they had picked up a few, but with the growth into the brain they would learn more and learn them quickly.

They had tried to stop the host, but their messages were weak. They simply didn’t have enough information to communicate properly. That was changing; soon they would be strong enough to make him listen.

WAKE UP WE HUNGRY

wake up we hungry

Waking up on a linoleum floor was getting to be an annoying habit. His head hurt again. This time, however, he immediately identified the pain as a hangover.

The kitchen lights glared in his eyes. He saw flies behind the clear plastic that sat in front of the fluorescent lights. The bugs had flown up there, looking to do

His leg ached. His stomach grumbled. Loudly. First thing in his mind (besides the bugs) was the fact that he hadn’t really eaten anything in three days. Depending, of course, on how long he’d been out this time. No sunlight filtered in from the living room, so obviously it was sometime in the evening.

Perry looked down at his leg. The bleeding had stopped. The s.h.i.+rt had gone from athletic gray to a sickly dried brown, a tie-dyed T-s.h.i.+rt suitable for Marilyn Manson.

Dried blood smears coated the linoleum floor, blackish brown against the s.h.i.+ny white. It looked as if a three-year-old had come in from playing in the rain, covered in puddle mud, then rolled on the floor.

His leg hurt with the dull, throbbing, pulsating pain of a recent wound struggling to heal. There was no sign of the Big Six acting up; from those areas he felt no itching, no pain. That didn’t make Perry feel any better; there was no telling what the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were up to now.

"Big Six?" A rather unhealthy smile tickled the corners of Perry’s mouth. "That’s not quite right. I got another one. You’re not the Big Six anymore — now you’re the Starting Five."

He wanted to find the fork, the one he’d used to pull the creature from his body. He wanted to see what the blue thing looked like when it wasn’t latched on to his leg like a suckling kangaroo imbedded in the pouch of its mother.

His leg not only hurt like a b.i.t.c.h, but felt funny in a way he couldn’t quite identify. What had the Triangle done on the way out?

Perry rolled to his stomach and struggled to rise without putting weight on his bad leg. He hopped up on his good leg and leaned on the counter, then scanned the floor for the fork. It had slid against the refrigerator.

He took one careful hop, leaned on the other counter, then stooped to pick up the fork.

"I hope it hurt, you f.u.c.ker," Perry said quietly as he examined his grisly trophy.

The Triangle looked like flaky, dried-up black seaweed wrapped around the fork in a permanent death embrace. He could barely make out the once-triangular shape, as it was now a lifeless hunk of c.r.a.p without form or function.

But it wasn’t the body that held his rapt attention or made his jaw hang open with astonishment and an additional serving of fear. It wasn’t the body at all.

The creature’s tail was just as dry, light and stiff as the body, but the very end was something totally unexpected. Hooked, bony protrusions stuck out of the end like little claws or teeth. Perry gingerly touched one — sharp as a knife. As sharp as the butcher’s knife he’d used to cut into his own leg like some narcissistic cannibal. Some of the claws hooked inward; these showed visible breaks and cracks. They must have helped hold the tail to the s.h.i.+nbones. Five of the claws, however, pointed outward or hooked wickedly upward, toward the now-dried head.

"But how would that help hold on to anything?" Perry murmured. "What the h.e.l.l is this?"

His lip curled in revulsion as their purpose became suddenly clear. The outwardly curved hooks couldn’t help hold the tail in place — they could only cut and slash if the creature were pulled from its human burrow.

That’s why his leg had bled all over, because he’d dragged five of the quarter-inch, razor-sharp claws through the meat of his calf and out his s.h.i.+n.