Infected

rumbling gradually subsided, then ceased. Staring out at the blank TV screen, he was struck by a sudden question — what to do?

During this entire bizarre scenario, he’d never exactly had to worry about entertainment. He’d either been sleeping, pa.s.sed out, cutting into himself like some freak from a Clive Barker movie or talking to the Starting Five. The one time he’d tried to watch a little TV, good ol’ Columbo had gotten him into more trouble than he cared to remember.

But with TV out of the question, what was he going to do? He had, of course, brought computer books from work in order to study at home, but he’d be f.u.c.ked if he’d spend whatever hours he had reading about managing Unix networks or integrating open-source code. He did, however, like the idea of reading something, anything that might give him even a few moments’ reprieve from this awful situation.

He was about a third of the way through The s.h.i.+ning by Stephen King, but hadn’t read a single page in weeks. Well, now was his opportunity. He wasn’t going anywhere. And perhaps engrossing himself in the book would relieve his mind from the background battle of Not Thinking About the Soldiers (and how loud the screams would be if he did think about them).

But first he had to clean the spaghetti sauce off his face and hands. Dinner had been a little messy. The stains on his sweats.h.i.+rt he could care less about, obviously, but that sticky, tacky feeling on his face would distract him. He slowly rose from the couch and hopped to the bathroom, contemplating another trip down Tylenol Lane while he was at it. The pain in his leg was starting to get worse again.

He let the sink run until the water reached near-scalding temperatures, then washed off his face and hands. Gazing at his wet face in the mirror, he couldn’t help but again think of the George Romero cla.s.sic Night of the Living Dead. He could have been one of the walking departed: skin with a sickly gray pallor, deep circles hanging under his bloodshot eyes, dry hair askew.

But it wasn’t all bad. His paunch had vanished. His muscles looked well defined for the first time in years. He could even see the beginnings of his six-pack. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds — all of it fat — in the past

Great f.u.c.king diet plan. I’d like to see Richard Simmons compete with this. There was more to see than his musculature. He hadn’t looked in on one of the Triangles in quite a while. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what they looked like now. Maybe they were bigger, enlarging themselves as they continued their march on Mount Perry.

He had to look.

The one near his neck was the most convenient. Perry pulled back his sweats.h.i.+rt collar, exposing the Triangle beneath. It lay just above the collarbone, near the trapezius.

That was the first muscle name he’d learned. When he was a child, his father would grab the trapezius with a paralyzing grip that made Mr. Spock’s little nerve pinch pale by comparison. Man-oh-man, how that had hurt. Dad usually accompanied the pinch with a phrase like, "It’s my house, and you’re going to live by my rules" or the ubiquitous, "You’ve got to have discipline."

Perry pushed away thoughts of his father and concentrated on the Triangle. It was bluer, now more like a new tattoo rather than a faded one, and firmer, the edges clearly defined. Just as his fluttering muscles became more obvious seemingly by the hour, the Triangle’s rough texture was beginning to show through the skin. He tested the skin with a poke from his free hand. Definitely firmer. He leaned in over the sink until his face was only six inches from the mirror, allowing himself the best look he’d ever had at one of the little invaders.

He stared at the edges. At the slits. At the blueness. At the pores of his skin that still looked perfectly normal except for the thing underneath. He noticed the number of blue lines that extended out from the Triangle. Used blood. Deoxygenated. Same shade as the little veins on his wrists. That’s why the Triangles appeared blue — they took in oxygen from his own blood through their tails or whatever, the blood worked its way up the tiny body and the deoxygenated blood dissipated on top just under the skin. It all made perfect sense.

The slits seemed much more developed than the last time he’d looked. They had a pucker to them, almost like thin lips, or maybe more like... like...

A snippet of their voice flashed back to him — no we cannot see... not yet.

Not yet.

"Oh my G.o.d don’t let that be what I think it is."

Once again, G.o.d wasn’t listening.

Each of the three slits opened, revealing the deep, black, s.h.i.+ny surfaces underneath. If there was any question as to what they were, it disappeared when all three sets of lids blinked in unison.

He was looking at his collarbone, and his collarbone was looking right back at him.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," Perry said, panic once again creeping into his voice. When were these things going to stop growing? What was next? Were they going to grow out of him, grow little hands and feet or claws or tails?

His breath came in thin, shallow gasps. His eyes fuzzed out of focus, his mind seeming to go away somewhere for a quick break. Hopping had become so normal for him that he managed to get back to the couch and plunk down without breaking his trance.

His brain ran on autopilot, ran like a movie that played on and on and on while Perry sat back and watched, unable to change the channel, unable to look away from the flas.h.i.+ng images.

He remembered a show he’d seen on The Learning Channel. There was this wasp, an evil little f.u.c.ker. It attacked a specific type of caterpillar. The wasp didn’t kill the caterpillar, only paralyzed it for a while — during which time the wasp laid eggs inside the caterpillar. Inside, thank you very f.u.c.king much. The wasp, its mission complete, then flew off. The caterpillar woke up and went on about its leaf-munching life, apparently unaware of the vile disease incubating in its guts.