Infected

Violence in a domestic dispute was almost always followed up with remorse. Many times the a.s.sailant would call the cops after he or she had done something to hurt a loved one. That wasn’t the case here. Whoever had done this hadn’t felt a d.a.m.n shred of remorse — people who felt remorse didn’t leave messages written on the wall in the blood of the dead victim.

It was the worst butchering Brian had ever seen, and it would remain the Number One Smash Hit throughout his career. Although he’d never forget a single horrible detail, it was the writing on the wall that forever symbolized the savage slaying.

Numerous b.l.o.o.d.y palm and fingerprints showed that the murderer had used his hands to smear a message above the victim’s hanging head. A single word written in b.l.o.o.d.y three-foot-high letters that left still-wet snail trails of red running down the wall:

Discipline.

HOT PROSPECT

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 b.u.t.ton 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 rapidresponse 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."

THE GREAT ESCAPE

Perry shut the outside door behind him, took a quick look up the empty hallway, then glanced back

Perry grinned s.a.d.i.s.tically. "f.u.c.k 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 b.u.t.tery 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 co ming, 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 a.s.s 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.

d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.n 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.