Infected Page 49

They were a defense mechanism. Intended to hurt Perry if he tried to remove the Triangle. Now that he knew what was buried in his body, the claws served as

a warning

a warning of what would happen if he tried to remove any more. He’d been lucky with the leg — if one of these wicked claws had cut through an artery, it would have killed him.

no tr y it again

Perry wondered if he should try it again, try to get the rest of them out. But brute force obviously wasn’t the way to...to...

Perry blinked a few times. His mind dry-fired, stayed blank as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.

He’d clearly heard a voice. Was he going loopy? His mind filled with vague memories of his homespun surgery and that same voice echoing through his drunken head. Great. On top of dying, now he was developing a split personality. He was going loopy. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Insane in the membrane.

“I’m crazy. That’s it. I’m apes.h.i.+t crazy. That’s the only answer.”

you no crazy we no think so

That one stopped Perry cold. He managed a parched swallow and ignored an untimely rumble from his underpaid belly.

The voice had said, “we no think so.”

We.

As in more than one.

As in . . .

As in the Starting Five.

Perry was beyond speechless — he was thoughtless.

“I’ll be a sonofab.i.t.c.h,” Perry whispered.

sonofab.i.t.c.h

the voice echoed, a voice he heard as clear as day, although his ears didn’t pick up a thing. He could hear the voice in his head — no vocal characteristics or tone, just words.

sonofab.i.t.c.h feed us

It was them. The Starting Five. They were talking in his head. Perry leaned heavily against the counter, in danger of falling to the floor as if struck by a physical blow. His rashes had turned into triangles, and now they were talking to him. Should he answer them?

h.e.l.lo, Perry thought — no response. He tried concentrating, focusing. h.e.l.lO, he thought, as hard as he could. Still no response.

feed us we hungry

“Feed you?”

A response slammed through his head like the roar of a Rose Bowl crowd on New Year’s Day.

y es y es y es feed us

we hungry

They’d answered him. Perry squinted his eyes and “thought” as loudly as he could. Why’d you answer me that time? He waited, but again heard no response. Answer me!

His stomach grumbled loudly, the sound bordering on an internal roar. Despite the shock of hearing voices in his head, he couldn’t deny the gnawing feeling in his gut.

“I’m pretty hungry myself,” Perry whispered.

so ar e w e feed us

we hungry

His head lifted with final understanding. “Can you hear me?”

y es w e hear you

“You can talk into my head, but you can’t hear my thoughts?” w e send wor ds thr ough y our ner v es y our ner v es no send wor ds back ar e y ou hungr y now

What escaped Perry’s mouth was somewhere between a laugh and a cry and a stutter. A sick, twisted bark of despair, a laugh that may have once echoed through Andersonville, Buchenwald or any of history’s dark places where human beings give up all hope.

Perry fought back tears, tears that welled up in response to an emotion he couldn’t define. His chest felt tight. His one good leg felt weak. He leaned heavily on the kitchen counter, head hanging down, eyes staring at the floor but seeing nothing.

feed us w e hungr y

The voice in his head grew louder, as did the grumbling in his stomach. Sudden stabbing pains in his belly snapped him out of his grim reverie. He hadn’t eaten properly in days. Grinding hunger combined with a slight echo of sickly pink nausea.

sonofab.i.t.c.h feed us w e hungry

The voice in his head (it felt funny to use that term in all seriousness, for it was a term reserved for comedy or bad horror novels, but now it

was simply accurate) gave up all attempts at sentence structure and moved toward steady chanting.

feed us feedus feedusfeedusfeedus

Perry hobbled a bit to open the fridge and survey the contents. Some leftover tuna fish; a mostly empty tub of Country Crock; a mostly full jar of Hershey’s chocolate syrup; an old, slightly gamey jar of Smucker’s strawberry preserves; and — stop the presses — an unopened jar of Ragu spaghetti sauce.

Perry removed the jar from the fridge and explored the cupboard, looking for noodles. True to his current run of luck, he had none, only some Rice-A-Roni and a half-empty bag of Cost Cutter plain white rice. He also found one can of Campbell’s Pork & Beans, half a loaf of bread and a three-pound can of b.u.t.ter-flavor Crisco. What a time to realize that he’d let his shopping duties slip.

It was enough to get started, anyway — he felt so hungry he wouldn’t have turned down chocolate-covered c.o.c.kroaches. He crammed two slices of bread into the toaster and another into his salivating mouth. He opened the pork and beans and took a big sniff, y esy esy esy esy esy esy es

then dumped them into a bowl and tossed them in the microwave. He finished chewing the bread and stuffed another piece into his mouth before the toast came up. He immediately put in two more slices.

The microwave timer beeped insistently. Perry removed the scaldinghot bowl, grabbed his toast and hopped to the table. It was covered with blood. His blood. He decided to eat standing at the counter. He leaned over to the silverware drawer, grabbed a fork and dug in even though the beans were still hot enough to burn his tongue.

Aside from a piece of toast and some egg yolk, he’d gone days without food. His body rejoiced in the meal. The pork and beans tasted better than anything he’d ever eaten before — better than shrimp, better than steak, better than fresh lake trout.