Infected Page 85

And their words stunned him. It was the worst thing he’d heard yet.

A hatching is coming.

HOWDY, NEIGHBOR (PART THREE )

A hatching is coming!

Perry’s mouth went dry. His face flushed with hot blood, he felt his very soul shrivel and blacken like an ant burned by a magnifying gla.s.s. Hatching. It was coming. He’d been right, it was like the caterpillar and the wasps — he’d served his purpose, and now it was time for their gruesome exit.

His big body began to s.h.i.+ver uncontrollably.

“You’re hatching?”

N ot us,

so meone else is nearb y nearby.

He felt a minor wave of relief combined with a trace of hope — not the hope that he had been saved, but the feeling that there was someone else, someone in the same predicament, someone like him who could understand.

Perry hopped toward the stairs that led to the outside door. He didn’t notice his foot hit the blood-soaked carpet; subsequent hops left a string of footprints with wet red traces that echoed his boot’s tread pattern.

It felt good to be dressed again. He’d felt sc.u.mmy all covered in blood, in clothes that should have been incinerated rather than washed. He was dressed and getting out of the apartment that had held him prisoner for days.

His shoulder throbbed loudly where he’d scooped out the rotting Triangle. The jostling backpack straps pulled against the washcloth and the wound, but the duct tape held firm. It was going to be a b.i.t.c.h removing that “bandage.” Maybe he’d be dead by then, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

W e ’ r e hungr y .

F eed us feed us.

Perry ignored their words, concentrating instead on managing the stairs. He leaned heavily against the st.u.r.dy metal rail, cautiously taking

one step at a time. It was amazing how much easier things were when you had two feet.

F eed us no w .

F eed us no w a hatching is coming.

A hatching!

“Just shut up. I don’t have any food.”

He made it to the ground floor without incident. After days in the cramped apartment, it would be nice to be back outside again, no matter what the weather — it could be the burning pits of h.e.l.l past that door, and he’d hop out whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”

A wave of overflow panic hit him, a blindside tackle that had his adrenaline level soaring before he realized the fear wasn’t his own. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Columbo is coming!Columbo is coming!

The Soldiers. Perry hopped out the door into the winter wind and blinding sun. The temperature was only a smidgen above zero, but it was a beautiful day. He made it to his car and put the key in the lock when his eyes caught the lines and colors of a familiar vehicle; his mind exploded with warning.

About fifty yards away, an Ann Arbor police cruiser pulled into the apartment’s entryway and headed in his direction.

Perry hopped around the front of his car, which was tucked neatly under the carport’s metal overhang. He wedged himself between the front b.u.mper and the overhang, hiding from view.

The cruiser slowed and pulled up against the sidewalk directly in front of the main door to Perry’s building. Perry’s instincts screamed at him — the enemy was only fifteen feet away.

Two cops stepped out of the car, but didn’t look in his direction. They popped their batons into their belts, then walked toward the building with that relaxed, confident cop att.i.tude.

They entered his building, the dented metal door slowly swinging shut behind them. They were too late to save their little informant. They’d find the body within seconds, then they’d come looking for Perry, shooting all the way.

Brian Vanderpine was first up the stairs. His feet thudded on the steps, which suffered the full brunt of his 215 pounds. Ed McKinley followed without a sound; Ed was always lighter on his feet, despite the fact that he outweighed Brian by ten pounds.

They didn’t need to say anything going up the stairs to the second floor. It was just a noise complaint, no big deal, but given the day’s events every call had them on edge. Brian hoped Dawsey lived alone; he didn’t really want to deal with a domestic dispute.

They were called to this apartment complex at least twice a week. Most of the time people didn’t realize how thin the apartment walls were, and how noise carried. Usually the appearance of uniformed cops at the door embarra.s.sed the h.e.l.l out of them, and they shut up quite nicely.

Brian and Ed climbed the first half flight of six stairs and turned to head up the next six when Brian stopped so suddenly that Ed b.u.mped into him. Brian was looking down. Ed automatically looked at the same spot.

Traces of red marked large footprints on the stairs.

Brian knelt next to one of the footprints. He gently touched the print — his fingers came away with dabs of red. He rolled it around his fingertips for a second, then looked up at Ed.

“It’s blood,” Brian said. He’d known that it was blood even before he examined it; he knew the smell.

Brian stood. They both pulled their guns, then moved quietly up the steps, careful not to step on other red footprints. As they came up to the second floor, they saw the blood on the wall and the bright red puddles in the carpet. It was a lot of blood, probably from a severe wound.

Large blood streaks led right under the door to Apartment B-203. Someone who was bleeding badly had crawled — or been dragged — into that apartment.

They took positions on either side of the door, pulses rocketing, backs to the wall, guns pointed to the floor. Brian’s mind worked feverishly. This blood was fresh, and there was enough to indicate the victim might even be bleeding to death. He had no doubt that the wound was caused by some kind of weapon. And if the victim was still in that apartment, he or she might be trapped in there with the a.s.sailant.