Infected Page 73

Not alone.

Not alone!

His hands shook with excitement; he finally knew — really knew—

that someone could help him. People knew about the parasites slinking their tails through his body.

He clicked on the entry. Perry stared with wide eyes, his pulse hammering both in his head and his wounded shoulder, his breath pinched tight in his chest.

Big letters at the top of the page read “You are not alone.” The layout was stark and simple, not enough graphics to interest the casual browser should he stumble onto it. To Perry, however, the page was a G.o.dsend. Right under “You are not alone” was a Triangle — it was the image embedded in his own skin, a stylistic rendering of the horror that sent tendrils throughout his body, and yet it was something he’d seen all his life. It was the pyramid from the back of a one-dollar bill, its eye glowing green at the top. This pyramid, however, showed three glowing eyes at the top, not just one.

Perry choked back tears — only someone who’d seen the blue critters under the skin would realize, could realize, the meaning of that threeeyed pyramid.

Underneath the Triangle was a short message. The words called to his desperate soul as if they were the writings of G.o.d.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE

If you have found this page, then you know what we’re all about. We’re here to help you. We know what’s happening to you, and we can save you, but you have to act quickly. Your condition gets worse by the second. Click here to fill out the form with your address, and we will send doctors to you immediately. Be patient, be calm, we’re here to help you. Do not panic, as it will only make things worse. Do not tell anyone else about your condition, not even your doctors — there are people out there that want to harm you. Stay where you are, fill out the form, and wait. Everything will be fine. Do not tell anyone about the Triangles. If you think you can’t wait, dial 206-222-2898.

Perry almost wanted to get up and dance around the room. He’d found the way out. He’d hit the “eject” b.u.t.ton before the damaged fighter crashed into a mountain. He’d gotten the call from the governor just before they’d thrown the switch. He’d rushed out of the burning building — beautiful costar over his shoulder — just before the gas mains caught and the credits rolled over a mushroom cloud of fire and death.

All he had to do was wait. He wrote down the number; he’d call as soon as he finished with the computer.

The form asked for his name, then his street address. He flew through it, backing up only to fill in a few typos made as his hasty fingers danced frantically across the keyboard.

It asked for his phone number; he typed it in.

He stopped for a brief second at the next question, wanting to finish and click “send,” but the oddity of the query gave him pause.

Who have you told about your condition? List their full names and addresses, please.

Now why the f.u.c.k would they want to know that? Who cared? It didn’t matter — he hadn’t told anyone. He typed in “none.”

Describe your current condition. Be as detailed as possible on what THEY look like.

He didn’t have time for this s.h.i.+t. He needed help now. He clicked “send,” completing the form. It didn’t matter — they had enough information and he couldn’t put it off anymore. They’d be here soon. All he had to do was wait. Wait for the cavalry.

His computer beeped. An instant-message window appeared. From StickyFingazWhitey.

Bill Miller’s handle.

StickyFingazWhitey: Good G.o.d, man! You’re finally online!!!!!

R U OK?

Perry stared at the screen. He was suddenly petrified, afraid to move. First the emails, then the call, and now this.

StickyFingazWhitey: I know you’re there, fat boy. Talk to a brotha.

Bill was one of them. One of them. He’d IM’ed as soon as Perry had sent in the form. That wasn’t coincidence.

Of course it is. You’ve been offline for days. He IM’ed you almost as soon as you came back on, that’s all.

It couldn’t be Bill; he’d known Bill for years. But if someone wanted to experiment on Perry, to watch Perry, who better to do that than his best friend? All they had to do was “turn” Bill. That was the term, turn, what they do to make double agents.

StickyFingazWhitey: Stop jerkin’ der Gherkin’ and answer me. Seriously. Getting p.i.s.sed. Don’t make me smack you around, b.i.t.c.h.

IMs weren’t enough for Bill. Perry’s VOIP connection started to ring — Bill was trying to initiate an Internet phone call over the computer. The computer’s digital ringing sounded far too loud in the quiet apartment.

what is that sound what

Perry jumped with surprise; the Triangles had been so utterly quiet he’d forgotten about them. He sucked in three shallow breaths, clenched and unclenched his fists. Did they know he’d just contacted the Soldiers? If they did . . . they would mindscream him any second now. Were they searching his brain?

ne w noises.

what ar e the ne w noises

w e ar e hearing

Perry grabbed the Mac with both hands and threw it against the wall as hard as he could. Plastic and gla.s.s smashed, with a bright flash of electricity. The pieces fell to the floor, leaving a scored burn mark on the wall, a fuzzy black snake marking the computer’s sudden death.

what ’ s going ON

tell US

“Nothing! Nothing is going on. I don’t hear anything.” He had to play it cool, relaxed, chillsville. He couldn’t let on that the Triangles’ hours were numbered. He had to keep them in the dark. It was only a matter of time before this game was over, and if Perry wanted to win, he had to play it cool. Just like Fonzie, honeybunny . . . play it cool.