Infected Page 88

Perry spoke in a calm voice. “I live in this complex. My name is Perry. Let me in so we can talk about what we’re going to do.”

Through the crack of the door he could only see two inches of her face, but it was enough to show she wasn’t convinced.

“Are you from the government? From . . . CSI?” Fear hung from her words. Perry felt his patience running thin.

“Look, lady, I’m in the same f.u.c.king boat you are — I’ve got the Triangles too, okay? Don’t you feel it? Now open the door before someone sees us and calls the Soldiers.”

The last word struck home. Her eyes opened up wide as she took in a quick hiss of breath, and held it. She blinked twice, trying to decide if she should believe, then shut the door. Perry heard the chain slide free. The door opened, and she looked at him expectantly, hopefully.

Perry hopped in quickly, shoved her out of the way, then slammed the door shut and locked it (chain and deadbolt and even the s.h.i.+tty lock on the k.n.o.b, thank you very much). He turned around with a light hop — and found himself staring at a huge butcher knife poised only a few inches from his chest.

He put his hands up lightly, at shoulder level, and leaned away from the blade until his back hit the door.

A mixture of emotions etched her brown eyes, anger and fear predominant above all else. If he said one wrong word he’d find that knife buried in his chest. She was a tall woman, about five-foot-seven, but fat pushed her weight to around 170 pounds. She wore a yellow housecoat with a green and blue flower pattern. It hung on her, like a hand-medown four sizes too big. The Triangle Diet Plan had done wonders for her as well — she must have been at least 225 before she was infected. Fuzzy gray bunny slippers adorned her feet. Her blond hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail, looked out of place against her middle-aged face, a face that radiated fear and hopelessness.

He was much bigger than she was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. One thing he’d learned on the playground early in life was that fat people were strong people. They didn’t look it, but carrying all that extra weight made for powerful muscles that could be surprisingly quick at things like punching or grabbing — or stabbing.

“Jesus, lady, put the knife down.”

“How do I know you’re not with the government? Let’s see some ID.” Her voice quavered, as did the knife’s point.

“Come on,” Perry said, his temper steadily creeping higher. “If I was from the government, do you think they’d send me out with government ID? Use your head! Tell you what — let me roll up my sleeve, okay? I’ll show you.”

He slowly dropped his backpack to the floor, wis.h.i.+ng he’d left the top open so he could quickly grab his own kitchen cutlery. But if he tried for it, she might panic and stab him.

Perry pushed up his sleeve.

The wave of overflow excitement hit him like a severe drug rush. That ’ s her that ’ s her .

S he ’ s going to hatch soon, that ’ s her.

“Oh my G.o.d.” Her voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper. “Oh my G.o.d, you’ve got them, too.” The knife fell to the carpet.

Perry closed the distance with one short hop. He caught her with a big overhand left that slammed her cheekbone. Her head snapped down and back. She cried out a little as she fell to the floor. She laid sobbing and motionless on the pale yellow carpet.

S top it now stop itnow Now NOW!

Perry winced at the pain from the mild mindscream. He had figured that would happen, but at least he’d gotten in a good lick first. You had to show women who was in charge, after all.

“b.i.t.c.h, if you ever pull a knife on me again I’ll carve your fat a.s.s up.” The woman sobbed with pain, terror and frustration.

Perry knelt next to her. “Do you understand me?”

She said nothing, her face hidden in her arms, fat shaking like a Jell-O mold.

Perry gently stroked her hair. She cringed at his touch. “I’ll only ask you one more time,” he said. “If you don’t answer, I’ll put my boot in your ribs, you fat f.u.c.k.”

She looked up suddenly, tears streaming down her face. “Yes!” she screamed. “Yes, I understand you!”

She was yelling. It was as if she wanted to p.i.s.s him off, was trying to p.i.s.s him off. Women. Give ’em an inch and they take a mile. Her tearstreaked face reminded him of a glazed doughnut. No room in life for tears, woman, no room at all.

He continued to stroke her hair, but his voice took on an icy-cold quality. “One more thing. If you raise your voice above conversational levels again, you’re dead. And I mean there’s no question about it. Cross the line with me again and I’ll f.u.c.k you with that butcher knife of yours. Do you understand?”

She just stared at him with a pathetic look of disbelief and utter helplessness. Perry held no sympathy for her. She was weak, after all, and in a violent world only the strong survive.

Perry’s voice bubbled with anger. He talked slowly, each word clearly defined. “Do. You. Under. Stand.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I understand. Please don’t hit me again.”

She looked so pitiful — blood trickling from her cheek, fear in her eyes, her face lined with tears. She looked like an abused woman.

Like his mother looked, after his father had finished with a “lesson.”

Perry shook his head hard. What the h.e.l.l was happening to him? What was he becoming? That answer was simple — he was becoming what he had to become to live. Only the strong survive. He stared at the woman, fighting to push his guilt down somewhere deep, somewhere he didn’t have to deal with it. The Perry that had controlled his aggression for ten years . . . there was no more room for that person.