Infected (25 page)

ten decades in

a century

A sudden thought froze him. If they could scan his brain, how much longer until they could read his active thoughts? And when that happened, what would they do if they knew he wanted to contact the Soldiers? They’d scream so loud his brain would turn to puree, drip out of his ears and dribble out his nose like snot.

Maybe they were listening right now.

He had to stop thinking about it. But if he didn’t think about it, how was he going to contact anybody? He couldn’t even think about killing the Triangles—they’d fry him from the inside out first. Cook his brain like a microwave potato. But he couldn’t stop
thinking,
could he? And if he did stop, if he did tune such thoughts of survival from his brain, then he was surely doomed.

Stress steadily built up inside him, gaining steam like a wall of bricks crashing down from an exploding building.

The buzzer on the stove loudly announced that the rice was done. His mind grabbed on to this new distraction like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, gripping it with all he had, focusing all his thoughts on the thrilling subject of dinner.

Perry didn’t realize that it was a temporary escape. He didn’t realize that his mind was already beginning to crack and fissure under the stress of the impossible-to-believe situation that unfolded around him and inside him. The floodwaters were slowly rising, inevitable, unstoppable, irresistible—and the high ground would only stay above the waterline for so long.

MOMMY’S LITTLE GIRL

Clarence Otto stopped the car. Cell phone pressed to her ear, Margaret looked out the window at a neat, two-story brick house on Miller Avenue. White shutters and trim. Dead-looking ivy branches covering one side of the house—in the summer that side would be a flat wall of leafy green, the very epitome of old-school collegiate housing.

Amos sat in the backseat, clearly annoyed at the whole process. While he was indefatigable in the confines of a hospital, being outdoors in the cold brought out his surly side.

“We just pulled up to the girl’s house,” Margaret said into her cell phone.

“Tell Otto to stay sharp,” Dew said. “I’ve got six bodies over here, it’s spinning out of control. Your backup team is there?”

Margaret turned in the seat to look back, even though she knew what she’d see. Gray van, unmarked, parked right behind them.

“It’s here. We’ll let Otto lead, of course, but I think we’re okay—the girl just had the Morgellons fibers, no triangles.”

“Fine, just stay sharp,” Dew said. “These guys are psychos. And as soon as you’re done, get over here.”

“What have you found?”

Dew paused. “Seems our college boy was an artist. I think you’ll want to see this.”

“All right, Dew. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Dew hung up without another word.

“What did he say?” Amos asked.

“Six more bodies,” Margaret said absently. “The other side of town. We’re heading over there when we’re done here.”

In the backseat Amos hung his head. This was wearing on him, Margaret knew. Behind his sunglasses, Agent Clarence Otto showed no sign of emotion, but the muscles in his jaw twinged slightly.

“Are you ready?” Otto asked. She nodded.

They approached the house, Margaret and Amos keeping two steps behind Otto. Otto knocked on the door with his left hand—his right hand hidden inside his jacket, resting on the hilt of his weapon.

There was little chance of danger. Cheng’s report showed he had given the girl a careful examination, and would have certainly seen anything resembling a triangle or triangle-to-be. They still had to keep things as quiet as possible—if they kicked in the door to find a perfectly normal family, a little bit more of the secrecy would die, and Americans would be a little bit closer to discovering the nightmare blossoming in their midst.

Snow covered the ground and the leafless trees. Most of the houses on this street had white lawns, thick with undisturbed snow. Some, like this one, had lawns trampled over and over by tiny feet, the snow’s beauty crushed by the tireless energy of playing children.

The door opened. In the doorway stood a little angel—blond pigtails, blue dress, sweet face. She even held a rag doll, for crying out loud.

“Hello, sweetie,” Otto said.

“Hello, sir.” She didn’t look afraid at all. Nor did she look happy or excited, just matter-of-fact.

“Are you Missy Hester?”

She nodded, her curly pigtails bouncing in time.

Otto’s empty right hand came out of his jacket, slowly dropping to hang at his side.

Margaret stepped to Otto’s right, so the girl could see her clearly. “Missy, we’re here to see your mother. Is she home?”

“She’s sleeping. Would you like to come in and sit down in the living room?”

She stood aside and gestured with her hand. A regular little hostess.

“Thank you,” Otto said. He walked inside, head turning quickly as he seemed to scan every inch of the house. Margaret and Amos followed. It was a small, simple affair. Aside from a scattered layer of brightly colored toys, the place looked immaculate.

Missy led them into the living room, where Margaret and Amos sat on a couch. Otto chose to remain standing. The living room gave a view of the stairs, the front door and another doorway that led into the dining-nook area of a kitchen.

“How about your daddy?” Margaret said. “Is he home?”

Missy shook her head. “He doesn’t live with us anymore. He lives in Grand Rapids.”

“Well, honey, can you go wake up your mom? We need to talk to her and to you.”

The girl nodded, curls jiggling, then turned and ran up the stairs.

“She seems perfectly healthy,” Amos said. “We’ll take a good look at her, but she doesn’t seem to show any signs of infection.”

“Maybe cutting out the threads works in the new strain,” Margaret said. “Morgellons cases have been going on for years without any triangle growths. Something had to have changed.”

“They’re just being built better,” Otto said. “No disrespect to either of you, but you think too much. Murray hit it right on the head. Sometimes the most obvious answer is just that, the answer.”

“Occam’s razor does seem to apply,” Amos said.

“What’s that?” Otto asked.

Amos smiled. “Never mind. It just means you’re probably right.”

All three of their heads turned as a little boy appeared in the open doorway to the kitchen. He couldn’t have been more than seven, maybe eight—he wore a cowboy hat, gun holsters on his hips, chaps with fringe and a slightly crooked black mask—the full-on Lone Ranger costume. Otto tensed at the sight of the six-shooters in the boy’s hands, but each had a barrel capped with bright orange plastic. Cap guns. Toys.

“Hold it right there, pardners,” the boy said. He made his little voice all gravelly, trying to sound tough, but he just sounded cute.

Otto laughed. “Oh, we’re holding it, Lone Ranger. Is there a problem?”

“Not if you keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.”

Otto raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out. “You’ll get no trouble from me, Ranger. No trouble ’tall.”

The boy nodded, the very picture of seriousness. “Well, let’s just keep it that way, and we’ll all get along
reallllll
nice like.”

Missy bounced down the stairs, making far more noise than should have been possible out of a tiny, six-year-old body.

“My sister will take real good care of y’all,” the boy said. “I got me some business to attend ta.”

“Be safe, Ranger,” Otto said.

“Cute kid,” Amos said as the boy slid back into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. They heard him banging around, yelling at imaginary robbers.

But something about the boy gave Margaret a bad feeling. They’d rushed things, been sloppy—they hadn’t even checked to see how many people were in the family. The father was gone. One brother. Was there another? Any sisters?

“Mommy won’t wake up,” Missy said. “I’ve been trying for a couple of days, but she won’t wake up. And she smells funny.”

Margaret felt a coldness flush through her stomach.

The girl took a step forward. “Are you from the gov-ren-ment?”

Amos slowly stood up.

Otto calmly walked between the girl and Margaret. “Yes, honey, we’re from the government. How did you know?”

“Because my brother said you would come.”

Margaret wanted out of there. Now. They had come for the girl, but it never crossed their minds that someone else in the house might be infected.

“Oh, no,” Amos said. “Do you smell natural gas?”

Margaret did, suddenly and strong, coming from the kitchen.

“Get the girl out of here,” Otto said. His voice was quiet, calm, but totally commanding. “Do it now.”

Margaret stood and ran the three steps to Missy, then hesitated. She didn’t want to touch the little girl—what if she had those things? What if they were wrong, and she was contagious?

“Margaret,” Otto hissed. “Get her out of here.”

She ignored her instincts and picked the girl up, her skin crawling as she did. She took one step toward the door, but before she could take another, the kitchen door opened.

The little boy walked out, holding a cap gun in each hand. The smell of gas billowed out of the kitchen.

He still wore the cowboy hat, but not the mask. He only had one eye. The other socket held a misshapen blue lump, under the skin, that had pushed out his eyelids and eyebrow to obscene proportions. The lump stretched the eyelid out and open, showing a blackish, gnarled textured skin underneath. Whatever it was, it had grown between the boy’s eye and his eyelids—his eye was back there somewhere, behind that…
thing
.

“You’ve been bad,” the little boy said. “I’m going to have to gun…you…
down.
”

He raised the cap guns.

Amos raced past Margaret, heading for the door. She turned and ran with him, still carrying the girl. Heavy footsteps told her that Agent Otto was right behind her.

Margaret ran out the door as she heard the caps firing, the boy pulling the trigger over and over again. She made it out the front porch and was down the steps when the gas finally ignited.

It wasn’t a big explosion, so much as a really large
whuff.
It didn’t even blow out the windows like on TV, just gave them a good rattle. She kept running and felt the heat on her back—just because it didn’t explode didn’t mean it wasn’t hot, didn’t mean the house wasn’t burning, and didn’t mean the little boy wasn’t already engulfed in flames.

DINNER IS SERVED

Perry loaded up his plate and managed to hop to the couch without spilling any of the rice-Ragu concoction. He slumped into the waiting cushions, winced at the waves of pain that shot through his leg, then gripped his fork and dug into the meal, not knowing if it would be his last.

The Ragu wasn’t thick enough to make the rice clump, so it was more like a heavy soup than Spanish rice. But it was still tasty, and it quelled his stomach’s grumbling. He shoveled it in as if he’d never seen food before in his life. Man, wouldn’t a Quarter Pounder and some supersize fries hit the spot right now? Or Hostess cupcakes. Or a Baby Ruth bar. Or a big old steak and some broccoli with a nice white-cheese sauce. No, scratch all of the above, a bajillion soft tacos from Taco Hell would be the most satisfying thing on the planet. Cram ’em down with Fire Sauce and a bottomless cup of Mountain Dew. It wasn’t that his rice was bad, but the texture just didn’t ring of
solid
food, and his stomach longed to be filled like a water balloon on a steamy-hot summer day.

Summer. Now that would have been a nice season to die. His timing, as usual, was terrible. He could have contracted this “illness” in the spring, or in the summer, or at least in the fall. All three seasons were unbelievably beautiful in Michigan. Trees everywhere either bursting with new-growth greenery or exploding in the spectacular, jewel-reflection colors that heralded the coming winter. Dying in summer would have been good—Michigan is just so green once you get outside the cities and towns, out onto the innumerable country roads. The highways to northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula are a black slash of pavement cutting through an endless sea of forest and farmland that sprawls out on either side.

Farmland, forest, swamps, water…the three-hour drive from Mount Pleasant to Cheboygan was interrupted by little more than roadkill and highway-stop towns like Gaylord that presented a splotch of buildings and cars before they were gone, fading away in the rearview mirror like the vestiges of a tasteless dream that dissipates into the buttery solution of delicious sleep.

Summer was warm, at least early summer. Later on in the season, the true nature of Michigan’s swamps revealed themselves in sweltering humidity, clammy sweat, swarms of mosquitoes and blackflies. But even that posed little problem, as you were never more than five or ten minutes’ drive from a lake. Back home, swimming in Mullet Lake, cool water leaching away the oppressive heat. Sun blasting down, turning white bodies red and leaving streamers in the eye from where it bounced off the surface like a million infinitely bright, tiny supernovas.