Infected (38 page)

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 embarrassed the hell 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 bumped 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 assailant.

Adrenaline surged through Brian’s system. He reached down with his right hand and knocked hard on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

No one answered. The hallway remained deathly quiet.

Brian knocked again, hitting the door harder. “Police! Open this door!” Still no answer.

He spun out to stand in front of the door. Giving a quick look to Ed, who nodded agreement and readiness, Brian put all of his 215 pounds into a push-kick aimed just below the door’s handle. The wood crunched, but the door held fast. He kicked it again, harder this time. The lock’s bolt ripped from the wall with a splintering of wood. The door slammed open.

It suddenly occurred
to Perry that his car was useless. The cops would be out of the apartment in seconds. They knew who he was; they would be looking for his car. Probably wouldn’t make it fifty miles, but he also wouldn’t make it far on foot.

The hatching is coming soon.

The hatching. Some poor bastard was at the end of the Triangle rope. What would it look like? How bad would the pain be?

The trip to Wahjamega would have to wait. He’d be lucky if he made it out of the parking lot, let alone all the way to Wahjamega. There was only one place he could go. Someone was close, someone who was also infected. That person would understand Perry’s condition, understand what he had done with Bill, hide him from the cops who would be swarming all over this place in minutes.

“Can we watch the hatching?”

Yes, we should watch.

Yes, watch and

see, see.

“Where is it? Tell me where to go, quickly.”

Come this way.

Perry froze. The other voice, the female voice. It was faint, but clear.

Turn around.

He put his hands over his ears, his face a childlike expression of pure fear. It was all too much,
too damn much,
but he couldn’t panic now, not when the cops would be rushing out the apartment door in a matter of moments. He turned and found himself facing Building G.

Hurry hurry, this way to safety.

He didn’t understand, didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was get away from the cops. Perry launched himself forward at a dead run-hop, sprinting on the verge of losing his balance. He fell twice, hitting the snow-covered blacktop, landing facedown both times before scrambling madly to his feet.

It took him fifteen seconds to reach Building G.

Brian Vanderpine and
Ed McKinley would both remember every moment with total clarity. In their combined twenty-five years of police work (Brian’s fourteen and Ed’s eleven), they had never seen anything like the crazy shit in Apartment B-203.

The door slammed open. Despite Brian’s desire to point the gun into the apartment, he kept it trained at the floor. Nothing moved. Brian stepped inside. He immediately saw the body on the couch, bloody hands nailed to the wall with steak knives in some horrible parody of the crucifixion.

Brian would check the body, of course, but he already knew that the man was dead. He tore his gaze from the corpse—the perp might still be in the apartment. There was blood
everywhere.

The smell hit him like a fist: the odor of sweat, of blood, of something horribly rotten and
wrong
in a way he couldn’t immediately define.

Brian pointed his gun straight down the short hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. He was suddenly grateful for the dozens of calls he’d made to this complex, calls that had made him familiar with these apartments, all of which had the same layout.

Ed swung around to the right, pointing his gun into the tiny excuse for a kitchen. “Holy shit. Brian, look at this.”

Brian took a quick peek. Dried blood covered the kitchen floor, so much that in most places the white linoleum looked a dull shade of reddish-brown. Even the dining table was covered with dried blood.

Brian moved down the hall, Ed only a few steps behind him. The tiny hall closet hung open and empty except for one long coat, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, and a large University of Michigan varsity jacket. That left only the bedroom and the bathroom.

That smell, that
wrong
smell, was stronger as they reached the closed bedroom door. Brian stood half-covered by the hall corner and waved Ed to check the bathroom, which was open. Ed was in and out in three seconds, shaking his head to signify it was empty. He mouthed the words
more blood.

Brian knelt in front of the bedroom door. Ed stood behind him, a step back. They avoided standing close enough for one shotgun blast to take out both of them. Feeling his heart hammering in his chest and throat, Brian turned the handle and pushed the door open. Nothing. They quickly checked the closet and under the bed.

Ed spoke. “Check the wounded man, Brian, I’m calling this in.” As Ed grabbed his handset and started talking to the dispatcher, Brian ran to the body. No pulse; the body was still warm. The man had just died, probably within the last hour.

The victim sat on the couch, head hanging down, arms outstretched, a steak knife pinning each hand to the wall. Blood covered the area, soaking the victim’s leg and leaving huge red stains on the worn couch cushions. The victim’s nose was a disaster, broken and ravaged. The face: swollen, cut, completely black-and-blue. Blood had spilled down the man’s face and soaked his shirt.

Brian mentally pieced together the story, feeling his anger rise at the attack’s savagery. The perp had attacked this victim in the hall, cut him (either with one of these knives or another weapon), then dragged him into the apartment and knifed him to the wall. The blows to the face either came in the hall or after his hands had been pinned.

Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in Ann Arbor. Fuck, this shit wasn’t supposed to happen
anywhere
.

Violence in a domestic dispute was almost always followed up with remorse. Many times the assailant would call the cops after he or she had done something to hurt a loved one. That wasn’t the case here. Whoever had done this hadn’t felt a damn shred of remorse—people who felt remorse didn’t leave messages written on the wall in the blood of the dead victim.

It was the worst butchering Brian had ever seen, and it would remain the Number One Smash Hit throughout his career. Although he’d never forget a single horrible detail, it was the writing on the wall that forever symbolized the savage slaying.

Numerous bloody palm and fingerprints showed that the murderer had used his hands to smear a message above the victim’s hanging head. A single word written in bloody three-foot-high letters that left still-wet snail trails of red running down the wall:

Discipline
.

HOT PROSPECT

Margaret kicked open the swinging men’s-room door. She leaned in and shouted urgently. “Amos! Let’s go, man! We’ve got another one!”

A toilet flushed. Amos lurched out of a stall, stumbling as he fought to pull up his pants. Margaret turned and sprinted down the hallway. Amos ran to keep up.

She skidded to a halt in front of the elevator. Clarence Otto held the doors open. She and Amos entered, the doors shut and Otto hit the button for the parking garage.

“How far is it from here?” Margaret asked.

Clarence pulled out a map and gave it a quick study. “About ten minutes, give or take,” he said.

Margaret grabbed Clarence’s strong arm, her face electric with urgency. “What’s the victim’s condition? What are his symptoms?”

“I don’t know that, ma’am. Dew is en route, backed up by two rapid-response teams in full biosuits. I believe it’s an apartment complex.”

Margaret let go of his arm and tried to compose herself. “Do you think we’ll get this one alive?”

“I think so, ma’am,” Clarence said. “Dew should already be there. The victim filled out a computer form. Instructions on that say to stay put and wait for help. I can’t imagine anything going wrong at this point.”

THE GREAT ESCAPE

Perry shut the outside door behind him, took a quick look up the empty hallway, then glanced back through the window just in time to see one of the cops sprint out of Building B and jump into the police cruiser. The car’s red and blue bubble lights flashed.

Perry grinned sadistically. “Fuck you, coppers,” he whispered. “You’ll never take me alive.”

Maybe they hadn’t known what to expect when they pulled up. They probably thought Bill would have Perry all hog-tied and ready for delivery. They’d underestimated Perry. He was sure they wouldn’t do it again.

He turned and looked down the hallway of Building G. He felt something, something strange. A kind of buttery warmth in his chest, perhaps an oily feeling deep inside. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Perry realized he’d felt that feeling coming on as he’d sprinted for Building G, but once inside, it grew stronger.

The hatching is coming, the hatching is coming.

The Triangles’ rambling reminded Perry that his escape was only temporary. More cars were surely on the way. It was only a matter of time before the cops spotted him. He’d be shot down, of course, killed while “trying to escape” whether he hopped his little ass off or lay down on the ground in front of twenty witnesses. It wouldn’t matter; the Soldiers would either buy the witnesses’ silence or make them disappear as well. He had to get inside—he had to find the other Triangle victim.

“Which way do we go, fellas?” They had been the ones, after all, who’d shown him the truth about the Soldiers, about Billy the Informant. They had been the ones to tell him that men in uniforms would come, and they were right. They had been the ones to warn him in time to escape the cops.

Go to the third floor.

Damn they learned fast. There was now almost no delay between their hearing a new concept, like directions, and their mastery of the terminology.

He hopped up the stairs. With each step the oily feeling in his chest grew a little bit stronger. By the time Perry reached the third floor, he felt the strange sensation in every fiber of his being.

He moved down the hall until his Triangles stopped him.

This is it.

Apartment G-304.

On the door was a little branch wreath, painted in soft pastels, with little wooden ducks holding a pink
Welcome
sign. Country art. Perry hated country art. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder and faster.

Again no answer.

Perry leaned in so his mouth almost touched the door’s edge. He spoke quietly, but loud enough to be heard on the other side. “I’m not leaving. I know what you’re going through. I know about the Triangles.”

The door opened a crack, snapping taut the chain lock. Perry heard a stereo softly playing Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman.” A chubby face peered through, a face that might have been attractive had the woman had any sleep in the past four or five days. She looked angry, harried and scared all at the same time.