You’re getting crazy paranoid, Perry old boy, knock that shit off and focus.
He had to concentrate on the web search. That’s where the answer lay—it had to.
He typed in “Triangles.”
He would have never thought there would be so much stuff. The entries were numerous: tons of Wikipedia shit, math up the ass, sites focusing on the “Triangle Area” in North Carolina, and of course several on the Bermuda Triangle. Perry breezed through them, giving them little more than a cursory once-over.
He typed in “triangles” and “infected.”
Finally he found it. Fifteen pages into the search. To a normal person, it wouldn’t have looked like anything out of the ordinary. But to Perry, the letters on the screen glowed with hope.
Triangles-You are not alone
We are here to help you. This page has all the information on dealing with your condition and making you better.
www.tomorrowresearch.com-5k-Cached-Similar pages
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 godsend. 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 three-eyed pyramid.
Underneath the Triangle was a short message. The words called to his desperate soul as if they were the writings of God.
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” button 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 fuck 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 shit. 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 god, 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 pissed. Don’t make me smack you around, bitch.
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?
new noises.
what are the new noises
we are hearing
Perry grabbed the Mac with both hands and threw it against the wall as hard as he could. Plastic and glass 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.
new noises,
what are the new noises we are hearing
“Noises? I didn’t hear anything. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
no one is here no columbos anyone
“Nope, just relax, man, just chill.” Perry felt the Triangles’ oddly black emotions flowing through him. He tried to nail down the vibe; anxiety, perhaps. His own emotions—excitement, hope, fear, rage—stirred them up like a bunch of hyperactive kids dropped in the midst of the Hershey’s chocolate factory.
is something wrong
who is there who
Perry took a very deep breath and let it out slowly, telling himself over and over again to relax. He repeated the process ten times, feeling calm spread over his body. Discipline, as Dear Old Dad would say. Without discipline you’re no better than some two-bit cooze, crying over this and crying over that.
Perry knew he had to calm down, to chill out the Three Stooges.
“It’s okay, fellas.” Perry’s voice exuded control. “There’s no one here. Just relax. We’re all going to go to sleep now, just chill.”
Perry closed his eyes. Relaxation swept over him like a warm wind. This was not the time for weakness—if he’d ever had a moment of self-control in his life, now was the time to exercise it. You gotta have discipline, boy. Without discipline, people are going to walk
all over you, and nobody but nobody walks all over a Dawsey.
He laid his head on the back of the couch. This was a game, that’s all, just like football, although this time the stakes were a bit higher than a Big Ten title. It was a game, and he was winning. A smile touched his face, only for a second, as sleep came and he drifted away.
53.
MARGARET TALKS TO DEW
Agent Otto handed Margaret his cell phone. The weight surprised her—the cell phone was larger than any she’d seen in years.
“Hello, Dew,” she said.
“I assume you’re calling because you have information for me, Doc,” he said. “I’m trying to run an op here.” Even through the cell phone, she could hear his annoyance. She didn’t have time for his attitude.
“We need satellite coverage,” Margaret said. “Can you get that?”
“Why do we need it?”
“You know what, Phillips? Answer the fucking question, okay? Can you or can you not get satellite coverage?”
There was a pause. “You might want to talk to me with a little more respect there, Doc.”
“Screw your respect. Answer the damn question or I hang up and go right to Murray. Can you, or can you not, get dedicated satellite coverage for the Ann Arbor area?”
“This isn’t the movies, Doc,” Dew said. “We can’t just dial in an address and see a full-color picture of Mister and Misses Jones doing it doggy-style. It will take some time, but we can get the coverage. Now, if you’re done with the potty mouth, you want to tell me why?”
Margaret held the phone with her right hand. With her left she rubbed her knuckles against her hair, so hard it hurt. None of this made any sense, none of this was science, but she knew what had to be done—she couldn’t explain why, yet it had to be done anyway.
“The paintings of Nguyen,” she said. “They had all the known victims, then eleven other people.”
“So?”
“So there are victims we haven’t found yet.”
“You know we’re working on that,” Dew said. “We have scans of the faces, all-points out on them, over the whole state and into Ohio and Indiana. We’re trying to track them down. Why is a satellite going to help with that?”
Margaret winced as her knuckles dug too deep. She forced herself to put her hand at her side.
“They’re building something,” Margaret said. “I think the victims are supposed to build something, something big.”
“What? What are they supposed to build?”
“Something in the woods, maybe. I think there are trees involved. Deep woods, even.”
“So then what shall I tell the satellite to look for?”
Margaret sighed. “I don’t know. Something with arches. Maybe twenty feet high.”
“And how long is this thing?”
“Dew, I just don’t know.”
“Margaret,” Dew said. He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “Changing a satellite’s tracking is a big deal. We have to drop scheduled coverage from an area to redirect. Plus, we have to get squints assigned to look at the pictures, try and find what you’re looking for—and since you don’t really know what it is you’re looking for, and we’re covering a huge area, it’s a practically impossible job. Now, with all that in mind, is this just a hunch of yours, or do you have something real for me?”
Margaret thought about it. She had nothing solid, nothing to go on other than the painting of an insane, murdering artist.
“It’s a hunch,” she said. “But I feel it, Dew.”
Even through the rough connection, she heard Dew’s heavy sigh. “Fine, fuck it. What have we got to lose? So this will take four or five hours. I’m telling them to look for something unusual, with arches, twenty feet high, length unknown. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Margaret said. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“It will be done. And if you change your mind and want the satellite to look for unicorns or Santa’s sleigh, just let me know.” With that, Dew hung up.
54.
SPAM?
Murray Longworth’s desk intercom buzzed softly. He pressed the “talk” button.
“What is it, Victor?”
“Sir, I thought you’d want to know that something came in over the web.”
Murray felt his pulse quicken. “When?”
“Less than an hour ago, sir.”
“Where is the client?”
“Ann Arbor, Michigan, sir.”
“Bring me the info immediately.”
Victor entered the office with a sealed folder. The computer boys were under strict orders to print any web info that came through, then delete all traces of the data from the system. Murray didn’t like using the Internet, but he agreed with Montoya that it was one way to possibly reach victims without raising the press’s attention. Apparently the hunch had paid off.
Victor left the room, and Murray broke the seal.
Ann Arbor, Michigan. Perry Dawsey. Dew was already there, had already had a run-in with one of the infected freaks, as had Otto and Margaret. It was a slam-dunk home run. Margaret’s work had put Dew close. Dawsey listed no contacts—that was good. That made things easier. Apartment complex—that wasn’t good. No description of Dawsey’s condition.
Dew was already there. So was Margaret, and she had an analysis facility ready and waiting. Finally, it was the break that Murray needed.
55.
THE TRUTH
The voice tickled his thoughts, teased his muddled mind.
Where are they?
It was the voice of the Triangles: mechanical, and yet still alive.
Are you there?
Another is missing.
The voice of the Triangles, and yet it was different. Somehow almost…feminine. Not a woman’s voice, but a woman’s concern, a woman’s depth of feeling.
Why don’t they answer?
Where are they?.
His eyes fluttered sleepily. The voice was something important, something he knew he needed to think about. The pain hung on his body like a weighted suit. Every inch seemed to throb and pulse in a muted symphony of complaint.
They won’t make it,
they won’t make it,
he is too strong.
Perry blinked again, clawing his way to consciousness. Triangles, but not his. Were these the ones his own infectors had mentioned when they said that strange phrase: we do that without telephones talk to Triangles.
He felt the Three Stooges stirring. The female voice faded away.
Perry wasn’t ready to get up. He lay on the couch, weight on his left side, wondering if he should just spend the rest of his life there, on his good side, not bothering to get up and suffer any more pain or wonder what fabulous secret the Stooges might deal out next.
His ass still burned; it felt as if he were still sitting on the stove. A truly nasty smell filled the air. So this is what burning human flesh smells like? Wonderful. There was another smell, something more pungent, more…dead-smelling. But it wafted in and out and couldn’t compete with the all-encompassing smell of Perry’s Home-Cooked Rump Roast.
Why do you fight us?
And there they were. No mistaking that voice. Male, arrogant, bossy. His own beloved Triangles.
“Who was that other voice?” Perry asked, ignoring their question. “There’s someone else infected, isn’t there? Who is it? Does he live in the apartments?”
We won’t tell you.
Why do you keep killing us?
We’re the only ones who can save you now.
“What the hell are you talking about? Save me? I know I’m as good as dead.”
No,
it’s the others who want to kill you, not us. Not us , Perry. We would never hurt you.
The Triangles weren’t trying to kill him? Bullshit. They were going to burrow out his insides and wear him like a coat, or take over his mind and dance him around the street like a fucking human Muppet.
Someone is coming.
Is
it Columbo?
Perry heard nothing. Was their hearing better than his? How strong were they now?
“You hear someone out in the hall? Is it the neighbor who was here before?”
No. Footsteps are
lighter, it’s Columbo
kill Columbo.
“It’s not Columbo!”
Perry painfully picked himself up off the couch, using the table to help him stand. Every movement brought fresh waves of pain.
“Why the hell do the police scare you so bad?”
Because they are coming to get us.
Men are looking for us, to kill us.
Why don’t you understand?
“Take it easy. Don’t get excited and start screaming in my head again, okay?” Perry breathed slowly. He tried to project his calmness, hoping that if the Triangles could overflow emotion into him, he could do the same in reverse. “Why do you think they’re coming to get you now?”
Don’t you get it?
If they kill you,
they kill us.
It hit him like a bullet between the eyes.
Perry’s analytical process stopped dead-still as the truth suddenly rocked home. The truth that had been there from the start, and all he’d had to do was ask.
The Soldiers weren’t coming to save him.
They were coming to kill him.
To keep the Triangle larvae from hatching. It made perfect sense, although part of his mind still fought against it. If the Soldiers wanted to kill him, then there was truly no way out, no escape, no chance.