by Scott Sigler
He talked in barely a whisper. “Do you mean…do you mean that the Soldiers are coming to kill me?”
Yes yes stupid!
Yes coming to kill YOU!
He was fucked. He was completely and utterly fucked. The Triangles were killing him from the inside. Soldiers wanted to gun him down and stop the Triangles from becoming whatever it was they became. He had no idea who the Soldiers were, where they were, what they looked like. They could be anybody. Anybody. And he’d sent an invitation through the Internet, painted a fucking bull’s-eye on his own forehead.
His father’s voice filtered into his head, a once-faint memory now strong and vital. It’s you against the world, boy, you just remember that. The world is a harsh place, where only the strong survive. If you ain’t strong, people will use you up and throw you away. You’ve gotta show the world who’s boss, boy, show them with strength. That’s why I’m so tough on you—that and because you’re one stupid cornholing bastard and you piss me off every chance you get. Someday boy, you’ll thank me. Someday you’ll understand.
For the first time in his life, Perry did understand. He’d spent a decade trying to escape his father’s legacy of violence and abuse and anger, but now he knew that was a mistake.
“You were right, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “You was always right.”
Fuck them all. He was a Dawsey, goddamn it, and he’d sure as hell start acting like one.
Columbo is here.
As the last of his sanity slipped away, Perry heard a knock at his door.
His eyes narrowed to predatory slits.
His father’s voice: You gonna let ’em push you around like that, boy?
“No sir, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “I sure as hell ain’t.”
56.
COMPANY
Bill Miller knocked on Perry’s door again.
Enough was enough. Perry was home. Period. He’d logged on to his instant messenger not more than thirty minutes earlier, and signed off as soon as Bill sent him a message. Bill had immediately hopped into his car, and now he was here, outside Perry’s door.
Perry could have signed on from anywhere in the world, of course, but his Ford was still under the carport awning, a foot of clean snow behind it—it hadn’t moved for at least a couple of days.
Bill knocked again. Nothing.
Was Perry sick? Had he lost his temper, done something really bad, something he couldn’t face? The guy was so sensitive about his violent streak, even a loud argument might fill him so full of guilt he couldn’t face the day. Sick, guilty, whatever, Bill had to get to the bottom of this—his friend needed help, and that was that.
He gave it one more triple-knock.
“Perry, buddy, it’s Bill.”
No answer.
“Perry, everyone’s worried sick. You don’t have to answer, but if you’re there let me know you’re okay.”
No answer. He fished in the pocket of his leather coat for a piece of paper to leave a note. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, caused by the peculiarly strong feeling that he was being watched. He looked up at the peephole, hand frozen in his pocket.
He heard the door’s chain lock slowly scrape aside, followed by the click of a deadbolt sliding back into its housing.
The door opened slowly. Perry’s hulking form came into view. Bill heard himself breathe in sharply, a comical sound of surprise. Perry looked like a Bruce Willis stand-in from one of the Die Hard movies. His long-sleeved white T-shirt was spotted with blood, blood that looked black where it had dried in patches spreading down from the left shoulder. He stood on one leg, holding the door for balance; the other leg hung loosely beneath him, not touching the floor, like a hunting dog on point. The hanging leg had another T-shirt wrapped around its calf. Bill had no idea of that one’s original color—it was now a deep, crusty burgundy, like clothes that had been dropped in the mud, taken off at the back door, and left to dry in the sun. Perry had a bruised bump on his head the size of a golf ball. An old scruff of bright red beard glowed electrically against his pale white skin.
No, not like Bruce Willis…like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Perry’s muscles rippled with every movement, especially on his neck, which looked like steel cables wrapped tightly with veins, then with skin. Perry hadn’t looked this defined, this big—this threatening—in years, not since they’d been sophomores in college. Bill realized, suddenly, that by hanging out with him every day, he’d lost touch with the fact that Perry Dawsey was a giant of a man.
Despite the haggard appearance, Perry’s eyes were his most attention-demanding feature. Not because of the fact that the skin around them was black-and-blue, either from a shot to the face or some serious lack of sleep, but from the look in the eyes. The spaced-out psycho look, like when Jack Nicholson axed his way through the door in The Shining.
Bill had always been the type to trust his instincts. At this moment his instincts yanked at him to leave, to get the fuck out of there right now, fight-or-flight response kicking in with a 100 percent majority vote for flight. But Perry was obviously in trouble—something was very, very wrong.
Postal was the word that flashed through Bill’s brain. Perry has gone postal.
They both stood for a few seconds without speaking.
Bill broke the interlude. “Perry, are you okay?”
There was no fucking question. As soon as Perry opened the door and saw Bill standing there in his black leather jacket with his neatly trimmed hair and immaculate appearance, Perry knew for certain that he was one of the Soldiers. Bill had been watching him all along. He might even be the one who put the Triangle seeds on him—who can tell with these crazy government fucks? When had they recruited Bill? After college? During college? How far back did this conspiracy go? Maybe that’s why Bill had volunteered as a roommate so long ago. That made sense. That was logical.
Bill had come to check on the experiment. He’d probably freaked when Perry stopped going to work. When Perry filled out the online form, they sent Bill to look in on him. Why else would he be here right now? Bill was a fucking narc, waiting to sell Perry out to the Soldiers. Well, the backstabbing, traitorous snitch wasn’t going to be telling his government butt buddies anything.
Not now.
Not later.
Not ever.
“I’m fine,” Perry said. “Come on in.”
He took a small hop back into the apartment, making room for Bill to enter. Strange odors filtered out the open door. Bill’s instincts clamored louder, swelling in volume and intensity, beseeching him to turn tail and run, baby, run.
“Well…uh, I have to be getting back to work, no bout-a-doubt-it,” Bill said. “I just came out to see if you were okay, buddy. You don’t look so good—are you sure you feel all right?”
Did Perry have any idea how bad he looked? Was he on drugs, maybe strung out on heroin or something? Bill couldn’t stop looking at his eyes, the way they burned with intensity and simmering emotions. Bill had seen that look many times during the past ten years—it was the look that came over Perry’s face just before he punched someone, the look just before the snap of the ball. That look was predatory, and it meant serious trouble.
But in those ten years, that look had never been fixed on Bill—until now.
Time to go.
Bill looked scared. He obviously hadn’t counted on Perry figuring out The Plan. Nobody thought Good Ol’ Perry was smart enough to figure out The Plan. They’d underestimated him. Bill had underestimated him. And now that Bill knew the depth of his soon-to-be-fatal mistake, there was nothing he could do. Nothing except run.
But Scary Perry Dawsey was way ahead of the game.
Bill concentrated on speaking in a calm, neutral voice. “Perry, you’re freaking me out, and you look like you’re about to get violent.” He slowly backed away from the door. “I’m going to leave now. You’re going to go into your apartment and calm down. You relax and I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Wait!” Perry�
��s word was a plea, pregnant with need, although he kept his voice almost as low and calm as Bill’s placating tone. “You gotta help me…I…” Perry swayed a little bit, his one good leg sagging under him. “I…just can’t…”
Perry collapsed, falling into the hall like a sack of rotten meat and bones.
Bill instinctively reached out to help his friend. Perry knew that he would. People just couldn’t help such things. Especially the Government People, because the government is here to help you, right? But for Bill, it was too late. Too late to react, too—
—late Bill realized the trick. He tried to jump back, even before he saw the knife, but he was too close. He tried to jump back, to get—
—away, but Perry wasn’t going to let that happen. As soon as Perry hit the floor, the rush of adrenaline blocked out all feelings of pain from his abused body. He rolled over his left shoulder and swung wide with the six-inch steak knife clutched unforgivingly in his right hand. The blade struck Bill’s right inside thigh, sliding noiselessly through jeans, through skin, through quadriceps. It finally thudded to a stop at the femur, the tip embedding in the bone and snapping free. Perry watched Bill’s eyes go—
—wide with shock, fear and pain. Bill stared down at the knife, at the blade sunk deep into his thigh. The blood didn’t come until Perry wrenched the blade back for a second strike. Blood squirted out in a deep red stream, splattering on the hallway’s off-white walls and landing on the burnt-orange acrylic carpet that had been ugly even when it was new.
Perry rolled up to his knees, head tilted forward, eyes flashing, lips curled in a demonic grin of anger and predation. He thrust the blade upward with the power of a knockout uppercut.
Bill tried to jump clear, but his wounded leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He fell weakly backward, the knife’s upward arc whizzing through the air, its jagged tip just barely missing his face. He landed on his back, blood still gushing from his leg.
Perry lurched forward, snarling, spittle flying from his sneering lips. He was a monster, a growling, six-foot-five vision from hell. He brought the blade down in an overhand thrust. Bill reactively brought his hands up, palms out, to protect himself from the slashing knife. Perry’s strength drove the ragged, broken knife point clear through Bill’s upturned right palm. Jagged metal tore through cartilage, tendons and scraped across metacarpals until the knife’s wooden handle slammed into the palm, leaving five inches of the bloody blade jutting forth from the back of Bill’s hand.
Bill’s eyes reactively closed as hot blood splattered on his face. He never saw Perry’s left hand ball up into a gnarled fist. The fist blasted into Bill’s nose with a muffled crunch. A second blow hammered home, spraying fine droplets of blood onto his face and hair.
Bill’s traitorous body fell limp.
Perry hopped off him immediately, grabbed his wrist and hop-dragged him into the apartment. Bill weighed maybe a buck-fifty; dragging him was effortless, even with a bum leg. Perry shut and locked the door.
He’s not dead kill him
killhimkillhim
“We’re not going to kill him until I get some answers,” Perry said, his breath ragged from excitement and exertion. Blood, steady and red, pulsed from the cut in Bill’s thigh, giving his jeans a rapidly spreading dark purple patch.
killhimkillhimkillhim
“Shut up! I’m not going to kill him. We’re doing this my way.” Bill had to have some answers, and Perry was going to hear every last one of them.
The pure, narcotic effect of sheer hatred surprised him. Bill was the enemy. Perry wanted to kill the enemy. Bill was one of the Soldiers, sent to experiment, then observe, then exterminate. Yes indeedee doodee, exterminate, but that’s not going to happen, Billy Boy.
Bill let out a moan. He rolled slightly on the floor. He coughed and spit out a large clot of blood. Snarling, Perry jerked him to his feet and pushed him backward across the living room. Bill fell heavily into the couch.
Perry’s voice was a low rumble, a menacing drawl that hadn’t escaped his lips in years. “You want to get up when I hit you, boy? You gotta learn to stay down unless you’re ready for some more punishment.”
He grabbed Bill’s wounded right hand, which spurted blood in all directions thanks to the knife still embedded in the palm. Perry wrapped his hand around the knife handle and drove it into the wall just above the couch. The jagged tip punched into the plaster, pinning Bill’s hand.
“You like that, snitch? You like that, spy? Then let’s get you a second helping.”
Perry hopped into the kitchen and grabbed another knife from the butcher’s block. He didn’t even glance at the Chicken Scissors. Moving almost as fast as if he had two legs, he then hopped into the bedroom and grabbed a wrinkled, dirty sock from the floor.
Bill’s head lolled from side to side as he struggled for consciousness, blood pouring from his leg, his hand, his nose. “Please,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper of escaping pain. “Please…stop.”
Perry grabbed Bill’s good hand. “You talkin’ to me, boy? You speak when you’re spoken to. You got to learn better than that!” Perry shoved the sock into Bill’s mouth, forcing the dirty fabric in so far that Bill gagged.
With a primitive grunt of aggression, Perry slammed Bill’s good hand against the wall, palm out. He reared back with the fresh knife, then drove the blade through Bill’s exposed palm.
Bill roared in pain, clarity of mind returning in full at a rather unfortunate moment. The dirty sock muffled his cries of agony.
Bill tried to pull free, which made the blades cut deeper still into his ravaged hands. His body simply didn’t have the strength. He slumped back into the couch, a portrait of defeat—his bleeding hands stretching out on either side of his limply hanging head.
“Neighbors,” Perry said in a hiss, his eyes darting first to the window and then to the door. “Nosy goddamned neighbors might be in on it.”
He hopped to the door and stared out the peephole. Even through the distorted view he could see blood on the hallway’s walls and carpeting. Someone would notice it—he didn’t have much time. Time enough, however, to get some answers from the informant nailed to the wall.
Kill him kill him.
Kill him!
Perry stared at Bill. His friend, Bill Miller. His…friend.
“My God, what have I done? What’s happening to me?”
He is Columbo,
he is the Soldiers.
“He can’t be.”
He’s here, isn’t he?
Why would he be here
now if he wasn’t
Columbo? Killllllllll
himmmmmmm
They were right. The emails, the calls, that convenient instant message, showing up at his door. Bill knew what was going on. He knew everything. How callous, how heartless could this bastard be? He had feigned friendship while watching the Triangles grow and fester and swell and chew Perry up from the inside as if he were a fucking goddamned caterpillar. Bill had watched all along.
But he could only watch at work.
What about the rest of the time? What about all the time Perry spent at home, in the apartment, particularly in the last few days? How were they watching him then? Bugs? Hidden cameras? Watching his instant-message and email traffic? Maybe behind a light, maybe inside the TV. Maybe inside the damned TV!
And if they’d watched him all that time, then they were watching him now.
They were watching him carve up Billy the Betrayer.
They wouldn’t just let that happen. They were coming, coming to rescue Billy. Perry took Bill’s head in his hands and stared into glassy eyes.
“They’ll be too late, Billy Boy,” Perry said quietly. “You hear me? They’ll be too fucking late to bail your ass out of this one.”
Bill screamed, but the sock muffled the noise.
“You’d best knock that shit off, boy,” Perry said, still staring into Bill’s terrified eyes, eyes that revealed searing pain and pure, raw terror
. “Quit your cryin’, boy, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Bill screamed louder, trying to pull back from the bullnecked horror before his eyes.
Perry snarled as he grabbed Bill’s broken nose and shook it viciously from side to side. Bill’s body shuddered with fresh agony. He thrashed like a man in the electric chair, muscles contorting so violently that one knife-pierced hand pulled free from the plaster.
The blade still jutted from the back of his hand. Perry grabbed both Bill’s blood-slick wrist and the knife handle, then slammed the blade back into the wall. This time he felt a distinct and sudden resistance as the blade dug deep into a wall stud.
Old Billy Boy wasn’t going to pull that one free anytime soon, no siree, bub, not anytime soon.
Bill fought down the pain, his mind freaked beyond the point of clear thought. Somehow he found the inner power to stop screaming, stop struggling, despite this seemingly endless torture from a man whom only minutes before he’d known as his dearest friend.
Perry leaned in, so close that Bill felt the heat from his breath. Perry held his fingers less than a half inch from Bill’s nose, thumb and forefinger ready to grab again at a moment’s notice, ready to inflict more of that brain-shearing agony.
“Like I said, boy, stop your crying or I’ll kill you right fucking now.”
Bill stared up through tears that refused to be blinked away. The friend-turned-psycho leaned over him, perched on one leg. Bill’s fresh blood had smeared all over Perry’s shirt, wetting the brown-black stains.
The sock filled his mouth with a sickly dry-cotton feel. It tasted much as Bill imagined a dirty old sock should: moldy and suffocating. Warm blood continued to pour from his nose, down his face and onto his chest. Blood from his punctured hands rolled down his arms to collect in wet pools at his armpits, soaking outward in an expanding tacky-hot pit stain.
