Ed snorted. “Yeah. I guess the schools aren’t evil, just everything else about our culture. Funny how that works out so well for them.”
“I would love to find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d responsible for all this,” Brian said. “You think the feds know what they’re doing?”
Ed shrugged. “I dunno. Something fishy is going on, that’s for sure. They show up exactly when this s.h.i.t goes down. Not before. We get no warning, just a body count.”
The radio squawked: “Car seventeen, come back.”
Brian grabbed the handset and thumbed the “talk” b.u.t.ton. “Car seventeen here, go ahead.”
“How far are you from the Windywood apartment complex?”
“We’re heading east on Washtenaw at Baldwin,” Brian answered. “Only a couple of minutes away from Windywood. What’s up?”
“Disturbing the peace. Complaint is from an Al Turner who lives in apartment B-303. Says the guy below him is screaming and has been for days. The screamer is listed as Perry Dawsey, apartment B-203.
Brian turned to look at Ed, a quizzical look on his face. “Perry Dawsey. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“I wonder if that’s the same kid that played linebacker for U of M a few years ago.”
Brian again thumbed the “talk” b.u.t.ton. “Roger, Dispatch, we’ll check it out.”
“Be advised,” the dispatcher said. “Complainant says Dawsey is very large and potentially dangerous.”
“Roger that. Car seventeen out.” Brian hung up the handset.
Ed frowned. “Very large and potentially dangerous? That sure sounds like the Perry Dawsey I saw play.”
Brian squinted against the bright winter sun. He remembered watching U of M’s “Scary” Perry Dawsey. “Very large and dangerous” certainly fit the bill. It was just a disturbing-the-peace, but he didn’t like the sound of this call, not one bit.
PLAY THROUGH THE PAIN
In through the nose, out through the mouth. One last, deep breath. Focus.
Play through the pain.
Perry reached up with his right hand and sank his fingers deep into
the wound. He didn’t bother trying to control his screams of pain, he just hooked the fingers and scooped. Fingernails sc.r.a.ping hard against his open flesh, he yanked the Triangle’s squishy black corpse out of his body. The tail offered only minute resistance before it broke off, weakened by rot that had turned the body into little more than paste. Perry tossed the handful of gore into the sink, where it landed in the trails of puke and steaming water.
He scooped twice more, screaming anew each time, grabbing everything he could out of the wound. Blood again poured down his chest, running down his crotch, down his inner thighs to form small puddles on the floor.
Pain filled his mind, rusty barbed wire wrapped tightly around his soft brain, but he knew he had to stop the bleeding. Stop it fast. He stared at the wound — it was now a fist-size hole, and quite a bit beyond the abilities of simple Band-Aids.
He scooped up the b.l.o.o.d.y washcloth from the floor and hopped into the kitchen. He pressed the cloth to the wound, jamming it painfully into the hole, trying to stem the flow of blood. The duct tape was in the junk drawer, silver and big and ever so sticky. He had to let go of the wound so he could use both hands to tear off big strips of tape, which he stuck to the edge of the counter.
He again crammed the washcloth deep into the gaping, bleeding wound. He lashed a piece of tape on top of the cloth, then stuck it firmly to his back and chest. Repeating the process five more times, he had a duct-tape starburst with arms spreading out from the wound, over his shoulder, over his chest, down his chest and under his arm. Wasn’t exactly the Mayo Clinic, but, as Daddy used to say, good enough for who it’s for.
Bill’s friends would be here any minute.
It was time to go.
He used a handful of paper towels to wipe the blood off his body as
he hopped for the bedroom. He jammed clothes into the backpack. Two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, a sweatshirt and all the clean underwear and socks he could find.
With one leg rendered nearly useless and his left shoulder screaming with pain every time he moved, he pulled on his jeans. Each second was an eternity of anxiety; he expected the door to crash inward, smashed open by one of those heavy door rammers you see on Cops when the police break into yet another slime pit of a house. The door rammer (on which some clever soul would stencil the witty words knock-knock) would be followed by goons in biowarfare suits, every inch of their bodies covered so they wouldn’t come into contact with the Triangles. They’d be toting big-a.s.s guns, and they’d have itchy trigger fingers.
He threw on a black Oakland Raiders sweatshirt and struggled with socks and hiking boots, his ravaged leg making even this simple task difficult.
Perry wanted a weapon, anything he could get his hands on, something to let him go down fighting, go down like a Dawsey. In the kitchen, he tossed the whole knife rack, Chicken Scissors and all, into his backpack. He grabbed his keys and coat. He didn’t even give a second glance at Bill, who still stared blankly at the carpet.
Bill, rudely enough, didn’t bother to get up and see him out. Perry left the apartment, his eyes scanning up and down the hall, looking for Soldiers. He saw no one. He realized he’d left the map inside, but he didn’t need it — if he made it out of Ann Arbor alive, he knew exactly where he was going. He started to move down the hall, which was still b.l.o.o.d.y from his battle with Bill, when the Triangles spoke again.