Scott Sigler: Infected

Back in college his body had been hard, chiseled, six-foot-five, 240 pounds of muscle befitting his All-Big Ten linebacker status. In the seven years following the knee injury that ended his career, however, his body changed, gradually adding fat while depleting unused muscle. He wasn’t overweight by anyone else’s standards, and his body still drew plenty of looks from women, but Perry could see the difference.

He shaved, slapped some mousse in his hair and brushed his teeth to complete his repetitive morning preparation. Perry dashed out of the bathroom into the cold apartment. He dressed quickly in jeans, an old AC/DC concert T-shirt and a warm San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt. Finally protected against the cold, he headed to the kitchen nook (he could never think of it as a “kitchen,” he’d been in houses with a “kitchen,” this six-by-eight-foot alcove stuffed with a stove, cabinets and a fridge was and would always qualify as nothing more than a “nook”).

He reached for the cupboard containing the Pop-Tarts, then arched his back in sudden surprise as another itch, this one burning and almost painful, erupted on his spine just below the shoulder blades. Perry reached a hand up over his shoulder and under his shirts to dig at the spot.

He scratched the itch into submission, wondering if he had contracted a rash or possibly suffered from dry skin caused by the arid winter air. Perry pulled down the box of Pop-Tarts and pulled out one of the two-tart silver foil packets. The stove’s digital clock read 8:36. Cramming a cherry Pop-Tart into his mouth, Perry walked the two steps to his computer desk and started stuffing papers into his beat-up, duct-tape-patched briefcase. He’d meant to get some work done over the weekend, but the Chiefs and Raiders had played on Saturday, and then he’d spent all day Sunday watching the games and SportsCenter. He finished up Sunday night with a trip to the bar to watch the Lions get their asses kicked, as usual. He snapped the case shut, threw on his coat, grabbed his keys and headed out of the apartment.

Three flights of stairs later, he exited the building and entered the knife-slash cold sting of December in Michigan. It felt like a thousand tiny pinpricks on his face and hands. His breath billowed wispy-white.

Jamming the second Pop-Tart into his mouth, he walked toward his twelve-year-old, rust-shot Ford, praying to the Great Gods of Piece-of-Shit Cars that the old girl would start.

He slid behind the wheel (he never bothered to lock the car, who the hell would want the thing?) and closed the door. The frost-covered windows filtered the morning sun in icy-white opaqueness.

“Come on, sister,” Perry mumbled, his breath curling up and around his head. He gave a small grunt of victory as the old car coughed to life on the first try. Perry grabbed the ice scraper and stepped out of the car, only to have yet another itch stab at his right ass cheek like a sandpaper needle. He reflexively grabbed at it, which made him lose his balance and landed him butt-first on the parking lot. Digging his fingers through the jeans and roughly scratching the spot, Perry felt the seat of his pants dampen with melting snow.

“Yep,” Perry said as he stood and brushed himself off. “It’s definitely a Monday.”

The shells grew in size and durability. Still too small to see with the naked eye, it wouldn’t be long before they could not be missed. The same tiny, cell-like devices that built the shells used the available material to start making what went under the shells-a framework that would comprise a new organism, a larger organism.

A growing organism.

The seedlings built their third and final free-moving microstructure. Where there had been “readers” to gather the DNA blueprints, and “builders” to make the shell and the framework, now came the “herders.”

The herders washed out into the host’s body, seeking very specific kinds of cells-stem cells. The DNA blueprints showed that these were what the seedlings needed. The herders found these stem cells, then cut them free and dragged them back to the growing framework. First the herders cemented the stem cells to the framework with simple chemical bonds, then the reader-balls moved in.

The saw-toothed jaws sliced into the stem cell, but gently this time. Microfilaments bare nanometers across slid into the stem cell DNA. Slid in, and started making changes.

Because the “readers” weren’t there just to read…

They were also there to write.

The stem cells were not conscious. They had no idea they had just been enslaved. They did what they always do: grow new cells. The new cells they produced were only slightly different from those they had been originally designed to build. Those new cells spread out through the growing framework, adding muscle and other, more specialized tissues.

What arrived as a microscopic seed had hijacked the host’s body and used the built-in biological processes to create something foreign, in a way far more insidious than even a virus.

And while the seedlings had no concept of time, their mission would be complete in just a few short days.

Perry walked into American Computer Solutions (ACS to those in the industry) at seven minutes to nine. He jogged through the building, catching and throwing hellos as he headed for his cubicle. Sliding into his chair, he tossed his briefcase on the gray desktop and started his computer. It chimed, seemingly in happiness at escaping the purgatory of “off,” and started through its RAM checks and warm-up cycles. Perry glanced at the wall clock, which was placed high enough that all could see it from their cubicles. It read 8:55. He’d already be working away when the clock struck 9:00.

“Thought I was going to get you today,” said a woman’s voice behind his back. He didn’t bother to turn around as he opened the briefcase and pulled out the unorganized wad of paper.

“Close but no cigar, boss,” Perry said, smiling a little at the daily joke.

“Maybe next time.”

“Samir Cansil from Pullman called,” the woman said. “They’re having network trouble again. Call them first thing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Perry said.

Sandy Rodriguez left Perry to his work. Most of ACS’s customer-support staff arrived a few minutes late, but Perry was always on time. Sandy rarely addressed the staff ’s tardiness problem. Everyone knew she didn’t really care if people were a little late, as long as they didn’t abuse that privilege and got their work done. She didn’t care, and yet Perry was always on time.

She’d given him a chance when he had no job, no references and an assault conviction on his record. No, not just an assault-an assault conviction on his former boss. After that incident he was sure nobody would ever hire him for white-collar work again. But his college roomie Bill Miller had put in a good word at ACS, and Sandy had given Perry a shot.

When she hired him, he swore to himself that he’d never let her down in any way. That included being early every day. As his father used to say, there’s no substitute for hard work. He pushed the sudden and unwelcome thought of his father from his mind-he didn’t want to start the day in a bad mood.

A full twenty-five minutes later, Perry heard the distinctive sounds of Bill Miller sliding into the adjoining cubicle. Bill was late as usual, and, also as usual, he didn’t give a damn.

“Morning, sissy-girl,” Bill said, his ever-present monotone drifting over the five-foot cubicle walls. “Didums sleep well?”

“You know, Bill, I’m a little bit past the ‘I drank more than you’ stage. I’d like to think you’ll grow up one of these days.”