Infected: Lesser Evils (11 page)

He scoffed. “No, I think you need a coroner.” Proving that perhaps there was some justice in this world, Luke’s beeper went off, and he said, “Shit, the crazies have come early today.” He left, the door closing behind him, and Roan said to nothing, “I’m a singular, not plural.”

Of course Luke hadn’t been referring to him, but he might as well have been.

Holden was a white lump among white sheets, his right hand and wrist in a fresh cast, surgical staples, angular and blackish, were visible on his collarbone where it peeked out from beneath the sheets (just to the right of a very blatant Taser burn), and more were in a loose crescent on the side of his head, where a divot had been shaved into it. His left eye was swollen shut and so deeply purple it was almost black, he had three staples in his chin, and his lip was still torn, but it would have to heal on its own. His bottom lip was swollen to almost three times its normal size, and extensive bruising and bleeding beneath the skin made his face and neck a shade of purplish burgundy. He was hooked up to two different IVs, and a machine was monitoring his life signs. Roan could smell the drugs coming from him—they had given him some nice painkillers—so he figured he’d be out for a while.

And Luke was right about him not being able to hustle for a while, because right now he was unrecognizable. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’ve always been one of those odd hot guys,” Roan said, as he pulled a hard plastic chair up to his bedside. “You know, not an immediate knockout like Dylan, but sort of… strangely appealing, although no one can quite say why. That almost sounds like an insult, doesn’t it? But I must be the same way. I’ve been told I’m ‘striking’, which I always interpreted as ‘ugly in an interesting way’.” He sat down with a sigh and rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. “I got them. The guys who did this are probably in hospitals right now. But I think I’m done. I don’t think I can be around Humans anymore. I think I need to be locked up, for everyone else’s safety. Mainly because I liked it. I took these men apart, and it could have been worse. When I’m angry, I feel like I could punch right through someone’s chest. That has to be an overstatement, a lie… but I wonder. Snapping bones is no problem. Why couldn’t I punch through a sternum, through a chest wall? I can break someone’s skull with one punch.” It struck him as perversely funny in a truly awful way, so he giggled as he admitted, “I’m a supervillain. Or maybe I’m just an insanely violent hero. Maybe I just need the rest of The Authority to show up and save me from myself. And see there I was comparing myself to Midnighter, a reference perhaps only three people in this entire hospital will get. Dylan’s right—I’m such a nerd.” He felt unbalanced in his own head, like his brain had come loose and was about to slide out his ears. How nice would it be to totally disconnect from his body, just leave it behind like a husk.

He might have blacked out for a moment, because Roan had a sense that time had passed around him and left him behind. He sat up, slumping against the unforgiving plastic, and realized his throat still hurt. You’d think all of the pills he took would have calmed it, but apparently not. “You know what? You could take my place. Fi is pretty much a detective now, so she could show you the ropes, and you guys could take over my agency while I am locked up in a zoo where I belong. Just check in on Dyl from time to time, make sure he’s okay, and ignore any bad vibes you get from him. He doesn’t seem to like you and I’m not sure why, although he’s so good at being Buddhist you probably don’t even realize it.” He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they had been replaced with heated marbles. “I wish there was an old monster’s home where I could go. I need to retire.”

The door opened, and he expected Luke, but much to his surprise it was Dylan, looking rumpled and slightly sleepless, wearing Roan’s bomber jacket. “Jesus, Roan, where have you been? Would you please turn your fucking cell on, I’ve been worried sick.”

Oh, his phone—he’d forgotten he’d turned it off before he embarked on his magical misery tour. He reached into his coat pocket, found it, and turned it on. It hummed in his hand, and when the screen lit up, he saw he had several messages waiting for him. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Dylan had looked pissed, but as he came over toward him, he grimaced painfully, and his anger morphed into pity. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I feel that way too.”

“Let’s get you home, okay? I’ll yell at you later, when you’re more conscious.”

Roan was going to protest, but he had no idea why, so he nodded and meekly got up, swaying slightly on his feet. Dylan reached out and steadied him, and kept holding onto his shoulder. “What about my bike?”

“I know some guys, I’ll get them to pick it up.”

“Good. I love my bike.”

“I know you do. Sure I can’t check you into the hospital while we’re here?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I’m sure you’re not, but I just wanna get home.”

He had only the vaguest memories of getting out to Dylan’s car, and almost no memory of being in it, except he was pretty sure that he admitted to Dyl he was a monster. Dylan of course told him he wasn’t, but Roan wasn’t sure he told him in the car in retrospect, because he remembered Dylan holding him and telling him he wasn’t, that he couldn’t be. He couldn’t recall the reason why he wasn’t.

He woke up feeling not so much hungover as feverish, and not well rested. But he must have slept a while, as it was dark outside, and once again he had a feeling of time having passed around him. You’d think he would have dreamed, but the drugs had weighed him down so much he hadn’t, or at least he had no memory of it.

He was still so tired he didn’t want to take a shower, so he took a bath, and once in the water he didn’t want to get out. Dylan must have known this, because he perfunctorily knocked on the door before coming in, holding a plate of food and a brown bottle. He’d hoped it was a microbrew, and it was, but a microbrew ginger ale. “I thought you were going to sleep until tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.” The smell hit his nose, and his nausea slid into hunger. Dylan had made his famous huevos rancheros, which Roan couldn’t get enough of in spite of the fact there was tofu in it. “Oh, you bastard. The secret weapon.”

“You have to eat, and I know you’ll eat this.”

“In the bathtub?”

“I’m attempting to lure you out. You’ve been in here almost two hours.”

“Have I?” Weird. He could have sworn he just got in.

Dylan put the food on the dresser in the bedroom, then came back with a towel. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you seem ill. You even look flushed.”

“I’m in a tub full of hot water.”

“It was hot maybe an hour ago. I bet it isn’t now.”

He was right, but he wasn’t going to give Dyl the satisfaction of that.

“How many pills did you take?”

“Today? None.” Well, was it still whatever day it was this morning? Oh fuck, he had no idea. He really should have looked at the clock.

“Yesterday.”

“I don’t know.”

The look Dylan gave him was harsh and unrelenting. “You know, I put up with the pill popping because I can’t imagine the pain you’re in, but I’m not going to stand by while you put yourself in a coma.”

“I can’t put myself in a coma. I could take eight bottles of pills and nothing would happen.”

“Don’t even think that.”

“I’m not Human, Dylan. The amount of drugs needed to put me down permanently are off the charts.”

“Stop it. Stop this shit now. You are Human, and I’m tired of hearing you say that about yourself.”

“No Human can do what I have done,” he said, levering himself out of the tub.

Dylan looked uncertain for a moment, then approached him with the towel. “You went after the guys that hurt Holden, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think you want to know what happened.”

Dylan enfolded him in the towel, and Roan was content to let him. “No, I don’t.”

He then turned away, heading out into the bedroom. Roan followed, the towel wrapped around him, keeping him dryer if not exactly warmer, and Roan sat on the bed while Dylan retrieved the food and brought it to him. He took it with a grateful nod, then admitted, “I’m an animal. I can’t be around people anymore.”

“No. You just proved you’re Human,” he said, sitting down beside him.

That almost made him scoff as he shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, but he was too tired. “What I did was—”

“Human. I didn’t even recognize Holden in that hospital bed. Beaten to a pulp doesn’t begin to describe it. Animals have no desire for vengeance. It’s a Human passion, a Human failing. Animals don’t get embarrassed, don’t laugh, and they don’t seek revenge.” He opened the bottle of ginger ale and held it out to Roan, although he wasn’t looking at him.

Roan took it and downed half the bottle in two swallows. After a moment, he said, “Wow. Couldn’t you do me one little favor and stop being smarter than me?”

Dylan patted his thigh in a comforting manner. “That’s wisdom I learned the hard way. Remember what chased me into Buddhism in the first place?”

Oh yes—his all-consuming desire to kill the man who had killed his boyfriend Jason. Dyl had even bought a gun, and planned how he was going to sneak it into the courthouse. “You fought the urge.”

“Yes, by turning it inward and trying to kill myself. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

After a moment’s pause, he asked, “How fucked up are we?”

Dylan snickered, but it had a humorless quality about it. “Life is fucked up, honey. We’re simply reacting to it.”

Roan leaned against his shoulder, and Dylan leaned back, so they were resting their heads together. “This all proves that I should worship you. You are so out of my league.”

“Stop that. I am a lowly bartender. I am out of no one’s league.”

He chewed another forkful of fluffy eggs smothered with homemade salsa, and wondered if it was the food or Dylan that made him feel a bit better. Maybe both. Oh sure, he was still a monster, but a Human monster seemed somehow more manageable. A glance at the bedside clock informed him it was after midnight. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be at work?”

Dylan shrugged, and slipped an arm around his shoulder. “I slept so poorly last night, I figured, fuck it. I got Mandy to cover my shift for me; I’m going to cover her shift Sunday. It’s weird, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Panic. Despite the sleaze and the occasional grope, it seemed like a nicer place.”

“Better tips?”

“A bit, not much. It just seemed… I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It was like there was a tacit agreement the world outside the doors was really fucked up, so let’s party. In Silver, it’s a tacit agreement that the world would be better if everyone just knew their place and stuck to it.”

“You could always go back. I’m sure Panic would welcome you. Everybody loves your pecs.”

He gave Roan a smirk that was almost a grimace. “There’re so many bad memories there for me, though. Eric was murdered, and some white supremacist freak tried to kill you there as well.”

“Yeah, but he picked the night I was with a hockey team. That’s the definition of bad timing.”

“The fact that he was a monumental idiot doesn’t negate the fact that he tried to kill you. Oh, that reminds me, you ought to check your messages. Some of them are really interesting.”

“Oh. How much shit am I in?”

“You personally? Not much. As an infected? Hon, it’s looking grim.”

“Shit.” He enjoyed another bite, this time with one of those tortillas that melted in your mouth (where Dylan got them he had no idea, but they were the best he’d ever had), and then picked up the phone and went through his messages. A couple were from an increasingly weary-sounding Seb, who just said to call him if he could, until the fifth message, when he said, “Cat freak-outs in Kapowsin, Olympia, Aberdeen, Forks, and supposedly we have one loose near Snoqualmie Falls. The death toll, not counting the cats, is currently seven, with twelve injured. This is just a shitstorm, Ro, and we’ve had reports that maybe something similar happened down in Portland. We’re gonna leak to the news media the possibility that tainted batches of burn are to blame, but we don’t know that for certain, none of the tox screens are back, and we have it on good authority that there may be an attack planned on Divine Transformation by enraged citizenry. Probably mouth-breathing Glenn Beck fans, which gives me enough reason to shoot them. Anyways, get ready, we may need to call you in at any time, and… we may need to put you into protective custody if this gets worse. And I think it’s only gonna get worse from here.”

Roan sighed wearily. Oh god, where were his pills? “It’s an epidemic.”

Dylan nodded. “There was an ugly protest outside the Church tonight that turned violent. Bricks were hurled through windows, someone tried to use a Molotov cocktail but set themselves on fire—”

“Awesome. Please tell me that’s on YouTube.” 

         Dylan scowled at that and continued. “—a car was overturned, a couple people were bitten by pit bulls someone brought to the festivities, and what I heard on the news was twenty arrests and a multitude of casualties, mostly self- or crowd inflicted. There have been a couple of charges of police brutality, but I don’t know, they really seemed to be on the protesters’ side.”

“Wow, the idiots versus the morons. Who do you root for?” The last message, the most recent, was from Rosenberg, and had been left only forty minutes ago. “Kiddo, we got a problem,” she said, in her smoker’s rasp. “Your cop friend, the one who’s gonna be played by Denzel in the movie of your life, got me some samples of the drug. An older sample is just amphetamines basically, nothing special, but the newer sample… fuck me sideways, it has a chemical analog of the hormone lepidysine, which is released by the virus during the transformational cycle. The drug is making them change ahead of cycle, I can confirm that, and there’s a mild hallucinogenic that’s probably driving them crazy in cat form. But here’s the thing: this is fucking impossible. When we’ve tried to synthesize the hormone for testing purposes, it generally fails, to the point where we just use some extracted from infecteds in cycle.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette, but she didn’t sound any better. In fact, she sounded a bit pissed off. “So there’s some fucker out there who figured out how to synthesize this shit, in such a way that it triggers the virus. And it doesn’t do anything to regular humans, oh no, it’s just a drug to them, there’s nothing for the lepidysine to trigger. I’m having my interns at the university analyze this fucker down to its knee socks, I wanna know how he does it and where it came from. Oh, and one more thing: it’s a weapon. Whoever designed this—and this wasn’t happenstance, no putz is going to blindly bumble into this complicated a chemical formula—engineered it specifically to kill the infected. Hallelujah and pass the bullets, we have our first new designer chemical weapon of the twenty-first century. When you said it smelled like a chemical weapons factory, you were bang on target. When you call back, give me next week’s lottery numbers, okay, Kreskin?” And with that, she hung up.