Infected: Lesser Evils Read online

  The lion in the library roared a challenge and came charging after Roan, its huge mane shot through with peroxide white; a male, big, young, but given to bad hair. Roan roared back and met it halfway. They lunged and collided in midair, crashing down and through a long table as the lion sunk its teeth into Roan’s shoulder and its claws into his back, as Roan sunk his teeth into its neck and slammed a palm hard into its rib cage.

  He felt the cat tearing muscles with its teeth as its ribs shattered beneath his hand, and it squalled in pain as he ripped through its throat, taking out a chunk of flesh that Roan spit out, with its sour blood. He wanted the blood, but this was poisoned, tainted, sour as paint thinner. He was vaguely aware of wooden splinters digging into his back and side, but it was little more than background noise. As soon as the lion twisted its head away, teeth out of his flesh, Roan threw it across the room. The lion hit a bookcase spine first, hard enough to send books avalanching down to the carpet.

  It landed on its feet, of course, but shook itself as if it could shake away the pain. Now it had not only minor bullet wounds in its flank and side and broken ribs, but a huge chunk of flesh out of its neck, where it was now losing blood in copious amounts. But that didn’t mean it was done.

  Roan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder; the lion had done some damage, but the fresh new pain made him angry, and the beast threatened to overwhelm him as he roared, his hands balling into fists full of broken bones that felt like they were twitching. The lion roared back and charged, and Roan caught it, its momentum making him fall backward into the aisle.

  The beast was overwhelming him, trying to make him go to all fours, make him go to claws, but he grabbed the lion’s wound, sinking fingers into warm flesh, and tore, pulling away sinew like ribbons. It screamed, fetid breath washing over him as it squirmed, and suddenly there was a responding roar, and a dark brown blur pounced on them, joining the fight. A female lion this time, not as big, but just as angry and deadly. She sunk her teeth into Roan’s arm and dug her claws into his legs, groin, and chest. He reflexively sank his teeth into her soft pad of a nose, and as her bite loosened he flung his arm out and sent her flying. She hit a shelf so hard it collapsed, and he heard the splinter of wood as she punched through the bookcase like a missile.

  The male had recovered and launched itself at Roan, but at half strength now. It was still enraged, but had lost too much blood to do much about it. Roan was up on all fours when it charged in, and he had enough humanity left in him to throw an ad hoc uppercut that sent the lion stumbling back before it fell down. He didn’t think it would be getting up again.

  The lioness had recovered, and this time she was joined, with a roar, by a leopard so dark he almost thought it was a panther. He was on his feet and kicked the lioness away, slamming her hard into another shelf, books raining down like dust, but the leopard latched onto his leg, teeth sinking into his calf muscle.

  Roan roared in rage and pain, and acted without thought, without a shred of humanity, which might have been why Roan was so surprised, almost shocked back to his human self entirely when he saw he’d put his fist through the cat’s head.

  Through its head. Like it was made of papier-mâché and not the blood and brain matter currently dripping from his fist, still embedded in the leopard’s shattered skull.

  The lion in him felt triumphant, but Roan felt a little sick.

  The lioness jumped back at him with a roar, and he ducked the initial jump, shaking the dead cat off the end of his arm, and when it came in again Roan caught the female cat by her throat and simply threw her as far as he could. Like he imagined, that was pretty far. She impacted a back shelf, so hard the towering bookcase rocked before finally coming down, and then the big cases began to fall like dominoes. He hoped they would all fall down and he would be crushed, but it didn’t happen, as the cases stopped toppling as soon as they hit a retaining wall.

  Roan heard the thud of boots on tiled floor, and suddenly the room was full of uninjured cat squad members pointing guns and supercharged Tasers like they expected an attack from all sides. Roan turned away, so they couldn’t see his bloody face or torn clothes. “Dude, it sounded like the world was ending in here,” Seb explained. “You okay?”

  He just nodded, trying to force his humanity back into the driver’s seat. The problem was the viciousness of what he’d done to the leopard had made it come to the forefront anyways, and now the pain was hitting him square on, without any of the gradual peaking he was used to. Roan felt like he had a broken hand, a broken jaw, torn muscles in his shoulder, in his leg, and it felt basically like he had been stabbed in the balls, all of which was more or less true. He held the keening noise to the back of his throat, and he felt like collapsing, but remained on his feet. He closed his eyes and concentrated on swallowing the pain, holding it back, just until he could get to his car.

  With a pained, watery growl, the lioness crawled out from beneath the pile of books and broken wood, and a member of the cat squad opened fire, getting a head shot with the second bullet. She went down in a heap, and there was no doubt she wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Roan felt he had it, the fragile equilibrium that would allow him to keep from screaming, and was aware that someone was staring at him. He opened his eyes and turned to see a member of the cat squad with his face shield up, a real square-jawed Captain America type, who asked, “How the hell are you not dead yet?”

  “I’m a monster,” he said, his voice so gravelly and raw it might as well have been a growl. Roan stared at him because it even hurt to move his damn eyes, and he watched the guy blanch, all blood draining from his face as he realized that Roan was serious. Sometimes fear smelled like metal.

  He left then, making himself move and keep moving, inertia helping him keep from collapsing. Seb called after him, but Roan ignored him. He couldn’t deal with anything right now; he was pure tunnel vision. Get to the car.

  On his way out, walking across the quad, one of the cops held out his jacket for him, which he took with broken fingers, pain so hot firing up his arm that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see flames.

  Once inside his car, Roan slammed the glove box open, grabbed the first pill bottle he saw, and gulped down maybe half its contents, catching one pill in his teeth and crushing it, letting it turn his tongue numb. Of course it tasted horrible, bitter and acrid, but it was almost better than the taste of blood. Almost.

  Roan sat back in his seat, trying not to move a centimeter more, waiting for the pills to take over, tears of pain dripping down his face. Or at least he thought they were tears of pain.

  He couldn’t do this anymore; he wasn’t any good to man or beast. But what was he supposed to do? Where did all the freaks go when they’d outlived their usefulness?

  Maybe that was for him to find out.

  14

  In Our Talons

  ROAN had to wait until the drugs kicked in before he could move, and while the numbing of the pain was bliss, he realized once he started the car that he’d honestly taken too many pills. He felt like he was soft and fuzzy inside, made of foam filling. He still hurt, he was aware of bright and radiant pain in his joints and other spots throughout his body, but he didn’t care. Sometimes that’s how they worked—they didn’t take away the pain so much as they made you stop caring about it.

  He managed to get home, he was hyperaware of his driving, but he was also aware of how spacey and out of sorts he felt. Next time, no driving for him.

  Roan thought this especially true when he drove up and saw some guys playing baseball in the street in front of his house. Except there were only three playing (one pitching, one hitting, one retrieving the ball), with one guy sitting on the hood of a silver Chevy Malibu, watching them. Only when he drove up to them did he realize he was looking at Grey, Tank, Scott, and Jeff. They cleared out of the way so he could park in his driveway, and Grey came to his door as he killed the engine. “Tank told us what happened at the hosp—holy shit, what happened
to you?”

  Could he take them now? Roan wasn’t sure. He was never sure he was up to the full strength weirdness of the Falcons. “Had to take on three cats up at Templeton College.”

  “Three cats? Not at once, right?”

  “Yes.” He opened the door—or did he? Grey was holding it, so maybe he opened the door.

  “Cats?” Scott repeated, coming over and joining them. He was holding an aluminum bat. “Not big cats, transformed cats?”

  “What, you think he was wrangling house cats?” Grey replied.

  “Shit.” He shoved the bat in Tank’s hands and came over to the car, helping him stand up. Grey was suddenly on the other side of Roan, supporting him. He wanted to protest, say he wasn’t an invalid, but actually it was kind of nice to have pressure off his leg. Scott was fumbling in his pocket, and came up with his keys, which he tossed to Jeff. (Who caught them, even though he wasn’t expecting them.) “Open the door.” An order, but Jeff, intense, authority-baiting New Yorker that he was, obeyed instantly.

  “We should probably call an ambulance,” Grey said.

  “No, no doctors, I don’t need one.”

  “You’re bleeding from several different places,” Grey noted.

  “This from a guy who’s been stitched up with a sewing needle and sent back out to play a game thirty seconds later.”

  “It wasn’t a sewing needle,” he protested. “And usually I get to sit for forty-five seconds before going back out.”

  Once inside the house, Scott and Grey carefully helped him to the couch, and Jeff put his keys on the coffee table, adding, “Man, you are super hard core.” Presumably that was a compliment.

  Scott sat beside him on the sofa and stared intently into his face. “You’re wasted, aren’t you?”

  “Couldn’t move without the drugs. Why were all of you playing ball in front of my house?”

  “We got bored waiting. We brought the bat, and we had one of Tank’s balls in the car, so we figured we could shag a few flies waiting for someone to show up. Are we done changing the subject?”

  “Why’d you bring a bat? And Tank has a ball collection?”

  “A bat in case we weren’t ugly enough to stop some fuckers from starting shit,” Jeff said. “They may have had guns, so we needed somethin’.”

  “And the balls are part of my routine,” Tank said. He was currently looking in Roan’s refrigerator. “Goalie coach taught me it. I stand on a yoga ball and the guys chuck things at me, and I see if I can catch them without falling off. It helps with balance and flexibility.”

  “Also, he’s fuckin’ nuts,” Jeff added, articulating exactly what Roan was thinking.

  Roan rubbed his eyes, and Scott very gently grabbed his hand and moved it away from his face. “Where’s Dylan? Is he supposed to be home by now?”

  “No, today’s his day at the temple.”

  “He’s Jewish?” Jeff asked, sounding surprised.

  “Buddhist.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I dunno. Probably soon.” Why was he asking? Did he think something had happened to Dylan, or could happen to him?

  “Okay, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re going to go upstairs and clean up, wash the blood off. If you need help getting patched up, I have lots of experience with that. We’re gonna get some food in you and pump you full of caffeine, enough that you won’t totally freak Dylan out when he comes home. Sounds good to you?” He made that sound like a question, but Roan knew it wasn’t. “Go on, get moving, you’re on the clock. If you’re not down in twenty minutes, I’m coming to get you.”

  It was an order; a kind order, but there was no mistaking the steel in his voice. “I see why you’re the team captain.”

  “Bossy bitch, ain’t he?” Grey said, grinning at him. Scott simply raised an eyebrow at that, clearly used to getting some lip from his roommate, but not concerned about it.

  It was actually kind of nice leaving the decisions to someone else. It was kind of hard to think right now anyways. Roan managed to stagger upstairs and stripped off his clothes, which were bloody and shredded anyways, and turned on the shower, but he was too tired to stand, so he simply sat in the tub and let the water rain down on him, watching the water turn from red to pink to clear. He attempted a partial change to close up the remaining wounds, but it was hard—not only were the drugs a soft prison, but he felt exhausted, like working up the energy to do anything was out of his reach. He eked out enough of a partial change to close up some cuts and heal some muscles, but it left his head pounding, like there was some evil being inside his skull trying to bash its way out with a hammer.

  The water eventually turned cold, but Roan still sat there, kind of hoping he’d be washed down the drain. When he first heard the knocking, he thought it was inside his head, but then he heard Scott say, “Assuming you haven’t drowned, you coming out?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “’Cause I do, and I ain’t gonna put up with any self-pitying bullshit, so are you getting out or am I dragging you out?”

  “You are a bossy bitch.” He levered himself up and shut off the shower, and stepped out to find Scott standing there with a towel.

  “You would be too if you had to ride herd on a bunch of guys who often act like third graders.” He gave him the towel, and to his credit, Scott made no move that would be thought of as salacious. He was in full business—read team—mode. He turned away, leaving the bathroom, and said, “Pizza’s downstairs. You need to shave, or you figure you’ll just tell Dylan what happened?”

  Need to shave? He glanced in the mirror, and yes, he had about three day’s growth of beard on his face. At least that told him how much he had transformed. “I’ll hafta tell him anyways.”

  “Honesty in a relationship, always good. Not that I know much about that.”

  Roan carefully got dressed, pulling on jeans and a random T-shirt, and went downstairs to find Tank playing host, putting pizza slices on plates as Jeff rummaged through the fridge, looking for drinks. “Who doesn’t have Red Bull?”

  “It’s dehydrating anyways,” Scott said. “Not that soda’s much better, but it’ll do.”

  Grey was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. Oh no, not the one he was in, was it? “If hockey doesn’t work out, Scott, you’ve gotta future as the next Martha Stewart.”

  Jeff snickered, and Scott responded with a hearty, “Fuck you.”

  Tank noticed him, and said, “We didn’t know what kinda pizza you liked, so we covered all the bases: cheese, pepperoni, and everything but anchovies.”

  “Great, I’m starving.” He was too, which might have been partly why he had no energy. Transformation just blew through the calories, which might have been why his jeans felt so loose.

  “What’cha want?”

  “One of each, please.” He flopped down on the couch beside Grey and slumped against the cushions, aware he shouldn’t feel so defeated, but unable to help it.

  “We saw what those fuckers did to your house,” Grey said as Tank brought Roan a plate with three large slices of pizza. “You get us a name, we’ll pay ’em a visit.”

  “Literally all of us,” Jeff said, handing him a can of Pepsi. “We’ll just pull up the team bus and pile out at three in the morning, half drunk and pissed off ’cause we’re on the damn bus again.”

  Roan couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image of that. “That would scare someone.”

  “A buncha disgruntled hockey players on your lawn? It better. Wait ’til we insist on using their bathroom.”

  Roan tore into a piece of pizza (the pepperoni one) with gusto, aware he could inhale the entire plate. But he made himself actually chew his food, and after a few bites, he did feel a little better. After taking a swig of soda, he explained that he had no idea who had done it, but if he ever found out, he’d keep them in mind.

  They sat around the room, eating pizza, and the guys talked about shit unrelated to all of this, possibly to
distract Roan, but it worked. Tank had apparently got in with this person who was putting together a calendar of nude local athletes that would support a cancer charity. It wasn’t full nudity, the “naughty bits” would be covered, but there was a surprising number of team members who really didn’t want to do this. Grey was down for it though, and was willing even to “show his junk.” Which led Jeff to say, “Nobody wants to see your junk. We’ve all seen enough of your junk.”

  “I haven’t,” Roan said. He was just pointing it out.

  Grey smiled at him. “You wanna? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He had a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if half serious.

  “Okay, this has just gotten too homoerotic for me,” Jeff exclaimed.

  “It could get more homoerotic,” Scott said, and to prove it, put his pizza aside, stood up, and took off his shirt. He then began to throw strong man poses, and said, “Tank, grease me up.”

  Tank rubbed pizza grease on his hands, and Roan laughed, which felt surprisingly good. Nearly everyone else did too, save for Scott, who was still throwing shapes that were now getting more Sears catalog circa 1960 ridiculous. “You guys are insane,” Roan told them, not without affection.

  “Yeah, well, we’ve all taken at least one blow to the head,” Jeff said. “Makes us all fun at parties.”

  “You should do the calendar with us,” Tank said through a mouthful of pizza. “We’ll say you’re an equipment manager or something.”

  “Ron Hextall,” Grey said, which made Tank laugh and choke on his beer. Again with the hockey joke he didn’t understand. He’d forgotten to Google him after the last time.

  “Which’ll be fine until the real one gets wind of it,” Scott pointed out.

  “Maybe he won’t,” Grey replied. “And even if he does, he might find it funny.”

  “He also might sue,” Scott said.

  “Fine, he’s Ron Hextall Junior.”

  “Who said I said yes to this?” Roan exclaimed, looking between Scott and Grey. Here was the weird thing: he felt a lot better. Still heavily drugged and achy, but for some reason he felt like there might be hope. For what, who knew, but a world where (mostly) straight jock boys as goofy and un-uptight as these guys could exist just couldn’t be that bad.