Infected: Lesser Evils Read online

  Scott smirked. “I am. But I know you’re joking. Depression is a chemical imbalance, not logical.”

  “Yeah, I know. So do you take antidepressants?”

  “Oh fuck no. The side effects fucked up my game. I’ve found other ways to cope. Sex is great.”

  “That it is.” He noticed Scott smiling at him, and asked, “That wasn’t a come on, was it?”

  Scott shrugged. “I’m gonna bag you one of these days. I always get what I want.”

  “That why you’re such an arrogant bastard?”

  That surprised a loud, genuine laugh out of him, and he slapped Roan on the back in a friendly way, but it was still hard enough to make him jolt. “Awesome. You’re like the coolest guy I’ve ever met, you know that? You’re like Tank, you’re fearless. And not in a bullshit, extreme sports kind of way, but in a genuine “who gives a fuck” kind of way. That’s rare.”

  “You just compared me to Tank?” Again, was that an insult or a compliment? Really it could have gone either way.

  “I know, he’s crazy, but he’s also a legend in the making. He has more natural talent than anyone I’ve ever played with; he’s gonna make it out. Most of us minor-league players will never graduate to the NHL, but I know he’s going, because he’s too good to stay. And when he gets in, he’ll be a superstar. Or as close to a superstar as a goalie ever gets. And that’s how you’re like him: you’re a legend in the making. I’m gonna tell my grandkids about knowing you, and knowing him. You have it harder, though. It’s never easy being a trailblazer, as you take all the shit that the people coming up behind you will never take, but know that to many people you are and will be a hero.”

  Roan scoffed. “Some hero.”

  “So you’re not always heroic? So what? No one can be. That isn’t the point. You’re an infected who refused to become a hermit just because society is scared of you and treats your kind like dangerous lepers. That’s a bravery few have, and you’re clearing a path for others to follow behind you. You’re not gonna be perfect, you’re gonna fuck up, but none of that negates the fact that you’re the first. So when you get down, try and remember that you have a smoking-hot guy who loves you, a ton of people who need and admire you, and a great-looking dude who’d be happy to fuck you stupid. That’s more than most people have.”

  He looked at him dubiously. “Let me guess. You’re the dude?”

  Scott kept smirking, but it was almost a smile. “See any other great-looking guys here?”

  He was partially joking, but Roan decided to think about it. “Well, Tank’s pretty cute, if you go for that type.”

  “Sir, you wound me,” he replied, almost laughing.

  Roan felt like he had a rebuttal for nearly everything Scott had said about him, but he had a feeling Scott would rebut his rebuttals. There was something about him that suggested you could give him nonsense, but he’d swat it right back at you without breaking a sweat. You couldn’t make an argument he couldn’t counter in one way or another. “You’re a good captain, aren’t you?”

  “I try. I treat all my guys the same, even those that I’d happily shove in front of a bus.”

  “Are there a lot of those?”

  “Let’s put it this way: those guys back there, I can imagine being friends with them still in five years,” he said, jerking his head back toward the table. “But they’re pretty much it.”

  “Even Zach?”

  “Ah, poor Zach,” he replied, as the bartender returned with a sweaty glass pitcher, jingling with ice. “I love that kid, but hockey’s gonna eat him alive.”

  Roan was pretty sure he knew what he meant. He seemed like a sweet kid, but that was the problem—sometimes sweetness hurt more than helped. In this world, you needed a little animal in you to see you through.

  Ah, so that’s what he had in common with Tank.

  He enjoyed some pineapple chicken and lemon lime tea with the guys, who talked about a lot of things, none of them important or involved with death. It turned out that Jeff had seen the movie Milk, and he felt the raised-fist thing was like a gay power salute. That made Roan laugh until he was almost crying, and the other guys did too. Even Jeff joined in when he stopped being annoyed. Roan couldn’t deny it—these guys often made him feel better, even when they didn’t mean to. And some of what Scott had said was still sticking with him, still rattling inside the empty cave that was his skull. He had made some very valid points.

  There was an evening skate, and they invited Roan to come by and get in a trash-talking contest with them (they were inviting heckling; was this a macho guy thing, or a macho team sports thing?) when his phone rang. It was Dropkick, so he excused himself and stepped outside to answer it.

  “Hey Dropkick. Got something for me?”

  “Yeah. It’s not solid, it’s tentative, but if it’s true, you’re fucked.”

  “How is that news?” With a sigh, he asked, “What is it?”

  “It seems the gun used to kill Hockney might be the same exact kind—if not the same exact one—used in a few drug murders throughout Washington, all connected to a Mexican gang that calls itself Demonios Sin Miedo, DSM for short.”

  “Demons Without Fear? Very dramatic.”

  “You get what this might mean, right?”

  “Hockney was white.”

  “The majority of the victims have been white and Asian; there are only two Hispanics on the victim list so far, and only one was nonresident. We’re not sure if they’re trying to move in on someone else’s territory or have been using people of other ethnic extractions as low-level stringers, but if the Feds know, they’re not sharing that information with us.”

  “Oh shit. The Feds are in on this?”

  “On the DSM case, big-time. If Hockney’s one of the vics, they’re gonna take the investigation.”

  “Fuck.” The Federal guys weren’t big on sharing with anyone. Unless it was blame, then they were more than happy to spread the wealth.

  But there were worse things. If Hockney was somehow connected to DSM, and the DSM was supplying the burn, it was the infected who were fucked most of all. There’d be no finding the source, not any time soon, and there’d be no containing it either. Tainted burn would start spreading out worldwide; it would go global. All infecteds stupid enough to take it would pay the price.

  And he’d be unable to do anything about it, except watch them all die.

  19

  Short Bursts

  ROAN knew he had to go home, but he put it off, mainly because his thoughts had turned very dark. No matter that his thoughts had been dark before; now they were deep black, abysmal.

  Was it over? Was this it? The tainted drugs would spread, infecteds would die, Normals would blame the infecteds for their freak-outs, and even more infecteds would die. It was an endless cycle—this was only the beginning. And he could do nothing, he could only stand on the sidelines and watch.

  He considered what Scott had told him about being first, about being a trailblazer, and wondered what a trailblazer would do at this moment. He was blazing a trail for the dead, for people who couldn’t possibly follow him. Not all infecteds would do the drugs, not all would be affected by the violence and laws passed in its wake, but even then, the landscape would be too changed for the trail to even matter. He was blazing a trail for a dead race, one that was dying every step he took. By the time he reached the end, there’d be nothing and no one left. He was the vanguard for an extinct species. Did it matter? Did anything matter anymore?

  There had to be another way around this, another way he could tackle this. He couldn’t let his despair cloud his vision. There had to be a way, there must be a way. He couldn’t see it right now, but it had to exist. If only he was smart enough to think of it.

  Roan went back to Kevin’s, assuming Dylan was up by now, wondering if talking to someone reasonable could help. (How could it hurt?) Dylan was awake and on the phone, talking to a friend it sounded like. He gestured for Roan to sit, that he would be just a mi
nute, so Roan sat on the end of the bed and listened idly to Dyl’s conversation. Sounded like he was talking to Sasha, one of his connected artsy-fartsy friends. When Dyl hung up, he said, “Well, that’s exciting.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m getting a showing at the Fifth Street Gallery next month.” He turned to face Roan with a radiant grin, one that was infectious, but before Roan could return it, Dyl pounced on him, pinning him to the bed. It made him laugh as Dylan straddled his hips, looking down at him with glee. “I want you in the show.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “As what, security?”

  “As art. You’re my muse, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  “Stop it. I was thinking of painting you, but there’s no way you’d stand still that long.”

  He considered that a moment. He didn’t mean paint him as a portrait, did he? He meant paint him as in paint his body like a canvas. “What the fuck? Why would you do that?”

  The look in Dylan’s eye was breathtaking. Beautiful, lambent, gold sparking beneath deep brown velvet. Joy had a way of lighting up his face like a candle flame, and Roan wondered, not for the first time, how you got to that state of extreme joy, if it was a way of life or a state of mind. “Because you’re beautiful, and because you’re the perfect canvas. You are two states at once, you are advanced and primal, you’re the authority and anti-authority, you are the man I love and you scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

  “In other words, I’m chocolate and peanut butter.”

  “Oh, did I leave out you’re a sarcastic bastard?”

  “I believe that got overlooked.” Dylan was sitting with his knees straddling Roan’s thighs, and the strange intimacy of this position didn’t escape the notice of either of them, they just hadn’t acted on it. Yet. Roan was content to be passive, to wait for him to make the first move. It seemed only fair.

  Dyl gave him a sexy half smile. “So my thought is to paint you, and take a photo. I’d use the composition of body, paint, and photo as its own piece of art. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy. Exactly how much of me would you paint, and with what?”

  “All that you would allow me to paint. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. And I’d use body paint. They do make it, you know.”

  “I should have guessed.” He shifted slightly, so he was more comfortable under Dylan’s weight. That made Dylan’s smile wider and sexier.

  He lowered himself, until his face was mere inches away. Roan could smell his peppermint soap. “What do you say?”

  “I say you’re crazy, and if you’d asked, I’d have washed the car in Speedos. Next time, aim higher.”

  “Would the car be in Speedos, or you?” Dylan teased.

  “Shut up and kiss me, smartass.”

  He didn’t need to ask twice. In fact, he never needed to ask at all. But to be fair, he knew that going in; Dyl was always frisky when he was really happy.

  Roan waited until after they’d had sex to discuss his depressing news. In fact, they were in the shower, cleaning up, when Roan told Dylan about the developments in the burn case. Dylan scowled. “The guy’s dead? Why is it that these cases of yours often end in death?”

  “My sparkling personality?”

  Dylan frowned at him, far from amused. Water ran down his face like tears, beads getting caught in the stubble along his jaw. Roan had to suppress the sudden urge to lick them away. “I know you’re inclined to never listen, but hon, walk away. If some drug cartel in Mexico has done this, you won’t find the responsible party. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “And how do I live with that? Many infecteds will die, and paranoid politicians will punish us, but I’ll be fine. I’m always fine, aren’t I? Shit happens to others and, lucky me, I get to stand there and watch.” For no reason besides his mind’s bizarre sense of humor, a line from a Porcupine Tree song suddenly floated through his head: “Don’t feel you’ve let ’em down, ’cause they have already drowned.” He was crazy, right? He was fucking mental.

  Empathy softened Dylan’s hard look. “Sweetheart, there are some battles even you can’t win.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I do. Just tell me how I live with it.”

  Dylan looked at him helplessly, sympathy coloring his expression. He had no answer, but Roan hadn’t expected him to. There was no answer.

  They got dressed and left, stopping for dinner at the Hunan Garden before Roan dropped Dylan off at work. Before he got out of the car, Dylan leaned over and gave him a sweet kiss, cupping the back of his neck and holding it before saying, “You do not have to protect all infecteds. No one asked you to, it is not expected of you. No one can protect everyone. Walk away, hon. Save yourself for once in your goddamn life.” With that, he got out of the car, and left Roan thinking he had saved himself many times. More than most people might suspect.

  Roan continued on to the Grind skating rink. When he got there, he found that the rink was abuzz, and he noticed that Tank was missing. He was allowed in behind one of the benches, putting him at ice level, and noticing him, Grey skated up. “Hear the news?” Grey asked.

  Oh god, was it more bad news? He didn’t know if he could take anymore. “No, what?”

  “Tank got called up.”

  That almost made sense. “What?”

  Scott skated up now, holding his hockey stick like he was either going to hang it up or smack him with it. Neither was in his game outfit, no one on the ice was, but they all seemed to be wearing similar dark-colored uniforms. Casual workout gear, he assumed. “The Bruin’s main goalie has the flu, and the backup wrenched his back. The Bruins have a game against the Leafs tomorrow and they have no goalies.”

  “The way the Leafs are playin’ right now, they don’t need ’em,” Jeff said, joining the scrum. He stopped with a glide that kicked up a brief shower of shaved ice.

  Scott ignored that and continued to explain. “We just showed up when Tank found out they wanted him there as soon as possible. He raced outta here as the Coach’s friend got him booked on the next flight to Boston. He’s probably in a line at Sea-Tac right now.”

  “Tank’s playing for the Bruins now?”

  Scott shook his head. “It’s temporary, an emergency call-up. For the moment.”

  “He’ll be back,” Grey said.

  “God, if I was him, I’d be shittin’ myself,” Jeff commented. “One minute playing here, next playing on a major team. Fuck.”

  “We’re a major team,” Scott said. “Major in talent, at any rate.”

  Jeff snorted. “Yeah, that and five bucks’ll get ya a cuppa coffee.” He pronounced it “cawfee,” and Roan had to suppress the urge to laugh. Where the hell in New York was he from? He should really know by now….

  “He’s as good as gone,” Scott said. “Once the NHL overlords see him play? Holy fuck, there’ll be a bidding war.”

  “Assuming he’s good,” Jeff said. “If I was him, I’d be so nervous I’d probably barf my guts out between periods.”

  Scott shook his head. “Tank doesn’t get scared. He’ll eat up the attention and show off.”

  “It’s national TV, dude,” Jeff continued. “I get nervous when I find out a local station’s carrying a game.”

  “National TV in Canada,” Grey said, with a tiny smirk. “I don’t know if that counts.”

  Scott gave him a halfhearted slap on the arm. “Somebody’s gotta get Roger’s Sportsnet down here. We gotta have a viewing party. You in?”

  It took Roan a moment to realize that was directed at him. “Uh, why not? Sure. Just let me know when and where.”

  “Bring that beer you got in your fridge,” Jeff said. “That’s good beer.”

  Scott gave Jeff a look that suggested he shouldn’t. “Jeff, aren’t you on a carb watch?”

  “Fuck it. I can have more carbs on a nongame night if I wanna. Just don’t tell anybody.”

  Ever since lunch, Roan had had this sneaking feeling that the
guys were on some sort of nutritional regime; now it was confirmed. Mainly it was because he’d never seen straight guys willingly eat so much salad.

  There was a whistle, and the coach called them over, so Grey and Jeff skated off toward him, but Scott lingered. “You okay?” he asked.

  Roan nodded and shrugged. “Okay enough.”

  Scott scowled, and it was eerily similar to Dylan’s scowl. They didn’t believe him, but neither had time to argue with him. What it meant beyond that Roan wasn’t sure, except he had a talent for pissing off hot guys.

  He sat at the bench and joined in some name-calling, and it was fun to compete with a bunch of hockey players to find out who could come up with the most profane insult. There were lots of standards, and many made-up ones, but who was to say fuckbutter was any filthier than taintface or shitfuck? Perhaps there never could be a winner; participating was enough.

  Near the end of the practice skate, Roan’s phone went off, and he was slightly alarmed to see it was Holden. But it turned out to be nothing to worry about, as he was just checking in. He’d come back from the appointment with Doug safe and sound, and hadn’t had any problems. He wondered if it was safe to be at his apartment, and Roan admitted that he didn’t think it would be a problem, but to keep everything locked up tight. Holden said he wasn’t worried, he had window alarms and a gun, and that made Roan pause. “You have a gun?”