Infected: Lesser Evils Read online

  Watching the game turned out to be a lot of fun. Everybody laughed when the TV showed Tank as Thibault Beauvais, as he hated his first name, but the commentators pointed that out, saying he preferred to go by his nickname, Tank, which he got from his propensity for running over opposing players in his crease. (Ah. He hadn’t known where Tank got his nickname. Finally, TV had taught him something.)

  The commentators were going on about Tank being “untested” at the NHL level and wondering how he’d handle it, pointing out he’d had just one practice skate with the team. Roan wasn’t sure if they were just trying to build the tension, or if they were genuinely curious.

  Then the game began, and they shut the hell up.

  Tank put on a show, making one spectacular save after another, almost getting an assist when he played the puck off the boards and got it to a defenseman in center ice during a power play, and brutally shoving opposing players out of his crease and generally getting away with it. After one spectacular save, he clearly said something to the Leafs’ player standing right in front of him (of course, none of them could hear it), and the opposing player all but dived on him, causing the Bruins’ players to dogpile on him, and the Leafs’ player to get himself a penalty for “unsportsmanlike conduct.” “It’s a good thing Tank ain’t miked, ’cause he’s laughing,” Grey said.

  Scott nodded a vigorous agreement. “Whenever he goads someone into doing something stupid, he laughs like Doctor Evil.”

  “Okay, who did he insult?” Grey wondered. “The guy’s mother, his wife, or his hockey-playing ability?”

  “Mother,” Jeff said.

  “Wife,” Richie said.

  “Did you see the way he lunged at him? He was definitely telling that guy he couldn’t shoot for shit,” Scott said. “That was an ego hit.”

  By the first period break, all the commentators seemed to be singing Tank’s praises, talking about his spectacular saves and his “aggressive” goaltending style. One of them said Tank was playing like he’d played in the NHL for years. “What did I tell you?” Scott said, finally opening a beer himself. “Tank’s fearless. He’s a fucking lunatic.”

  “Well, duh,” Fiona said. “He gets pelted with frozen pieces of rubber for a living. Willingly. That’s not a job for the sane.”

  Good point.

  Tank was the highlight of the game. He was continuously fun to watch, and the Boston crowd seemed to take to him, cheering when he hit the ice, and when he waved his stick at them coming off the ice at the end of the second period, that got a round of noise. Scott shouted, “Attention whore!” and got a big laugh from the room.

  The end result was the Leafs were able to score on Tank only once, and that was during a five-on-three power play. The Bruins won three to one, and Tank made forty-four saves, which was apparently an impressive number for any goalie, not to mention a fresh-up-from-the-AHL one. Tank was named the number-one star of the game, which was apparently some kind of honor, although Roan really didn’t get it. As a result, Tank was interviewed at the bench at the end of the game, and he had his facemask up, revealing his beaming, slightly crazed face, and he was so drenched in sweat it looked like he was fresh out of the shower; sweat was just sluicing down his face. His visible hair was plastered to his scalp.

  During his interview, he did a shout-out to the Falcons and Fiona, which elicited a cheer, and gave his Olympic hockey player sister credit, as well as Stephane, for all the drills they put him through. And just as the interviewer was throwing it back to the studio, Tank quietly mouthed something: “Hi, Roan.” This elicited a roar from the room, mostly laughter, and Grey punched him on the arm. “See? Superstitious,” Grey said, but he was smiling.

  It was oddly fun. And he learned that Scott really knew his guys, or at least he really knew Tank. As odd as he was, when the camera caught a shot of Tank, hidden behind his mask, staring at a face-off with the same crazy intensity he brought to a potential fight, Roan realized that for all his (calculated?) insanity and definitely real eccentricity, Tank was an athlete at the top of his game. Yes, he was good enough to be pro; that insane focus was just part of the training, part of the strength he needed to have to get to the top. And that’s where he was—the top. He wasn’t going to come back down for a while. Scott was right; he was gone. And good for him, he’d worked hard, he deserved it. Maybe the craziness helped.

  As they were leaving, Fi asked him when he wanted her back at the office, and he had to admit not any time soon, not until the cat hate calmed down. She protested it might never be over since people were assholes, but Roan told her enough people had been hurt due to him, so it was going to wait. She didn’t look happy about it, but she didn’t have veto power.

  They were all leaving, spilling out onto the sidewalk and trying not to get in the way of pedestrians. Stevie lived in the direct center of downtown, the building exited right onto a sidewalk that threaded down toward some high- end clubs and tourist-y bars. It was probably a decent neighborhood, but Roan knew from experience that the traffic noise would drive him crazy.

  They were still gabbing, earning the occasional dirty look from a passersby, when they all heard a very loud, metallic thud, the sound of a car crash. It was on the next block, judging by the noise, but everyone still looked around as though they could see it.

  Roan was heading up the block, mostly to see if it was just a parked car impact or if he could help, when he heard the screaming. He had sped up to a run, aware others were following, when he first heard the roar.

  Roan rounded the corner to chaos, people shoving past him in a panic, and he saw a car skewed in the middle of the street, wedged up against a car parked on the side, and there were three cougars crawling all over the car.

  One of those cougars was motherfucking huge; about the size of a male lion. The cats must have been attracted by the smell of blood coming through the cracked windshield, but luckily it wasn’t broken in. Yet. (That big fucker could probably break it just by stepping on it enough.) Roan decided to get their attention by roaring, loud enough to hurt his throat, and they did look, roaring in kind. They weren’t the only ones who looked. People across the street were staring at him, and behind him, he heard someone ask, “What the fuck?” Another guy asked, “Did that come from him?”

  Without looking behind him, Roan shouted, “Get people off the street!” He didn’t know how they could, there were just too many, but they could try, and it would keep them busy while he tried to corral the cats.

  The big cougar jumped off the hood of the car, and Roan walked out into the street, ignoring the honking, and then the cats did something rather odd: they ran. One took off using the parked cars as a high escape, while the other two ran down the sidewalk on the opposite side, making people scream and scatter. He hoped the people wouldn’t run, because that would just encourage the cats to follow. “No you don’t,” he muttered, and jumped up onto the hood of the smashed car before jumping onto one of the parked cars and running after the cougars. Roan thought he heard someone yelling something after him, but he didn’t pay any attention. He was busy hunting.

  Alarms went off in the wake of his running across the cars, and the cougar ahead of him was occasionally setting them off as well. He was trying to keep the sidewalk cougars in his peripheral vision, ready to pounce should any of them pursue any of the pedestrians, but so far they seemed too interested in running. He didn’t know why, but he was glad.

  He felt himself changing, the pains and sounds of his jaw cracking, blood flooding his mouth, his legs starting to ache as he ran and leaped from car to car, gaining ground on the cougar. Blood pounded in his ears, and his Human side began to recede; he could feel it ebbing away, his focus narrowing and his senses sharpening as his sense of self fell away.

  One of the cougars on the sidewalk, for no obvious reason, suddenly lunged on a pedestrian who was either too scared, too drunk, or just too oblivious to move. Roan had no choice; he jumped. The recessive Human part of his mind noted it was t
oo far, he’d never make such a jump, he was going to faceplant on the sidewalk, but that didn’t happen. Somehow he made the jump, the muscles flexing and stretching in his body as he covered the distance and came down hard on the attacking cat, sinking his teeth into its shoulder as he ripped it off the man and rolled away, the cat squalling and squirming as they tumbled across the asphalt. The cougar dug its claws in Roan’s arm, flailing like a landed shark, as blood filled Roan’s mouth. He tasted the taint of the burn, and ripped his mouth away, tearing out a chunk of the cat’s shoulder.

  The cat screamed and one of its friends pounced on Roan’s back, digging its claws in and sinking its teeth into the back of his shoulder. The injured cougar squirmed out of his arms as Roan threw himself backward, slamming the pavement, letting the cat on his back take the brunt of the hit. The cougar held on, so he threw himself down again, with force, and this time he felt something shift inside the cougar’s body, a bone breaking or an organ squishing, and the cougar let go as Roan rolled up to his feet. He felt the pain of the injury, of the warm blood crawling down his back, but it only made him angrier.

  He was barely on his feet as the third cougar came back and lunged for his throat, but not fast enough. Roan got his arm up, and as it sunk its teeth into his forearm, he turned and slammed the cougar into its injured mate, which had rallied and was coming back at him. Both cats went sprawling as the remaining cougar sunk its teeth into his calf, and he kicked it off his leg, sending it flying into a parked car. It hit with a huge thud, leaving a sizable dent in the door and shattering the driver’s side window. Another went for him, but Roan punched it in midleap, sending it twisting through the air and right into traffic. A car attempted to stop, he heard the screech of brakes, but he subsequently heard the crunch of bones under tires as the SUV skidded straight over the cougar. Now he had only two to deal with, the big motherfucker and a female cougar, but they were both wounded, angry, and drugged.

  The big fucker roared, and he roared back, taking a step toward it, making it charge him, its huge paw swiping the air as it tried to keep Roan back. He ignored the scratches on his leg as he kicked it, catching it right under the chin, and he heard something snap as it all but somersaulted through the air, sprawling down on the sidewalk.

  The female went for his throat again, but he caught her by the throat and slammed her into the wall behind him, the brick facade of some kind of candle store. Roan had just done this when he heard a man shout, “Step away from the cat!”

  He smelled fear, gun oil, bad cologne, and turned to a stabbing flashlight beam; he knew this was a cop by smell alone. It was a beat cop, though, his prowler parked at an awkward angle in the street, his rotating lights throwing flashes of red and blue in the gloom.

  The male cat moved, shaking its head as it tried to regain its feet, and Roan tossed the female aside, going for the big cat before it could get the cop.

  That’s when Roan heard the pops, little explosive noises with a gritty smell like metal and fire, and felt something invisible punch him in the chest and leg. Blood exploded from the big cat’s back, and it slumped back to the pavement, not dead but not well.

  Roan realized that he felt hot liquid pouring down his leg with the strength of a river, and cold seemed to be flowing into him, filling up the space where the heat had been. He looked down to find himself standing in a comically large puddle of blood, that seemed to be growing by the second. The cougars just hadn’t hurt him that badly, so he couldn’t understand it, until the Human side reasserted itself, and he saw the blood was spurting from the thigh of his left leg, where there was a good-sized hole.

  The cop had shot him. Not only that, but he had nicked his femoral artery. He was bleeding out.

  Weakness and pain finally caught up with him and he collapsed to the sidewalk, laughing to himself.

  Roan had always thought the virus would kill him. But to die because he got shot by a cop? Sure, it was tragic, but he couldn’t help but think it was also kind of fucking hilarious.

  21

  Die Slow

  THE strange thing was, it was very peaceful.

  Roan sort of felt distant, removed from the scene as he heard Grey shouting in his hockey-goon voice, “You shot a cop! He was one of you!” It was a voice of pure homicide, and he could just imagine that poor cop shitting his pants or worse, aiming his weapon at Grey. And he was factually incorrect. He wasn’t a cop, just a “special investigator,” and he was never one of anyone. But Roan couldn’t articulate any of this. He felt like he was turning to ice, freezing in place, becoming gum on the sidewalk.

  His vision was fading, slowly going out like someone had a dimmer switch, and a shadow fell over him, came beside him. “Hold on, Roan,” Scott said, taking off his belt. It struck him as a hilarious time to put the moves on him, but that wasn’t it. Scott looped his belt around his leg, just above the wound, and said, “Sorry, this is gonna hurt.” He then yanked up tight, like he was trying to saw his leg off, and the pain made him growl. The pressure was unbelievable, unbearable, and he wasn’t sure what Scott was trying to accomplish exactly. Hurting a dying man was hardly sporting, was it?

  There were sirens and lights, but they were all far away and irrelevant. Nothing mattered, nothing was important; he was just cold, and now his leg hurt. “Roan, you hafta stay with me,” Scott said, looming over him. He had blood flecks on his face, blood on his hands, and suddenly alarm kicked in—he was infected. Roan’s blood was deadly, toxic, Scott had to stay away from it. But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Damn it, this wasn’t his fault. Why did Scott have to run in like that?

  “Talk to me, Roan. C’mon, don’t give up on me now.”

  But it wasn’t giving up. It was just letting go, falling backward into a black abyss of peace. It was good to fall, nice.

  In an odd way, he was relieved. Maybe now, it was all over.

  MAYBE he was a closet sadist, but Dylan found himself missing Panic.

  Oh, only sometimes, but he honestly felt he didn’t belong here. Silver was a marvelously ordered, sane world full of tinkly piano music and people requesting vodka martinis, and god it was boring. Although the clientele obviously had more money, the tips weren’t any better, and he actually missed the hassle of making drinks with stupid names that he had to Google on Luis’s phone to find out how to make them (the Muppet, for example, or the Luxor Boom Boom). And times like this, when it was a dead zone, he was so bored he hardly knew what to do with himself. For now, he was sitting on a stool and doodling on a napkin. He was sketching out some ideas on what he wanted to paint on Roan. He wasn’t going to plan, he was just going to go with the moment, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted to highlight the tattoos Roan already had, incorporate them into the overall design. Thinking about it, Dylan realized he’d love to paint a heart on his face, a broken heart, his nose the dividing point, his eyes within the halves of the heart. Because Roan was grief, and all those tattoos he had were symbolic of that. There were always three people in this relationship: him, Roan, and the ghost of Paris, and that hadn’t changed. Sometimes he thought Roan thought it had, that he had gotten beyond it, but all those tattoos, even if they weren’t directly symbolic of Paris, were all about him. He was branding memories into his skin, wearing the body armor of his mourning, and he probably thought he wasn’t. He felt like incorporating that into the artistic theme. He wondered what he’d tell Roan about what he was doing, and decided to worry about it later.

  Dylan was trying to decide if a wing would work draped across the torso or if he’d have to put it across the stomach when Robin, the maître d’, suddenly came up to the bar and said, “There’s a call for you at my station.”

  That surprised him, for more reasons than one. The boss didn’t like anyone getting personal calls ever, especially during your shift, even though it was almost over. As bosses went, he was anal and a complete prick, a body part two-fer. Robin usually kissed his ass too, so Dylan was probably in for a l
ecture. But Robin looked oddly grim as he said, “You’re gonna want to take this call.” What the hell…? Oh shit, now he knew it was bad news.

  He quietly walked out from behind the bar and followed Robin to the maître d’s area, where the phone sat on top of the small dais with the receiver off to one side. Dylan picked it up, his stomach knotting in anxiety. “Yah?”

  “Dylan, get down to County,” Dee said. “Roan’s been shot.”

  “What?” Oh, he dreaded these calls. It wasn’t the first he had received, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  “Long story, but a stupid cop fucked up, and… he’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t wanna worry you, but… hurry.”

  Now the bottom dropped out of the world. Dee sounded concerned—mostly pissed off, but a bit concerned—and that really worried him. Dee would only sound concerned if there was a real problem. “Where was he shot? How is he?”

  “Can’t explain now, just get down here,” Dee said curtly, and hung up.

  Oh god. It was so bad he didn’t want to tell him.

  Robin was right there, a well-dressed raven, and said, “Go ahead and take off early.” Gee, a whole five minutes early? Could the place possibly spare him? Dylan thought that, but kept it to himself. He went and gathered his coat from the employee’s “lounge” (a tiny room that was probably a converted closet), and as he was leaving, Robin said, “I hope your friend’s all right.”

  For some reason, that really pissed him off. Maybe it was the last straw, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “He’s my husband,” Dylan snapped, shrugging on his jacket and heading outside, into the cool, slightly smoggy air. If any of the remaining customers were appalled that a gay had served them drinks, fuck them.

  He didn’t remember the drive to the hospital. He was reasonably sure it felt longer than it should have, but otherwise it was a blur. He was numb, cold down to his toes, and wondered if this is what it felt like to be a zombie. Except zombies wouldn’t feel cold, would they? This was exactly the kind of stupid, nonsensical discussion that Roan would love. Dylan couldn’t think of that now.