Infected: Lesser Evils

by Andrea Speed

  Garcia gestured violently with his gun. “Clear the scene.”

  He was trying to eye fuck him, and Roan eye fucked him right back as he left the apartment, the pain starting to creep in, the adrenaline an ebbing tide leaving agony in its wake. Every step was like walking barefoot on broken glass, but he made sure not to show it around Garcia. The EMTs (this pair he didn’t know) did a double take as they walked past him in the corridor, and the black female one stopped and started coming toward him. “He doesn’t need treatment,” Garcia said, stepping out into the hall and intercepting her. He still had his gun drawn, but it was aimed down at the floor. “Nothing kills this fucker.” Garcia gave him a toothy grin that was just one step above a snarl, and his eyes almost glowed with hate. The EMT noticed this and looked to him questioningly, but Roan just shook his head. If he needed medical attention, he could wait until this prick was miles away.

  It was a narrow upstairs corridor, and the armored members of the cat squad eyed him with either nervousness or discomfort (or both) as they lined the hall. Only Garcia knew him well enough to openly despise him.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Dylan calling out, “Roan? Are you okay?”

  “Get that maricón out of here,” Garcia barked, and two of the closest troops responded, blocking the top of the stairs and basically herding Dylan back down.

  Why did that make him snap? Roan had no idea, except splashing contempt on him was one thing—throwing it on Dylan was absolutely another.

  There had been no decision to move, at least not on his part; the lion was still so close to the surface it was pure reflex. He grabbed Garcia and threw him against the opposite wall, pinning him there with one hand on his throat as he ripped the gun out of his hand and aimed it at the rest of his shock troops. To keep Garcia from getting any leverage, he was holding him an inch off the ground by his throat—he could feel the fine bones of his neck starting to bend under his fingers, and he wasn’t even gripping him all that hard. Or at least not as hard as he wanted to. “Save the shit for me,” he growled (literally, of course—it just went with the rage at this point). “Keep my partner out of it. Entienda?”

  Garcia was turning deep red, shading toward purple. Roan was aware that his shock troops had raised guns on him—tranquilizer guns, but still—and he told them, without looking away from their boss, “If I wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead. Holster those before someone gets hurt.”

  Garcia tried to talk, despite the lack of air. “Fucking dick—”

  “I’ll let you go as soon as you agree. Not before.”

  “Holy fuck,” a familiar but unexpected voice exclaimed. It was poor Officer Thompson, once again a witness to a partial transformation aftermath. He needed to send the guy a fruit basket. “Garcia, are you fucking with Batman again? Jesus Christ, you don’t fuck with Batman. Not only can he kick your ass, he’s one of us.”

  Roan dropped Garcia, mainly because the tension that had infected the hallway was now snapped by the introduction of another cop. Sure, just a uniformed patrol cop who got stuck on the third watch for unknown reasons, one who had no jurisdiction over the cat squad, but clearly he knew Garcia. It broke a circuit.

  Roan stepped back, out of kicking distance, and he tucked Garcia’s gun into the waistband of his pants. Oh sure, he’d have to give it back, but it was a deliberate bit of emasculation: he’d taken his service weapon away from him, and he was going to have to ask for it back. It was a symbolic version of ripping off his dick.

  Garcia coughed and choked in air like a half-drowned swimmer, bent over and grabbing his throat, and the rest of the squad lowered their guns. As soon as Garcia could speak, he rasped, in a painful voice, “Why do you think I did anything? This fucker’s a psycho. And he ain’t one of us.”

  “According to the Chief, he’s as good as. And you’re always starting shit, Garcia, that’s what you do.” Thompson looked at him now. “Gonna explain yourself, Batman?”

  “He refused timely care for an injured civilian because I was still in the room, aimed a weapon at me for no reason, and he used a gay slur against my boyfriend. Also, he’s a dick.”

  “World’s full of dicks, Batman. You can’t crush all their throats.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Garcia snapped, straightening up. “And why do you keep calling him that stupid nickname?”

  Thompson pointed at Roan while giving Garcia a genuinely confused look. “’Cause he’s Batman. Dude, he was about to kick all your asses.”

  “No he wasn’t,” Garcia replied angrily, his voice sounding like an awful, strained thing. How close had Roan come to crushing his larynx?

  The discussion stopped as the EMTs came out, the male one supporting the bloody woman and holding a gauze pad to her head as he helped her down to a lower level where they might actually have room to fit a stretcher. The female EMT was following the male, and on her way past, she grabbed Roan’s arm, and said, “Come on. Don’t make me call Dee.”

  Well shit—she knew Dee? Damn it. He had no choice but to go with her, feeling like he was slowly but surely cutting himself open with a dull razor blade with every step. Now that the rage was subsiding, the pain came back double time.

  But he still had Garcia’s service weapon. Man, was he going to get shit for that. It might be the only good thing to come of this entire night.

  11

  How We Exit

  THERE were many bad things about relationships, such as your partner using guilt as a weapon, which is how Roan ended up back in the emergency room.

  He could heal at home, but the EMTs didn’t know that, and he wasn’t inclined to tell them. Dylan was insistent he should go, and along with the heavy guilt trip Dyl was laying on him, he was tired, achy, and felt like he’d been vivisected and stapled back together by a carpenter with a severe case of the DTs. In the ambulance they gave him fluids and a painkiller that had no effect on him whatsoever, so they dialed it up a notch, and the rest of the night slid by in a candy-coated blur. Roan noted the media circus in front of the building, a glare of spotlights and news reporters with shiny hair like foil, but he didn’t care—that’s how good the drugs were.

  He didn’t actually remember leaving the scene. The next thing he did remember was waking up in a place that smelled like industrial disinfectant and blood, a dark curtain surrounding him, keeping him out of view of people who came and went in the ward. He still had the IV in his arm, but he had lost some blood, so it would be there. In spite of the reek that threatened to give him a headache, his stomach growled.

  Dylan wasn’t here, but he might not be allowed to loiter, as Roan was pretty sure he was just off in one corner of a treatment area, perhaps a way station between the ER and a room. He sat up, and lifted up the starchy white sheet, as he felt scratchy fabric on his legs. Yep, his clothes were gone, he was stripped to his boxers. He was glad he hadn’t worn the ones with holes in them, as that really would have been embarrassing. What kind of gay man wore holey underwear? Besides the Mormons, of course. (Holey equaling holy, and how stoned was he that he was explaining his own jokes to himself, and still finding it funny? They had given him some great shit. He had to get the recipe.) But at the end of the bed was a folded pair of blue scrubs, shirt and pants. Left there by Luke (if he was in Saint Joe’s), Dylan, Dee? He didn’t know, he didn’t care, he was just grateful.

  He was bandaged up like a mummy. He felt surgical glue holding together the bigger divots scratched into his chest, but otherwise he was wrapped up like he was a plush toy leaking stuffing. There were gashes on his legs, abdomen, chest, even on his chin and his cheek (the result of being bitten, he supposed). Stupid. As soon as he could do a partial transformation, he’d be okay.

  Getting the pants on was no problem, except he was a little woozy, but the shirt was a bit of a pain, what with the IV to work around. He was tempted to rip it out, but he thought he should wait until he was in a place where no one would walk in on his partial transformation to stop the ble
eding.

  He was trying to figure out what to do with the IV when Thompson peeked through the curtain. “Oh good, you’re up. I figured they doped you like Courtney Love.”

  “I’d actually be dead if that were the case.” He sighed. “I suppose you want a statement.”

  “Part of the job.”

  “I remember.” So he told him what had happened from his side of the proceedings, and Thompson took it all down, nodding almost spasmodically. Once Roan was done, he flipped his notepad closed and tucked it away in his jacket. “Pretty much confirms your boyfriend’s statement, and that Japanese kid’s. What’s with his hair?”

  “He’s emo. Or at least that’s my guess.”

  “I thought that was passé now.”

  He shrugged, and it kind of hurt, as it pulled at some of the healing scratches. “Everything has some kinda following.”

  Just the way Thompson was nodding compulsively, the look on his face betraying impatience, Roan knew he was dying to ask him something. Finally he did. “So, off the record, what the hell were you doing at a known drug dealer’s place at midnight?”

  “I was trying to find out who was moving tainted burn. You know, the stuff that made that guy leopard out and go nuts.”

  His look was mildly skeptical, but not enough to be offensive. “Yeah, I thought I heard that. But dude, this is a police investigation.”

  “Maybe, but these are my people. They’re dying and being vilified in the press. I have to do something.”

  That left Thompson at a loss, not sure what to say. What did you say to that? So Thompson just nodded and told him to take care of himself before ducking out the curtains. Roan gave him a minute and a half to clear the area, then got up and left, bringing the wheeled IV stand with him. He was going to find a bathroom or something, duck into a stall, and rip the fucker out.

  He found his way to the bustling corridor, where everybody was too busy to notice him. Or so he thought. He’d probably gotten about three meters from his room when he heard, “Roan?”

  He turned, expecting a lecture from someone, and was surprised to find Tank standing there, dressed in a Falcons sweatshirt and sweatpants, his hair half wet and sticking out at odd angles. He also had a fresh cut just barely visible on the side of his neck, underneath his chin. As if tonight hadn’t been surreal enough. Almost in unison, they asked, “What happened to you?”

  They then stared at each other, and Tank chuckled. “Rock paper scissors?”

  “Naw. I wrestled a cat. You?”

  “Slapshot hit me in the face, broke my mask, and I got a cut out of the deal. I also thought I was back in Laval-des-Rapides for a minute and a half, but luckily we had smelling salts. I played out the game, but they wanted to make sure there was no damage.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Though if I was brain damaged, who could tell, eh?”

  “I know the feeling.” Fi had told him why the Falcons were so seemingly gay friendly, and it had nothing to do with Scott, their secret bisexual Captain. It was all Tank. It seems he had a sister, Francoise, who was ten years older than him and quite the hockey player—she’d played for the Canadian women’s hockey team at the Olympics on a couple of different occasions and medaled. She taught Tank all she knew about hockey, got him started in his career, and he absolutely idolized her. And she was very lesbian—she had married her girlfriend up in Montreal last year. While Tank would put up with the usual jock-y name calling and banter (homo, bender, et cetera), if you trotted out a deliberate gay slur, Grey would step in so Tank didn’t kill anyone. So they had to watch it, or Tank (or Grey stepping in for Tank) would make your life miserable, and frankly nobody wanted to piss off their star goalie anyways. Not only was his temper frightening, but if they wanted to finish the playoffs, he was their ticket. It did explain some of Tank, but not all of him.

  “Should you be out of bed? You don’t look so good.” Tank said.

  “I’m fine. Or I’ll be fine, soon as I can get a minute. Know where the bathrooms are?”

  Tank shook his head. “Haven’t been here long enough.” After a moment, he added, “You wanna get that IV out? Let me find somethin’, we’ll tie your arm off above it, that way when you pull it, it won’t spurt.”

  He chuckled in disbelief. “Dare I ask if you’ve done this before?”

  “Can I plead the… what do you Americans plead?”

  “Besides guilty? Usually the Fifth.”

  “I plead that then.”

  “Fine. Come on, you can aid and abet me.”

  “Worst come-on I’ve ever heard,” he replied, and then gave Roan a toothy grin, showing he still had all his teeth, although they weren’t all perfectly straight.

  He and Tank found a currently unused room (judging from the light boxes on the wall, it had something to do with radiology), and Tank “found” some surgical tubing that Roan was sure he’d liberated from a supply closet. He tied a tourniquet around his arm so tight it hurt, but when Roan pulled the IV needle out, it barely bled at all, and he couldn’t feel it. Tank had brought a gauze pad—surely from the same supply closet—and slapped it on before looping surgical tape around it. He didn’t need to do that, but Roan wasn’t going to do a partial change in front of him, so okay, he could live with it for now.

  Roan left the IV stand out in the hall, although he cleaned his blood off the needle (well, safety first, and his blood was a biohazard), and they made their way toward the waiting room, where he was sure Dylan probably was.

  They had barely reached its invisible demarcation line when a middle-aged guy in hunter plaid, who reeked of cigarettes and beer, launched out of his hard plastic chair, and snapped, “You! You’re one of those kitty fucks, aren’t ya? I’ve seen you on the news.”

  Roan sighed wearily. This was the problem with having very recognizable hair color. “Sir—”

  “You cocksuckers killed my step-daughter. You should all be fucking shot!”

  He was still coming toward him, walking with angry purpose, but Tank stepped between them and warned, “Back off.”

  “You one of ’em too? You a diseased freak?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware a big, burly orderly was making his way over to them, but wouldn’t be in time. The guy had already pulled back his fist and let it fly.

  Not that it got anywhere close to its intended target. Tank dodged it easily, and landed a sharp rabbit punch in the man’s side, right where the supremely breakable short ribs were, before kicking his leg out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor on his knees. “You an idiot?” Tank asked him, switching on his crazy intense guy goalie persona with frightening ease. His eyes smoldered in their sockets like braziers. “I’m goin’ easy on ya. Ya wanna see hard? Do ya? Speak when you’re spoken to, ass face!”

  By this time, the orderlies had arrived and intervened, putting themselves between all the combatants. A hard-faced nurse with viciously short hair came over, opened her mouth to berate them, then paused and asked, “Mr. Beauvais? Aren’t you supposed to be in exam two?”

  He shrugged diffidently, and suddenly he was back to his normal sleepy-eyed self. Good lord, how did he do that? “I got tired of waiting, wanted to stretch my legs.”

  “It’s my fault,” Roan said, covering for him. “I asked for his help tracking down my husband.”

  The nurse gave Roan a gimlet-eyed glare as plaid man was dragged off, shouting, “You motherfucker! I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna kill all you freaks!”

  “Charming,” Roan sighed, dry washing his face. He was aware that those in the waiting room who cared about the spectacle were seventy-thirty on plaid guy’s side, giving Roan dirty looks. Cats weren’t anyone’s favorite creature right now.

  Tank must have noticed, because he put his arm around Roan’s shoulders and announced, “You mess with him, you mess with all the Falcons, and I don’t think you wanna do that, do ya?”

  Well, there was no need for that, but he appreciated the gesture and sentiment. And wit
h Tank turning his laser-focused gaze on the waiting-room crowd, suddenly everybody had something else to look at. Roan wished he had a “don’t fuck with me” stare of that magnitude.

  “I can’t leave you alone for one moment, can I?” a man said, suddenly joining them. He was on the short side of average, maybe five five, with a bit of a beer gut and slicked-back black hair, his face average but with a pleasant kind of doughy softness that suggested he was probably a decent guy who never liked to make a fuss. He was wearing a dark polo shirt, dark slacks, and a Falcons team jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, and Roan finally placed him as the Falcons’ trainer, the guy who saw to them when players got hurt on the ice. He noticed him and said, “Hi. Paul Stapleton.”

  “Roan McKichan.”

  “Oh, I know. Grey told me you were the only guy he ever sparred with who kicked his ass. Nice to meet you.” He then gave Tank a stern look and pointed behind him. “Get back in there, now.”

  “Why? I don’t have a concussion. I just got my bell rung. You take a hundred-mile-an-hour shot in the face and see if that doesn’t leave you speaking French.”

  See, now Roan felt that was a fair point. Even with a high-impact mask between him and it, that was still a hell of a thing, and the fact that Tank managed to finish the game in spite of it spoke volumes about his stubbornness. Paul just continued to stare at him and continued to point, and Tank sighed wearily, turning away. “Au revoir, Roan.”

  “Bon voyage, Tank.” It wasn’t the only French he knew, but au jus probably didn’t apply here.