Infected: Lesser Evils (18 page)

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.

In Our Talons

R
OAN
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.

“You’re one of our trainers,” Grey said, apparently settling on an excuse. “And you are, kinda. I mean, I’d spar with you all the time if you’d let me.”

“I can’t gauge my own strength anymore. I might kill you.”

“Now that’s just bragging,” Tank said. “Bragging that I’d totally pay to see.”

How could he make a joke of it? But you know what, Roan let it go. And felt all the better for just pretending that’s all it was: an exaggeration, a lie, a joke, not the increasingly horrible truth.

“Up yours, Frenchie,” Grey said, in a mock-threatening manner.

Tank told him to eat him in French again, giving Roan a second phrase he knew in the language, although honestly, how useful could that one be?

The phone rang, cutting off their mock-bilingual argument, and shirtless Scott, the only one on his feet, answered it before Roan could decide whether he wanted to or not. “Hello?” After a moment’s pause, he said, “Mr. McKichan has no comment for the media right now. When he has a comment, you will be informed. Good day.” Scott then hung up the phone, and asked, “You didn’t wanna talk to them, did you?”

“God no.”

“Who was it?” Grey wondered.

“Q-13.”

“Was it that Asian chick that anchors the news sometimes?” Jeff asked. “She’s hot.”

The door opened, and Dylan stood in the doorway, clearly surprised to be confronted with several of the Falcons in their living room, including a shirtless Scott (who was ripped and honestly attractive, with a lean torso and six-pack abs—Roan knew this from having seen him shirtless before, but he knew from the way Dyl had to tear his eyes away from his chest it was new to him). “Ah, hockey players.”

“Namaste,” Jeff said, the Buddhist (and Hindu) all-purpose word. Grey stared at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head.