Infected: Lesser Evils (32 page)

“Kevin took him home a couple of hours ago. Did you know there are hospital regs against people being alone in a room with an infected patient for a certain amount of time? I had no idea.”

“So how are you in here?”

“Well, flirt with the right nurse, and hey, you get the run of the floor.” He grinned wickedly, slumping back comfortably in the chair.

Roan just stared at him for a moment. He didn’t need to ask if he was serious. “You’re actually Satan, aren’t you?”

“Oh, if only I was. Things would be different around here.” He mimed primping his hair into a pompadour, and then got down to business. “So, I read your notes, and I asked Spider what he knows about DSM. Turns out we’re probably all kinds of screwed if they’re the ones peddling the drugs tainted with the fake hormones.”

It was nice how unreal everything felt. Must have been the drugs, or lingering sense of shock. “Hold it a second. Spider?”

“Biker I know. He runs with a whiter gang, really macho women-hating assholes, but he’s on the downlow for obvious reasons. He’s a former client, he could probably afford me now—running meth and drugs pays better than Mickey D’s—but they’re based in Eastern Washington and he doesn’t come over too often. Still, he says any time I need someone whacked, call him. All he needs is a name and a general location, and they’ll be scattered in pieces all along the I-5 corridor.”

“You’re making this up.”

“Not at all. He picked me up when I was just a pup of a hustler. Oh sure, the sleeve tattoos and satanic goatee made me think serial killer, as did that unnerving glow in his eyes, but he’s actually surprisingly shy when it comes to being with another man. He knew almost nothing except what he picked up in prison; I had to teach him a few things.” After a brief pause, Holden asked, “Ever seen
Oz
?”

He assumed Holden meant the TV show. “Yeah,” he replied tentatively, afraid this was going to lead to a prison rape story.

“Well, Spider’s sort of the Christopher Meloni character, only not as hot, and he doesn’t kill gay guys for a sexual thrill. Spider’s just a superpsycho. I mean, I’m sure he has a few bodies buried in his past, but he doesn’t kill for a sexual jump. He probably kills ’cause that’s what he does. He doesn’t have a lot of skills beyond bike repair. I’m pretty sure he’s semiliterate; I once helped him read a television menu.”

Now Roan was really staring at him. “He’s a murderer?”

Holden shrugged a single shoulder, which seemed exceedingly casual. “I’ve never seen him kill anyone. But he has claimed the X tattoos on his calf are a body count, and who am I to call him on it? It could be macho bullshit, necessary for him to survive as a closet homo in the most viciously homophobic subculture you could imagine. Or he’s a truly damaged man who’s found acceptance among men who rarely bathe or brush their teeth. I’m a hooker, it’s not my place to judge. Unless you pay me to.”

“But you think he has killed people. You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s a vibe. He has this very cold side to his personality, a very empty side. Of course, with the shit he went through as a kid, who wouldn’t be? I mean, his old man was a biker, he was drunk all the time, abusive, he apparently murdered his mom in front of Spider and made him help bury her in the desert.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I thought he was, I thought maybe he picked that up from a Lifetime movie, but it turns out it was true. His dad got arrested for killing her, it was in the paper, as was the allegation that he made his eleven-year-old son help bury her.”

“Eleven? Holy shit. So why the hell did he become a biker too?”

“He didn’t seem to know, really. It was just a lifestyle he knew, was familiar with, and apparently he was given lots of props for not ratting out his dad.”

This sounded outrageous and preposterous, but honestly, the biker subculture was just as bloodthirsty as any other gang culture, maybe more so now that they had lost a certain relevancy. They seemed like a silly time warp now, but those in the guns and drugs business were still incredibly lethal. And once again Roan was sort of thrown by Holden’s compassion, which might have just been playing an angle—after all, get in good with a biker, keep him sweet, not only do you not have to worry about him turning on you, but you have your own weapon of mass destruction, a guy willing to pull the trigger for you at your say-so, if you could live with that on your conscience. As long as Spider didn’t snap and kill
him
, it was a big gamble that could pay off, and obviously that would appeal to Holden. Roan found himself wondering how much of it was genuine compassion on his part, and how much of it was pure calculation. With Holden, it could be impossible to tell.

He shook his head, dealt with the resulting wooziness, and said, “You play with fire.”

“Life’s dangerous. Play big or go home.”

“You read that on a T-shirt.”

“Billboard, but close enough.”

He nodded. If Holden was bucking for the “strangest man I’ve ever known” position, he was an easy winner. “So, anyways, Spider knows the DSM.”

“Of course he does, they’re rivals in the drug trade, it behooves them to know their enemies. Anyways, south of the border, the DSM are also-rans, third on the list of drug gangs you need to watch out for. Still, they’re well connected to many a corrupt official, and are pretty much the bitches of Fernando Avila-Hernandez, a drug lord based in Oaxaca region.”

Sometimes all Roan could honestly do was stare at Holden in disbelief. “Has the DEA been informed?”

Holden shrugged. “You’d hope they’d know as much as a biker gang, but who knows? Anyways, according to Spider, some of those guys—the drug lords—pay scientists in Central and South America to help develop their product, make it more addictive or whatever. Supposedly Hernandez is paying a scientist in Columbia for help with his product, so whoever made this synthetic hormone is probably a Columbian in the pocket of a drug lord. If you know anybody in the FBI or DEA who actually gives a shit about infecteds, you might want to pass on the message to them.”

He sighed wearily. “I’m not sure anyone fits that description. It’s too late anyways, isn’t it?”

“Do you mean for the drug spreading? Most assuredly, yes. It couldn’t have only been made for here. But you may have been the first to attribute it. After all, most normals would ascribe the freak-outs to simple infected irresponsibility, and you’re the only Human with court-approved, bloodhound-level smelling, as well as a direct line to one of the most preeminent experts on the virus.”

The most irritating thing was, Holden was correct. That’s exactly how it could have happened. Roan might have simply been the first to connect the dots. “Could you do me a favor and stop being so smart? You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Now see, it’s just Darwinism in action. I’m not as strong or as fast as you and your jock friends, so I have to rely on my brains to survive. Oh, and my overwhelming beauty.” Holden assumed a mock-smug expression, tipping his chin up just so, trying hard not to laugh.

“Everybody I know is a smartass.”

“Like attracts like. It’s your fault.”

“Isn’t everything?”

“None of that. Don’t start your pity parade with me in the room. I didn’t pack my truncheon, so I’ll have to beat you with an IV stand.”

As weird—and snarky—as his friends were, Roan was aware he was very lucky. They probably weren’t anyone’s first choice for anything, but they always came through for him. Then again, he had never been anyone’s first choice for anything either. Misfits just gravitated toward one another.

“I haven’t been out for days, have I?” Roan wondered mainly because Holden’s bruises looked less livid than before, more lived in. Somehow they were almost a visual afterthought on his face, although he didn’t smell or see makeup. Still, Holden used to be a street kid—beatings probably weren’t new to him. He probably knew how to handle it.

“No, just one. Although there was some discussion about inducing a coma. Did you know they do that sometimes for people who lose a lot of blood? But apparently you started rallying pretty good, so the idea was shelved.”

Roan nodded, not wanting to point out inducing a coma wasn’t new to him.

Holden caught him up on everything he had missed while out, including Grey’s riot-stopping mauling of a guy with one punch (Grey was simply a boxer on skates, a heavyweight even though his weight class was probably middleweight), and the fact that there had already been genuine riots involving infecteds and Church supporters. Although small for riots initially, they were made worse by counter-protesters carrying signs such as
Cats belong in zoos
. “My favorites were the ones that were misspelled,” Holden reported, smiling. Roan wondered if it was too late to ask for an induced coma. Was it too much to ask that things got better while he was out?

He asked Holden to call Dylan and let him know he was awake, and he agreed to do so, which meant Holden had to leave, as the hospital had pretty stiff regulations about not using cells on most floors (because of the potential of interfering with electrical equipment). Holden also left him with a Snickers, as he thought he might be hungry for something besides hospital food and had totally forgot to bring something, but Roan appreciated it. He happily ate it, wondering when he could leave, or if it would be better to hide in here as long as humanly possible. Although the most cowardly option, it sounded damn good.

What could he do? What was going to stop this madness? That was the worst part. There was nothing; he had ceased to matter, if he had ever mattered at all. This fire was burning, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All Roan could do was stoke it. What did you do when your very existence was an affront to people you’d never met and probably would never meet, who’d be happy if you simply stopped existing? You’d think he’d have gotten used to it by now, being gay, but things had gotten better on that front (well, in some parts of the country—certainly Seattle was gay enough to make you feel like you were in a safe bubble most of the time), but hate toward infecteds seemed to get worse every year as the disease continued to spread and the body count kept rising.

Roan knew he’d probably be okay. He knew people, had connections, and could always flee to Canada if it got really bad. (Although he hadn’t spoken to them since the memorial service, he knew Paris’s family would welcome him in. They were good people, nice, and they had loved Paris, which showed in his personality.) But what about his people—the infected? Who spoke for them? He might be their best chance, which was a sad commentary on the state of infecteds in this society. But what could he possibly do?

The doctor came in, a petite but all-business Chinese woman named Doctor Chin. She informed him he would probably be on a crutch for a couple of weeks, and might need physical therapy, because there was some damage to his hamstring. Roan nodded, accepting all of this, fairly certain he’d be fine without all of it; the only good thing about transforming was his muscles could spring back from tears like they were made of putty. There were some upsides to being a freak.

Dylan showed up shortly after she left and hugged him fiercely, allowing Roan to settle his face in his hair and inhale the scent of his apple-ginger conditioner. They just held each other for a long time, taking comfort from each other’s physical presence alone. The fact that Dylan was wearing linen pants and a loose gray sweatshirt indicated he’d just come from yoga, as did the excess heat coming from his body.

Roan took his face in his hands, feeling unshaven stubble scrape his palms, and started kissing his face, whispering, “I’m sorry,” between each kiss. Dylan placed one hand on the back of his neck, another on his chest, and let Roan kiss him for almost a minute before gently pushing him back. “You’re going to make me cry, so stop.”

“I am sorry.”

“You oughta be, you bastard,” he said, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “When are they gonna release you?”

“No idea. Hot doctor didn’t say.”

“Hot?”

“Don’t worry, she was female. I only noticed she was hot from a clinical perspective.”

Dylan stroked Roan’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, looking at him like he was trying to memorize his face. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged, really not sure what to say. “Okay, considering. Leg hurts a bit, but I guess that’d be expected.”

“Your chest doesn’t hurt?”

“No. Why would it?”

“You were shot there too.”

He stared at him a moment. “I was?” Roan pulled the neck of his paper gown out and looked down. There was a tiny gauze square taped to his chest (oh god, attached to his chest hair—that was going to hurt when it was ripped off). Now he had vague memories of taking a shot to the chest, but just barely; it was a half-remembered dream. Also, he couldn’t help but notice it was a direct hit center mass shot, just like they taught you to make at the academy. A good cop shot that should have made more of an impact than a single gauze square. “What the hell? How is this not worse?”

“Doctor Rosenberg came by this morning and found the answer. When you were shot, you had an odd, dense muscle precisely in the area where you were shot, and it seemed to stop the bullet from doing any serious damage. But Humans don’t have that muscle, and she’s not convinced lions do either. She managed to convince the staff here that it was one of those weird, random genetic defects that virus children can have, but she seems to think that as soon as she can get you back to the university and scan you, the muscle won’t be there.”

Roan considered this, and then gave up. She was probably right, and he had no reason to doubt her. “So it’s something that happens while I’m in transition.”

“I guess. That’s what she thinks. What do you think?”

“She’s probably right. I just wonder what the muscle was for.”

“Maybe you have a new superpower. Maybe you can spontaneously generate shields out of muscles or something.”

“Eww. Don’t even joke. Besides, if that was true, why didn’t one appear in my leg?”