Infected: Lesser Evils (25 page)

“They don’t have waiters for that?” Roan replied, but he knew that this was a ruse for some reason.

“You make a guest work? That’s just rude,” Tank said.

Roan gave them a sarcastic wave as he walked past, and the guys all waved back, except for Jeff, who for some reason gave him the black power salute. Maybe he meant it as just a power salute, or it was a gesture he just wasn’t familiar with.

At the bar, which was covered with the faux bamboo that the rest of the place was lousy with, the attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed bartender instantly appeared, eying Scott like a tasty snack. He asked for another pitcher of ice tea with lemon and lime slices, and while she agreed readily, she added, “You could have asked your server, you know.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to stretch my legs a bit,” he said, as a new customer appeared at the end of the bar, and the woman had to wander away.

Roan looked at him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Scott gave him a look he could only describe as melancholy. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. Last time we saw you, you were in pretty shitty shape.”

He nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t a shining moment for me. But I’m trying to hold it together.”

“Look, I’m not gonna preach at you, ’cause I’m the last person that should, but you need to get some help.”

Roan gave him a modified stinkeye. “Help for what?”

“Whatever’s going on with you. I’m guessing depression, which I know all about. I spent most of my teen years splitting my time between hockey and therapy.”

Roan studied him warily. Scott was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt (not hockey related, unless you considered Molson beer a vital part of hockey), and looked more normal than he’d ever seen him, and it was almost weird. The same was true of Grey, who was wearing an Under Armour shirt as opposed to a T-shirt, and since it was essentially sleeveless, it showed off not only how well muscled his arms were, like limbs of sculpted concrete, but a new tattoo on his right bicep (it looked like a rose). Tank was wearing a mustard yellow T-shirt that had on it, in big white letters, “I Kick Ass For Free,” which Roan was willing to bet team members had bought him. Tank always looked odd—again, like the French Canadian jock Lane Staley—but he still seemed more at home than almost anyone else, even the poor employees in their Hawaiian shirts. Again, how did he end up with these weirdos? “So you’re a depressive too? Why? You’re a gorgeous bi jock—the world is made for your kind. Minus the bi, but keep that on the down low and you’re golden.”

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.

Short Bursts

R
OAN
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 minute, 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.