Meantime, Part 9

9 – I Don’t Bite

Roan and Randi went to a near by coffee shop to talk, which was convenient since it was only down that street. Probably because she was feeling guilty, she treated, buying him a fancy tea drink (some kind of latte equivalent, too sweet but very good) and an overly fancy ham and cheese sandwich which they split. They sat in a table by the window, so they’d have something else to look at in the awkward pauses in the conversation.

Roan kind of didn’t want to hear her apology. He knew that all the weirdness was due to what happened with her brother, how that whole case was resolved. She probably thought he could keep him from going to jail, which just wasn’t possible, not under those circumstances. He did what he could for Grant, got him a good lawyer and notified the ACLU so if anyone tried any anti-infected bullshit they’d be all over them like acne on a teenager. Grant was still in prison, but he was relatively safe, which is more than can be said for most people in jail. Still, he probably wouldn’t live too much longer.

It was a bit awkward, but he just let her talk, because it seemed like she needed to. He had no ill will towards her, never had. He wouldn’t blame her if she did hate him. She’d let her hair grow out since he’d last seen her, and she’d gained some weight, her face was rounder, but he didn’t blame her for that either. She had an infected brother in prison for manslaughter, a brother who was a lightning rod of controversy and becoming the unwitting pivot of the constant “infecteds need to be charged with greater crimes” argument, while various news outlets salivated over the scandalous detail that he was in an open three way relationship with his college pal and his girlfriend. That would drive anyone to overeating, alcoholism, pill popping, and all sorts of risky behaviors. She’d never done anything to deserve this kind of shit, but Grant hadn’t either, although his own personal irresponsibility helped get him to where he was. That was true of every kid on the planet, though.

The way she commented on his new “military” cut, he knew much of her reasons for making amends was she thought he was terminal. He tried to assure her he wasn’t, but she took it in a way that suggested she was humoring him. That was okay, because it might be true. The way forward for him from now on would be to consider the possibility that every day was his last.

It turned out she was the one to ask about the mystery renovations. “We got together and did it,” Randi informed him, picking at her sandwich. “Everybody in the office park. We raised the money, and Doctor Braunbeck knew a contractor who gave us a cut rate.”

“He took payments in gorp?”

That made her crack a smile, the first of the afternoon. “I dunno. You’d think, though.” She looked out the window at a bike messenger passing by, who had left nothing to the imagination by wearing tight lycra shorts, suggesting he was just flaunting what he had. If the lycra was telling the truth, he had quite a bit. “We good?”

“We were always good, Randi.”

She studied his face before nodding. “It’s really strange, you know? You’re such a hard ass, and yet you’re so forgiving. How does that work? “

Roan never thought of himself as forgiving, or kind in any respect. That’s why he married men who were so much nicer than he could ever be, so they could pick up the slack. Perhaps finally, after all this time, they started rubbing off on him. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m schizophrenic.”

“Nope, sorry, don’t buy that.” She took a gulp of her coffee, finished picking apart her sandwich for now, and asked, “So, how does it feel being either hated or loved by thousands of complete strangers?”

She just had to remind him, didn’t she?

****

Holden wondered if all churches were this boring. He’d only been in two, counting this one, but the only thing that seemed to change was who they worshipped and who they hated. Everything else was the same.

With nothing but time to think, he realized he never actually went in for any of this. Even as a preacher’s son, smiling for the cameras, mouthing the platitudes he was supposed to say, he knew it was all bullshit. He said it because he was expected to say it, but religion never meant anything to him. He knew his parents were hypocritical pieces of shit before he even knew the name for it, and their religion was imply another branch of their hypocrisy, another way they could lie to everyone and themselves. No wonder he could he never take any of this seriously.

He didn’t really hear anything the Divine Transformation … preacher (what did they call themselves? That wasn’t clear …) was saying. It was just noise, the same platitudes with some minor rearrangements, blah blah blah. So much for a cult, it was just like the church of his childhood. He was hoping for chicken sacrifices or evil alien shape shifter residue in the blood, but none of that happened, and it was a dreadful disappointment. He’d catch Forbes looking at him, but he’d only occasionally reciprocate, catch his eye, give him a slow, teasing smile that was just baiting the hook and slowly reeled him in. Too fucking easy.

He continued to feel bad for Badger. He must have found comfort here, although why he’d lie to his friends and slink off was a mystery. Or was it? He’d been around Roan too long; he’d forgotten how much of a stigma was attached to being an infected. Except for those in this room, who saw it as a shortcut to the divine, most people still hated the infected, and avoided them like they could somehow contract it through proximity alone.

It was easy to forget, because Roan was like that one definitely out radical fairy in the ‘70’s, the one who refused to stay in the closet or be ashamed of what they were simply because everyone told them they should be. He was very much in the mode of “This is me, deal with it”. He paid for his ballsy-ness – they’d tried to burn down his home and office, tried to kill him – but at the same time, he forced the uninfected to learn to deal with those who were. He made himself a target, but he also made himself a representative of all infecteds, for good and for ill. Because of that, people who dealt with him probably feared infecteds more – what ass couldn’t a lion man kick? Seriously, any time he wanted, he could pretty much take you out, hence the cops‘ general love of referring to him as Batman – but they also must have realized that while fear was logical, hatred was pointless. They were just people, although there could be a good argument that Roan wasn’t, but that was beside the point. As confrontational and controversial as Roan was, he was making infecteds seem more “normal”, and was making a small but noticeable difference in the way people around him saw the afflicted. Not monsters, not sub-humans, just unfortunate people.

Except for Roan himself. He was seen as kind of a monster. Which would explain the rednecks with pitchforks and torches that occasionally washed up on his doorstep, but he probably saw it as taking one for the team.

It made Holden wonder what life would be like if all the infected in the room were like Roan, able to partially transform at will. He figured normal people wouldn’t run things anymore, and would be a near extinct species. If all the infecteds were like him, there would be a split down evolutionary lines, and Humans would no longer be the top of the food chain. Honestly, that would probably be for the best, but the world hadn’t been flooded with Roan-alikes yet. Humanity was probably breathing a collective sigh of relief.

His phone hummed in his pocket, and he checked it, to see he’d gotten a text message from Scott: ‘Im bored‘. Holden texted back ‘Join the club’, then switched off his phone, because obsessive texters annoyed him. Besides, it looked like this sermon, time share sales speech, performance by the biggest tit in the world was finally over. He wondered if he should applauded or throw a handful of change, but everybody just seemed to be drifting away into their own separate groups. He leaned over to Badger, and said, “You ever need a place to stay, you know I can hook you up, right?”

Badger did an odd sort of thing that was half smile, half grimace. “Of course, yeah. You’re the fixer. That’s what you do.”

Holden had never thought of it that way before, but he supposed he was a fixer, a guy you went to to get things done. How odd. He’d never thought of himself in that way at all.

Forbes came over, giving them a practiced, insincere smile, although his eyes were riveted to Holden’s. Forbes was probably in his late twenties, average height and lean, his dark blond hair combed back savagely, slicked down with probably a handful more hair gel than was technically necessary. His eyes were pale blue, an under chlorinated pool, while his face was unremarkable, with an average nose above average lips and an average chin; he was an Identi-Kit man, the one who came with the software and helped newbies put together their first suspect profile. “What did you think, Hayden?” he asked.

Holden tried on a small smirk, and replied, “Is it all talk around here? I was hoping for something more … exciting.”

Badger snickered. “Good to know infection hasn’t changed you.”

Forbes gave him a curious look, possibly trying to raise one of his thin blond brows, but he couldn’t pull it off. “So you’re a man of action, are you?”

There was such an obvious double entendre and come on in that that Holden wanted to roll his eyes, but he knew he wasn’t being himself today. Instead, he met Forbes gaze with a hungry one of his own. “Bring it on. I’ll try anything once.”

It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it?

****

Campanelli, according to the Department of Motor Vehicles, drove a ‘08 Lexus SC430 convertible, that silver color that automakers seemed to have embraced whole-heartedly in the last couple of years. There was no fucking way a guy with his spotty employment record could have afforded this car, even if it was two years old, but that’s probably where the gambling came in. But considering how fast the leaders of the Church died, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he ran out and got a huge car loan he knew he’d never have to pay back, although most banks weren’t willing to take a risk on an infected.

Roan called Holden to let him know he didn’t have to infiltrate, he could just try and tail this motherfucker until he dropped, but of course Holden had his phone turned off. The problem wasn’t getting Holden in a place, it was getting him out. If Holden was a true psychopath, he’d be the worst serial killer the world had ever seen, but if he were a true altruist, he’d be the greatest Human that ever lived. Somehow he slipped between all the categories until he was simply himself, a dichotomous, uncomfortable mix between saint and demon, a danger to himself and others. Was this really the sidekick he wanted? Well, it was the sidekick he deserved, so maybe it didn’t matter.

He had locked up his office and was in his car when his cell went off. He was hoping for Holden, but he got Seb. “Problem?” he asked, answering the phone.

“I don’t call to shoot the shit, do I?” Seb replied, although it was with a wry hint of humor.

“Not that I’m aware of. Address, nature of problem, severity,” he asked, putting the keys in the ignition and starting the car.

Seb let out a slight scoff, but that was all. “Need you at the Bradford Academy, Bellevue. Damn, I wish you just got a GPS, old man, I could give you coordinates.”

“I don’t need another overpriced gizmo I’ll never use – wait, Bradford Academy? Isn’t that that private Christian school?” Since it was in Bellevue, you could also guess it was for rich folks, as it was. Not as rich as the Medina folks, but certainly better off than the trailer park denizens of Kent.

“Yep, and we got a kid who shifted in the bathroom. The school is mostly evacuated, but we have a few unaccounted for, although they may have just run off. The Chief wants this settled with the least amount of bloodshed, and as quickly as possible. Get your ass down here. I’ve been authorized to okay an escort if you need it.”

“Holy shit, are you kidding me?” If they wanted all the lights and sirens going, it was a big deal indeed. But the immediate problem stuck in his throat. “Wait – there’s no way a kid could’ve shifted in the bathroom. It takes at least an hour.”

“I know, and the possible shifter is a kid who was marked absent, even though her sister said she’d come to school, a fifteen year old named Salome Little.”

“Somebody named their kid Salome? The poor bastard.”

“You’re talkin’ to a guy named Sebastian, remember? Now get your ass down here.”

Roan did, driving as fast as traffic would allow, and since it wasn’t rush hour yet, he made decent time. Still, when he reached the school, it seemed like everyone in King County had arrived before he did. He even saw the channel eight news van, and the cameraman must have known him, because as soon as he got out of the car, he heard the guy say to someone (probably the on air talent), “Holy shit, I heard he was dead.” Nice to know the local press hadn’t completely forgotten him.

Because he was known by most, they cleared a path for him right up to the police cordon. (And even if he wasn’t, many people turned to stare at the guy wearing the Pansy Division shirt on the grounds of a Christian high school.) Seb was there, and let him pass with no difficulty. “What’s with the Full Metal Jacket cut?” he asked, handing him a drug gun.

“Brain surgery, remember?” Roan tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. The school had a steeple shaped roof, which seemed a little too on the nose, and wide cement steps that seemed more appropriate for a temple than a rich kid’s Bible school.

Seb’s look was dubious, his lips twisting into a minor scowl. “That’s what I thought, but should you be out of the hospital?”

“I am, and lucky for this kid.” Cordons stretched around the front of the school, giving the entrance a wide berth, but kids still milled around at the fringes. Their uniforms were stark black and white, making him think of nuns, penguins, and Oreos. It had been hard enough for him to wear a police uniform; he couldn’t imagine wearing a uniform to any of his hellish schools either.

Along with police cars, there were a couple of ambulances. He didn’t see Dee’s rig, and was glad, as he was sure he’d get an earful about leaving the hospital so soon. “Injuries?” he asked.

Seb shrugged. “Some, nothing major. As long as there are no more kids in that school we might get away without a worse PR nightmare.”

Roan nodded, and headed up the steps. “Last seen in the second floor bathroom,” Seb shouted after him. Roan just nodded, making a dismissive hand gesture. He’d find out.

Going up the steps, he noticed some of the kids behind the cordon were taking pictures and video of him with their phones. He felt like waving and shouting, “I’m everything you’re taught to hate, and I’m saving your asses. You’re welcome!” But he managed to suppress the urge. He’d just have to let his Pansy Division shirt and the fact that he was going (technically) unarmed and alone into a school with a panicky cat in it do the talking for him.

Once inside the foyer, he roared, letting it come out from the pit of his stomach. It was challenging, angry, and any cat would have responded to it reflexively. If it heard him.

Roan decided he must have done it prematurely, as all he heard were echoes of his own roar down the empty white corridors, so he walked in further, marveling at how clean this school was. Maybe it was because his background was rather low rent, but he’d never been to a school this neat. Even the lockers that lined part of the hallway were unblemished, although painted a primary green that made him think of kindergarten more than high school. There was an occasional cross on the wall, and a framed ten commandments, reminding him he was an unholy, satanic creature about to burst into flame any second now. Except, probably not. If he was going to burst into flames, you’d think it would have happened years ago.

Now that he was farther into the hall, closer to air vents, he roared again, feeling blood well up in his throat. Finally he heard an answering roar, somewhere above him, and he headed down the hall, looking for the stairwells. It was hard to find the cat’s scent, mixed in with all the kids and their various chemicals, a crowd of ordinary people with a heavy reliance on acne creams, perfumes, and disgusting body sprays which threatened to overwhelm everything else. (There were a lot of secret cigarette and pot smokers as well. Didn’t they know they were going to hell? Which, if it did exist, Roan imagined would be a high school.) But concentrating on the scents, discovering their tangled skeins and discarding them as best he could, he thought he found a single neon yellow filament of cat scent. What kind of cat? That was puzzling, although he blamed its weakness, as well as the thousands of competing scents.

He found the stairwell door and opened it, racing up to the second floor. The cat scent was stronger, but no less confusing. If there were people still in the school, he wasn’t calling out to them until this was all over, because hearing a human voice might cause some people to leave their secure hiding spaces, making them dinner on the hoof. It was faster to get the cat and then give them the all clear.

He burst through the door of the second floor hallway roaring, giving the cat its target, a rival to fight for territory. Up here was the chemistry and home ec rooms, he knew that from the chemical smells and the scent of burnt cheese, and he winced until he grew accustomed to them. This might have added an extra layer of agitation to the cat.

He heard the responding roar, louder now, with the added noise of claws scrabbling on slick tiles, headed in his direction. Roan ran towards the noise, wanting to meet the cat half way, but also fighting to keep his hold on the lion, which wanted to come out and challenge the rival, rip out its throat and gnaw on its entrails. Talk about a PR nightmare.

But as the cat skidded around the corner, paws sliding on the spotlessly clean tiles that made up the floor of the Academy, Roan paused, briefly shocked back to Human control even as he roared to try and establish dominance over the smaller cat, scare it into submission.

Cats weren’t just identifiable by coloring, they were identified by other characteristics, such as face shape, paws, tail length and type, even by its ears. Yes, a lion would have a mane and a tiger would have stripes, but they had different face shapes, sometimes subtle, but those were generally exaggerated in the infected breeds for some reason. So what had surprised Roan was he was looking at a small cougar, only with leopard spots and a longer muzzle, more leopard like than cougar. He wasn’t sure if it was a malformed cougar, a malformed leopard … or both?

Holy shit, was this a hybrid cat?