14 – In Our Talons

He 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 honestly took 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 more than they made you stop caring about it.

He managed to get home, he was hyper-aware of his driving, but he was also aware of how spacey and out of sorts he felt. Next time, no driving for him.

He 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? He 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 him, 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 shank 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 his 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.

He 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 happened to him, 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. He 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 eeked 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 he 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 heard 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 him 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 did it, but if he ever found out, he’d keep them in mind.

They sat around the room, eating pizza, and they talked about shit unrelated to all of this, possibly to distract him, but it worked. Tank had apparently got in with this person who was putting together a calender of nude local athletes for a calender that would support a cancer charity. It wasn’t full nudity, the “naughty bits” would be covered, but there was a surprising amount 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 homo-erotic for me,” Jeff exclaimed.

“It could get more homo-erotic,” 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, he 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 answer it 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.” He 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 virtually 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 suddenly grew a second head.

Dylan stared at him in surprise as well. “Namaste. What the hell’s going on?”

Scott retrieved his shirt and put it on. “We knew things were gettin’ bad, so we dropped by to see if we could help.”

“As homo-erotically as possible,” Grey added.

“Well, that explains the nudity,” Dylan admitted, and then fixed Roan with a concerned, almost heartbroken look. “I heard on the news about the thing at the college. You were involved, weren’t you?”

Scott clapped his hands together, and said, “Come on guys, let’s give ‘em some privacy.”

Tank shoved the remainder of his pizza in his mouth, while Jeff stood up with a groan. “What’re we supposed to do?”

“Stand out on the lawn and look menacing,” Grey suggested.

“Take out your junk. That’ll scare away anyone,” he replied, making Scott laugh. Scott held the door and made sure they were all out before leaving himself.

As soon as the door shut, Dylan asked, “Do I wanna know what that was about?”

“Probably not.”

Dylan touched his face, stroking his new beard. The look in his eyes told him Dylan knew exactly what that meant. “Are you all right?”

With the slightest of sighs, he admitted, “No. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

He nodded in understanding. “Okay.” He then embraced him, and Roan fell easily into the hug, glad to feel Dylan’s warmth and strength, to smell his scent (tinted slightly with incense smoke). Dylan held him for a long time, although it wasn’t long enough for Roan; Dylan could have held him forever as far as he was concerned. It felt good, safe, Human.

“You’re shivering,” Dylan noted. “But you’re warm. Do you have a fever?” He stood back far enough to put his hand on his forehead.

“No, it’s just post-transition havoc.” He tried to smile, and was sure he failed. Dylan echoed it with a heartbroken smile.

“Kevin called back. He said his house was our house, and we could come over at any time.”

“Great. Let’s throw some stuff in a bag and get going.”

He nodded in agreement, but still stroked Roan’s stubble. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I will be, yeah. I just need time to recover.”

“From today or the Falcons?”

That made him smile. “Ah, they were actually a help. They gave me pizza and an improv comedy routine.”

“And some nudity.”

“Sadly not full frontal. Gonna have to ask for that next time.”

Dylan gave him the look for that – that skeptical, “don’t you dare” kind of boyfriend look – but let it go.

Roan realized they had helped, in a way he hadn’t expected. He considered the possibility of just going upstairs and putting a gun under his chin and pulling the trigger. Would he have actually done it? He wasn’t sure, but the fact that he had company meant he had no chance to find out.

Roan assumed it was just an overnight stay, that he’d be back tomorrow, so he didn’t pack much. He just threw a change of clothes in a bag (which meant at least three shirts, although he hoped he was done transforming for the day), as well as a book, a gun, and a buttload of pills. He wondered if that summed up his life.

Dylan packed a bit more, but did it fast, and managed to limit himself to two bags. When he saw Roan just had a rucksack, he scowled and asked, “Is packing light a detective thing, or are you just too tired to care?”

“Bit of both.”

They locked things up and left, to find that Tank, Scott, Grey, and Jeff were indeed still hanging around. They told them what they were doing and let them know they appreciated the thought anyways.

Dylan started their car and Roan saw the guys to theirs, stopping Scott by grabbing his arm. “Thanks for everything.” He hoped he knew what he meant, as spelling it all out might be weird.

Scott seemed to understand. “Hey, we all need a little help sometimes. Even superheros.” At Roan’s grimace, he added, “Or superstuds, like myself.”

He rolled his eyes, but still smiled. “With lines like that, it’s hard to believe you ever get a date.”

“I have to beat ‘em off with a stick. Tank’s stick, in fact.”

“What about my stick?” Tank asked, as Scott opened the door and got in the back of the Malibu.

“I was saying mine’s bigger,” Scott replied.

Jeff, in the driver’s seat, snorted derisively. “More homo-eroticism. Can we stop, please? I’m starting to feel like I’m in a bad porno.”

“Bow chicka wow wow,” Grey said, mimicking ’70’s porn music, as Scott closed the door and Jeff shook his head in disgust. Although it was muffled, Roan heard Tank say, “You guys know I’m not letting you touch my stick, right?”

They waved at him as they drove away, and Roan waved back, watching them go, pitying the fool who pissed them off.

When he got in the car, Dylan, who had already turned the radio on to KEXP and started the heater (probably because he thought he might be cold), asked, “Am I the only one who was bullied by jocks in school? Do you think they bullied anyone?”

“Well, odds are. But Tank strikes me as too weird to do that, and Grey probably never needed to; he just needed to show up.”

“’Cause he’s as big as Frankenstein? I can believe that.” He paused, adjusted the rear view mirror, and then asked, “You think that’s why his junk is so scary?”

“Frankendick,” Roan replied, and they both chuckled at the idea.

Yes, it was rather immature of both of them. But sometimes you just needed the laugh, no matter how juvenile it was.

They drove to Kevin’s, Roan telling Dylan which streets to take, and they got there in good time. Obviously Kevin was home, as not only was his battered maroon  ‘98 Integra in the driveway, but he’d put the dogs in the backyard. He heard them barking, and in spite of the drugs, had to swallow back the urge to growl and roar a challenge.

They hefted their bags and Roan knocked on the front door, feeling weird about all of this. But he was doing this for Dylan, which is what you did in relationships – you compromised, you did things you didn’t necessarily want to do to keep stubborn people safe.

He could smell the scents of cooking even before the door was opened (Kevin was a hell of a cook), but he was enjoying it enough that the shock of who answered the door just washed open.

“Oh hey,” the boy said. He looked to be mid-twenties at the oldest, slightly tic-y, with shoulder length brown hair almost covering the black tribal style tattoo on the side of his neck. “Come in.”

Roan almost didn’t recognize him with all his clothes on. Dylan froze in shock once recognition kicked in, but oddly enough, the boy hadn’t recognized him at all, as he casually turned away and walked deeper into the house.

This was Parker Davis, the male prostitute (under the name Colt Turner) who’d been a suspect in the murder of Eric Chiang, a bartender at Panic. The suspect that Dylan had identified as the last man seen leaving the bar with Eric. The suspect that Roan suspected was a little too close to the way in the closet (and lonely) Kevin.

Wow – just when you thought things were fucked up enough, things got even more fucked up. How that worked he would never know.

13 – Stiff Kittens

Bolt immediately ducked down under his desk, and for a moment Roan wondered if he’d been shot. But he hadn’t heard the bullet, smelled it, or smelled blood – all he smelled was fear.

By the time Roan had turned and headed for the door, he heard what sounded like shouting and return fire. “What kind of guns are your security packing?”

Bolt peered cautiously over his desk, just the top of his head appearing over the edge.“ I don’t know. Guns. Aren’t you scared?”

“No.” He opened the door and looked out into the corridor, and he couldn’t actually see anything, but he could hear voices outside, and from the sound of it, the shooting was over. Good. “How many men do you have?”

“It depends. Today I think we have six out there.”

“Probably a good idea. You might want to set up twenty four hour patrols.”

“Yeah, we’re on that.” Apparently deciding the threat was over, and he was done feeling foolish, he sat up in his plush desk chair, and straightened out his shirt, even though he didn’t need to and it didn’t help. But it was some attempt to reclaim dignity that he never really had.

“If you’re serious about me some day taking over this place, you’ll hand over all the info I need on the guy supervising these dances, mixers, whatever the hell you call the get togethers where the infected meet the willing. And you’ll do it now.”

Again he was treated to Bolt’s fish impersonation: mouth opening and closing, eyes stark with the need to argue and the need to give in. After a moment’s mental debate, he turned to his computer, and tapped out something on the keyboard. His printer clattered to life and hummed as it printed out something. When it was done, he took the piece of paper out of the tray and held it out over the desk wordlessly. It was an odd white flag of surrender, but he looked broken handing it over. “Thanks,” Roan said, taking the paper and looking at it. “I’ll show myself out.”He left without waiting for acknowledgment.

The man’s name was Pierce Hockney, which somehow seemed just about right, full of unpleasant syllables. Outside, the protesters had pretty much cleared up, while the church’s security staff was surrounding a car with bullet holes marring its door and the driver’s side window shattered. There was a man on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, cursing at the security staff who were surrounding him with their guns drawn. It sounded like sirens were on their way, but he wanted no part of it. He’d witnessed nothing and couldn’t help. Besides, it was just a drive by that did superficial damage to the church; the lack of a fresh blood smell seemed to indicate no one was actually hurt.

Once inside his car, he double checked the address. The guy lived near University Place, which would take him out of his way. There was a phone number, which he tried, but he got shunted to voice mail. He almost hung up, but at the last moment he decided to just brazen it out. “Hey, yeah, I was told you were the guy to come to for some burn? I heard it at the church …” he deliberately hesitated, trying to sound as uncomfortable and nervous as possible. “I just need somethin’, and pills don’t cut it anymore. So, yeah, I’ll call back.” He hung up, wondering if he was a decent actor. He lied well, and that was pretty much the same thing.

He wondered idly if burn really did make you painless.

His phone rang, and he thought it might be Hockney calling him back. “Yeah?”

“Roan, get your ass to the Templeton College campus now,” Seb exclaimed angrily.

He was about to tell him to ask nicely when he heard gunfire in the background, and Seb cursed. Suddenly he was no longer in a joking mood. “Fucking hell, what’s going on?”

“Some kids had a party at one of the frat houses, and it musta been full of burn and full of infecteds who either didn’t know it or were trying to score some college tail, ’cause we got at least three, maybe four, cats runnin’ around campus going fucking nuts. I don’t know how many we got dead, we got a lotta injured, we have at least one inside one of the main buildings – fuck!” There was another fusillade of bullets, and he heard a member of the cat squad shouting orders to someone else. After that passed, he said, “It’s taking a lot of bullets to put these fuckers down, and we haven’t gotten the campus fully evacuated. We need your super cat powers now – move it!”

“I don’t have super cat powers,” he replied, but he said it to a dial tone. Shit. How lovely it was to have everything go wrong at once.

He wasn’t far from the campus and traffic wasn’t bad, but he was still afraid he’d taken too long. He illegally parked, figuring if any cop was anal enough to give him a ticket in the middle of a massacre he was more than welcome to, and ran towards the nearest cluster of armor clad cat squad members on the perimeter of the front quad. As they turned towards him, he shouted, “Roan McKichan, let me through!”

They parted, obviously recognizing him, as he shucked off his jacket and let it fall as he ran past, headed towards the main building (and the gunshots). One of them yelled, “You need a gun!”

“Bullshit!” he shouted back, slamming into the glass door so hard he was a little surprised he didn’t shatter it. But the pneumatic hinge on the door made a funny noise as he paused and took a deep breath, trying to parse the smells.

There were too many, and now the abrasive sting of cordite was overwhelming the other scents, but he still picked up the faint trail of another cat, and followed it.

In the back of his mind, he was aware this was a nice college, that the building he was in had a vaulted roof and skylights, that it had a pleasantly sunny color scheme and an open floor plan. But he really didn’t pay any direct attention to it at all; his mind had already shifted to battle mode, and the lion was sliding into the driver’s seat, ready to take on any cat that dared to cross its territory. Never mind that it actually wasn’t its territory – it would lay claim to whatever it wanted. He was aware of screams, of gunshots, of shouts and fear, but everything was falling away as his senses narrowed, his reason splintered, and the beast stared taking over. The crackle of bones shifting and breaking was a calming fireside crackle in the background, his adrenaline too high to feel anything in the way of pain.

He smelled blood, rich and intoxicating, and found himself in a wide corridor, its marble tiled floor slick with hot red blood. It was one of the cat squad, his face shield up as he yelped in pain, trying not to scream, as a couple of his buddies dragged him across the floor, his right leg useless and spewing blood, a chunk of flesh and muscle and useless body armor torn away. His first response to this scene was hunger, an urge to finish off the wounded animal, but he wasn’t completely lion yet.

One of the uninjured cat squad looked at him and suddenly raised their sidearm, but Seb was there, and he pointed down the hall towards some broad double doors. “It went through there. It’s wounded, but it won’t go down.”

Yes, he could smell its blood even above the Human blood. He was beyond speech, so he simply nodded and ran for the doors. He heard one of the cat squad say, “What the hell was up with his face?”

He burst through the wide doors into what he knew by smell as a library: old paper and dust, a smell as comforting as home to him. In fact, it was home to him, he had his own “library”, although could you call a bunch of haphazardly assembled books, many of them paperbacks and even more used, a library? It wasn’t like this place, with its cheerful skylights letting in a honeyed glow, vaulted ceiling, and bookcases about as tall as your average mobile home.

He let out a deep, pit of the diaphragm roar, a scream that tore up his throat and echoed beautifully off the walls and high ceiling, sending out a challenge to all cats in hearing range. It was the “Mine!” roar, the one that told all cats that this place was his and death would be the penalty for trespass. Best case scenario, all the cats in the area ran. But here, dealing with drug and pain crazed cats, there was only one response possible: they would mob him, attack en masse, attack each other even in their frenzy to kill him. And that was the response he was counting on.

He tried to hang on to his humanity, not fully transform, as he knew he might get himself shot if he completely let go (and he might bite some big chunks out of the cat squad as well). He wasn’t sure how to keep even the slightest Human part of himself – and it hurt; it was a dull knife buried deep in his brain, being twisted slowly, and he knew the monster would take its claws out of his grey matter if he just gave in – but he couldn’t, if only because he wouldn’t let it win. He tried to focus on Dylan – pretend he was here, make himself believe he was here.

The lion in the library roared a challenge and came charging after him, with a huge mane shot through with peroxide white; a male, big, young, but given to bad hair. Roan roared back and met it half way. They lunged and collided in mid air, crashing down and through a long table as the lion sunk its teeth into his shoulder and its claws into his back as he sunk his teeth into its neck and slammed a palm hard into its rib cage.

He felt the cat tearing muscles with its teeth as its ribs shattered beneath his hand, and it squalled in pain as he ripped through its throat, taking out a chunk of flesh that he spit out with its sour blood. He wanted the blood, but this was poisoned, tainted, sour as paint thinner. He was vaguely aware of wooden splinters digging into his back and side, but it was little more than background noise. As soon as the lion twisted its head away, teeth out of his flesh, he threw it across the room. The lion hit a bookcase spine first, hard enough to send books avalanching down to the carpet.

It landed on its feet, of course, but shook itself as if it could shake away the pain. Now it not only had minor bullet wounds in its flank and side and broken ribs, but a huge chunk of flesh out of it neck where it was now losing blood in copious amounts. But that didn’t mean it was done.

Roan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder, the lion had done some damage, but the fresh new pain made him angry, and the beast threatened to overwhelm him as he roared, his hands balling into fists full of broken bones that felt like they were twitching. The lion roared back and charged, and Roan caught it, its momentum making him fall backwards into the aisle.

The beast was overwhelming him, trying to make him go to all fours, make him go to claws, but he grabbed the lion’s wound, sinking fingers into warm flesh, and tore, pulling away sinew like ribbons. It screamed, fetid breath washing over him as it squirmed, and suddenly there was a responding roar, and a dark brown blur pounced on them, joining the fight. A lioness this time, not as big, but just as angry and deadly. She sunk her teeth into his arm and dug her claws into his legs, groin, and chest. He reflexive sunk his teeth into her soft pad of a nose, and as her bite loosened he flung his arm and sent her flying. She hit a shelf so hard it collapsed, and he heard the splinter of wood as she punched through the bookcase like a missile.

The male had recovered and launched itself at him, but at half strength now. It was still enraged, but had lost too much blood to do much about it. He was up on all fours when it charged in, and he had enough humanity left in him to throw an ad hoc upper cut that sent the lion stumbling back before it fell down. He didn’t think it would be getting up again.

The lioness had recovered, and this time she was joined with a roar by a leopard so dark he almost thought it was a panther. He was on his feet and kicked the lion away, slamming it hard into another shelf, books raining down like dust, but the leopard latched onto his leg, teeth sinking into his calf muscle.

He roared in rage and pain, and acted without thought, without a shred of humanity, which might have been why Roan was so surprised, almost shocked back to his human self entirely when he saw he’d put his fist through the cat’s head.

Through its head. Like it was made of papier mache, and not the blood and brain matter currently dripping from his fist, still embedded in its shattered skull.

The lion in him felt triumphant, but Roan felt a little sick.

The lioness jumped back at him with a roar, and he ducked the initial jump, shaking the dead cat off the end of his arm, and when it came in again Roan caught the female cat by her throat and simply threw her as far as he could. Like he imagined, that was pretty far. She impacted a back shelf, so hard the towering bookcase rocked before finally coming down, and then the big cases began to fall like dominoes. He hoped they would all fall down and he would be crushed, but it didn’t happen, as the cases stopped toppling as soon as it hit a retaining wall.

He heard the thud of boots on tiled floor, and suddenly the room was full of uninjured cat squad members pointing guns and super charged tasers like they expected an attack from all sides. Roan turned away, so they couldn’t see his bloody face or torn clothes. “Dude, it sounded like the world was ending in here,”  Seb explained. “You okay?”

He just nodded, trying to force his humanity back into the driver’s seat. The problem was the viciousness of what he’d done to the leopard had made it come to the forefront anyways, and now the pain was hitting him square on, without any of the gradual peaking he was used to. He felt like he had a broken hand, a broken jaw, torn muscles in his shoulder, in his leg, and it felt basically like he had been stabbed in the balls, all of which were more or less true. He held the keening noise to the back of his throat, and he felt like collapsing, but remained on his feet. He closed his eyes and concentrated on swallowing the pain, holding it back, just until he could get to his car.

With a pained, watery growl, the lioness crawled out from beneath the pile of books and broken wood, and a member of the cat squad opened fire, getting a head shot with the second bullet. She went down in a heap, and there was no doubt she wouldn’t be getting up again.

Roan felt he had it, the fragile equilibrium that would allow him to keep from screaming, and was aware that someone was staring at him. He opened his eyes and turned to see a member of the cat squad with his face shield up, a real square jawed Captain America type, who asked, “How the hell are you not dead yet?”

“I’m a monster,” he said, his voice so gravelly and raw it might as well have been a growl. He stared at him because it even hurt to move his damn eyes, and he watched the guy blanch, all blood draining from his face as he realized that Roan was serious. Sometimes fear smelled like metal.

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, he 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.

He 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 nor beast. But what was he supposed to do? Where did all the freaks go when they outlived their usefulness?

Maybe that was for him to find out.

Seems Infected has been nominated for an online horror story award!

Check out http://www.campanella-awards.webs.com/  for details. And thanks to those that nominated me! You guys are awesome.