21 – Die Slow

The strange thing was, it was very peaceful.

Roan sort of felt distant, removed from the scene, as he heard Grey in his hockey goon voice, shouting, “You shot a cop! He was one of you!” It was a voice of pure homicide, and he could just imagine that poor cop shitting his pants or worse, aiming his weapon at Grey. And he was factually incorrect! He wasn’t a cop, just a “special investigator”, and he was never one of anyone. But he couldn’t articulate any of this. He felt like he was turning to ice, freezing in place, becoming gum on the sidewalk.

His vision was fading, slowing going out like someone had a dimmer switch, and a shadow fell over him, came beside him. “Hold on, Roan,” Scott said, taking off his belt. It struck him as a hilarious time to put the moves on him, but that wasn’t it. Scott looped his belt around his leg, just above the wound, and said, “Sorry, this is gonna hurt.” He then yanked up tight, like he was trying to saw his leg off, and the pain made him growl. The pressure was unbelievable, unbearable, and he wasn’t sure what Scott was trying to accomplish exactly. Hurting a dying man was hardly sporting, was it?

There were sirens and lights, but they were all far away and irrelevant. Nothing mattered, nothing was important; he was just cold, and now his leg hurt. “Roan, you hafta stay with me,” Scott said, looming over him. He had blood flecks on his face, blood on his hands, and suddenly alarm kicked in – he was infected. His blood was deadly, toxic, he had to stay away from it. But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Damn it, Scott, this wasn’t his fault. Why did he have to run in like that? “Talk to me, Roan. C’mon, don’t give up now.”

But it wasn’t giving up. It was just letting go, falling backwards into a black abyss of peace. It was good to fall, nice.

In an odd way, he was relieved. Maybe now, it was all over.

*****
Maybe he was a closet sadist, but Dylan found himself missing Panic.

Oh, only sometimes, but he honestly felt he didn’t belong here. Silver was a marvelously orderly, sane world full of tinkly piano music and people requesting vodka martinis, and god it was boring. Although the clientèle obviously had more money, the tips weren’t any better, and he actually missed the hassle of making drinks with stupid names that he had to Google on Luis’s phone to find out how to make ( the Muppet, for example, or the Luxor Boom Boom). And times like this, when it was a diner dead zone, he was so bored he hardly knew what to do with himself. For now, he was sitting on a stool and doodling on a napkin. He was sketching out some ideas on what he wanted to paint on Roan. He wasn’t going to plan, he was just going to go with the moment, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted to highlight the tattoos Roan already had, incorporate them into the overall design. Thinking about it, he realized he’d love to paint a heart on his face, a broken heart, his nose the dividing point, his eyes within the halves of the heart. Because Roan was grief, and all those tattoos he had were symbolic of that. There were always three people in this relationship, him, Roan, and the ghost of Paris, and that hadn’t changed. Sometimes he thought Roan thought it had, that he had gotten beyond it, but all those tattoos, even if they weren’t directly symbolic of Paris, were all about him. He was branding memories into his skin, wearing the body armor of his mourning, and he probably thought he wasn’t. He felt like incorporating that into the artistic theme. He wondered what he’d tell Roan about what he was doing, and decided to worry about it later.

He was trying to decide if a wing would work draped across the torso or if he’d have to put it across the stomach when Robin the Maitre’d suddenly came up to the bar and said, “There’s a call for you at my station.”

That surprised him, for more reasons than one. The boss didn’t like anyone getting personal calls ever, especially during your shift, even though it was almost over. As bosses went, he was anal and a complete prick, a body part two-fer. Robin usually kissed his ass too, so he was probably in for a lecture. But Robin looked oddly grim as he said, “You’re gonna want to take this call.” What the hell ..? Oh shit, now he knew it was bad news.

He quietly walked out from behind the bar and followed Robin to the Maitre’d’s area, where the phone sat on top of the small dais with the receiver off to one side. He picked it up, his stomach knotting in anxiety. “Yeah?”

“Dylan, get down to Saint Joe’s,” Dee said. “Roan’s been shot.”

“What?” Oh, he dreaded these calls. It wasn’t the first he had received, and it probably wasn’t the last.

“Long story, but a stupid cop fucked up, and … he’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t wanna worry you, but … hurry.”

Now the bottom dropped out of the world. Dee sounded concerned – mostly pissed off, but a bit concerned – and that really worried him. Dee would only sound concerned if there was a real problem. “Where was he shot? How is he?”

“Can’t explain now, just get down here,” Dee said curtly, and hung up.

Oh god. It was so bad he didn’t want to tell him.

Robin was right there, a well dressed raven, and said, “Go ahead and take off early.” Gee, a whole five minutes early? Could the place possibly spare him? Dylan thought that, but kept it to himself. He went and gathered his coat from the employee’s “lounge” (a tiny room that was probably a converted closet), and as he was leaving, Robin said, “I hope your friend’s all right.”

For some reason, that really pissed him off. Maybe it was the last straw, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “He’s my husband,” he snapped, shrugging on his jacket and heading outside, into the cool, slightly smoggy air. If any of the remaining customers were appalled that a gay had served them drinks, fuck them.

He didn’t remember the drive to the hospital. He was reasonably sure it felt longer than it should have, but otherwise it was a blur. He was numb, cold down to his toes, and wondered if this is what it felt like to be a zombie.  Except zombies wouldn’t feel cold, would they? This was exactly the kind of stupid, nonsensical discussion that Roan would love. He couldn’t think of that now.

The emergency room was madness, as it usually was, but it was the sheer amount of cops that drew Dylan in the right direction, and while a cop stepped in his way to stop him, a big arm shoved the cop aside like he was a cardboard stand up, and said, “He’s the fucking boyfriend, okay? Jesus.” It was Grey, who had half a foot and seventy pounds of muscle on the hapless cop, who could do nothing but stand aside and watch as Grey escorted him through the mob. He had to admit, in situations like this, it was good Roan had weird hockey player friends. Grey was a mountain, and even if you were as tall or muscular as he was, he clearly had lots of confidence in his innate ability to kick your ass. It was clear some of the cops wanted to say something, maybe stop him, but nobody dared.

Grey escorted him to a side room, a private waiting room, where everyone seemed to be waiting: Fiona, Dee, a bloodied Scott, a frazzled looking Jeff, and a coffee drinking Shep, Dee’s EMT partner. Dee stood as soon as he saw it was Dylan, but Dylan just went ahead and asked, “What the fuck happened? Where is he? Can I see him?”

Dee assumed his calm paramedic demeanor, that seemed to get more placid the worse the situation was. Right now, he seemed ice cold. “No, he’s in surgery right now. He was shot in the chest and the leg, but the leg caused the critical injury.”

“Yeah, that was funny,” Shep said, his Southern drawl barely noticeable. “The chest wound was like nothin’. Usually chest wounds are real messes, but it may as well have been a paper cut.”

Dee went on like he hadn’t been interrupted. “His femoral artery was hit. He easily lost half his blood volume by the time we got to the scene.”

Dylan just let the words wash over him, not really thinking about any of it. If he did, he would break down, and he didn’t want to do that in front of so many people.

“I know this sounds bad, but it’s not nearly as bad as it could have been. I found the artery and was able to pinch it off, although I guess hockey boy over there deserves some credit,” Dee said, gesturing at Scott. “He put a tourniquet on his leg, slowed the blood down, bought him some time.”

Scott simply shrugged, but the frazzled Jeff said, “And may have been infected for it! Jesus man, what were you fuckin’ thinkin’?”

“I was thinking of saving his fucking life, Jeff, and I’m not infected,” Scott insisted, giving him a harsh look. “Testing’s just a precaution. I’m fine.” Dylan knew the look in Scott’s eyes. He was trying defiantly not to feel anything so he couldn’t lose it, and that was exactly what Dylan was doing right now. His heart suddenly went out to the bi closet case – he was trying so hard to fit into a world that was far from friendly to his kind, and he was doing surprisingly well. It took a kind of courage to remain numb when what you really wanted to do was freak the hell out.

Dylan looked at Dee, keeping his own non-freak out mask in place. “He’s going to be okay though, right?”

Dee grimaced. “I’m sure he’ll get through surgery fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dee gave him a hard scowl. “What, did Ro give you a handbook on me? Fine – after a great deal of blood loss, it’s not unusual for the internal organs to just shut down. Sudden, massive blood loss is just an incredible shock to the system, and many people don’t survive it.”

He nodded, feeling that pit open up in his stomach. If he allowed himself to feel something, he would probably be barfing his guts out by now.

“Now Ro has an edge on most people, in that his body undergoes a terrible shock on a monthly – fuck, daily at this rate – basis, a shock many don’t survive. So if he can survive that, he has a decent chance of surviving this. We’ll know within the next twelve hours if he will or won’t.”

Oh, terrific. He had twelve hours to go insane with anxiety. “His transformations doesn’t involve his organs shutting down.”

“True, which is why there’s some doubt. But his odds are still better than average.”

“Ah.” There was an empty chair, and he sat down in it before he collapsed. “What’s with all the cops?”

Grey scoffed. “That’s what I was wonderin’ too.”

Suddenly Holden charged into the waiting room, nearly breathless. “Okay, who did this? Give me a name.” His hair was well coiffed, and he was wearing the hustler “uniform” of a tight white t-shirt and slightly baggy but well worn and attractive jeans, suggesting he’d just come from an assignation.

They all looked at him in various expressions of surprise, but Dee was the first to recover. “It was a cop.”

Holden nodded curtly. “I know. Give me a name.”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you now, a hooker vigilante?”

Jeff looked confused. “Is that a reference I don’t get?”

Holden didn’t react to anything anyone said. “Given enough time, I can get to anyone. Give me a name.”

Dee looked skeptical, but after the other night, Dylan had no problem believing this. Holden was a predator who disguised himself as prey, acting like a victim until it suited him not to. He wasn’t a psychopath, but he was two steps and one mental shift away from it. He would never have believed that a hooker could be muscle, but Holden had taught him otherwise. Dylan wondered what possible story he could have had that led him to be this way, but decided he was better off not knowing. “The cops take care of their own. Let them punish him. Besides, what would you do? And better yet, why?”

“That’s just street one oh one, Dee. They hurt one of yours, you hurt one of theirs. Haven’t you ever seen The Wire?”

“Okay, I get that reference,” Jeff said.

Dee looked skeptical, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have delusions of grandeur, or
is there something about you we don’t know?”

“I don’t think the cops will do anything to the guy,” Grey said.

Dee gave him a sharp look. “Don’t you fuel the fire, Hansen brother.”

“I got that reference too,” Jeff commented to no one.

Grey sat back and glared at Dee. “He’s lyin’ already. I heard that cop say he shot Roan because he thought he was lungin’ towards him, but that’s not what he said to me after I told him he shot a cop. He said to me, “He didn’t look Human”. He shot him ’cause he was scared he just met the boogeyman. Can’t we nail him on a hate crime?”

Jeff looked confused. “He didn’t shoot him ’cause he was gay.”

Grey turned his scathing look on Jeff.  “He shot him ’cause he was infected, Jeff. Jesus.”

“Will you make a statement to that effect?” Detective Murphy said, coming in the room. Clearly she was still on the job, as she was wearing a dark suit and button down white shirt that looked like it might have been a man’s (but she wore it well), her badge and service weapon visible on her belt.  “I mean about what he said, not the hate crime charge.”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna make that hate crime charge.”

“Don’t. You could make things worse, and we don’t need that right now.”

“Make things worse how?” Holden asked, eying her like she might be a rabid cobra. “Roan is half dead, and he was shot by one of your guys.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Maybe Holden was right to be wary of her. “He wasn’t one of mine. Yeah, he’s a cop, and when I meet him I’m gonna kick his ass.” She looked at Grey. “But if he said something to you that he isn’t telling us, we need to know. Make it official. As for why the cops are here, we’re expecting trouble once the news gets out.”

Now it was Dee’s turn to look confused. “Why?”

“There’s some fear that groups of infected may turn violent, with this right after the church bombing. It might be seen as one incident too many against the church and against all infecteds.”

“I’m pretty sure church supporters hate Ro’s guts,” Dee said.

“He’s a symbol,” Dylan said, knowing how the cops were seeing this. “Many of the church’s people don’t like him, but he’s the most high profile infected you could name. He’s carved a life for himself amongst mainstream society, he’s refused to stay in a cage, so no matter how much they dislike him, he’s all they’ve got. If the cops decided to kill him – and I’m not saying they did, I’m just saying that some infecteds will see it that way – they’ll be pretty pissed off.”

Murphy nodded. “Exactly. So … who are you again?”

“Grey Williams.”

Murphy carried on smoothly, as if she hadn’t had to ask. “Grey, if you go off with the hate crimes charge, you could just inflame things. So please don’t.”

“Infecteds rioting like it’s 1968 doesn’t explain the thick blue line in the lobby,” Holden said, and Jeff made a noise like a cough as he swallowed a snicker.

It was interesting to note that Murphy and Holden seemed to take an instinctive dislike to each other. They were sizing each other up like boxers in a ring. Obviously she was a cop, but did she know he was a hooker? Her expression was professionally stony, and gave nothing away. “I suggested to the Chief that she station guys here, ’cause once word gets out that he’s in here, it isn’t just infecteds who will get a full head of steam. Roan has enemies, and he’s never been more vulnerable than he is now, and just think what a hero amongst the scumbags  you’ll be if you successfully take out McKichan.”

Even Holden couldn’t make a smart assed comment about that, because she was right and they all knew it. If one of those fuckheads who always wanted to kill him wanted to do it, now was the time. If the cop didn’t kill him, the assholes would.

Dylan covered his face by pretending to dry wash it, but grief finally overwhelmed him, and his resolve cracked. A few tears leaked out as he tried to hold them back, then he just gave up, as he knew it was a fight he couldn’t win.

Poor Roan. He deserved better than this. But the tragedy of life was you rarely got what you deserved, you only got more heartache.