3 – Washburn

“Do you have any idea what it was like?” Oliver continued, tears welling in his eyes. “We thought he was murdered, and we’d never know how he died or who killed him. They’d get away scot free, and we’d never know what happened to our dad or why. And now, after all that agony, this. That fucker is still alive? So he just walked away, is that it? Can people do that?”

“People do it all the time; men more than women, but they do it too.” He got out the box of tissue he kept on hand for crying clients – he had a lot of clients who cried, which made sense, as he was usually the last resort for these people – and put it on the edge of his desk, close to him. “Do you have a photo of your father from before?”

He took a tissue, wiped his eyes and nose, and nodded convulsively. “Yeah, yeah I do.” He balled up the tissue and sniffed as he dug in his man purse once  more. He put the print on his desk, and followed it with a yellowed Polaroid, of a rather average looking man in his early thirties, with brown hair thinning at the temples, soft, pale eyes nearly lost in his doughy round face, his nose a sharp blade that dominated his otherwise unremarkable visage. He looked tired, and seemed to be sitting at a kitchen table, with a red and white gingham checked cloth beneath his blue coffee mug, dishes in a rack visible over his left shoulder.

The print picture was in profile, while the Polaroid shot was head on, making this a bit more dicey. Still, there were some obvious similarities – the nose appeared exactly the same, as did the shape of the chin. The face was thinner, but in an expected way, one you might expect from someone who had aged over several years. “How old is this photo?” he asked, holding up the Polaroid.

He was dabbing his face with the tissue again. “Fourteen years old.”

He quickly did the math in his head. “The year he disappeared.”

Oliver nodded again. “It was taken on his birthday, in May.”

Roan studied the photos carefully, one right against the other. Neither picture was especially sharp, but they weren’t bad either. There was a nagging similarity between the photos, and there was no way he could deny it. “They are the same, aren’t they?”

Would he be getting his hopes up if responded in the affirmative? “There is an uncanny resemblance. But you are aware that occasionally someone can look almost exactly like someone else but not be them.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s him, I know it’s him. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about that.”

A fair point. “You need to understand something before you hire me: I may not be able to find him. Even if he is your dad, he may have moved on or just been passing through Seattle. I have no name, no location, no nothing. In essence, I am looking for a ghost, and it may ultimately be pointless, a waste of your money and my time. So do you still want to do this?”

He nodded, his expression oddly chastened. “Yes. I hafta know.”

“Can you even afford me? I don’t know if I can fit in a college student’s budget.”

“It’s not me paying, it’s my Aunt Abby, my dad’s sister. I emailed her as soon as I realized what was bugging me about the pic, just to make sure I wasn’t insane. She thought it was him too, and she wants to know what the fuck he’s been up to. We decided not to tell the rest of the family until we’re sure it’s actually him.”

“Good choice.” Best that two people were disillusioned rather than everyone all at once.

They discussed payment and everything he was going to need from him about his dad, who was named Adam Jephson. Oliver seemed surprised he wanted to know everything there was about Adam, but it was the only thing that might help him figure out how a guy like this would have thought, and where he may have gone.

He had the basics: Born Adam Frederick Jephson in Fort Lauderdale, Florida on May 29th, 1963, he was the only son of Fred and Susan Jephson (he had one sister, Abigail, two years younger), he went to college at the University of Delaware and he married one Annette Eberle in Dover, Delaware on June 16th, 1985 (coincidentally – or perhaps not – Oliver’s older sister, Caroline, was born in November of that same year). Adam went on to work at an insurance company, the same one his father worked for, which was simply not a coincidence. They had two other children in quick succession – Oliver was born in 1988, followed by another sister, Melanie, in 1990 – and an otherwise unremarkable life. Anette eventually started working for a florist, and they were your perfectly average white nuclear family.

Until Adam disappeared.

According to newspaper articles he found thanks to Lexis Nexis and Google searches, it barely warranted an inch high notice in the paper when it was first reported, on September 3rd of 1996. But as the days wore on, it got more notice, and the discovery of the car kicked things into overdrive. The newspapers were breathless in their speculation that something horrible had happened to him, that the car was proof of foul play (even though the cops said there was “no sign of foul play” – meaning, in police speak, they found no blood or bullet holes in the car).

Roan knew there were a couple of possibilities here. He walked – he wouldn’t be the first man, overwhelmed by family life, a boring job, and a rough (?) marriage to just walk away. Second possibility: His car broke down, and he got help from the wrong guy – since serial killers of straight white men was a statistical non-starter, the most likely violence scenario was a robbery gone wrong. And because the would be robber was something of a pro, he knew not to use the guys’ cards, just dump them and take the cash. (He went missing with a bank card and two credit cards, none of which were ever used again.) Third scenario – he committed suicide. Adam abandoned his car and walked into a river, filling his pockets with rocks before going for a midnight swim. It was possible that his body would never turn up if there was enough of a current.

But right now, he had to work from the possibility that Adam walked, and a photographer caught him in the background of a shot taken at the Seattle pride parade last year. Could Adam be gay? Just because he was in the background of the shot didn’t mean he was gay, he could have been crossing the street or living on the block. But if he was gay, it gave a good reason for him abandoning everything and starting over. He could have been living a double life, with a wife and family and a male lover on the side (or just a series of anonymous sexual encounters, or both), and finally got sick of having to juggle them. He decided to pick one, but to save his family from “shame”, or him from guilt and a protracted legal battle, he walked away, and allowed them to think he was dead.

He had one place to start his search: that neighborhood, and the local gay bars. He’d have to work on the assumption he was gay and local, because he had nothing else to work with. The Eagle was close, wasn’t it? He liked the Eagle; it was his kind of gay bar. Hard to find, small and unpretentious, you pretty much went there just to have a drink. Oh, and maybe pick someone up, but there was no deafening dance music, no place to dance actually (unless you went upstairs, but even then the tables and the pool table took up most of the space). He never actually hooked up with anyone there, but he made friends, and that was probably better.

Roan found himself getting slightly nostalgic at the thought of going back to the Eagle, and got up to go, shrugging on his coat and making sure he had the photo taken of the Adam wannabe at the pride parade. Even at the Eagle, saying his kid was looking for him might bring out protective shields, but saying he was hired by a lawyer to find him because he inherited some estate? Again, people were more than happy to get involved when there was money on the line.

As he came out, Fiona was just getting up. “Hey, I was gonna ask what you wanted for lunch.”

He shook his head. “Take the rest of the day off. I’m going out to start banging on garbage cans.”

“Whatcha looking for?”

“A guy who may or may not be a guy who supposedly died in Delaware fourteen years ago.”

“Wow. Emo boy brought that one in?”

“Yep. It gets even more emo – it’s his dad.”

She let out a low whistle. “That’s gotta be worth an Oprah episode or two.”

“If it is his dad. Right now, it could be a guy who just looks like him. That’s my impossible job.”

“Awesome,” she replied, with a tinge of sarcasm. With her eyes alone, she seemed to be asking why he would take such a hopeless case, but he only shrugged. Why not seemed to be the only appropriate answer.

The door opened, and while Roan took in the physical features of the tall, skinny guy in the tattered overcoat, his cat senses had kicked into overdrive. He was already moving when he pinpointed the thing that set it all off: gun oil. The kid smelled like gun oil, gunpowder, and hate.

Roan’s intention was to land a kick in his solar plexus, sending him flying out into the parking lot, but that’s not what happened. The gunman had withdrawn the gun just in time for Roan’s feet to impact his chest, like he was jumping off of it, and in fact he was. He managed to wrench the gun from his hand and pushed off with his feet as the guy was already falling backwards, doubling his speed as gravity pulled him down. The gunman hit the outside asphalt with bone crunching force, his head bouncing off the pavement like a basketball, as Roan managed to turn in midair, feet scraping the ceiling, as he landed in a crouch inside his own waiting room,the gun clutched to his chest. “Holy fuck!” Fi exclaimed, more surprised than anything else. “How the fuck did you do that?”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, just like he wasn’t completely sure what he’d done. It was all instinct, the cat just under the surface and taking over with the sudden adrenaline rush. It didn’t know what was impossible, not for him, and didn’t obey too many rules in any case.

He gulped air and ran out into the parking lot. The guy was laying flat out, wheezing like he was drowning on dry land, and yet he was still trying to pull himself across the lot, trying to move. Roan heard the screech of tires as a car, some ugly ass Toyota in a shade of primer gray, sped out of the edge of the lot like its ass was on fire. The guy’s compatriots, abandoning him as soon as it was a dead cert that he had lost. Roan walked over to the kid, and just listening to his labored breathing and the lumpy look of his chest, he figured he had busted his ribs, perhaps collapsed his entire fucking torso. He hit him like a Human missile, and there was no counter for that.

A fear stench was coming off him in waves, and he wasn’t sure why until he realized he was growling, and Roan forced himself to stop. The guy was trying to say something, but he couldn’t get enough air to do it. A quick glance confirmed a spider web tattoo on the back of his hand, the kind with the hidden SS symbol in it, a prison special. “FCC?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He already knew.

He heard police sirens, loud but fading, and figured cops had already picked up the speeding Toyota. Another prowler turned into the lot, briefly blaring its siren before the black and white pulled parallel to them. He didn’t recognize the cops that got out, a stocky Hispanic guy built like a fireplug and a doughier, taller white guy, but apparently they knew him. “What happened here?” the stocky guy, named Morales, asked.

“This idiot pulled a gun on me.”

The white officer, named Fisher, snorted derisively. “Oh my god, you attacked Batman? Jesus Christ, you gotta death wish or somethin’?”

“He needs an ambulance.”

“He’s gonna need a fuckin’ mortuary once I’m through with him,” Fiona exclaimed, stomping out into the parking lot. It looked like she was going to kick him, but his obvious physical distress and the cops made her pause. “What was this fucking fuckface asshole thinking?!”

While Fisher radioed in for an ambulance, Morales told her, “I’m assuming he was gonna shoot your boss.” He patted down the legs and chest of the guy on the ground, searching for hidden weapons. He found a wicked looking hunting knife with a serrated blade that would actually be very clumsy to use in a fight. Morales must have known that, because as he pulled it out of the sheath on the man’s leg, he held it up and asked, “Really?”

The gunman’s eyes were glass bright and shiny with panic. He couldn’t breathe, or at least he was having such a hard time breathing his brain was kicking into full on animal mode, where nothing mattered but the pure basics of existing.

He handed Morales the guys’ gun butt first, and said, “He was gonna assassinate me with this.”

He looked at it dubiously. He was wearing latex gloves, so he wasn’t going to worry about contaminating the evidence. “A .45?”

“I know. If I didn’t collapse his entire chest, I’d feel insulted.”

“How did that happen, by the way?”

“I drop kicked him.” Well, that was essentially what he did. It was a bit fancier than that. Morales just stared at him like he didn’t quite believe him.

“With what, a battering ram?”

Roan figured, with his luck, the ambulance would be Dee’s, but no, it was a crew he’d never met before (and he was kind of relieved). As they were loading the guy onto the stretcher and shooting him slightly dirty looks (he didn’t mean to crush his chest – he didn’t know he could kick someone that hard) when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He checked the read out, saw it was Doctor Rosenberg, and decided to answer. She’d done a scan of his chest the other day, just to see if the phantom muscle that blocked the bullet was still there or not. She must have had an answer by now. “Hey there Doctor Nick,” he said, figuring she’d get the reference.

“Drop whatever you’re doing and get to my office now,” she said, her voice all steel. “I mean it, none of your bullshit, just do it.”

“Why -”

“Do it, or I’ll send one of my interns to come get you. Do you understand me?”

He was completely baffled by her hostility. “What -”

“Now. When I call back, you better be on the road.” And with that, she hung up. He stared at the  cell for a moment, wondering what he had done to piss her off. Well, there were so many possibilities to choose from, he didn’t know which to select.

He’d already given his statement to Fisher, so he was okay to leave the scene, and since Fi was fine and knew they were done for the day (certainly now, if not before) he went ahead and took off. He wanted to go to the Eagle, but later – he knew Rosenberg well enough to know she actually would send an intern after him if he didn’t do what she said.

It wasn’t a long drive to the university, although when she called back he was stuck in traffic. She barely believed that.

She all but shoved him into her office, and as soon as she walked to her desk, she started her spiel. “Couldn’t find the muscle on the scan, but I know it’s there. What I did find … shit, kid, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Kid?” he chuckled, taking the chair in front of her desk. “You know I’m pushing forty.”

“Young compared to me. But so is Methuselah, so don’t be too flattered.” She sat behind her desk with a sigh, and brought out a color scan of a torso, presumably his. “I want to check into the university hospital, right now. Have you been having visual auras lately, migraines, random head pains, loss of consciousness? And please, be honest here.”

“What? What the hell is this about?”

She handed him the scan. He looked at it, seeing the outline of a chest and arms in bluish light, with organs highlighted by various colors, and muscles like traces holding the sketch together. There were also some odd, tiny dark spots scattered around, like a handful of pepper spilled on the image. “What the hell are these specks?”

“They’re not specks; they’re about the size of a pea.”

“Okay, what are the peas?”

She scowled, emphasizing the thin lines gathered around her mouth. He suddenly realized she wasn’t angry, just upset. “They’re tumors. We went through all the digital views of the scans available in the database, and we’ve counted fourteen. There appears to be one in your stomach too, which I really don’t like. I want to check you in right away and get a biopsy of some of these. My hope is this is just a form of hyperplasia and nothing to worry about,  but it’s best we make sure, especially considering how fast it’s come on, and I want to do a brain scan right away to make sure that area’s clean.”

Maybe it was the fact that he crushed a man’s chest less than hour earlier, or all the pain pills, but this seemed unreal somehow. “I thought tumors didn’t spread.”

“They don’t.”

“But I have more than a baker’s dozen of them? How?”

“What do you think I’ve been asking myself?” She sighed and rubbed her eyes, temporarily moving her glasses up to her forehead. “Look, you are a hybrid organism, and your physical adaptation to your unique condition has been miraculous. But there are problems that come with being a hybrid organism, and this is terra incognita. We don’t know what could plague you, we don’t know the full life cycle of the virus, we can only take educated guesses at certain weaknesses. This surprises me as much as you. But we need to work fast to make sure this is contained, that this is not as bad as it looks. Please work with me here, Roan.”

Suddenly things started falling into place, in a very weird way. He wasn’t surprised by any of this, nor was he at all afraid. He knew he should have been, but again, it was all from a remove, from a distance, as if this was happening to someone else. “Brain scan. You think I have a brain tumor.”

Not a question, but she took it as such. “You have a history of migraines and aneurysms, and it’s better safe than sorry. If these tumors have spread everywhere, it’s best to cover all the bases. None of these tumors are especially serious, although we do have to remove the one on your stomach wall and one on your left kidney. But if you have one in your brain, you know how damn serious that is.”

That was the diplomatic answer. He chuckled, suddenly finding this all very funny. “This ain’t gonna kill me. This isn’t how I go down.”

Her glasses settled on the end of her nose, and she stared at him again. “You know this for a fact? You know how you die?”

“For a certain fact? No. But violently seems to be the obvious conclusion. Somebody tried to kill me before I got here.”

“And what happened to them?”

“Crushed sternum, punctured lung.”

She looked alarmed. “Seriously? You fucked them up that much?”

“I didn’t mean to. It got a little out of control on me.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s the other thing. It could explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“A tumor. A small one, in a very specific area of your brain, could be part of the reason you’ve been losing control of your shifts.”

It was turn to stare at her for a very long moment. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. It’s only started happening recently, yeah?”

He had to consider that, and even then, he wasn’t sure. “I guess. But …” He didn’t know what he was going to say.

A wave of relief washed over him, so intense it almost brought him to tears. Maybe it wasn’t all his fault; maybe he wasn’t completely insane. Maybe all wasn’t lost.

Maybe he wasn’t lost.

2 – Greetings From The Great North Woods

Holden was correct about him knowing Jessie, only when he knew Jessie, Jessie was still on the street – and still a man.

Now Jessie was a social worker of some kind, and a very hippie-ish woman who favored granny glasses, long skirts, and peasant blouses, very much someone he’d describe as a crunchy granola type. Her transition was an impressive one; you barely noticed her Adam’s apple.

He pulled her aside and told her he was worried about the girl because she was so quiet, acquiescent, and never scared. Some people took silence or meekness for fear, but he could smell the difference. As he told Jessie this, she canted her head like a parakeet, looking at him curiously, and when he was done, she said simply, “You were abused, weren’t you?”

He just shrugged. “Who wasn’t?” Now, if she’d ever asked if he’d ever been hit with a crosscut saw, he might have had an emotional moment, but now he no longer cared. Nearly everyone had a “smacked around as a kid” story, and he wasn’t as bad off as Katie. He got scared, he got hurt and scarred, but he never got broken. That had to wait until Paris died.

At least Katie was in good hands now. Even though Holden gave him a funny look, he agreed to take him home, and when they were in the car, he said, “You realize you’re stone cold sober now.”

“Uh huh. I hurt like fuck.” It was a shame to be back to normal, but the partial change had caused him to fully metabolize the pills and the booze. But at least he’d been fucked up enough to keep a handle on the beast for the whole time (more or less). Maybe that was the way forward from now on – get super fucked up and keep in control during the change.

“And yet you’re so cavalier about the violence.”

“Child rapers are the lowest of the low. As far as I’m concerned, whatever they get, it’s not as bad as they deserve.”

Holden stared at him for a moment, before putting the keys in the ignition. “At least we’re on the same page there. Which kinda bothers me.”

What was there to say to that? So he said nothing, and searched his pockets for any pills. He found a couple, and when he was sure Holden wasn’t looking, he dry swallowed them.

By the time Holden dropped him off at the Magnolia place they currently called home, the pain had ebbed to a dull roar. The house was dark and he knew Dylan was upstairs asleep, because he caught his scent still in the air. He must have come home within the hour.

Roan glanced at the only clock in the house with a readable time on it, and wondered how it got so late. It hadn’t taken that long to beat those guys up and get Katie out of there. Maybe it was the drive.

As for the clock, it was designed as a fishbowl, and the minute hand was a goldfish that made the slowest rotation in history, with the hour hand the type of underwater castle you see in a goldfish bowl.  There were no numbers, merely lines, but he could still figure out what time it was. In the living room was a huge clock the size of a hubcap, shaped like a starburst. Did it have any hour markings of any kind? No. It had hour and minute hands that pointed at nothing; you were supposed to guess the time by position. He wasn’t an idiot – he didn’t like to think of himself as an idiot, at any rate – but he found it impossible to read that fucking clock. What was the point of it? It didn’t even look that good as an object d’art.

Staying in this expensive, archly decorated house, it seemed to emphasize the differences between him and Dylan. Roan knew his lower middle class roots were showing in the fact that he found this house almost appalling on several different levels, while Dylan just shrugged and chalked it up to different tastes. But as different as he and Dyl were, he thought this was a good thing. They had separate lives, they weren’t in each other’s business all the time, they had different interests and time apart, all of which was good. He didn’t know how couples who were  together all the time ever made it. You needed your own space. Just because you were married (or civil partnered, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it) didn’t instantly turn you into conjoined twins.

He took a shower in the absurd downstairs bathroom (this house had three, all absurdly decorated, and large enough to be spacious living rooms) washing away any lingering traces of blood (okay, only he could smell them and barely, but why take the chance), wondering what was so wrong with him that he wanted to take a sledgehammer to this place – because he was sure you could feed all the homeless of Seattle for a year if you sold the furniture? Actually, you could probably feed Tacoma’s homeless as well. And why even have them? The couches were ugly! And uncomfortable. The ninety dollar one he picked up at a thrift shop was comfortable enough to sleep on, and didn’t look like a drunken leprechaun had thrown up psychedelic mushrooms on it.

Oh shit, was he turning into some bitter old queen? (In his mind, he could hear Dee snort and say, “Turning? Try have been and get back to me.”) Bitter, cynical … vicious. That trafficker who took a shot at Holden was dead. Maybe not this second, but he would be. There was no way you could use a man’s skull to shatter a sink and not kill him. He didn’t feel bad about it – he was selling the girl; she had simply been one in a series – but he thought he should. He was hardening, becoming more of a predator by the day. Or was that a convenient excuse?

He went upstairs, to the insanely large master bedroom with its round bed (ludicrous – who had a round mattress, and most importantly, why? Even Dylan admitted he had no idea how they ever bought the sheets for the thing), where Dylan was curled up on one side of the spacious bed. He remembered how the bed was all white when they first moved in – white sheets, white blankets, white shams, whatever those were. (Both he and Dylan found that weird. “We’re just not all white people,” Dylan had said, and Roan ran a hand through his red hair and replied, “Speak for yourself. If I was any whiter, I’d be translucent.”) In a spare bedroom closet, Dylan found a comforter that was a very gay shade of lilac, but at least it was a color, so he moved it to this bedroom and was currently huddled beneath it. Roan crawled into bed carefully, so as not to wake him up.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark, so he could see Dylan’s shoulder, the delicate latticework of bones beneath taut olive skin, and he carefully traced the scapula with his fingertip.

They were a relationship of two different worlds. But it wasn’t the divide people expected. It wasn’t that Dyl was an artist and he wasn’t, or that Dylan was younger than him, or that he was Hispanic and Roan was clearly a whiter shade of pale, or even that Roan was infected and he wasn’t.

It was that Dylan was totally Human, and he wasn’t. He wondered if that would ultimately tear them apart.

****

When his bladder finally forced him awake, Roan found himself confronted with the punishing bright accusation of the sun, streaming through the gauzy white curtains like a stream of curses. He squinted and grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom, which was all white marble and gold colored fixtures, and it took Roan a moment to realize what was wrong: the birds. At home, he could hear the birds chirping sometimes very loudly, as if they were right above his head. Here, the landscaping kept them in the ornamental trees some distance from the house, and perhaps the building materials also kept the outside sounds muted. It was a shame, as he actually had gotten used to the noise, of birds and wind and branches scraping and slapping against the side of the house. He was a city boy and he knew it, so he had no idea why those sounds made him feel better.

Since it was such a sunny, pretty day, he decided to just go ahead and stay in bed with the covers pulled up. He seemed more accustomed to rain, fog, and gloom. Still, he smelled toast, and wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Dylan came in, eating toast and carrying a mug of tea. “So, when were you gonna tell me about the video?”

Roan sighed as he pulled the sheet off his face. “When I found the right moment. I never did.”

Ultimately he compromised with Bolt, and while it didn’t involve him compromising on personal principals, he still felt dirty. He shot a quick video that would be on Divine Transformation’s page and in general on YouTube. It wasn’t much really, just a statement of intent: he would resist any registry, and encouraged any and all infected to do the same. He doubted they’d arrest them all, but he kind of hope they tried, because then the registry would be revealed for what it was. He encouraged them to all stand together, and promised them, the infected viewing audience, that he would fight this as long as he could. There was nothing radical on it, nothing saying he loved the church or even liked them, it was simply a statement of fact. One that might get him investigated by the FBI, but fuck it. Playing it safe didn’t appeal to him.

He sat up as Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, and offered his tea and toast to him, possibly because he thought he might have a hangover. He didn’t, but he was starving, so he accepted them with a nod and helped himself to a bite and a gulp. The toast was at least sourdough, and the tea some weird green tea berry combination that was actually pleasant. “So are you leaving me?” he asked between bites of toast, mostly just curious.

“No. I must say you sounded very reasonable. I have no idea why some people are losing their shit over it.”

“Because I am encouraging the armed rebellion of infecteds against the normals. It’s the apocalypse, and I’m God or Satan, depending on who you ask.”

“I missed the armed part.”

“I think it’s implied, me being me and all.”

“I see.”

He set the tea down on the end table, and put a hand on Dylan’s naked back. He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, pale blue with white and red snowflakes on it, and Roan found himself once again entranced by the long lean line of his spine. “I’m just gonna apologize now for all the shit that’s gonna come ’cause of this, okay?”

It was Dylan’s turn to sigh. “You do realize if you start doing that, you’ll have to keep doin’ it forever.”

“Oh, I know. Thanks for not killing me before now.”

He glanced at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “I married the gay Die Hard. What did I expect? I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Did you just compare me to Bruce Willis? I’m insulted.”

He patted his thigh comfortingly. “I meant the character, not the actor. We all know you’re better looking. Even with all the ink.”

“Hey, some of this is yours.”

“The best, yes.”

“That’s right, hon, embrace humility. Speaking of which, how’d the show go last night?”

He seemed to perk up at the very mention. “Pretty well. I sold a few paintings, and someone wants me to do something on commission. Normally I don’t do that kind of thing, but I was intrigued, so I took his number. I figure if I don’t like the idea, I can just back out.”

“His number? Are you sure someone wasn’t just trying to pick you up?”

Dylan smirked at him. He liked it when he showed a little jealousy. “He wasn’t my type. Oh, and a couple of people wanted to buy the photo montage of you. I turned them down, because how could I part with that? It’ll be nice to have a reminder of when you had a rockin’ bod after you get all old and saggy.” He was now grinning like a smart ass at him.

“Old and saggy? You bastard,” he said, and pounced on him, pinning him down to the bed as Dyl laughed. There was something curious about that joke, though – old and saggy. Infecteds didn’t live long enough to get old and saggy, unless they were infected at an advanced age. But since his infection was weird and his body seemed to be adapting to things he never should have been able to adapt to, maybe he did have a shot at becoming old. What would that be like?

It suddenly occurred to him that he never really contemplated the future. He simply lived for the now, because he assumed that was all he had left. Maybe that wasn’t true anymore. How weird would that be? Should it cause him to feel a brief spasm of pure dread? “I will never be old and saggy,” Roan proclaimed, with sarcastic vanity. “I will be beautiful forever.”

“Wouldn’t that require you being beautiful now?” Dylan retorted, smiling.

“Asshole.” He then tickled his ribs, knowing he was ticklish and hated that. He bucked under him, laughing even as he grabbed his wrists and rolled over, pinning Roan beneath his body.

He liked the weight of him, the feeling of his skin against his skin, and Dylan seemed to be aware of that. His smile became playful and sensuous, and Roan returned it to him before they kissed, with the odd sensation of stubble scraping against stubble (neither of them had shaved yet, apparently). Roan’s cell phone, still tucked in the pocket of his jacket on a chair across the room, started to buzz, and since it was right up against the chair’s metal frame, it was hard not to notice. “Ignore it,” Roan said between kisses, wrapping a leg around Dylan’s leg to hold him down. That made him laugh, suggesting he was never even tempted to answer it.

Well, why would he? They had something better to do.

****

Dylan eventually reminded him he said he’d be into work today, and that Fiona would be waiting, so after a quick shower (he didn’t bother shaving) he headed out.

He arrived at the office ten minutes later than usual, but he had a good excuse for being late, although he didn’t need it. After all, he was the boss – who did he answer to?

Fiona was there when he arrived, but so was a stranger. As he came in, she stood up, but so did the stranger. “There you are,” she said, giving him a look suggesting she didn’t find his lateness amusing.

“Sorry. Traffic.” He could have told her he was having sex with his husband, but that was too much information. Besides, he knew that when she watched porn – rarely – she preferred gay porn for some reason, and he didn’t want to give her any kind of mind fuel.

She gestured to the stranger, and said, “We had a walk in.”

“I see.” The walk in was a boy who looked barely old enough to shave. He was a boy of average height and average weight, although tending towards a bit pudgy, a situation not helped by the fact he was wearing two shirts (a long sleeved black shirt beneath a sleeveless white one) and a coat on top of all of that, one of those Army surplus coats in olive drab. He had a floppy haircut, one where his heavy bangs threatened to obscure his eyes, dyed a bottle blond and highlighted with blue and purple streaks. A buckshot of acne highlighted his weak chin, but his pale blue eyes were open and friendly. It looked like he was trying to grow out some stubble, but could only manage a few wispy hairs that were hard to see until you were up close. His mouth was thin and uncertain, like an anxious cartoon character, and as Roan extended a hand towards him, his lips seem to recede further into his face. He looked about fifteen, but the smell of a cologne that wasn’t Axe body spray made him push his age up further. “Hello, I’m Roan McKichan.”

He shook his hand limply; his grip was almost nonexistent, and his hand was cold. “I know, I recognize you from your picture. I’m, um, Oliver Jephson.”

“Nice to meet you. Shall we go into my office?” He didn’t ask where he recognized him from, mainly because he was afraid of the answer.

Not waiting for the kid’s response, he headed into his office, aware of his phone continuing to hum in his pocket. He checked his phone after he got dressed, and discovered it was Seb asking him if he just wanted to make his life harder and cursing him out, showing an uncharacteristic burst of emotion. Maybe because if the registry did become law, it would be Seb that would have to arrest him. He was expecting to get a similar, if more profane, call from Dropkick. It was probably her, so he didn’t answer.

Only when he came in and shut the door did Roan see Oliver was carrying a man purse beneath his coat, adding to his bulky appearance. Since he didn’t smell gun oil on him – just cologne, acne cream, detergent, deodorant, and a smidge of body odor – he wasn’t concerned about its contents. “Can I ask how old you are?” Roan asked, taking a seat behind his desk.

“Um, yeah, I’m twenty two,” he said, taking the seat in front of his desk. He didn’t smell a lie, although the kid was clearly nervous. Was it about this whole scenario, or being alone in a room with him? “I know I look younger, though. I can show you my ID if you want.”

“I’m not selling you booze, kid, don’t worry about it. So what can I do for you?”

The kid settled in his seat uncomfortably, and for a moment didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Once he stopped fidgeting, he said, “This is kind of, um, weird. I’m not sure where to start.”

“The beginning’s always good.”

He nodded convulsively. “Yeah.” He scratched his face, clearly considering his options, and just dived in. “So I’m from Milford, Delaware. When I was eight, my dad went missing. He went to work, and he was supposed to come home, but he never did. I remember it was fall, ’cause, like, I was worried about going back to school and junk, you know? I did okay in school, I was just picked on a lot. I was small for my age.”

Was that all? Roan was getting a gay vibe from him, and it had nothing to do with his black painted thumbnail or somewhat high pitched voice, although those helped. There was an undefinable something that just set off his gaydar.

“So anyways, it was really hard. It was big news for a while, and when his car was eventually found in Wilmington, in a vacant lot with its door open and the battery dead, everybody feared the worst. The police never found much, though, and I think by Christmas of that year we figured he was probably dead. Mom didn’t make it official until the summer I turned fourteen though, she had him declared legally dead, then married my step-father Ken.” He rolled his eyes, easily implying that they didn’t get along. “He’s a nice enough guy, I guess, but he and I just couldn’t stand each other, and when I graduated high school, I applied to every college I could think of on the West Coast, to get as far away from him as possible, and I got accepted to the you-dub first.” U-W, otherwise known as the University of Washington. Roan wondered when he was going to get to the point of his visit. “Anyways, just a couple of weeks ago, I was getting photos for a photo essay, and I was on Flickr. You know what Flickr is?”

Was that a veiled old crack? “Photo sharing software and site.”

“Yeah, right. Anyways, there’s this one guy, Rearadmrl42, who takes great photos, and I was looking through some of his shots, and one caught my eye and I wasn’t sure why.” He moved his man purse to his lap and started scrabbling through it, finally pulling out a photo print. Although the photo had a nice composition, it seemed like an otherwise unremarkable street scene, of three men standing and smiling. Two had their shirts off and a third was wearing a too tight tank top in an oddly pastel orange color; all three men had their arms around each other’s shoulder. Roan recognized the building in the background, knew it was taken in Seattle, and the rainbow bedecked float slightly out of focus off to one side indicated it was taken at the pride parade.

Oliver put his finger on the very edge of the left side of the photo and tapped it. “See him?” He was indicating a man in the near background, almost completely out of the shot, but he was in focus, and his profile was visible as he was on his way out of frame. Roan nodded once, just to let him know he had. “This is my dad.”

Oh, okay. Now he knew why he was here.

Dedicated to These Arms Are Snakes. Rest in peace, you crazy loud motherfuckers.

****

1 – Trix

Roan wondered if there was any way not to feel like a total dick in this situation.

Since he had nothing but time to think, he contemplated this for a while, and he had finally decided no, there was no way not to feel like a dick. The fruity drinks probably helped.

He didn’t like fruity drinks as a rule, but the art gallery’s bar only served drinks in primary colors, with shaved ice in them. Whatever it was he was currently sipping, it tasted of alcohol and a berry juice that might as well have been cough syrup the unnatural color of Windex, and was probably something he shouldn’t have been mixing with Percocets. But did he care? No. He was out of his environment, and felt every centimeter of that pressure.

But he had to be here. This was Dylan’s show, and while Roan had found a nice bench made of clear acrylic and resembled a block of ice, it was tucked in the far corner of one of the back rooms, but he could look down the wide hallway from where he was and see Dylan at the center of a circle of hipsters, entertaining them with stories of artistic folly. Some of those laughs sounded genuine.

Dylan had said he wanted to “show him off”, but considering everything going on, he thought it was best he escape and let Dylan have the spotlight. It was his night, and he should enjoy it.

Exactly what he didn’t want to happen did: someone sat on the bench next to him, a slip of a woman in a spangly silver skirt and semi-sheer black blouse that almost matched her smoky eye makeup and casually upswept raven hair. She looked about twenty, but he judged her to be twenty five or so. “That’s you in the picture down there, isn’t it?” She nodded her head down the hall, where the edge of the picture was just visible.

It was the photo collage of Roan’s painted body, although Dylan was kind enough to crop out his face or any truly distinguishing feature (although if you knew his tattoos, you’d see them in the photos). Dylan had decided to go with a cat theme on him, painting big cats, tiger stripes, spots, paw prints, bloody scratches, all sorts of odd cat related things, in some strange bid for cats’ rights. “My shapely calves give me away?” he wondered. Since he was wearing baggy jeans, a loose t-shirt, and a loose leather jacket (he was loose tonight, inside and out), this was an obvious joke.

She laughed, and it didn’t sound forced. Roan noticed she had stick thin legs, mottled beneath pearl hued hose, ending in heels that looked like some kind of torture device. The fruity drink she had was Kool-Aid cherry red, and smelled like Hawaiian punch spiked with turpentine. “You a professional model?”

That made him snicker. Why the fuck was she flirting with him? Even if he was straight, she could do so much better. “Yeah, right. These scars are painted on. I’m his husband.” He didn’t like saying partner, because it sounded like they belonged to the same law firm.

“Oh!” She said it in a way that suggested she was surprised, but trying not to be. “I knew he was gay, but you didn’t – I mean -”

“I don’t look gay?” He guessed. Well, no, not in this crowd. Even the straight boys were all emo; the gallery stunk of guyliner, high end cologne, and mousse. There were probably more scarves on display here than in Elton John’s closet. While he wasn’t the only one wearing jeans, he was the only one not wearing designer jeans, just pants he bought at Target a couple of years ago on sale (that managed not to get ruined by bloodstains). He suddenly noticed he was wearing his steel toed boots, and those were so scuffed you expected there to be holes in the soles (there weren’t, but you couldn’t be blamed for thinking it).

“No offense. I mean – you just … um …”

“I look like part of the after hours janitorial staff.”

She smiled faintly, not agreeing, but it was implicit. Her lipstick was almost the color of  her drink, making them flush and shiny. “Aren’t you supposed to have fashion sense?”

“So the stereotype goes.”

She studied the side of his face, while he resolutely stared down at the floor. The floor was some kind of contrasting marble – white and black, with veins of gold – and the more he stared, the more it looked like the veins were throbbing. Wow, how fucked up was he? “You look familiar,” she finally said. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Doubt it. I don’t get out of the crawlspace much.”

She laughed, but it was a forced, breathless kind of chuckle. “Oh! I know where I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you beating up people on TV.”

“That’s what I do. I beat up people on TV.”

She attempted to smile. He supposed he should give her credit for that, but he couldn’t, because she was starting to smell nervous. “You’re that infected cop, right?”

“Not really a cop anymore. More of an independent contractor.”

She didn’t seem mollified or interested. “Does that mean that he – erm, Dylan, is, um -”

“Infected? No. Condoms save lives, honey, use them.” Why had he said that? The problem with being totally wasted sometimes was things just fell out of your mouth and you didn’t even know they were coming.

She seemed uncomfortable, like she wanted to move away but didn’t know how to do it without being obvious about it. Was he interesting until she realized he was infected, or was he a fun gay guy until he reminded her he was a sexual being? Maybe a little bit of both. “Well, umm, that’s good.”

“You an artist?” he asked, if just to cut the tension. He couldn’t actually give a shit, which probably showed in his voice.

“Well, kinda, but I’m really just here to look, you know? He’s a great artist.”

“He is.” The paintings showed off all sorts of styles, from realistic to abstract, and he had a real eye for color. Not that he knew what any of it meant; he just knew Dylan’s art didn’t bring on an urge to smash it, nor did it look like something you might find hanging next to the ice machine in a chain hotel. So that meant it must be even better than he thought it was.

There was a buzz in his coat pocket, his phone vibrating, and he pulled it out to check who it was. Holden. Weird. “Well, this was fun, but duty calls. Enjoy yourself, and don’t worry, you can’t get cooties from me. Fleas maybe, but I wore my collar tonight.” He got up before she could respond, and walked off to a quieter corner, beside one of Dylan’s abstract paintings, splashes of bright, high intensity colors on a black background. Although there was no title given, Roan knew Dylan called it “Eat This, Mark Rothko.”

“Yeah, Holden, what’s up?”

“I’m calling in a favor,” he said, with no preamble. Hookers just weren’t big on the foreplay. “I need back up.”

“I’m not doing a three way.”

“Ha, very funny. No, I may need someone to quickly and quietly knock out a couple of thugs. If you’re not interested, you got Grey’s number?”

He looked around, to make sure no one who cared was listening. “Who are we talking about?”

“Traffickers.”

“What kind?”

“Kids.”

“What?”

“No phone discussion. You in or out?”

Human traffickers meant either some kind of indentured servitude or sex trafficking (although both could apply at the same time), neither good. And somehow, considering it was Holden, he assumed sex trafficking. “In. Where?”

“Come by my place, but make it fast.”

“Yeah, I’m downtown. Should be there in a few minutes.” Holden hung up shortly after the final syllable. What had Holden gotten himself into? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but if he needed help, he wasn’t going to turn him down, especially with full caliber scumbags like that.

He slid his way into the group that had metastasized around Dylan, and asked, “Can I talk to you alone for a moment?”

He gave him a sweet smile. “Sure.” To the group, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

As they retreated to a distant corner, Dylan said, in a low voice, “You look fucking miserable.”

“I’m not, sweetie, I’m just trying to stay out of your way. Speaking of which, Holden’s called and asked me for help. Would you kill me if I left?”

“No, not at all. But I will kill you if you get shot.”

“I will not get shot. Cross my heart, and hope to get shot.”

He shook his head and gave him a pained smile, just south of a smirk. “It’s a good thing you’re good in bed, or you’d be so out on your ass.” He kissed him on the corner of the mouth, and gave him a brief, firm squeeze. “Don’t be late.”

“I’ll try not to be. See you at home.”

Dylan had embraced the Zen of living with him. Mainly, he didn’t ask what trouble he was getting into if he absolutely didn’t want to know. This worked just fine for him, as it cut down the number of lies he had to tell in a day.

He had to tell him about the YouTube video he made, as it would be released tonight, starting at midnight. He probably wouldn’t like the tie in with Bolt, but he already told Dylan about his plan to just get arrested if the registry was passed. Dylan didn’t like the idea of him going to prison, but said, “If you feel it’s unjust, you do what you need to do.” How awesome was it to have a Buddhist boyfriend? He was never going to kneecap you on principal; if you had a righteous cause, he would support you, even if he thought you were being a bonehead.

There were cabs hovering around, so he wasn’t worried about finding one. As he exited the gallery, he nodded at a shadowy black man pretending to have a smoke under the eaves of the building, and he gave him the slightest nod back. He was a “floater”, one of the guys who worked with his friend Phil’s security and detective agency. He asked him if he could send a guy or two to the gallery, to keep an eye on things, specifically Dylan. He wasn’t worried about himself, but he didn’t want those FCC dickholes finding out about Dylan just in time to hurt him.

He hadn’t told Dylan about the floaters. There was no point; they were invisible unless trouble happened.

The taxi drive to Holden’s was pretty quiet, possibly because the driver’s English wasn’t so good, but that was fine with him. He only realized how wasted he was as he sat there, feeling like he was floating inside his own head. Whatever was in that Windex drink had more of a kick than he thought. Would he be able to do the muscle thing? Well, if he absolutely had to transform, he supposed he could.

He arrived at Holden’s to find him dressed as anonymously as possible: loose khakis, off brand sneakers, Seahawks t-shirt he picked up in a thrift store, brown canvas jacket a size too big for him (good for concealing weapons). Holden looked at him, and asked, “How many pills have you taken? You look fucked.”

“I was at Dylan’s gallery show.” An answer that was no answer at all.

“Holy shit, was that tonight? God man, I’m sorry. I didn’t put you in the doghouse, did I?”

“No. He knows that’s not my scene, I was just there for moral support. I gave as much as I could, but you know I don’t have a lot of morality to go around.”

“I hear ya, brother.” Holden went to his kitchen counter, and tossed him something from there. When Roan caught it, he saw it was a black watch cap and black faux leather gloves. “Had spares, figure you might want them.” He started putting on his own gloves.

“What’s going on here?” He sat on the arm of his sofa, mainly because he felt a little woozy.

“I have a friend, Jessie, you may know her. She used to work the street, she got out, and now she devotes her time to trying to rescue kids from there. But it’s paperwork and bureaucracy and budget cuts, and she often can’t help as many as she wants. Especially in a case like this. She got word a major trafficker is meeting a guy at a rest stop to sell him a thirteen year old girl. He’s actually going to meet me and we’re gonna get the girl, but he ain’t gonna be paid.”

Roan was sort of glad he was completely shitfaced, because having a sense of unreality attached to it kept him from getting furious. “Is this a hit?”

“No. Jessie wouldn’t get involved in such a thing. I’m just gonna make sure he gets arrested.” He paused briefly. “And maybe make him hurt a bit.”

“That’s what I thought.” He scratched his head, trying to see all the angles of this story with a fogged, addled brain. “If this guy is big time -”

“I know,” he interrupted. “But this looks like a pretty simple set up. These guys don’t travel in an RV full of sex slaves from the Ukraine. It looks like the guy is gonna show up with the girl, and with a couple of foot soldiers, but no more than a car’s worth. They keep this casual, under the radar, so no one ever notices the suburban perv buying himself a little girl at a rest stop at one in the morning. They traffic on a larger scale, but sell smaller.” Holden slipped something in his jacket and then zipped it up. “It sounds simple, but it probably isn’t. Do you think you could take out the guys outside before they can alert the guys inside?”

“Yes.” Maybe he shouldn’t be so confident, especially wasted, but he wasn’t Human. Humans could outnumber him, but they could never stop being Human.

“It would be silly of me to ask if you need a weapon, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He held out his arms as he came out of the kitchen. “Do I look like a perv?”

Roan studied him, actually taking time to consider this. This was a pure vigilante hit, no pretense of detective or cop work, but he was surprisingly okay with that. “Passably. You need an “Official Pussy Inspector” t-shirt.”

“I know. I couldn’t find one on short notice.”

Roan pulled the watch cap on, shoving his hair beneath the hat, so one of his most distinguishing features – his dried blood reddish-brown hair, the only warning ever given to people that they really should avoid him unless they liked pain – was gone. He still had his facial scars and unreal green eyes, but most people thought the eye color was contact lenses, and he didn’t expect the men to stay conscious long enough to notice the scars.

And besides – when did these guys ever go to the cops?

They didn’t go to Holden’s car, but a junky Plymouth he’d never seen before. But that made sense, as this was a junk special, the kind you dumped after it’d been used. It would probably be parted out by sunrise. Roan sat in the passenger seat and let the rumble of the engine lull him for a while. They drove in silence, save for the radio. Holden turned it alternately between KEXP and a fainter, smaller wave station that played nothing but dance music, mainly house and trance, but some harder stuff as well. Holden had to know that kind of music drove him nuts, but then again, KEXP seemed to be playing lots of sensitive singer-songwriter, low fi stuff that, while nice and pleasant, made his balls shrink. He actually preferred the dance music to some of it; at least some of it sounded like it had muscle, like everyone involved wasn’t one chord away from falling asleep. Maybe it was his punk sensibilities rearing their ancient head, but he felt there was something inherently wrong with innocuous music. If you could take it or leave it, where was the passion? He wanted music you could fuck or fight to, and while he did like some of their songs, Fleet Foxes just didn’t fit that bill.

They were closing in on the rest stop when he asked Holden, “So how long have you been doing this avenging angel thing?”

“I don’t really. I just help Jessie out from time to time.”

“So you haven’t been vigilante-ing without me?”

“Is that a word?”

“No. But don’t avoid the question.”

He sighed like Roan was the most wearying travel companion ever. “I’ve never been a shrinking violet. You know that.”

“It’s dangerous, especially without back up.”

“Not necessarily. No one ever expects anything from me. I’m just a whore.”

“That only works once.”

“I know. But that’s usually enough.”

Holden pulled off to the soft shoulder the equivalent of a block away from the rest stop, and Roan walked towards the building, sticking to the darkness. It wasn’t too busy on the highway right now, the few cars out at the moment were a pleasant background hum. Everything in him was telling him this was stupid and would probably end in a bloodbath, and yet he didn’t care. Maybe it was the fact he was wasted, maybe it was just because he really didn’t give a shit, as long as he could beat the holy fuck out of some traffickers.

He smelled cigarette smoke long before he came up on the lighted oasis of the building, a squat, boxy affair that looked as appealing as a shoebox outhouse. (Wow, he was really fucked up.) He heard two male voices too, talking about some incident involving someone else’s girlfriend, a waterbed, and the untimely return of an ex. He didn’t pay attention to what they were actually saying, but he picked up a few things: they were American, and they obviously expected no trouble whatsoever. He smelled gun oil somewhere beneath the tobacco and testosterone, but that wasn’t a surprise.

He was quiet, and stuck to the shadows as long as possible. They never heard him, never broke their conversational stride. As soon as he ran out of shadows and buildings to hide behind, he moved to the few cars in the lot (which was precisely theirs, the one they were standing beside, and the junker Holden drove in, and one that had a missing tire and had probably been here for some time).

He listened for a minute, orienting them in space by the sound and direction of their voices. He used the mirrors and reflective surfaces of metal to visually locate them. They weren’t anything special to look at, two guys around six feet tall (give or take some loose change), with broad shoulders and some pretty good muscles, although that wouldn’t help them. Judging from the bulges, one had a gun in a shoulder holster, and the other had his gun in his belt, near his right hip.  He wondered if either would have time to pull them – he’d do his best not to be that slow. They were both unremarkable men, save for the fact that one had sideburns ending in sharp points, while the other was given a greasy complexion by the sodium lights. He looked like he was melting.

He concentrated, thinking about these men selling kids, women, beating them, murdering them, tapping into the rich vein of rage hidden beneath the numbing calm of the drugs. It was hard to find, but he finally felt the toxic heat of it, let the blackness bubble up from beneath the narcotics, fill his veins like sour adrenaline. He heard the gentle fireplace crackle of bones in his jaw snapping, tasted blood, felt his skin go taut as if trying to peel itself away from his body, and his vision switched from myopia to hyperopia as the change worked on his eyes. They were still Human, but he was becoming something else.

The drugs not only kept most of the pain out of the partial change, but it allowed him to keep more of himself from getting overwhelmed by the cat. He told it quick and quiet, nothing showy, nothing brutal; no playing with prey tonight. Take out the sentries before they could sound the alarm.

He scuttled along the ground, almost on all fours, using the cars and shadow as cover until it became impossible, and then just went simply for surprise, bounding over the back of the men’s car and throwing himself at the men. One of them made a noise of surprise as his tackle brought them both to the ground, and with one hand he rammed sideburns’ head into the asphalt, silencing him, while greasy attempted to squirm away and reach for his gun at the same time. Roan was on him first, throwing a punch that hit him square on the side of the head and knocked him out almost simultaneously. Was he dead? No, he didn’t smell death. But he wasn’t well; neither of them were well. They might regain consciousness by sun up, but he wouldn’t bet on it.

He thought about taking their guns, but no point. They wouldn’t be getting up to use them any time soon. He’d have felt sorry for them, but they deserved worse. He should let the lion bite deep into their throats, tear them out, leave them to bleed.

He let the Human reassert itself, got up to his feet, moved towards the men’s room door of the rest stop. With his hearing as changed as his eyesight, the buzz of the sodium lights was irritating, almost like an endless drone of guitar feedback, but still he could hear voices inside, all male, Holden’s and two others. One of the men had an unidentifiable accent, but the other sounded Midwestern.

All he heard was voices, not words, but from Holden’s low, almost dead tone, he was playing scumbag to the hilt, a man who saw others as pieces of meat. He could probably mimic them perfectly because he’d been bought by them before.

It happened fast, with no vocal inflection change at all. Holden was talking to them, and suddenly there was a shift, a dull thud of violence, a shift in smell and the other male voice, the Midwesterner, now angry. There was a gunshot, the sharp tang of cordite, but Roan had already burst through the door and was on the man before he realized there was someone else in the bathroom.

It was a blur, the drugs no longer participating. As the man swung the gun around towards him, Roan already had his arm, snapped it like balsa wood, jagged ends of bone bursting out of his skin and spilling his blood. The man started to scream, but Roan grabbed him by the face and slammed him down into the sink, with enough force to break it, porcelain chunks breaking like ice and sliding across the tiled floor as the man collapsed bonelessly to meet it, blood splashed over the broken remains of the basin and pipes breaking through the wall, creaking in complaint.

He stood there panting for a second, trying to breathe through his mouth so he didn’t have to smell their surroundings. Blood covered a lot, the man’s blood and the blood of his companion, whom Holden seemed to have knocked out with an object. Beneath it, though, there was a stink of a bleach based industrial cleanser, pine scented urinal cakes, and a piss and shit smell that could never be completely scrubbed away for his kind.

Holden came out from behind the safety of a stall, and only then did Roan noticed the small bullet hole in the far wall, close to him. He looked down at the gunman, at the destroyed sink, at the man’s blood snaking its way towards the drain in the center of the room, and said, “Who needs hockey players when they got you, huh?”

Roan just stared at him, eyes blurring, refocusing, locking on. He wiped the blood from his mouth, and asked, “What went wrong?”

“Timing. I thought I could get them in succession, but that prick moved away at the last second. How were the guys out front?”

“Pathetic.” He knew there was another person here, he could smell them, and he found them crouched down and wedged between a urinal and a sink pedestal. It was a little girl, scrawny for her age – she looked pre-pubescent – in a dress that seemed a little too small for her. Her legs were scabbed and her eyes were hooded bruises in a studiously blank face framed by lank brown hair, and Roan felt something knot in his chest as he realized she was too broken down to even be scared of this situation. Seeking cover was reflex, little more.

He glanced in one of the mirrors to make sure he looked Human, to make sure all the blood was off his face, and then crouched down to be close to her eye level. “What’s your name? I’m Chris.” Yes, he was lying to her, but if he told her his real name and she repeated it to a police officer someday, he was in deep shit. At least Christopher was his middle name.

After a long moment, she said, “Lolita.”

“Your real name.”

She paused again, almost as if she thought this was a trick. Finally, she said, “Katie.”

“Okay Katie. We’re not bad guys, we’re here to rescue you. We’re gonna take you to a safe house, okay? I promise we won’t hurt you.” She didn’t seem convinced, and he couldn’t blame her. She probably heard that a lot. “If it means anything at all to you, my friend and I are as queer as three dollar bills. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

“Hey, I’m a three dollar and fifty cent bill, thank you very much,” Holden said. He was going through the pockets of the unconscious men, but he wasn’t taking their guns. He took some money, and he seemed to leave something in their pockets. What?

He almost held out his hand, and did, but only as a gesture. He kept it out of her reach for the simple reason that he wasn’t going to make a sexual abuse victim touch him, even if it was just to innocuously take his hand. She needed to have some bodily autonomy, and it might as well start here. He nodded and stood, hoping she would follow, and reluctantly, she did.

Holden was done, so he headed out, and Roan waited by the men’s room door, holding it open, waiting for Katie. There was a molten pain radiating from his jaw like something nuclear, the drugs no longer able to fight it.

She glanced at the men on the floor, and he noticed she had the gangly limbs of a teenager, pushing his age estimate up by a year. Finally, she asked, “Are they dead?”

“No.”

She said nothing, but he got the sense she was disappointed. Her refusal to say anything indicated to him she didn’t trust them. He didn’t blame her.

When they got outside, Holden was finished planting things in the unconscious men’s jackets. He promised to get them arrested, and Roan had to assume this was part of it.

The girl got in the back seat of the Plymouth, still quiet and beaten down, enough to make him feel mildly nauseated. People were such shit – wasn’t he glad that he wasn’t completely one of them?

Holden found a cell phone in one of the goons’ coat pockets, and called 9-1-1, lowering his voice and using a passable Spanish accent. As soon as he gave the information required, he snapped the phone in half and tossed the bits into the parking lot.

Holden opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a large envelope, which he put in the backseat of the traffickers’ car, then came around and got in the driver’s side of the Plymouth. As soon as he started the car, Roan asked him, “What was all of that?”

He gave him a sly grin, and said, “Enough rock for a thirty year ride, minimum.”

Roan shook his head, although he didn’t disapprove. It would render this a scene of “drug violence”, and no matter how the men protested it wasn’t and that the drugs weren’t theirs, they wouldn’t dare tell them the truth, so nothing they came up with would make any sense. The cops would never believe the drugs weren’t theirs.

“We’re taking you to a friend of mine,” Holden told Katie, looking at her in the rear view mirror. She didn’t look back or look up. “Jessie will take good care of you, and she’ll help you go home if you want.”

“I don’t wanna go home,” she replied, almost a grumble. Did her parents sell her in the first place? It was possible. People, as he had previously mentioned, were shits.

“I hear ya, sister,” Holden replied. “I wouldn’t go home either.”

There were several miles under their wheels before she spoke again. “They’ll be coming for you,” she said, her voice a dull monotone. Again, she was broken, a shell of who she was. Hopefully she’d recover after she wasn’t abused for a while. “They’ve done it before.”

Holden shook his head. “Not this time. They can’t trace us, can’t find us. You’re as safe as houses.”

She made a negative noise, like she didn’t believe him, and again, he couldn’t blame her.

Holden didn’t either. He pointed at Roan, and said, “He’s standing between your guys and you. Do you think they have a chance?”

She looked at him with her sullen, wounded eyes, and said, “No. He isn’t Human.” So she did see him in his partially transformed state. There was a long pause before she added, “Good.”

That about summed up his feelings right now as well.