Infected: Legacy: Infected, #9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Infected: Epitaph

© 2014 Andrea Speed.

Cover Art

© 2020 [email protected]

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

Author’s note - As everyone knows, Infected takes place in an alternate universe very close to our own, but still not. So while the disease that is Trump apparently made the cross, Covid-19 didn’t. But I want everyone to know not only would Roan be one of the first to wear masks, but he’d try to match them to his t-shirt collection. So ones with weird designs, band logos, and at least one saying something like Gay As Fuck. And as you read this story, you will discover he needs no encouragement to avoid people or stay in. Please do this yourself, be safe. But with less depression and anxiety.

See you on the flip side.

Special thanks to Kathleen and Desi.

Editing by Desi Chapman at Blue Ink Editing, LLC

But blame the author for everything wrong.

1—The Reason They Hate Me

ROAN HONESTLY HOPED Dylan wasn’t going to kill him for this. Although he wouldn’t blame him if he did.

He was supposed to be retired and, basically, he’d only talked Dylan into letting him do his private detective thing again if he took unambitious, not-at-all-dangerous cases. This one went off the rails quickly.

It really did look simple to begin with. Blair Pender, a boring suburban type, hired him to find out if her husband, Hank Pender, was cheating on her. He was one of those muscly, white, Vin Diesel body-double bouncers for a trendy Vancouver nightclub so, of course, he had the opportunity to meet other women and possibly exploit them in a truly icky way. In fact, on Roan’s first stakeout of Hank at work, Dylan went to the club with him. It was ostensibly a straight club, but modern sensibilities insinuated gays could go there, too.

Well, instantly, Roan knew why gays didn’t flock to the club. It was fucking terrible, with some kind of eye-melting theme, a cross between tiki and Blade Runner in a way that brought out the worst in both decors. The drinks were super overpriced and poorly mixed—Dyl contributed that last bit—and the music was modern pop remixes that made Roan want to take a knitting needle to his eardrums. Also, because his sense of smell had somehow grown even sharper, he spent a good part of the night rubbing peppermint oil under his nose, blanking out his olfactory sense, and giving himself a headache. But the alternative was vapor locking on the smell of so much cologne, deodorant, booze, body odor, bad breath, and ozone that he would be useless. Some people might think sharper senses were a good thing, but they weren’t. And that didn’t count the synesthesia that made the place look like a multicolor swamp. Dylan wasn’t only there as moral support and crowd camouflage—he was there to help Roan leave the club without causing a scene. Places like this were just brutal for him nowadays. What they never bothered to show in any of the Wolverine movies was how hard it was to deal with modern society when you had above-average senses. For Roan, being in a crowded public space was genuine physical torture. He didn’t want to become a shut-in, but it seemed like his own senses were forcing him into that position.

Anyway, what Roan discerned through the pain was that Hank seemed like your average bouncer. A bit aggro, but no sleazier than anyone else. And yet, ever since he saw Hank in person, an alarm was going off in the back of Roan’s mind.

An exaggerated hunch, really, but in lieu of a better name, Roan referred to it as his predator sense. The feeling that he was meeting another monster—like him but not. He couldn’t explain it if he wanted to and, oh boy, did he not want to. So he continued following this guy, wondering what was setting off alarm bells.

Roan showed up at the Pender house when Hank was at work, and Blair let him have a look at Hank’s laptop. Hank had managed to clear out a lot of his history, but Roan still found porn links and some distressing search histories, all about guns. Most likely, he’d done follow-up searches on his phone, which Blair couldn’t get from him, and Roan was getting such a danger sense from this guy that he didn’t want to risk her any further. She knew something was wrong with her husband, but she might have misjudged what exactly that was. According to Blair, Hank didn’t own a gun. Roan didn’t find that comforting.

He’d been staking out Hank the last couple of nights, hoping he was wrong and his weird hunch was simply a personal prejudice. After all, Roan did have a personal hatred for roided-up gym disasters, which was exactly what Hank looked like. These were Hank’s vacation days from work and, so far, he hadn’t done anything to raise a red flag. Roan was beginning to think of himself as extremely out of touch with the whole detective business, when Hank went for a late-night drive to the shadier side of Stanley Park.

Roan first wondered if gays still had furtive sexual congress in parks. Surely, with Grindr it had gone the way of the dinosaurs, right? Besides, Hank wasn’t gay. Roan parked off the main street and walked into the park, only to find Hank hadn’t left the parking lot.

He was standing beside a car with Washington state license plates, talking to a bearded white guy with a beer gut. The guy took his time getting out of his car and opening the trunk. He removed a spare tire before he opened the false bottom of the trunk and revealed guns. Lots of guns.

Roan made a hasty call to the police—sad he didn’t really have a contact in the Vancouver force—before deciding to break up the party.

He simply walked up and, since they were so enrapt in their haggling, they didn’t notice him at first. Roan attributed it to the fact the gun dealer had deliberately parked away from lights in a pool of shadow but, after a couple of seconds when Roan felt he was honestly close enough to be noticed, he wondered if he was stalking. Was he deliberately walking quietly, with exaggerated stealth? It was weird what habits he found himself slipping into nowadays. As much as he wanted to deny the virus was causing lion effects on him... he was just fooling himself. Some mornings he found it much easier to growl and purr than talk, and sometimes he needed to take a moment to remember how to do that. Yes, he was human, but he could hardly deny how much the virus had taken over his body. And since Roan was the lucky son of a bitch who had lived with it the longest he was pretty much the test case for what the virus did as he aged. That he wasn’t dead yet seemed like a modern miracle—or curse, if you were on his side of it.

Roan cleared his throat, and both men jumped. Geniuses they were not.

The seller made an attempt to lower the trunk, but at this point it was ridiculous. Exactly what are you planning to do, Hank?

The seller glanced at Hank, horrified. Look, I don’t—

Roan raised a single finger toward the seller, holding it up in a one moment gesture, and for some reason it worked. The guy actually clammed up.

Hank glared at Roan like he’d never seen him before, which was fair, but hadn’t he been at his club a couple of nights ago? Was he that forgettable? Who the fuck are you? Hank asked.

I’m Roan McKichan, I’m a private detective, and I was hired to follow you. And there’s no way in hell I’m letting you purchase illegal firearms.

Hank’s barrel chest puffed up, like a territorial ruff grouse. Roan almost laughed at how funny that was. Yes, Hank had a few inches on him, and a hundred pounds of muscle but, if he thought he was physically in Roan’s league, it was only because the virus didn’t really reveal that part. Except when it did, but if it went that far, there was a good chance Hank wouldn’t live through the next ten minutes. Who the fuck are you to follow me? Who hired you?

Client confidentiality keeps me from—

It was my fucking wife, wasn’t it? She can’t leave well fucking enough alone, the fucking bitch.

Did he correct his grammar? Roan knew something so petty would cause Hank to lose his shit, but some part of him was itching for a fight. He wanted to show Hank what a predator truly was. He could easily imagine sinking his teeth into Hank’s ridiculously thick throat and the rush of blood that would come with it. Hank would probably die, never sure what happened.

Nope. Couldn’t let the lion out. He’d promised Dylan he wasn’t risking his health like that. But it really wanted to come out and play.

You know, I’ve got nothing to do with this, so why don’t I— the seller said, attempting to close the trunk.

Roan sidled up to it and caught it before it latched. No, you’re staying here too.

The man glared at him. You’re not a cop. I can leave if I want.

Roan nodded, stepping back until he was parallel to the rear tire. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folding knife, flicked it open, and stabbed the tire.

Hey!

Bill me, he said, pocketing the knife. Actually, if the guy did bill him somehow, no way in hell Roan was going to pay it. The guy sold illegal weapons—fuck him to death.

Hank loomed over him, or at least attempted to, big veiny arms bulging. You can fuck off outta here now, or feet first later. I don’t give a damn which.

He appeared ridiculous and Roan couldn’t suppress the smirk. I know you think you sound cool, but you really don’t. I mean, I know I don’t look like much, but you are nowhere near my level, no matter how much you bench press. It’s all kinds of sad.

Hank threw a punch at him, which Roan had already anticipated. He dodged to the side, feeling the wind of Hank’s ham-hock-sized fist passing his face, and aimed a single hard kick on the side of Hank’s knee, which was more like a stomp than anything else. Roan heard a very clear pop before Hank crumpled to the ground with a shout of pain.

The seller jumped back and exclaimed, Holy fucking shit!

Hank grabbed his leg and snarled, I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker! You broke my leg!

No, I dislocated your kneecap. Quite violently, to be honest. You’ll need a lot of healing time. Knee injuries are a bitch.

The seller pointed at Roan and then at Hank before he remembered to use his words and repeated the action. How the fuck did you do that?

Why was he reacting like Roan had done something amazing? Roan was sure he hadn’t... right? The problem with the virus being so integrated into him was sometimes it came out in ways he didn’t anticipate or recall. He knew it didn’t make him super fast, but his reaction time could be honestly frightening. Was that it? He wanted to ask but knew he couldn’t. You don’t even wanna know how old I am or how many fights I’ve been in. Safe to say, all the posturing and banter are for young people. I got shit to do and absolutely nothing to prove.

Hank looked like he was going to try standing, but he hardly even shifted on the ground before giving up. Trying to stand up on a dislocated limb was impossible without help. It didn’t matter how much pain Hank could take, he was going precisely nowhere. Roan knew that from experience. Still gonna fucking murder you, Hank grumbled, grabbing his leg again. Tears of pain were trickling from his eyes.

Get in line.

A cop car pulled into the lot, headlights flaring across the scene like transient spotlights. You generally got decent response times around here because it was pretty white. Roan started raising his hands and looked at the seller, who seemed gobsmacked by their arrival. I mean, we’re not Black or indigenous, and they’re not American cops, so they probably won’t gun us down, but why take the chance? One of them may have decided he wants to be famous.

The gun seller’s eyes widened, and he raised his hands like he was attempting to hold up a collapsing ceiling.

Yeah, Dylan was going to kill him.

2- Down To Drown

HOW DID HE KNOW THE 2:00 a.m. phone call was Roan from a police department? Dylan wanted to entertain the thought he was psychic, but, honestly, it was inevitable since Roan had gone back to work.

Dylan knew Roan was sincere in promising not to get into trouble, or into a case too big to handle. But that was asking a bird not to fly, wasn’t it? Roan and trouble were great friends, had been since he was a child. Dylan was never going to get between the two of them.

He dragged himself out of bed and hastily dressed, glad society had been so worn down no one thought anything of people wearing sweatpants in public. Only once he glimpsed himself in the mirror, to make sure his hair wasn’t a complete nightmare, did he realize he was wearing one of Roan’s T-shirts. This one had a wide-eyed kitten on it, along with the words I Have No Idea What I’m Doing. It was so thematically appropriate he didn’t bother to change.

At least the traffic wasn’t bad this time of night. Dylan kept himself awake by shouting loud curses at an imaginary Roan. Better to get it out now, before it could hurt feelings. Besides, he left the worst cursing for himself, because he knew this was going to happen but went along with it anyway. That’s where the cliché about hope springing eternal came in, right?

The alternative, however, was unthinkable. Roan was going slowly mad with nothing of use to do. He’d finished writing his memoir, yet as soon as he was done, he informed Dylan that he wanted it held and not seen by anyone until after his death. And while Dylan understood why, the reminder of Roan’s death—and how he was living on borrowed time already—was enough to almost cause Dylan to have a panic attack. He knew he should have come to grips with the fact that he was going to lose him, sooner rather than later. But he hadn’t and, honestly, he couldn’t. All he could do was act like Roan was going to live forever, because dealing with the reality of the situation was just too much. Dylan didn’t need his therapist to tell him it was denial—he fucking knew it was denial and, frankly, it was comforting.

By the time he found the police department, all the anger he had was gone. One day, Roan wasn’t going to call him from anywhere ever again. Dylan found that so horrifying a thought he honestly couldn’t deal with it.

The cop shop was low-slung, drab industrial, and could have been mistaken for some kind of office building if you somehow missed all the police cars in the lot and all the police uniforms coming in and out. The inside followed the weirdly repurposed office theme. Roan stood up from a chair when Dylan entered. No cop moved to stop him, so Dylan took that as a good sign.

I wasn’t arrested, Roan said, holding up his hands to show they were free of fingerprinting ink. They just wanted to shake down a PI since they have so little chance to do that nowadays.

Honestly, Dylan would never have said such a thing in a cop shop, where they might hear him, but Roan held no fear of any human. Even when he probably should have.

Dylan waited until they were outside before asking, What the hell happened?

Roan grimaced. Well, to cut it down to its most essential point, Hank Pender was not cheating on his wife. He was planning to murder her and one of his bosses in some kind of spree. I caught him trying to buy a weapon from an asshole who came over the border with a trunkful of guns.

Holy shit. Now Dylan understood why Roan hadn’t told him anything over the phone. Are you okay? Did...?

I’m fine, I didn’t lion out, it’s all good. Except I have to figure out a way to break the news to Blair in a way that makes this somehow seem like a good thing.

Oh yeah, the client. This was going to be a doozy. By the time they got to the car, Dylan thought he might have found a way forward. How about telling her the good news is she never has to see him again? I mean, if someone was plotting to murder me, that’d cheer me up.

Roan nodded. Me too, but I don’t know. People can react weirdly to shit like this.

"If you want to say ‘heteros, what can you do,’ you know you can."

Well, I don’t need to say it now, spoilsport.

They got in the car and sat for a moment in silence. Dylan was relieved Roan hadn’t lioned out or had to physically subdue someone. You’d think he’d be more concerned with the stupid piece of shit who tried to hurt his husband, but Roan knew how to take care of himself. It was the whole becoming a lion could potentially kill him thing that concerned Dylan. It wasn’t very Buddhist to think it but, honestly, fuck all of the assholes who came after Roan. They were on their own and had to live with their exceedingly poor life choices. But he didn’t want Roan to hurt himself, perhaps fatally, teaching them a lesson.

I’m sorry, Roan said, breaking the silence.

Dylan looked at him, genuinely surprised. For what?

"For almost getting into a thing again.