Read Online Infected: Lesser Evils by Andrea Speed - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrea Speed
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Human.”
“Apparently so. Even the most sober of her friends can’t remember when she saw her last.”
Roan had to move aside as a young black man came down the stairs, also talking on a cell phone. They didn’t acknowledge each other in any way, locked in their own electronic worlds. It occurred to Roan the world was becoming more autistic, people were getting locked into their own little worlds (but voluntarily so, assisted by their machines), but he didn’t know what to do with such an observation, so he kept it to himself. “Okay, so… how did she change in the club without anyone noticing her? Why did her bone marrow shut down? Why did she smell like a chemical weapons factory?”
She snickered. “Chemical weapons factory? Cute. Well, I can’t answer any of those questions, except maybe they’re all related to the substance we found in her bloodstream.”
“Which is…?”
“Fuck me if I know, sport. That’s why you’re a bastard for getting me involved in this farkakt case. I’ll be here all night ’cause of this.”
“I’ll buy you a box set,” he told her, his mind racing in a dozen different directions at once.
How did an infected but otherwise healthy young woman enter a club as a Human, and end the night as an infection-ravaged cat corpse?
Not that it would be much comfort, but Rosenberg wouldn’t be the only one getting no sleep tonight.
6
Transitions from Persona to Object
B Y THE time Roan wandered home, Dylan was asleep upstairs, and Roan watched him for a while, wondering if he should just sleep downstairs on the couch. It was almost morning, and exhaustion had finally gotten the best of him, along with the pills. The upside of the fact that he was on the verge of near collapse, the lion was too. Even the beast needed to sleep from time to time.
Figuring he was being stupid, Roan crawled into bed beside Dylan and braced himself for bad dreams, but of course, since he was ready for them, none came. But he did have a really bizarre one, full of the smells of color and the roar of blood, and it made him wake up, a sense of doom pressing down on him and smothering him. It was just the blanket, which he had pulled over his face.
Dylan was up, which surprised him, but in a way he was relieved. How awful—he was such a coward. Bad show for a lion.
He was in the shower, shampooing his hair (Had it grown overnight? It felt like it), when Dylan came in. “You’re up early,” Roan said over the sound of running water.
“It’s noon,” he replied.
“It is?” He hadn’t looked at the clock. Perhaps he should have.
“What time did you get in last night?”
“Umm… it was dark. I stopped at the store, picked you up some more silken tofu.”
“I saw, thanks.” He put the toilet seat down and sat on the closed lid, so Roan could see him through the open slice of shower curtain. He was dressed in a green tank top and loose black yoga pants, and as he crossed his arms over his chest, he had that stubborn look on his face. Oh good, were they going to fight?
“So, I’m a little of tired of pretending something isn’t wrong. Are you ever going to tell me?”
“What do you mean?” Dylan shot him an evil look. “Look, it isn’t you—”
“I know it isn’t me,” he snapped. “I’ve analyzed my own behavior a thousand times, to make sure I hadn’t pushed you away in some fashion. I haven’t, so it must be you. Why haven’t you touched me in two damn weeks? What happened at Willow Creek? I’d love to accuse you of having an affair, but I know you’re not. Why couldn’t you be having an affair like a normal guy? At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about you stepping out in front of a bus.”
Roan was rinsing the suds out of his hair, and he was glad, as Dylan couldn’t see his face with his wet hair hanging down in front of it. Yes, it was definitely longer.
“What?”
“I know you’re depressed. I also think you’re suicidal. Tell me I’m
“Apparently so. Even the most sober of her friends can’t remember when she saw her last.”
Roan had to move aside as a young black man came down the stairs, also talking on a cell phone. They didn’t acknowledge each other in any way, locked in their own electronic worlds. It occurred to Roan the world was becoming more autistic, people were getting locked into their own little worlds (but voluntarily so, assisted by their machines), but he didn’t know what to do with such an observation, so he kept it to himself. “Okay, so… how did she change in the club without anyone noticing her? Why did her bone marrow shut down? Why did she smell like a chemical weapons factory?”
She snickered. “Chemical weapons factory? Cute. Well, I can’t answer any of those questions, except maybe they’re all related to the substance we found in her bloodstream.”
“Which is…?”
“Fuck me if I know, sport. That’s why you’re a bastard for getting me involved in this farkakt case. I’ll be here all night ’cause of this.”
“I’ll buy you a box set,” he told her, his mind racing in a dozen different directions at once.
How did an infected but otherwise healthy young woman enter a club as a Human, and end the night as an infection-ravaged cat corpse?
Not that it would be much comfort, but Rosenberg wouldn’t be the only one getting no sleep tonight.
6
Transitions from Persona to Object
B Y THE time Roan wandered home, Dylan was asleep upstairs, and Roan watched him for a while, wondering if he should just sleep downstairs on the couch. It was almost morning, and exhaustion had finally gotten the best of him, along with the pills. The upside of the fact that he was on the verge of near collapse, the lion was too. Even the beast needed to sleep from time to time.
Figuring he was being stupid, Roan crawled into bed beside Dylan and braced himself for bad dreams, but of course, since he was ready for them, none came. But he did have a really bizarre one, full of the smells of color and the roar of blood, and it made him wake up, a sense of doom pressing down on him and smothering him. It was just the blanket, which he had pulled over his face.
Dylan was up, which surprised him, but in a way he was relieved. How awful—he was such a coward. Bad show for a lion.
He was in the shower, shampooing his hair (Had it grown overnight? It felt like it), when Dylan came in. “You’re up early,” Roan said over the sound of running water.
“It’s noon,” he replied.
“It is?” He hadn’t looked at the clock. Perhaps he should have.
“What time did you get in last night?”
“Umm… it was dark. I stopped at the store, picked you up some more silken tofu.”
“I saw, thanks.” He put the toilet seat down and sat on the closed lid, so Roan could see him through the open slice of shower curtain. He was dressed in a green tank top and loose black yoga pants, and as he crossed his arms over his chest, he had that stubborn look on his face. Oh good, were they going to fight?
“So, I’m a little of tired of pretending something isn’t wrong. Are you ever going to tell me?”
“What do you mean?” Dylan shot him an evil look. “Look, it isn’t you—”
“I know it isn’t me,” he snapped. “I’ve analyzed my own behavior a thousand times, to make sure I hadn’t pushed you away in some fashion. I haven’t, so it must be you. Why haven’t you touched me in two damn weeks? What happened at Willow Creek? I’d love to accuse you of having an affair, but I know you’re not. Why couldn’t you be having an affair like a normal guy? At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about you stepping out in front of a bus.”
Roan was rinsing the suds out of his hair, and he was glad, as Dylan couldn’t see his face with his wet hair hanging down in front of it. Yes, it was definitely longer.
“What?”
“I know you’re depressed. I also think you’re suicidal. Tell me I’m
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