Angel in the Centerfold

It didn’t seem like much, at first. Starsky shifted his shoulders to relieve the vague itch/ache on his back. Two places, approximately where the scapula jutted out from his torso. It was an awkward area to scratch, but because of yoga classes, Starsky could fold his arms around and stretch his fingers enough to alleviate the itch.

There were two small bumps: one on the right side and a twin on the left. He allowed himself an indulgent scratch and shrugged on his favorite red Henley with the small white patch under the placket. A quick comb of his curls and he was ready for the day.

The drive into Bay City police headquarters was the usual snarl of traffic and road construction. Frustrated, he rubbed against the car seat, overly conscious of the little bumps on his back. What were they? Mosquito bites?

That was the most logical explanation. He and Hutch had hiked the San Gabriel mountains on the weekend—and despite all of Starsky’s protests, it had been a fun day out. They’d lounged in the dry, brown grass, eating the picnic lunch Hutch had brought. Kissing and naps in the sun had filled the middle of the afternoon, and they’d walked down slowly, hand in hand for much of the way. No surprise he’d probably been bit by mosquitos.

The niggling fear that it could have been poison oak sat in the back of his brain. But poison oak usually left a much larger rash. He’d have to check Hutch to see what souvenirs he’d returned with. Later this evening, of course, after their twelve hour shift.

They were both driving their cars separately today because Hutch’s was far better for the stakeout they were scheduled to do after a court appearance.

He found parking in a lot close to the courthouse and walked the two blocks over. Curiously, two people he passed were curling their arms behind their backs to scratch in exactly the same place as he had. It was unsettling to say the least.

He spied a blond head on the steps in front of the courthouse and hurried over.

“You’re cutting it fine,” Hutch chided with a raised eyebrow. “Saw the lawyer go in already.”

“Traffic.” Starsky preceded Hutch in through the main door, standing in the queue while guards checked people’s purses and briefcases.

Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s back, in just the right spot. “You’ve got a lump,” he said, running his finger against the sensitive place.

Even through his jacket and shirt, it felt so good, Starsky could have purred in appreciation, had they been alone.

“Are you all right?” Hutch had a look of concern when they walked the labyrinthian halls to find Courtroom Five.

“Mosquitos, from the hike Saturday.” Starsky took a step away from his partner to avoid Hutch discovering that he had two bumps. “Did you get bit?”

“Nope.”

“Poison Oak?” Starsky pointed to the correct doorway. People were already filing into the chamber, so he and Hutch couldn’t talk much more after that.

“Didn’t see any.” Hutch took his place behind the defense lawyer’s chair.

Finding an empty seat in the audience, Starsky grit his teeth. Leaning against the wooden chair was surprisingly painful. The small bites, if that was what they were, were swelling quickly. He had to sit rigidly upright to keep the pressure off his back. Watching Hutch give his statement about the arrest of the Malfano brothers, and their convoluted fraud scheme, didn’t distract him from the—he wouldn’t call it pain, exactly—but the definitely weird sensations on his back.

Starsky glanced around the courtroom, spying a newspaper placed on a chair in the row in front of him. Although the front page had been folded in half, he could read the headline MYSTERY VIRUS ON—

Mystery virus on the what?

A man to his left bent his elbow behind himself, scratching absently on his shoulder blades. That was at least the third person he’d seen do that. Something contagious? Starsky’s belly lurched. Did it have anything to do with these bumps?

Anxious to find a newspaper with up-to-date information, he didn’t pay any attention to Hutch’s statement. After all, he knew what Hutch was saying. They’d practiced his testimony ahead of time. And because Starsky had gone around the rear of the building, while Hutch burst in from the front, Starsky hadn’t been present at the arrest. Thus, didn’t have to give a statement.

The instant the judge called, “Court dismissed,” with a loud rap of his gavel, Starsky was on his feet. He barreled out the door, searching for access to a paper.

There was a small newsstand in the lobby. The Bay City Gazette plus the New York Times, Washington Post, and San Francisco Chronicle were all displayed on a rack next to the usual mix of People magazine, Playboy, and Ladies’ Home Journal. Three of the papers featured headlines mentioning President Carter’s signing a bill to mint Susan B Anthony dollar coins, but the local paper screamed MYSTERY VIRUS ON THE RISE in huge letters that filled the upper half of the front page. Snatching up the top copy, Starsky scanned the article below.

“Hey, bucko, that costs a quarter!” the newsie complained indignantly.

Coming up behind him, Hutch dug a coin out of Starsky’s back pocket, handing it over. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

Inhaling to reduce the increasing panic from the article, Starsky folded the paper closed so Hutch couldn’t see what he’d been reading. Silly, really, since there were still plenty of copies of the same paper on the stand. Not to mention an influx of people clustering around the seller, grabbing papers for themselves.

“Can we get out of here?” he asked, practically jogging from the courthouse. “Where’d you park?”

“One street over.” Hutch pointed to the left, in the opposite direction from the lot where the Torino was. “You?”

“I’m good for all day.” Starsky twitched his shoulders, zingy nerve pain irritating his back. “Get something to eat before we switch places with Morrisey and Jung for the stake-out?”

“Benny Burgers?” Hutch suggested. It was a popular spot for lawyers and anyone who’d been in court.

“Someplace else.” Starsky grimaced, sure someone might spot the lumps he could almost feel growing out of his scapula. He walked ahead, seeing Hutch’s car parked on the street. “Bread and Cheese.”

“Really?” Hutch’s longer legs ate up the sidewalk. “Thought you hated that place.”

“Not many people there, and—” He froze, hearing a scream up ahead. Breaking into a run, Starsky dashed to the corner where a young woman was on her knees, sobbing in pain. The back of her satin bombardier jacket appeared to be flexing and moving as if a small animal was attempting to escape from her bowed back.

Two more women, one largely pregnant, were trying to comfort her, all the while yelling, “Call an ambulance!”

“Hutch!” Starsky shouted, “Call dispatch! She needs a doctor.”

Holding up a thumb, Hutch dove into the open passenger door for the police band mic.

At that precise moment, the back of the black jacket ripped open, pointed objects erupting from the woman’s back. She screamed again, grabbing the pregnant woman’s hand.

“What’s happening, what’s happening?” she babbled, gasping as the skeletal shafts unfurled into huge, white wings.

A crowd had gathered, most scrambling away as the woman’s wings spread wide, flapping feebly.

“Jess!” the pregnant woman cried, “how—”

Tears streaming down her face, Jess rose, the wings beating fast enough to cause a breeze, lifting her into the air.

“What the hell?” Hutch bumped against Starsky, staring up at Jess’ inaugural flight.

The swellings on Starsky’s back, already incredibly sensitive, flared with intense pain from the impact. He gasped, clenching his fists to keep from whimpering. Was he going through the same metamorphosis as Jess? Where had those wings come from?

Sirens echoing off the taller buildings, an ambulance pulled into the intersection, disgorging paramedics. Stunned, both men watched as Jess circled above them in the crisp blue sky. Her face had transformed from terrified to stark joy. A police cruiser arrived, the officers gaping in awe to see a woman flying.

“Jess, come down!” the pregnant woman begged.

“Hutch, let’s go. Now.” Starsky shuddered, sure he was going to be sick. “I’m—starving.”

“That was the freakiest thing I have ever seen.” Hutch shook his head. “It’s impossible. Humans are humans, not…birds.”

That distinction had been obliterated completely, Starsky thought. How would Hutch react when his wings emerged? How long would it take? And how had he contracted this virus?

~~**~~

After a waitress took their orders: a salad for Hutch and a grilled cheese for himself, Starsky glanced at the TV over the counter. Facing the camera, a somber anchorman held a photo of a boy with immense white wings. His parents, obviously stunned, were reaching up in a vain attempt to grab his ankles.

“Turn up the sound!” a customer called urgently.

“Doctors are dubbing this the Angel virus. Since Sunday, dozens of people have developed the ability to fly with newly fledged wings,” the channel 6 anchorman intoned. “Scientists are not certain how this virus is contracted, and the CDC has been called in to monitor the developing situation. They advise the public to remain calm. However, if you have experienced any of the following symptoms: Bumps or swellings on the back under the shoulders, the sudden appearance of wings or ability to fly, please see your primary physician immediately.”

The waitress delivering their drinks dropped the glasses onto the tabletop so heavily that ice tea sloshed onto Starsky’s hand.

“I’ll get m-more napkins,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Starsky,” Hutch said in a hushed voice. “You have…”

“Yeah.” Starsky waited until the waitress had delivered the napkins, as well as their food. He wasn’t sure he could choke down the sandwich. Hutch didn’t dig into his garden salad immediately, either. “Haven’t a clue how I got it, but what if it’s contagious? You and me were—” He checked the other customers but all were either talking amongst themselves or watching the rest of the TV news.

“That was why you were asking if I had mosquito bites.” Hutch speared several pieces of lettuce and a tomato with his fork. “We need to learn what the incubation time is, where it originated, all of that.”

“Which even the CDC doesn’t know!” Starsky took a bite of grilled cheese to alleviate the sloshing acid in his belly. The pain in his back had reduced to a persistent ache. Although larger, the lumps didn’t seem to be bulging with wing buds as Jess’ had.

“I’m calling Judith. Maybe she’ll catch a flight here to investigate with the CDC,” Hutch said with determination. “We’ll tell Dobey you’re sick—” He frowned when Starsky shook his head. “It’s true.”

“Don’t want to advertise that until…” Starsky shrugged, the slight movement exacerbating the unpleasant sensations on his back. He’d picked at his sandwich, but somehow, he could barely taste it over the fear filling his mouth and throat. What happened once the wings sprouted?

“Don’t think either of us will finish.” Hutch pulled out some cash to pay the cashier. “You take priority.”

~~**~~

Hutch’s brain was reeling. He gripped the car keys before opening the doors. What would happen in the next day or two? Starsky with wings? How would that change him? Change their lives? And all the other people infected by this virus. Was it only here in Southern California, focused in Bay City? Or had it already moved outside the area?

What if someone took an airplane trip or left California before they realized they had swelling lumps on their scapula? Would the future world be populated by winged folk?

And why hadn’t he been infected?

Jerking open the car door, Starsky scrambled in, grabbing the police band radio. “Zebra three,” he identified, out of breath.

“Patching through Detective Morrisey,” Clarise said, followed by a burst of static.

“Morrisey and Jung were on the morning stake-out,” Hutch said, putting a foot to the accelerator. He forced himself to keep his mind on police work instead of freaking over Starsky’s condition.,

“Starsky, Hutchinson,” Morrisey said after a moment. “We caught Gutierrez, in a righteous take-down. The stake-out is off.”

“Thanks, Mor—” Starsky clicked off the mic, leaning slightly forward so his back didn’t touch the seat.

Hutch noticed and it made his heart hurt. “We’re going to your place and talk to someone in charge, preferably Judith.”

“Damn.” Starsky pointed out the windshield at a man taking flight from the street corner, his wings still slightly wet with blood from the violent rupture out of his flesh. “How many?” Starsky asked plaintively.

~~**~~

As he’d hoped, a phone call to CDC confirmed that Dr. Judith Kaufman was already on a plane to Bay City. Hutch and Starsky arrived at LAX in time to intercept her as she picked up her luggage.

He’d forgotten how beautiful she was—long black curls cascading down her back, a determined expression on her face as if she were already formulating theories on the infection. He’d never actually harbored a deep love for her, but greatly admired her commitment and intelligence.

“Hutch!” Judith greeted. “Starsky. I didn’t know you were going to meet us.” She indicated two other doctors behind her, a tall, balding man with a slight stoop and a short, very round woman all dressed in blue. “Doctors Mannheim and Gupta.”

“We made it our mission.” Hutch nodded at the other two behind Judith. “Starsky has the—” He stopped, glancing over at his partner, recognizing the tightly held emotion from the stress lines in Starsky’s face.

“Oh, bless your heart,” she said softly, regarding Starsky with compassion. “I’m ready to dig into the research immediately.”

“Thanks, Judith,” Starsky murmured, but it was clear that it was getting more difficult for him to maintain a calm demeanor.

After arranging for Mannheim and Gupta to get a cab, Judith jumped into the passenger seat of the LTD. Starsky climbed in the back seat.

“I should come visit sometime when there isn’t a raging epidemic,” Judith said with regret, looking out the car window at the scenery. “I never get to see anything but the inside of a lab or hospital.” She pulled out a small notepad, and turned to look at Starsky. “Do you know how you contracted the virus?”

Not quite sure why, but having her on the case gave Hutch a sense of optimism. This would all be fixed, just as his near fatal case of the pneumonic plague had been.

“Not a clue,” Starsky said tightly.

“Have you done anything different, met anyone new? Had any encounters with birds or animals?” she clarified. “Right before we boarded the plane, we got an update from doctors here. That there has been anecdotal evidence of patients with swellings on their backs coming in contact with bird…droppings.”

“That could happen to anyone!” Hutch groused in frustration. “We went hiking on the weekend,” he explained, his momentary well-being wavering. He navigated the traffic out of the airport complex, heading to Bay City Hospital with as much speed as the congested highway would allow.

“There was a ton of bird crap on the windshield when we got to the parking area.” Starsky sat up straighter with a wince. “When it didn’t come off with the wipers, I scraped it with my fingernail and then licked my finger to wipe…”

“That could be it, exactly.” Judith nodded somberly.

“What about Hutch?” Starsky asked in a tone that wrenched Hutch’s worried heart. “It’d be my fault if he’s infected, too.”

~~**~~

Starsky hated hospitals as a general rule. He or Hutch had been admitted too many times, for far too many injuries and illnesses. Having Judith there, and being quarantined in an isolation room was triggering memories of the terrifying time when Hutch had succumbed to the nasty plague virus while Starsky remained immune. Now it was the other way around. He wanted to lash out, shout at them all and hide. He was in agony and was incredibly aware of the stretch of his skin as the wing buds readied for birth.

The hospital corridors were crowded with all manner of locals suffering from the Angel virus. Some already had wings sprouting, others like Starsky, had throbbing, swollen bulges on their backs.

He’d stripped to the buff, except for his briefs, in front of the three epidemiologists, as well as a bevy of interns and medical students, their faces all hidden behind masks. Felt like being a stripper in a club—without the ten dollar bills tucked into his thong. He shivered, resisting the impulse to snarl, increasingly chilly except for the feverish heat from the bulging lumps on his back.

The damned group of medical personnel were all staring at him, jotting down notes on their fucking notepads, asking intrusive questions, and taking skin swabs from the area around his nascent wing sites. Lab technicians had drawn enough blood to feed a vampire literally moments after Starsky had arrived.

“Detective Starsky needs his rest now,” Judith urged the other physicians, looking directly at Starsky with a gentle expression. “We need to consult with the doctors who’ve already dealt with full blown cases, as well as examine the newer patients.”

“I want to stay,” Hutch announced, coming forward from the back corner of the room.

“I wouldn’t advise…” the older doctor with a graying comb-over said pompously.

“It’s allowed, Dr. Mannheim, ” Judith interrupted him. “He knows the risks.”

“That’s the question,” Dr. Gupta said as they filed out. “Is there—”

“Hey.” Hutch touched Starsky’s arm, waiting until they were alone.

It was all Starsky could do not to fold into him and hide from the world like a wounded animal. With windows along the south wall of the isolation room, there was no privacy.

“Talk to me,” Hutch said, sitting on the bed. He passed a hospital gown over to Starsky.

“I don’t know if I can.” Starsky groaned as a particularly horrible cramp jolted from his shoulders down his torso. It hurt too much to do much more than put his arms through the sleeves, leaving the gown untied. “I’m a specimen now. A mutant—you heard them all, it’s some kind of avon-human…”

“Avian,” Hutch corrected sweetly, taking Starsky’s hand to pull him onto the bed. “You, babe, are the best, most human person I have ever known. This will not change—.”

“Are you sure?” Starsky scrubbed at the tears forming in his eyes, filming his view of Hutch’s beautiful face. “We don’t know how any of the…people who contracted this will react now that they have wings.”

The most powerful contraction of all ripped through Starsky’s body and he screamed, dropping to his knees on the linoleum.

~~**~~

The sound was unlike anything Hutch had ever heard from Starsky. Already on all fours, Starsky arched unnaturally, his disfigured back rippling as if something alive writhed beneath the skin. The gown puddled beneath him, useless.

“Starsk!” Hutch yelled, crouching. What could he do to help? “Judith!” Probably stupid to call for a doctor at this point. Not only could she not hear him, but he’d already seen wings erupt on an otherwise healthy person. It was a weird, but apparently non-lethal, transformation.

Starsky screamed again when slender protrusions, like the folded ribs of an umbrella, punched through his flesh with astonishing force. Pale, damp feathers were wrapped around the thin rods, fluttering slightly. He hunched, panting with the effort, as the wings unfurled, filling the isolation room. The tips crunched against the ceiling, knocking the overhead lights askew. There was little blood, despite the violent birth.

Astonished, Hutch shoved the bed away to give Starsky more space, watching his face.

“Damn,” Starsky whispered, his agony morphing into a sort of confused rapture. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, holding Hutch’s hands for support, but the room was far too small to contain his massive wings.

Starsky looked up in awe, surveying his new appendages.

Hutch clutched his arm, raising one hand to brush his fingers on the feathers. Starsky shuddered at his touch.

“Does it hurt?” Hutch asked.

“Not anymore. What you did felt incredible.” Starsky shifted his shoulders, causing the wings to flutter, a giddy grin on his face. “I don’t know how to…. move…”

Hutch nodded, watching him. While the other wings he had seen so far were white or gray, Starsky’s had a silvery sheen, with a few drops of red blood speckling the feathers like rubies amongst diamonds. Starsky was radiant, his gorgeous, nearly naked body enhanced and glorified by the prodigious wing span.

“Hutch, I gotta get out of here,” he said urgently, wings whacking the bedside cabinet and tangling in the hanging privacy curtain. “I need to fly. Now.”

Hutch grabbed the blanket off the bed, ready to drape it over Starsky’s shoulders. “Can you…” He shrugged, his old vocabulary not up to the words necessary for wing discussion. “Fold ‘em in to your body? Like bending your elbows? ‘Cause you’ll never get out of the door with those.” He craned his neck to see the tops of the silver wings. They were twice the height of the isolation room door.

Starsky raised his shoulders, half shrugging, half manipulating his wings. With a grimace and a twist of his waist, he was able to pull the wings awkwardly down to fold against his back, although the lower feathers now trailed on the floor.

Kissing him quickly, Hutch swaddled Starsky in the blanket and pushed open the door.

It was pandemonium in the halls as several Angel virus patients acquired their new appendages. Most were crying or cursing from the pain. Other men and woman sat in chairs waiting to be admitted, transfixed at what would soon happen to them.

The overwhelmed medical staff dashed back and forth between sufferers, but it was clear that there was little that could be done once the process began. There were no medications or procedures to help bring forth wings .

Hutch saw Judith and Mannheim supporting a small girl, her wings already flapping rapidly, as if she needed to escape. A nurse eased an older man to the ground so that he could brace himself against the linoleum as Starsky had done when the wings were ripping open his flesh.

“Get to the roof!” Starsky said hoarsely, gripping Hutch’s arm. He glanced around at his fellow Angels, gesturing to the door with a sign expressly forbidding unauthorized people from opening the emergency exit. “We need to fly!” he called more loudly. “Get to the roof!”

“The roof!” people cried, surging toward the door.

Hutch wrenched the handle open, an obnoxiously loud klaxon screeching from mounted loudspeakers. Starsky grabbed his hand, launching himself onto the metal steps ahead of the mass of new Angels.

His breath bursting in his chest, it took Hutch a moment to realize that Starsky had risen off the stairs, his wings working furiously in the narrow confines of the stairwell.

He was flying!

Clasping Starsky’s wrist with both hands, Hutch felt his own feet come away from the metal risers. With a powerful movement, Starsky gathered his silvery wings in close and rocketed through the open doorway to the roof, straight up into the dark night sky.

“Starsky!” Terrified, Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Starsky pull him in to his chest, arms linked behind Hutch’s back.

“Hutch,” Starsky whispered in his ear, the beating of his wings buffeting a wind around them. “It’s terrific!”

Hutch opened his eyes, gazing into Starsky’s deep blue. Around them, half a dozen others had ascended from the hospital, swooping and diving in the air.

Starsky hugged Hutch tightly, levitating until they were surrounded by stars, one with the cosmos. Hutch let out his breath, entwining his feet around Starsky’s ankles, watching as they neared the outer reaches of Earth’s atmosphere.

It was stunningly beautiful. Bathed in moonlight, Starsky was transcendent, a new being with the same mischievous grin and loving heart the old Starsky had.

“I could stay up here forever,” Starsky said and kissed him, the movement of his wings stoking Hutch’s hands as they flew. “But we gotta go back, huh? Be cops. Find out how this new world will do with winged folk.”

“We’ll be the first,” Hutch declared. “To prove that Angels are human, too.” He kissed Starsky’s cheeks, his eyes, and his lips, feeling Starsky’s back muscles flex and contract as his strong wings bore them along. What would it be like after this? Starsky would need new shirts, larger doorframes—an open car?

So many possibilities, so many new ways to approach their old lives. They could do it, as long as he and Starsky were together.

“Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning, Peter Pan,” he said to his love.

FIN