The Romero Strain (Book 1): The Romero Strain

by Alan, TS

  “Twenty units,” he said reluctantly. “I used twenty units. You are being hasty. Injecting the serum could have negative effects.”

  “Instead of being a flesh-eating zombie? What’s in it?” I asked, as I finished filling the syringe.

  “You would not believe me,” he responded.

  “Humor me, anyway.” I held the syringe with my right hand and handed David the vial.

  “It’s based on the delta-32 fusion inhibitor.”

  “And what is that?” David asked, as he placed the glass container into the case.

  The doctor answered before I was able to reply.

  “Doctor O’Brien of the National Institutes of Health,” he said smugly, his superior intellect paraded before us once again. “He discovered certain people in Europe were immune to the Black Death. O’Brien’s research with the mutated form of the gene CCR5, called delta-32, showed that it prevents HIV from entering human cells and infecting the body. O’Brien theorized this principle could be applied to the plague bacteria, which affects the body in a similar manner. He tested the DNA of modern-day descendants of plague survivors and found the same mutated gene. I mutated it even further for my antiretroviral.”

  “What does that all mean?” asked Marisol.

  “For a disease-causing microorganism to infect the human body there must be a gateway or portal through which it enters into human cells. When HIV infects a normal cell, it does so by latching onto a protein called a receptor. This receptor is the gateway into the cell. Simply said, his delta-32 antiretroviral blocks the crucial gateway into human cells that his Romero strain needs. His serum has prevented him from contracting his zombie virus.”

  A concerned Julie asked, “Is that a cure?”

  “No. But it may be a counteragent.”

  “Aren’t you going to swab that?” David asked, as I injected myself.

  “Or what?” I replied. “I might get an infection?”

  “Ass,” he said.

  X

  Quod nomen mihi est?

  Looking at the intravenous injection point, I felt lightheaded and my vision was blurred. The spot where I inserted the needle bled slightly, rising up into a crimson bead. The skin began to rise and a stream of blood flowed down my arm.

  I thought I heard myself say it was growing bigger.

  “What are do be?” I swore I heard someone say. There was laughter in my head, and a mocking voice called me a jerk. I recognized the voice inside my head; it was Bad Ash from the film Army of Darkness. I must have been hallucinating.

  I felt my legs grow weak, my muscles gelatinous. I lost my balance and as I collapsed, David caught me. I think I yelled, “Bad Ash! Bad Ash!”

  “I warned you,” the doctor said, with an I told you so attitude.

  “Think you better sit here for a while,” David might have said, as he and Marisol propped me up against the tunnel wall. Max sat down next to me.

  “David, do do tings for me. Strike that.” I spoke more slowly. “Do two things for me, no make it tree… three.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fust… First, don’t let that… son-of-a-bitch out of your sight… He’s still lying tus—”

  “Sure.”

  “Second, if… If I turn I want you to shoot me.”

  “What?! I can’t do that.”

  Marisol was shocked at the words even coming across my lips. She looked at me in utter disbelief and said “no” as David tried to return the pistol to me. I pushed it away.

  “You… don’t have a choice. Somebody has to. And it hasdo… Has to, be in the head. Just like the movies.”

  David responded with the Paul Newman line from Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid about having never shot anyone before.

  I followed with Robert Redford’s line about one hell of a time to tell me. “But you have to. Marisol and Julie won’t be able to do it. And I certainly don’t want Private Parts to do it. He’d enjoy it.”

  “What’s the third thing?” David asked.

  “Don’t put me on the cart until you know I’m really dead.”

  He was puzzled, “The cart?”

  “What do you mean cart,” Marisol asked.

  “Think Python,” I told him.

  It immediately came to him. “Oh, the cart. Don’t worry, no premature cartage.”

  “What do you mean by putting you on the cart?” she asked again, a bit more insistent on an answer.

  “Just another movie,” I said, and left it at that, quickly changing the subject. “Marisol, would you take out Max’s blanket from the right pouch on his pack and put it on the floor for him? Then let me see the other pistol and don’t ask why?”

  Marisol took the malfunctioning Glock out of my backpack. The Glock pistol is a semi-automatic pistol that does not have safety levers; they instead use a standard trigger pull of 5.6 lb. force as part of its Safe Action System. However, a NYPD Glock 17 has a modified, higher trigger pull of 11.2 lb. force for safety. It was either a hangfire or a stuck discharged cartridge. I released the magazine and then carefully jiggled the slide back and a live round ejected. After replacing the magazine and releasing the slide, I kept it for myself and gave her the Smith & Wesson. I showed her the safety on the handgun and instructed her only to release it when she needed to fire the pistol.

  I dug into my backpack and pulled out a pen and a green, marble covered, notebook––the kind with The Original printed on it. I began to write.

  “What are you writing,” she asked inquisitively, looking at the strange words on the pad as she sat on my left side.

  “Verbal commands for Max. If I die, you need to take care of Max for me.”

  “Oh, no. You are not going to die, so stop writing.”

  “I may not hold out much longer, and I don’t really want to chance it. Who can I trust with Max? Not Joe. Joe would want to do everything his own way, not mine. And David and Julie, they don’t know Max. That’s why I decided that it would be you, a very honest, loving girl to whom I could entrust my most loyal companion. Besides, Max likes you.”

  She did not reply, but instead slipped her arms under my left arm and put her head on my shoulder to comfort me. Though I was certain it was for her own comfort.

  I heard Joe make some snide remark about me being with a twelve-year-old to the rest of the group. I also heard David telling him to shut the fuck up.

  “What are those words?” Marisol wanted to know.

  “Max’s commands are in German and Dutch, so no one else can give him orders. I’ve written them down phenefically. Phonecically. Shit. The way they sound for you.” I handed her the paper. “Keep them secret. Okay?”

  “Sí.”

  She whispered the words as she read the commands, trying to memorize them.

  Max put his head on my outstretched legs and looked at me with a sad expression. Animals have a keen sense of human emotions and the human condition and recognizing the subtle details of body language. He knew his pack leader was ill and he empathized with me.

  I quickly wrote down my thoughts as I could feel my chills worsening, and the pain and stiffness in my muscles growing more intense. It was difficult for me to concentrate; my vision was distorted and my thoughts were disjointed. Difficult as it was, I jotted down some of what had happened to me.

  My name is J.D. and I have been bitten…

  I write for history’s sake, if there is a future. Let this End of Days’ record enlighten anyone who may read it. Not all of humanity went out in a miserable whimper, but as the expressions goes, kicking and screaming. Or as I did, kicking and killing.

  Max’s head popped up from my legs; he whined and sat up. He barked to get attention. Something was wrong. I started to ask Max what was wrong but felt the rapid onset of a piercing headache accompanied by an agonizing ringing in my ears. I felt the urge to vomit. Before I could move my weakened body to a spot to regurgitate, I convulsed violently. Twitching and spasming, I realized what brought on Max’s anxiety: it was me.
He sensed what was going to happen before it did.

  I started vomiting on myself. That’s the end of another shirt, I thought.

  Then I heard Joe yell, “Shoot him. Shoot him!” Damn, the end of me.

  “Fucking shoot him!”

  My body felt a strange sensation that I had never experienced before. My eyes went out of focus, and my neck felt like someone was tugging on it, trying to detach my skull from my torso. Severe pain, numbness, weakness, and tingling erupted throughout my neck. A burning pain radiated from my spinal nerve roots into all my peripheral nerves. My eyes seared with a fiery pain as though someone had jabbed a burning stick into them. The pain and burning throughout my body became intense, horrific. I wanted to scream but my vocal cords felt frozen. A bright white light filled my vision.

  “Shut the fuck up before I shoot you. I gave him my word that I would make sure he was dead before I shot him,” David told Joe.

  “No, you didn’t. All you said was, ‘I never shot anyone before’. If you’re going to be a pussy give me the gun.”

  “Fuck you. Did you ever hear of an unspoken promise?”

  “He’s not dead,” Marisol yelled, shoving Joe in the chest.

  Joe slapped her hard. “Shut up, bitch. No one’s here to protect you now!”

  My twitching stopped.

  Joe turned away from Marisol and put his attention toward me. “Look! He’s not moving! Shoot him!” he once again ordered David.

  As Joe approached me, three shots echoed. “Fuck you, ¡pendajo!” Marisol told him as the last round left the chamber. All the shots were grouped nicely in the center of Joe’s back.

  My eyes popped open and I stood up. David raised the Glock in Marisol’s direction. It was too late. I grabbed Marisol and sank my teeth into the side of her neck. I ravenously tore at the tissue and muscle to get to the arteries. The deep, rich arterial blood pumped out of her neck and onto my face. She struggled only a moment and went limp. David had not been able to take a shot in fear of hitting her. It didn’t matter. Julie was paralyzed with fear; she would be an easy kill.

  I saw him in front of me, pointing the pistol at my face, just feet away. There was a shout, “Shoot him. Shoot him!” Then everything turned white.

  My eyes popped open.

  Whoa! I jumped up with the sheets wrapped around my head like a shroud. I had startled myself, like waking from the sensation of falling. But worse. I had dreamt I turned into the undead and was shot in the head. Too much Jack Daniel’s, and too much Romero marathon the night before. I needed to piss. A blurry silhouette before me gave an indistinguishable shout and everything went white again.

  I felt a hand on my wrist but didn’t know whose it was for I couldn’t open my eyes. It was David’s as I would shortly discover. He had come to see if I was still alive. I heard his whispered voice. “Farewell, dear voyageur — ’twill not be long. Your work is done — now may peace rest with thee. Your kindly thoughts and deeds — they will live on. This is not death — ’tis immortality.

  I gasped as I opened my eyes, and then grabbed onto his forearm. Paraphrasing, I choked out two lines from a Dylan Thomas poem: I will not go gentle into that good night. I will rage against the dying of the light.

  From a distance I heard Julie ask, “Is he dead now?”

  With eyes closed and in a raspy voice, I replied, “I’m not dead.”

  David told me, “You should be after you butchered Do not go gentle into that good night.”

  I must have passed out for a moment because the next thing I recalled was David gently trying to rouse me. “J.D., J.D., tell me you’re not dead,” he requested.

  Attempting to be funny I whispered in a fake English accent and tried to imitate The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t, letting him know I wasn’t dead.

  David drew closer and mimicked Eric Idle’s line as the Dead Collector, telling everyone I was not dead.

  Marisol looked at David oddly, she didn’t understand. “Why are you talking to him like that?” she asked.

  I tried to deliver the final line of The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t, the line before the Dead Collector silences the Body with a whack of his club, but I choked on the words. I could barely open my eyes. They were burning and watery. I sat up, hacked like a cat, and spit a big gob of residual puke. It was sour and thick. “Anyone have mouthwash? Jack Daniel’s will do… No…? Anyone? Can someone help me up? Why are you all staring at me… from way over there? Max?” Max whined and wouldn’t come. “Did my head spin around?”

  I pushed myself up and leaned my aching back against the wall.

  “You puked all over yourself,” Joe said, his voice reflecting a tone of satisfaction.

  I looked at my shirt. “Ah, so I did. I thought that was part of the dream.” Eying Joe, I said, “I thought you were dead.”

  “You wish.”

  “Cha. You’re right.” I told him.

  “If you weren’t covered in puke, I’d kick your ass!” he spoke matter-of-factly, pointing his finger at me.

  “Here’s a finger for you,” I replied, raising the middle one up. “Childish threats are best left to children.”

  “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP,” Julie scolded. “I’m sick of your fucking testosterone bullshit! Can we just get out of here?”

  I placed my hands over my ears before she finished yelling. “God damn. Stop shouting. You’re killing me. And whoever is pointing that flashlight at me, you’re blinding me.”

  “No one is pointing a flashlight at you,” David informed me.

  “What the hell is that bright light?”

  “It’s just the lamps,” Marisol said.

  “How many do you need on?” I asked, as I struggled to straighten myself.

  “There’s only one,” Julie said.

  “Damn, it hurts. Someone turn it off.”

  “Auditory and auricular sensitivity?” the doctor asked, with genuine concern.

  “Buddha’s balls. You still alive, too?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Disappointment in life always happens when hope collides with unexpected reality.”

  “Well said,” David praised. “I don’t recognize that quote. Where’s it from?”

  “That would be the book of J.D. Nichols. God, what is that smell?”

  “It’s you, papi.” Marisol informed me.

  “Oh.”

  I removed my EMT trauma shears from its holster, held them out to Marisol, as I asked, “Marisol, can you cut my shirt off from the back?”

  I pulled my soiled shirt from my body, took a bunch of antibacterial wipes and cleaned off the wet, sticky bile that had soaked through the shirt onto my chest.

  “Your neck looks funny,” Marisol said in a concerned tone. “It’s all bumpy.”

  She tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the shears.

  “Really? Again?” I rubbed the back of my neck. It was swollen and sensitive to the touch, like it had been after my EMT vehicle collision. “What the hell?” The vertebrae felt strange, not like I needed a chiropractic adjustment, but like something I couldn’t quite explain. It was odd, deformed.

  I removed the last two wipes from the packet and cleaned my face. I looked at my chest again. Weird, I thought. All my chest hair is gone.

  It wasn’t a strange reflection on a day I had shaven my chest––I went to the gym and to the dojo several times each week, and on those days my chest and abdomen were freshly shaven. Vain as I know it was, I shaved to accentuate my muscle development. But I had stubble when I had changed out of my dirty postal code graphic shirt in front of Marisol. I brushed my hand over my right breast; it was as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, and so were my arms and armpits. I quickly put my hands to my face and chin. It, too, was soft and free of facial hair.

  “What are you doing?” Marisol asked.

  “No stubble. I know I had stubble earlier.”

  The doctor spoke, anxiously, “Are you sure?”

  I reached up for
my head. My chestnut brown hair still remained. I checked my eyebrows. They were still there. “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “How about below the chest?” he asked.

  “Below?” I asked.

  “Yes. I mean below,” the doctor affirmed.

  I had to be sure. I shakily rose. “Excuse me,” I said aloud, then unbuckled my EMT pants. I pulled back the waistband of my underwear. “Holy crap.” I was as bald as a male porn star.

  “What’s wrong?” Marisol asked again.

  “Ahhhh…” I was slightly embarrassed to answer.

  David laughed.

  “Are you hurt, papi?” Marisol wanted to know, a reflection of concern in her voice once again.

  Joe blurted out, “He’s lost all his ball hair!”

  “Oh, God,” Julie said, slightly grossed out. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “It could have been worse,” David said. I didn’t know if he was being sincere. “You still have a head of hair…” He recited the entire refrain from the song Hair.

  “Really?” I asked, as he returned the pistol. The burden I had forced upon him had been lifted.

  His snickering subsided.

  Marisol put her hand on my bare shoulder and whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, I won’t mind.” She gave me a light, sensual kiss on the neck.

  I hadn’t been passionately kissed in a long time. As arousing as it was, I felt uncomfortable having an underage girl make a pass at me. However, her previous M.I.T. scholarship comment told me she wasn’t as young as she suggested when we first met.

  I put on a clean white t-shirt and cleaned out my rancid mouth by gargling with Jack Daniel’s. “Such a waste,” I spat out the liquid onto the ground, aiming at the drainage ditch. I took a long drink then realized I drank from the bottle. “Oh shit. Sorry, David. I forgot.”

  He motioned me to continue.

  I rinsed my mouth several more times and took a few swallows. I finished off the bottle. “We’re going,” I said, as I tucked in my clean shirt. I suddenly became dizzy and was forced to prop myself against the wall.

  “Maybe you should rest a bit more,” Marisol told me.