The Romero Strain (Book 2): The Dead, The Damned & The Darkness

by Ts Alan

  The sick, flesh-crazed woman stepped forward, and as she did a busboy leapt from the top of the eating counter down on top of her, swift, fluid and as dramatic as a professional wrestler coming off the high rope down upon an unaware opponent. Smashing her to the ground the busboy plunged a large bladed cutting knife deep into the women’s chest. Ryan didn’t wait to see if the flailing creature would get up. He turned to run.

  There was only one place these things had not invaded and that was the very back of the restaurant near the kitchen entry. Although there was no back door, an escape through one of the folding windows was possible. As he searched the wooden and glass panels that made up the southern wall of the diner for the lock bolts to unlatch them, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the girl. Crimson-stained like a scream queen in an over the top splatter horror film, and with a knife protruding from her chest, she came at him. Ryan took flight into the kitchen to find a weapon.

  A cook confronted Ryan on his intrusion but was interrupted when the blood drenched female bounded through the kitchen doors. When the female bit into the cook the man let out a wail. The rest of the kitchen staff panicked and fled into the dinning area not bothering to help their fellow employee.

  Ryan saw the open basement door. There was no other choice. Through the doorway he bolted, quickly slamming and locking it behind him, and then fled down the stairway to the large underground storage room that nearly ran the length of the restaurant.

  The tympanic sound of angered pounding resonated down from the stairwell door filling the subterranean storage room and his head. For a moment the room spun around him, adrenaline pumping through his body making his heart pound and his breath short. The sound was relentless. He placed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the frantic drone of pounding fists against metal.

  He moved through the basement, his hands remaining firmly against his ears, searching the well-lit cinder block tomb for anything he could use to defend himself. Mops, tables, chairs, a walk-in cooler, and cans of food; but where were the knives?

  The quiet before the storm, the silence in between cannon barrages—as quickly as the thunderous kettledrum door had begun to turn out its demonic symphony it fell silent.

  He had once received the book The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead as a birthday gift from a house manager during his run in the musical Altar Boyz. It was a humorous look at how to survive a zombie uprising. Though Ryan had found it amusing, it was just a work of fiction, not a true survival guide. Nevertheless now two thoughts, two references from the book, filled his head: There are no places that are safe, just places that are safer, and the zombie may be gone, but the threat still remains. He found the knives and took stock of the available provisions. In a locker belonging to one of the staff he found an iPod. He perused the music artists: ABBA and a whole lot of Mexican metal bands. ABBA. He couldn’t believe it. He had auditioned on three separate occasions to be an ensemble performer for the Broadway jukebox musical Mamma Mia! based on the songs of ABBA. Three auditions and no gig, he still harbored a slight resentment over it. Given the choice of being eaten by zombies or forced to listen to ABBA music… Well, he was glad he had his own iPod with him.

  On day two he felt ill, like he was coming down with the flu. Ryan was certain it wasn’t avian influenza and that he had contracted the zombie virus. Within 12 hours he felt as if he was knocking on death’s door. Then he passed out. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but when he awoke the lights to the basement were off and his illness had passed.

  Ryan had contracted the viral pathogen, but because of his partial Irish ethnicity he had inherited a single copy of the mutated receptor gene CCR5-D32 from his mother, which allowed his immune system to eradicate the infection. If he had two copies of gene he would not have become ill. Ryan had no idea why he hadn’t turned into a zombie but he was glad he was still one of the living.

  After several weeks of hiding, Ryan had no choice but to re-emerge from his basement sanctuary. Though his food and beverage stocks were satisfactory and with rationing they could last a month more, it was the foul odor of his feces and urine, and that his candle stock was nearly depleted, which drove him above ground.

  The living dead were everywhere. Ryan knew he was not going to be able take on the throngs that roamed the streets and survive if he attempted to find a new hideout or tried to make it home. He would have to survive where he was for the time being. However, he knew he could not live in the basement for much longer without becoming ill from the decaying fecal matter or going stir crazy in the darkness, so he cautiously reinforced the kitchen entry with a makeshift barricade as best he could until an opportunity would present itself for him to leave.

  After spending three months at the diner, Ryan noticed the living dead appeared to be slower and more rotten then when the outbreak began. The living dead seemed to be dying. Another week or so, Ryan believed, he could leave and make his way home. However that was not to be. A few days later a group of men armed with knives and clubs came scavenging. Luckily for Ryan the group had no ill will toward him. The five men were lead by a priest, and shockingly the group was from St. Clement’s Episcopal Church, located less than 300 feet west from the diner on 46th Street. Father John apologized for the intrusion and explained they had come searching for food to help feed some neighborhood parishioners and their families, who had taken refuge in the church when the plague broke out. Ryan would not and could not allow children to go hungry. He gave Father John everything he had and in kind Father John invited him into his flock, and that is where Ryan would remain for many weeks until the day he was captured by marauders while out scavenging.

  ***

  Everyone at St. Clement’s had several jobs; Ryan’s was scavenger and childcare giver. It was easy for him to watch over the children, he was an actor and singer so his talents were much appreciated by the youngsters. As a scavenger he felt inept. He really didn’t know how to defend himself. Though there were no longer zombies roaming the city, one of their scavenger teams had reported they witnessed a hostile band of survivors. They had seen the marauder group execute two people for the supplies they had been carrying.

  Ryan dreaded supply-scrounging detail but it was a necessity. He had been feeling ill for two days before it had been his turn to go out with the three-man team. He was in pain and had red splotchy soars on his lower back and below his ribs, as well as a few small patches on his arms and lower part of his neck near his collarbone. The ones on his lower back and side had begun to blister. However there was no skipping his turn. Everyone needed to pull his or her weight if they all wished to survive, so out he went.

  Ryan’s team had been out several hours and had collected enough supplies to fill the SUV they were using. No one of his group heard the approaching men but as they exited the small shop they were scavenging, an assembly of heavily armed men confronted them.

  Ryan and his companions were on their knees with their hands atop their heads. A scar-faced man with a pistol in his hand was looming over them.

  “What makes you three assholes think you could come into the boss’s territory and steal from him?” the scar-faced man asked.

  One of Ryan’s companions fearfully whimpered, “We’re sorry, we didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know?! You didn’t know? Well, let me enlighten you, asshole. Everything and everyone on the Westside, from the Bronx to the Battery belongs to Stone. He’s the Goddamn King of New York. And those are his supplies you’re stealing and putting into his SUV. So one of you three assholes is going to have to pay for this attempted thievery. The scar-faced man cocked his pistol and put it to the back of the whimpering man’s head. “Is it going to be you?” Ryan’s sniveling comrade began to uncontrollably sob as the scar-faced man moved down the line. “How about you?” he asked Ryan’s next companion. “Or maybe you?” he then asked, pressing the pistol barrel agai
nst the back of Ryan’s skull.

  The other members of the scar-faced man’s group didn’t say a word as the marauder leader continued. “Damn. I just can’t decide,” he announced. “I know, how about our newbie decides?” Scarface turned to the only man that wasn’t carrying a weapon. “Wiese. I think it’s time you stepped up. Here’s your opportunity to earn your place in our group, become one of the chosen few, the inner circle.” However, Wiese didn’t answer. “What the fuck, are you deaf, Wiese? Get your ass over here and take this pistol,” he said with irritation. Two marauders brought Wiese forward. Scarface put the pistol in his hand. “Now pick one of these assholes and shoot him in the head,” he ordered. Except Wiese couldn’t. He stood in front of the three kneeling men trembling. The scar-faced man grabbed Wiese’s pistol hand and placed the gun against the whimpering man’s head. He put his finger over Wiese’s trigger finger and said, “All you got to do is squeeze, like this.” Scarface squeezed Wiese’s finger and forced him to pull the trigger. The pistol clicked. The whimpering man wet himself.

  “Wiese, you asshole!” Scarface admonished. “You really are useless,” he continued as he snatched the pistol away. “You forgot to load the chamber.” Scarface pulled back the slide and without saying another word shot the urine soaked sobbing man in the forehead. Brain matter sprayed out the back of the man’s skull. “Now that’s how you fuckin’ kill somebody!” he joyously announced, being thrilled over his act. However, Scarface wasn’t done with his terror tactics. “You?” he addressed a long, scraggly blonde-haired man, placing the pistol to his head, “What’s your name, asshole?”

  The scraggly haired man softly replied, “Billy.”

  “Billy.” he repeated, and then sarcastically asked, “Is that it or are you having trouble remembering two of them?”

  “Miller. Billy Miller.”

  “Well, Miller, Billy Miller, it’s you’re lucky fuckin’ day. You get to take a ride.” Scarface gestured to his men. Three of them stepped forward, seized Miller, restrained his hands behind his back, and then put a hood over his head. Scarface moved to Ryan. “Okay, asshole. What’s your name?” Ryan looked up and that’s when Scarface saw the soars on his neck. “Holy fuckin’ Jesus!” he blurted out. “This asshole is got those fuckin’ mutant blisters. Can’t take his sorry ass back to Stone. You two,” Scarface pointed to two of his man, and then added, “And you, Wiese… Take this infected motherfucker to that place with the fuckin’ cube. That last place we saw those fuckin’ crazy mutants. Tie his ass up, slice him up a bit, and leave him for food. And don’t fuckin’ come back until you wash up and change your clothes. Don’t want any of that mutant shit coming back with you. Got it?” he asked the three.

  “Got it,” one of them replied, and then the hood went over Ryan’s head.

  3

  Lock, Stock and Barrel

  Duty above honor and family above duty. That is what Lieutenant James Alexander’s father, who had also been a soldier, had taught him. The highest duty of any man was to the safety and well being of one’s family, and if that interfered with one’s duty to one’s country then so be it. Family, Country, and then God. And that is why he did not report directly to the 69th Infantry Regiment as ordered. Instead, James went to the Hearst Tower, home to Elle and Vogue magazines, to see if his wife Ann-Marie was safe.

  Ann-Marie had been with the publishing firm for seven years as an editor. James had met her when she enrolled in one of his evening yoga classes he taught. They took an instant liking to one another and began to secretly date, though all of Ann-Marie’s as well as James’ friends knew they were dating. So when the couple announced their engagement three years later they were astonished that no one was surprised at the announcement. To everyone else, the secret rendezvous, vacations together, and the large amount of time these two “friends” spent together was so obvious.

  James was a good looking man with a muscular physique and a strong face, and many of his students often told him he reminded them of a young Billy Blanks. James was quieter than Ann-Marie, who liked to go regularly to the pub for a couple of pints and listen to Irish Folk music. James, however, liked to spend his time away from noisy crowds and preferred restaurants over bars. There was never a compromise between them. In each of them they had found a mate who allowed each other the freedom to do what they wanted when they wanted, but still they found time for one another. James joined his wife once a week at the pub, and Ann-Marie met him for dinner once a week at James’ favorite Indian restaurant. They were by everyone’s accounts the most perfect couple they had ever known, and the only surprise in the relationship to their friends was why it had taken them three years to decide to get married.

  The urgency of James getting to West 57th Street was upper-most on his mind, for when his wife had left for work in the morning she was feeling a bit weak and tired. She wasn’t sure if she was coming down with the flu or if it was caused by being seven months pregnant, but she decided, since she was only a little sick, to go to work.

  James was unable to reach her on her work telephone or on her cell phone, so after numerous attempts to contact her he decided to go directly to her office. By now panic had spread throughout the city and upon arrival he had found that the building was in the midst of a security lockdown, the large rolling steel cage doors lowering to hermetically seal the building. But being an Army National Guard Officer and being familiar with building security, they let him in with barely a moment to spare. That, and the fact that he told security if they refused him entry, he would blow the door open—an idle threat since he carried no grenades and the doors were blast resistant.

  Ann-Marie was indeed ill; she and many others had been infected. He had planned on taking his wife to the armory, where hopefully the doctors could help her, but the outside world had become unsafe; the dead were killing the living, and the building had now been sealed. So he and those employees who still remained prepared themselves for an uncertain and possibly lengthy wait. But it was only a matter of hours before those who were infected began to succumb to the virus, only to return from the dead minutes later. The first had been a surprise when springing back to life, attacking and biting several other employees who had come to the aid of the creature’s first victim. It was evident that the rumors and apparently outlandish news reports were correct—the dead were coming back to life to consume the flesh of the living. James without hesitation terminated the living dead thing with a shot to the head. He had seen enough zombie movies to know what needed to be done. However, there were several hundred employees who had stayed inside as instructed by the Office of Emergency Management and CDC, and most were showing advanced signs of the disease, including his wife. Ann-Marie, though, did not become one of the living dead. She changed. She turned into a frightening and monstrous grey creature.

  James did not understand what was happening to his beloved, but when she had fully changed he was unable to kill her, not only because he was deeply in love with her, but also because of the baby inside her womb. Ann-Marie had fled, escaping toward the outer part of the floor, leaving James with slash marks across his chest.

  The wounds, though deep, were not immediately life threatening. He knew they would need medical attention, but the firm’s wellness center was situated on the 14th floor and by now the certified nurse practitioner along with the certified medical assistant were most likely zombies.

  There were nine of them remaining on the 23rd floor. The pantry, one on every floor, had enough food staples for a few days, but would not sustain them much longer than that even with rationing. The elevator would have been the quickest way down, but provided no visual of the level until the elevator doors opened. Too much of a risk not knowing how many infected were roaming around. So James opted for the stairs; at least the exit doors provided a small window so they wouldn’t be blindly entering a floor.

  They had been lucky. There had been no undead lurking in the stairways, bu
t the 14th floor was a different story; the undead were everywhere. There were no more bullets, only spears fashioned from broom and mop handles found in the janitors supply room. James had told the others they should stay and if successful he would return with food, but he knew the odds were against him. He had only one volunteer who went with him, and when they saw the number of the undead prowling about, they knew to enter would be futile, so they returned to the 23rd floor disheartened.

  James was a soldier and was not going to allow the living dead to stop him from his mission. He devised a plan and with the help of his one and only comrade, they hoped to diminish the number of the undead by luring them into an elevator and sending them down to the lobby. It was a dangerous but ingenious plan and in all practicality feasible, provided the undead remained single-minded in their desire to go after the living. Jonas McGann would be the bait since he was the lighter of the two, and James was the stronger. However, he alone, even with his strength, diminished as it was from his wounds, would not be able to lift Jonas quickly enough to safety. It would require a second.

  There were only three other men, all executives. To James they were useless, pathetic “suits,” who refused to lend a hand, didn’t want to get involved, for that would require them to actually do physical work, to soil their hands. It was a girl, a small Lilith of a young lady who volunteered. She would not be strong enough to help pull up Jonas, so she volunteered to be the bait.

  Though the plan was simple it had its inherent risks. Liz Hudson would be suspended from the elevator’s ceiling, utilizing the emergency trap door to make a hasty exit, which solely relied on James’ and Jonas’ ability to extract her quickly. The elevator doors would open to the 14th floor, Liz would get their attention and then be quickly pulled up to safety, with the doors closing, trapping as many undead as possible. The elevator would descend to lobby level to allow the trapped to exit. If the plan was successful all the living dead would exit, the doors would once again close and Liz would be lowered down in order to press the appropriate button to return to the 14th floor, where they would repeat the process. If they refused to exit or were just too brain dead to leave, they would be forced to climb up to the 23rd floor utilizing the interior elevator shaft ladder, and then would continue with their evacuation using another car to lure in a second group. As a precaution Liz was given one of the sharpened broom handles as a defensive weapon and if necessary, to use it to stop the doors from automatically closing if the undead did not immediately run into the car.