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

by Ts Alan

  He tapped James on the shoulder, and then pointed to the area he wanted him to view and said, “Take a look over there? See where the bodies appear to have been moved on the sidewalk, in front of the center doors on the far section? Looks like someone cleared a path.”

  James pointed his binoculars at the place J.D. had pointed to.

  J.D. stood up, removed his sunglasses, and spoke again. “Actually, I’m sure of it. Those bodies have been moved.”

  James tipped his ACU Digital Camouflage fatigue cap back. “How do you see that from—” James began to question as he looked at J.D., and then realized his question was pointless. “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’ll lead,” J.D. said. “I have the eyes.” He pointed south along the sidewalk to indicate the direction they were to head. He placed his sunglasses back on and proceeded.

  When they were directly across from the doors where the corpses had been disturbed, they crossed over the toppled perimeter fencing and entered into what had been a security buffer zone. As they did so, J.D. noticed two distinct depression marks that appeared to come and go from the south. The two lines were multiple tire depressions, which had left clear tread patterns on the aged remains of the dead. J.D. gestured to the imprints, and James nodded in acknowledgement. They stopped in front of the pathway that led to the doors, pausing briefly while J.D. peered into the abandoned building.

  They cautiously approached the glass doors, using the pathway someone had made. At the archway, they paused once again to allow J.D. to scan the interior one more time before making a decision to enter or not. The broken glass of the doors lay shattered mainly upon the interior concourse.

  J.D. knew the multi-leveled Javits Center fairly well. He had been here several times with his friend Phil, when they attended the annual Cycle World International Motorcycle Show, which was held each January. Phil owned Whiskers, it was the store where J.D. bought Max’s food. Phil was an avid motorcyclist, and had taken J.D. out many times on the back of his Harley Davidson. Phil had even offered to teach J.D. how to ride, though J.D. never took him up on the proposition.

  The immediate interior of the exhibition floor was as he remembered, with the exception that it appeared that someone had turned the building upside down, and then downside right again, with the entire contents of the building now strewn everywhere, much like a snow globe after you shake it and the snow has landed haphazardly.

  He had a feeling that something was amiss, but couldn’t see anything overtly wrong. What he did see, as they walked under the archway and into the building was a giant room before them filled with pallets of what appeared to be fuel drums. As they cautiously and slowly made their way deeper into the complex, they came to the wide archway that allowed admission into the exhibition hall known as 3E.

  The exterior glass windows allowed just enough light into the massive room to see your way around. The two had stopped short of entering into what looked like the vehicle maintenance bay. There was a Stryker, an Engineer Squad Vehicle (ESV) variant with a plow attachment, three Humvees, a LMTV (Light Medium Tactical Vehicle), a MTV, and several fuel tankers along the southern wall. Several of the vehicles looked as if they had been disassembled, perhaps in the midst of servicing when the chaos ensued. Running perpendicular to the vehicles was what appeared to be vehicle parts, tires of all sizes, and munitions for the various vehicle weaponry. Directly in front of where they stood they could clearly see drums marked, ‘FLAMMABLE / Diesel Fuel;’ the scent and taste of which hung heavy in the air, but there was no indication of any of the steel drums having been toppled over. Everything inside this large hall appeared to be well organized, which struck J.D. as odd.

  They moved on, proceeding to the next room. This one was smaller and narrow. It appeared to be a dispensing area for uniforms and accessories, including boots and body armor, according to the signage in front of the entrance.

  There were many pallets—most of which had been knocked over—of food items, toilet paper, and medical supplies. Most of what J.D. surveyed had been eaten away by rodents; a lot of the spilt boxes appeared to have had their sealed tops ripped open, as if someone had been foraging through the various containers. It appeared that someone had been here, possibly several times.

  Beyond this room was the 3A hall, only accessible if they walked through the room before them or utilized the stairs that lead to it from Level 2. This is where the weapons and ammunition were most likely to be. But there were only two of them, too few to be wandering in by themselves without backup, he thought. There was the possibility of booby traps, transmutes, or worse, half-mutes waiting for them. It was better to stay in the open area until they had a full team to penetrate into that region to find out exactly what 3A contained. This was just a recon mission, and J.D. had seen enough to know that they needed to come back and salvage whatever was still viable, especially vehicles, vehicle parts, and much needed fuel.

  16

  FOB MEDCOM

  There was one other location J.D. wanted to visit before he and James returned to the armory to plan their salvage strategy, and that was to check out Madison Square Garden/Penn Station—known as FOB MEDCOM HQ.

  As they drove down 33rd Street toward their new destination, J.D. abruptly halted the vehicle in the roadway, put the gearshift into park, and looked at James.

  “I figured it out,” he told his lieutenant. “There’re no bodies!”

  “Bodies, sir? No bodies, where?”

  “At the Javits Center. There’re no bodies at the Javits Center.”

  “Begging the colonel’s pardon, but we were walking over bodies everywhere.”

  “No, James. Just civilians. We were walking over dead zombies stacked up outside the building. But there were no soldiers, anywhere. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Not one body of a soldier, not one discarded weapon.”

  “How can that be?”

  “And did you notice the heavy smell of diesel, but the entire bay seemed to be in order. Not one diesel drum toppled? So, you tell me, Lieutenant, who would remove all the dead bodies from inside the building and separate the soldiers from the corpses of the other undead?”

  But the question he posed to James was a question he was sure he had an answer to.

  “The military?” James answered, puzzled. “But if they came back for the fallen. Why would they tidy up?”

  “Exactly, Lieutenant. They wouldn’t. Nor would anyone else, which leads me to think that perhaps a few soldiers may still be using it. After all, you survived. And that vehicle bay is way too tidy.”

  “That could explain things,” James commented. “You going to turn around and have another look, sir?”

  “No, not now. Want to check out MEDCOM HQ. See what’s left over there.”

  The forward base headquarters was where main logistics and operations had been conducted. J.D. had known this from reading operational reports that he discovered at the armory in the former base commander’s office.

  The carnage he and James surveyed from atop their vehicle was overwhelming, far greater than the state of the armory had once been in and surpassed that of the Javits.

  It had been chaos here. Almost every defense had been over run and torn down. Vehicles had been upended, fencing torn and twisted from their metal posts, bodies—of soldiers and civilians alike—carpeted the immediate area, strewn out like the contents of a woman’s handbag dumped upon a bed, the owner having frantically searched for a misplaced item.

  The wreckage of a destroyed Black Hawk helicopter, which had plummeted from its rooftop perch, lay mangled near the loading dock. It appeared the helo had spun around like a top causing the rotor blades to fragment with such fury that a sizable segment had embedded in the cab of a nearby Medium Tactical Vehicle.

  The reek of death still clung in the air, Mother Nature needing more time to erase the fetidness of so many decaying corpses. James and J.D. stood in silence
atop the Humvee as they looked out, absorbing the decimation, each reflecting upon their own mortality.

  “There but for the grace of God go I,” James whispered.

  Although J.D. did not believe in any one supreme being over another, he too knew he had been blessed. “Amen.” Then abruptly he turned to James and whispered, “Eleven o’clock. Movement. Behind the truck… Cover me.”

  J.D. jumped down from the vehicle. He had seen something. No, he had seen someone. Someone was moving about, hiding amongst the shadows of the loading dock bay, watching them, and using the back end of a supply truck as cover. He was sure of this.

  His keen eyesight had not misled him. It had not just been a play of light gleaming off metal, reflecting into darkness and dancing like flickering candlelight upon a shadowy wall. The movement was real, not an illusion, and the closer he drew toward the back of the truck, the more his adrenalin began to surge through him, elevating his senses and making him more aware of his transmute side. It was a human. He could smell it.

  Stealthily he made his approach toward the loading dock, winding his way around debris and bodies. J.D. could see clearly now into the low light area of the open bay. There was someone at the back of the truck, and it looked female. She was watchfully studying him.

  “You behind the truck. Step out and away from the vehicle, and identify yourself.”

  There was no response.

  J.D. called out again. “I can clearly see your position. Step out and identify yourself. We’re not here to hurt you,” he assured her, in a calm but authoritarian tone. “We’re here to help.”

  Again, there was no response.

  He knew she was still there, and though he had lied to whoever was hiding about clearly being able to see her, he could see the shadows her movement cast under the vehicle.

  “Please, Miss,” he addressed the unknown figure, hoping that a correct gender statement would persuade the person that indeed he could see her clearly. “Make it easy on the both of us, comply to my request. Don’t make me have to come and get you.”

  An answer came. It was in the form of a sudden burst of machine gun fire.

  “Goddamn it,” he yelled in her direction. “Why you shooting at me?”

  Another burst of gunfire came in the direction of the over turned Humvee J.D. was using as cover. The projectiles pinged against the vehicle’s metal skin and penetrated through the Humvee’s exterior.

  James let out a burst from his weapon, peppering the corner of the vehicle from where the gunfire originated. The colonel radioed to James and told him to keep laying down cover fire; he was going after the shooter.

  Lieutenant Alexander did as requested. Small bursts of gunfire pulsed from James’ weapon until the colonel had successfully made his way to the truck. Machine gun raised, he came around the end of end of the truck prepared to let loose a barrage. Except the MTV M1085 Long Wheel Base (LWB) truck hid no enemy, just a standard operation container that held boxes of Army Meals Ready-to-Eat (MREs).

  Into the shadowy bay he went, believing it to be the way the assailant had fled. However, as J.D. crossed the threshold of the loading dock and stepped into the building, an abrupt sound of rapid gunfire came from behind. It was James. Something was wrong. James was not shooting toward the dock; he was shooting in another direction. J.D. knew it could only be one thing. Since he did not hear return fire from an enemy, he knew it could only be half-mutes.

  James had never seen an enraged half-mute extremely close up, nor had he done close-quarters battle with any. Now, much to his dismay, he was confronted by a group of them. They were completely different from the living dead he had killed and what his wife had transformed into. Although half-mutes slightly resembled transmutes, it was like comparing a soursop to a durian; both were a thorny fruit but the durian was far the more ugly and formidable with its spikey pokers. The face of a half-mute was dotted in red splotches with traces of grey mixed into its yellowish pigmented skin like it had jaundiced. Although the eye sockets were sunken and the eyes were as large as a transmute’s, the eyes also bulged. The eyes were nearly clear, too, but there was moderate constriction in the pupils caused by miosis. Doctor France had determined by autopsy that this was brought upon by lesions on the brain stem. This meant that their visual acuity in the dark was drastically diminished and would prevent them from stalking the metropolis at night. There was also a ridge running from the start of the brow ridge that extended down and around the cheekbone. The delineation was more distorted yet distinct in detail than a transmute’s facial characteristics. They were also mildly irradiated, having been exposed to fallout of nuclear radiation that had drifted in from the Indian Point Power Station in White Plains, New York, just 24 miles north of the city. Although this had no direct correlation with their mutated features, it could have been the cause of their brain lesions.

  Nevertheless, none of the information he had learned about these creatures presently mattered. To the lieutenant, they were just ugly and dangerous and were trying to kill him, and the only bit of intelligence that was useful was that these once-humans were almost as easy to kill as any human could be.

  By the time J.D. had made it back to the truck, James had eliminated four of his would-be attackers, the others fleeing when they saw J.D. rushing toward them. J.D. and James kept careful watch for nearly five minutes expecting another attack but none came. For the moment, silence was their ally, which gave J.D. a chance to check the corpses of the half-mutes. As J.D. stood above the first dead half-mute a piercing shriek echoed off the buildings. The cry was shrill and angry. J.D. and James stood back-to-back, poised and ready to take on another enemy attack, but as they looked around trying to determine the enemy’s location no attack came. J.D. wanted to dismiss the call as coming from a different half-mute but he knew differently. The cry had been as distinct as his own. It had come from the four fingered half-mute. When the danger was over, and they we sure the threat had fled, J.D. turned his thoughts back to the girl.

  The shadowy figure that had escaped into the dark depths of Madison Square Garden was definitely human. Transmutes and half-mutes don’t shoot machine guns, and the only zombie J.D. had ever known to use such a weapon was Bub from the film Day of the Dead—and all the real living dead that had ravaged the city were now decaying like the metropolis itself.

  J.D. had never been inside the backside of The Garden. It was vast. With his LED flashlight illuminating his way he walked the dark back corridors, where music artists like The Who, Led Zeppelin, Iron Maiden, AC/DC and numerous other rock and sport legends had once walked on their way from the dressing rooms to the stage.

  He realized that his pursuit of the unknown person might be as fruitless as Robert Neville’s search for Matthias, the leader of a band of psychotic albinos called “The Family,” in the early-70s film, The Omega Man. Heston’s Neville, searched endlessly for his enemy only to have his enemy in the end hunt him down, spear him in the guts, and finally die a slow death in a decorative water fountain. His recollection of this never triggered a parallel between his unyielding hunt for Stone and Heston’s relentless pursuit of Anthony Zerbe’s character Matthias.

  It was a waste of time he thought to himself. She could be anywhere in the building or not in there at all. The distraction of getting shot at had masked his assailant’s escape. J.D. returned to the truck load-in area. He stood on the dock. There had been only one other route of escape that she could have taken, and that was the pedestrian walk that lay between Madison Square Garden and Penn Station, which linked 31st Street to 33rd for foot traffic. Whether the elusive girl had fled into Penn Station or to 31st Street, J.D. realized a continued search for her would be futile.

  17

  Bigtree and Lott

  November 17, Day 223.

  It had been two days since James and J.D. had explored the once busy convention center making their preliminary survey. The Javits Center p
roved to be a location that could not only supply food, weapons, and clothing, but also needed fuel for the armory’s generators and vehicles.

  The early morning was crisp and chilly, but not too cold for a late November’s day as they exited their vehicles parked at the large roll-up gate of the building’s rear load-in door for hall 3E.

  J.D. had not brought many men with him, since there were few that he felt were capable to accompany him, and of those who had volunteered for “military” service, only a few had qualified on a weapon. Of those soldiers, he left four behind to help keep the armory secure. He had also left James behind, not wanting to, but had felt it safer since he could deal with the pressure of an attack if Stone or another hostile group decided to take advantage of the decrease in armory forces. Instead, he brought Second Lieutenant Ryan Duncan and new recruits Privates Peter Shumacher and Douglas Tyler. Schumaker was a former dentist who had volunteered for service in hopes of aiding J.D. in rescuing one child in particular, his son, while Tyler had been a Sandhog—one of New York’s legendary urban miners. Douglas Tyler had been working on the Second Avenue subway line when the plague came to pass. He was also a jazz drummer by night and J.D. had taken a liking to the thirty-something year old early on, mainly because he was a fellow musician who had some great stories to tell—both of his time as a Sandhog and as a drummer.

  Amongst the civilians there was Paul Wiese, a baker, a storeowner, and a welder/fabricator named Finlay Mackay. The baker, like Private Tyler, had been brought because he was physically strong and had experience driving larger vehicles. The storeowner was also physically capable and could help load the trucks. Finlay the welder was the one person he knew could most benefit the mission. He was the one that could breech the load-in door with minimal noise and effort, without the use of an explosive device.