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

by Ts Alan

  They had chosen to enter the facility by the load-in entries in the rear of the building for two reasons, the first of which was that J.D. did not wish to alert anyone to their presence by parking vehicles and disembarking personnel out in the open. Secondly, there maybe someone hiding inside who may have laid booby traps. Walking across a large room in extremely low light was not a risk J.D. would allow anyone but himself to take.

  Torching through the large, heavy steel roll down gate used for vehicles took less than fifteen minutes. They chose the gate instead of the adjacent metal exterior door because Finlay Mackay told J.D. it was a duo-form door, meaning it was constructed of multiple layers of steel, and would take longer to remove than cutting through the gate.

  After pulling the cutaway section from the gate, J.D. was the first to cross the threshold. He immediately stopped as he stepped into the immense structure of the 3E exhibit hall. The Stryker Engineer Squad Vehicle (ESV), which had had its weapon system pointing toward the front of the building two days prior, was now pointed directly at him.

  He did not react to the 50-caliber remote weapon station that allows the gunner to fire from inside the vehicle, but calmly looked around for a moment, making a cursory glance at the rear end of the ESV, and then stepped back to the opposite side of the makeshift entry to his men.

  Though the rear hydraulic gangway was retracted, he did notice that the access door on its left had no lock on its exterior handle. When Corporal Sam Drukker from his original team had acquired the first Stryker from its sentry position outside Grand Central Terminal, he had imparted some useful information in his rambling dissertation about the vehicle.

  When the access door at the rear of the vehicle is not padlocked, it either means the door is unsecured or that its occupants had locked it from the inside. Since there was no lock on the exterior handle and the main gun was pointing to the bay door, the odds favored that the vehicle was occupied.

  J.D. did not believe it was mere coincidence that the heavy caliber gun just happened to be pointing in their direction. Even if someone had come and gone inside the ESV, what would be the point of redirecting the weapon system toward the rear of the building when the front entryway was the optimal place for uninhibited access into the hall? He knew that the Stryker was occupied, but the question was, by whom? The Army? Stone’s men? Other survivors?

  It was most probable it was someone who knew the intricacies of the vehicle and how to maintain it. It had now been eight months since the city had fallen, eight months since any vehicle other than those used by his team, and those of Stone, had sputtered pollution into the air. Not only would someone need mechanical knowledge, but also operational knowledge of its electronics. It was, in all likelihood, the military.

  There was no use in trying to commandeer any supplies with the possibility of being killed, and to openly challenge the Stryker’s occupants would be fatal. Out gunned, out positioned, and possibly outmanned, there was only one solution he could think of, present himself and his three full garbed soldiers as a true military unit in hopes the ruse would last long enough to flush out whoever had taken up strategic position inside the Stryker.

  After a brief rundown of the situation and his tactical plan of approach, he ordered the civilians to back the vehicles away from the large door. J.D. took point and led his team in, appearing as military as possible. Each took position as they had been instructed. The “colonel” approached the rear of the ESV, and with his rifle butt he rapped on the entry door.

  “You in the vehicle. This is Colonel J.D. Nichols, 75th Rangers. You are occupying military property. Make your presence known, immediately!”

  No reply. He tried a different tactic.

  J.D. remembered what his old survivor friend Corporal Drukker had said to him about the Stryker units, and hoped he remembered correctly.

  “Attention! 3rd Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division,” J.D. bellowed. “Make your presence known. Arrowheads, you are ordered to report.”

  J.D. awaited a response, and after a moment, when none had been given, he was about to reach for the handle of the access door, when it popped ajar with a creak, and then slowly opened. Cautiously a tall, thin corporal stepped out followed by an average height specialist, both with weapons raised. Their uniforms bore the insignia of the 3-2 Stryker Brigade Combat Team, also known as the Arrowhead Brigade, out of Fort Lewis, Tacoma, Washington. He was glad that he had actually listened to Corporal Drukker’s over indulgent informational sessions, and even more so that he correctly remembered what Sam had imparted to him. However, J.D. could not be certain that these men were actually soldiers, just because they were dressed in uniforms.

  “Stand down,” J.D. ordered, “and relinquish your weapons.” The two soldiers refused to comply, even though they were out gunned. “I gave you an order.”

  “Not until we’re sure you are who you say you are,” the tall corporal stated.

  “Did you not hear the Colonel’s direct order, soldier? You will stand down. And you will do it now!” Ryan barked out. “Or you will be terminated with extreme prejudice. Is that clear?!”

  Ryan’s father had been a career army officer, and Ryan had been a “military brat.” Having been exposed to the military way of life, Ryan knew that respect was of the utmost importance not only in the military but in home life. He also knew that the only way their ruse was going to work was if these men truly believed they were military, so he acted accordingly.

  The two soldiers realized they had possibly made a strategic error. They had compromised their fortified position by coming out of the Stryker without ascertaining that the men before them were actually military. Being out gunned they also realized the outcome of engaging in a firefight would not be advantageous. The two acquiesced, surrendering their weapons, and hoping the soldiers before them were actually military.

  Ryan immediately relieved them of the rifles, ordering, “Hands behind your head. Step forward, and on your knees.”

  “Is there anyone else in the vehicle?” J.D. asked them.

  The two men looked oddly at him. They had seen his bare hands. Then they looked at each other, both realizing they had made a horrible mistake.

  “Soldier, the colonel asked you a question,” Ryan addressed the corporal. “Is there anyone else in the vehicle?”

  “No, sir,” the man replied in a slightly confused tone.

  J.D. signaled to Ryan to check the truck, as Privates Schumacher and Tyler stepped forward, machine guns still poised ready to engage the pair if necessary.

  “Clear,” Ryan called out, as he emerged from the Stryker.

  J.D. ordered his men to lower their weapons and take up surveillance positions. Returning to his captives, his next order was addressed to the both of them, though his words were directed to the black-haired corporal. “Stand and identify yourselves, soldiers.”

  The corporal replied with a blank stare and no verbal confirmation to his identity.

  Ryan immediately backed his commander again. “Are you deaf, son? The colonel told you to identify yourself! Is that understood?”

  “Sir, Corporal John Lott,” the soldier finally responded, in an indifferent tone, as he began to rise from the concrete floor.

  The other soldier followed his partner’s lead.

  “Is that how you address a superior officer, Corporal?” Ryan continued, barking at the soldier with an authoritarian voice. “Insubordination is unacceptable, soldier. You will address the commander properly. Is that understood?”

  The two snapped to attention and put hand to forehead in saluting position, the corporal returning with a, “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Colonel Nichols gave you an order, son. Now identify, friend or foe?”

  “But, sir—”

  Ryan had a suspicion they were about to question not only his colonel’s mutation but also his age. Ryan’s father had retired from the Un
ited States Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. The average age of the typical military rank of Lieutenant Colonel is 45 years old. J.D. Nichols was 28.

  “No buts, soldier. This is not a democracy. This is the United States Army. You will identify immediately. Or you will be considered hostile and taken into custody. Have I made myself clear?!” he shouted at them, like a drill sergeant giving orders to new recruits on the first day of training.

  The soldier held his salute as he reported, even though he suspected that they were not actual military.

  “Sir, Corporal John Lott, 296th BSB, 3-2 SBCT, Bravo Company, Fort Lewis, Washington. DoD ID number 7807036741.”

  Ryan and J.D. were satisfied that they were true enlisted men; the corporal delivered his DoD ID and not a serial number, which was no longer used. But as an extra precaution, J.D. gave the corporal one other question.

  “MOS, soldier?” he inquired.

  “Combat Wheeled Vehicle Repairer Level Two, sir!”

  J.D. saluted the man, and the soldier completed his hand salute.

  “Excellent,” J.D. replied, then put his attention to the accompanying soldier. The enlisted warfighter was different, different than any survivor. “Okay, soldier, report. Name, Rank, MOS.”

  “Sir, Bigtree, Gordon. Specialist. 296th Brigade Support Battalion, 3rd Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, Company B, Fort Lewis, Washington. MOS: Special Electronic Devices Repairer, Level One.”

  “Very good, soldier.” J.D. saluted him, and the specialist returned by releasing his salute.

  “And what is your nationality, Specialist?”

  “Nationality, sir? That would be Cayuga, sir.”

  The colonel replied, “You’re Native American.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bigtree confirmed, not certain what his ethnicity had to do with the present situation.

  “Any Irish, English or other European ancestry in your blood, son?” J.D. inquired.

  “Not that I am aware of, sir. Just Cayuga—Begging the colonel’s pardon, is it important?”

  “Well, Specialist Bigtree. Let’s just say that you have screwed up Doctor France’s Odds Ratio model.”

  Bigtree looked at him with puzzlement, not understanding to whom or what he was referring to.

  “Now, gentleman… My name is Colonel J.D. Nichols. I am commander of the 69th Regiment Armory, formerly known as FOB MEDCOM Bravo. I’m sure you have many questions, including how I hold the rank of colonel at my apparent young age, and what has happened to my hands. All these questions will be answered at a debriefing. As of this moment this convention center is under my jurisdiction and its contents now the property of the 69th Regiment Armory. As for the both of you, consider yourself members of the 69th until further notice. Disregarding a direct order from a superior will get you restrained and/or shot. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, sir,” they both replied, simultaneously.

  “Good… Lieutenant Duncan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring the civilians in, we’re burning daylight.”

  18

  Chain of Command

  “So, let me understand this, gentlemen,” J.D. said, verifying what he had just been told. “You spent all these months living inside the Stryker and it never occurred to you to leave? Why not?”

  “We could have taken off with the Stryker after the shit hit the fan,” Lott said, “but besides that being desertion, where the hell would we have gone? Bigtree and I did our best to defend the supply depot but in the end, there were too many of those zombie son-of-bitches. After everything settled we buried what was left of our dead and were hoping to return to Fort Lewis, but we couldn’t raise them on SATCOM, or anyone military for that matter. So, we just stayed, not sure where to go.

  Then, about a month ago, the ASC was infiltrated by insurgents. First came a recon team, and then a few days later at two squads of men. They pilfered food, weapons, fuel, and most of the Humvees. The next time they came back we were prepared. We set some booby traps. Took out four of them. That was a week ago, sirs. We thought that they had returned when we saw the torch cutting through the door.”

  “Why didn’t you just destroy the base and go home?” James asked. “I would think you’d want to see if your family was still alive.”

  “I have no family, sir, only the Army.”

  “And what about you?” J.D. asked, directing his question to Bigtree. “What about your family?”

  “My mother died when I was young, sir. My only brother was stationed in Iraq with the 2nd Squadron, 3rd Cav. My father… My father, sir. I buried him. He was our CSM. He died kickin’ zombie ass, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, soldier.”

  Bigtree asked, “What now, sirs?”

  “Yes. What now? First let me tell you a story,” J.D. replied. “And hopefully it will answer some of your questions.”

  J.D. explained his backstory and how he became the base’s commander along with the current situation of the armory to the two potential recruits. Bigtree and Lott still could not understand why Lieutenant Alexander, an officer of the United States Armed Forces, would follow the orders of a civilian let alone how he could allow a civilian to command a military installation. That was treason.

  It was apparent to both J.D. and James that further clarification to the military state of the country was required.

  J.D. took off his sunglasses and set them on his desk. Though he had told them about his physical changes, the black color of his irises was an oddity that drew their attention.

  “Let me make this clear,” J.D. told them with a louder voice than normal, trying to snap them out of their fixation on his eyes. “The United States of America as you knew it no longer exists. Uncle Sam is dead. The DoD is dead. There is no more Army. There are no more Marines, Air Force, or Navy. The only surviving U.S. forces are in England as part of a coalition force. And gentlemen, you missed your opportunity for that evac two months ago. They’re not coming back. You’re stuck here like the rest of us. Since the military no longer exists and there is no more president to obey, or country to protect, there is no one to hold you to your oath of enlistment.

  You could join us. I could use soldiers with your skills. I’m in need of not only combat trained men, but men of your MOS… Or go your own way. We’ll give you each a Humvee, weapons, ammunition and rations. I won’t think any less of either of you.”

  The colonel sat up in his chair, straightening himself, and then informed them, “But be advised,” he said with outstretched index finger. “If you decide to stay, you’ll be under my command. And the authority of this command is not to be taken lightly. We may not be the U.S. Army, but we still maintain this armory as a military installation. Anyone who has been given a rank has earned it, and the respect that goes with it… My XOs are Lieutenants James Alexander and Ryan Duncan. As a soldier of the 69th Regiment you would report to Lieutenant Alexander for duty assignments. We can offer you food, shelter, healthcare and a lot of hard work and long hours. But as soldiers you should already be used to that. You’ve heard from James and me. You know what we’re up against and what we want to accomplish. So, gentlemen, time for you to decide. Are you in or out?”

  Lott responded. “With all due respect, I’d like to think about it.”

  J.D. was quick and firm with his response of no. “You decide now. When you walk out of this office you’re either a member of this team or escorted to a Humvee.”

  “May I ask a question of the lieutenant, then?” Lott asked.

  J.D. hand gestured to the soldier giving him permission.

  “Lieutenant. Why is it you stay here under the command of a civilian?”

  James responded, sincerely, to his question. “I came to this armory seeking help for the group of civilians I was with. Colonel Nichols didn’t have to help, but he did. He took our entire group in, gave us fo
od, shelter and medical assistance. No, he’s not a soldier, but what he’s doing here, the lives he’s saving, the cause he’s fighting for, that’s why I joined. For me it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing. There are people who need our help and this regiment is making a difference. I am a soldier. And I am still a guardian of freedom.”

  “You trust him that much, sir?”

  “I do,” he confirmed to Lott. “He has earned my respect and trust. And he is a fine commanding officer.”

  “Then consider me in, sirs,” Corporal Lott said, as he took a saluting stance.

  “Welcome aboard, Corporal Lott,” Colonel Nichols congratulated him with a salute “You are hereby promoted to sergeant.” J.D. turned his attention to Bigtree. “Well, soldier. What say you?”

  Specialist Bigtree stood up and took an at attention stance. He snapped his fingers to his head in a saluting manner.

  “I too am a guardian of freedom, but I must respectfully decline. If any of my people are still alive, I’d like to help them out. So, I choose to leave.”

  “Very well,” J.D. responded. “The lieutenant here can make the arrangements. Best of luck to you soldier.”

  The total of real military personnel was now at two.

  19

  Marauders

  It was the seventh trip to the Javits Center in four days. Each trip J.D. had taken the same team with him, the same men who had accompanied him on the first salvage mission. But in addition to those seven he had also included John Lott who knew how to operate a Stryker.

  The Stryker ESV that Lott and Bigtree had made their home remained operational ready; the two soldiers had seen to that. Though the ESV was a great addition and was useful with its large plow in clearing debris and vehicles out of the way and widening the route back to the armory, it wasn’t needed for subsequent salvage trips because it did not have the cargo capacity, and because J.D. said, ‘…It smells like ass.’ He refused to let anyone use it until it was fully sanitized. Lott and Bigtree had for many months, ate, slept, and defecated in the close quarters of the Stryker’s infantry compartment. Instead the salvage team used the Stryker ICV that was already at the armory.