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

by Ts Alan

  ***

  J.D. could hear the labored breathing of the animal he injured. His eyes were keen and quickly saw that the dog had taken refuge under a thicket of wild raspberry bushes. Its gaping wounds crimson wet, in shock, and in severe distress, the dog lay dying. The Golden Retriever had only made it less than a hundred yards from where the encounter had occurred before its injuries forced it to discontinue its flight. J.D. cautiously approached. The dog could barely raise its head as the victor stood above peering down at his near kill. The retriever whimpered slightly. The bloodied dog gave in, too badly injured and no longer able to defend itself. The canine knew its time was over.

  ***

  J.D. had only been gone a few moments. A twig snapped and the three of them, still standing in the roadway, quickly turned with guns poised, trigger fingers at the ready, toward the sound. Flashlights bobbed and swept across the darkened woods, probing the sinister, primeval depths for the source, but they could see nothing but trees and brush.

  From out of the darkness came a call, “Stand down,” their colonel’s voice reverberated, notifying them that it was he who was approaching. It took another few seconds for him to emerge from the darkness of the woods into the moonlight of the opening. In his arms he carried his limp prey.

  “Go clear the cabin table and light the room. I have an injured dog that needs immediate attention,” he instructed, with urgency in his tone.

  His men didn’t question him; without hesitation, they did what he had ordered. J.D. laid the dog down on the table. The canine’s breath was shallow and heart rate weak. It needed immediate medical treatment.

  There had been a standing order. No one, absolutely no one, kills transmutes or dogs unless it is in self-defense and only then must there be no alternative. J.D. had killed two in self-defense and injured another. However, he harbored no ill will against the animals that attacked him. They were hungry and they were doing what came natural to them, to hunt. Although the pack had fled and the danger was over, J.D. had chased the remainder of the group into the dense primordial wood not to finish off the attackers, but to save the one he had injured.

  ***

  J.D. once again washed bloodied hands under the chilly tap water of the kitchen sink, this time drying them with a rag from the Stryker.

  The commander examined the animal for outward signs of rabies. In the time of man, New York State had been one of eight states east of the Mississippi River to conduct oral rabies vaccination baiting programs for control of rabies in raccoon, fox, and coyote populations. But those times were gone, and if the dog had been bitten by any infected wildlife in the park, then it was highly probable that the dog was infected too. Though J.D. did not have a veterinarian background, he knew what signs to look for, having had his own dog. This dog appeared not to have any symptoms.

  With the help Ryan, J.D. then stitched and dressed the dog’s four slice wounds that it had suffered from the talon strike. He had also cut the imbedded collar from the dog’s neck, excised the dead flesh and stitched it back together. The tag on the collar read, “Barkley.”

  The dog was no longer in pain for J.D. had injected him with a small amount of morphine to ease its suffering, and to relax the animal so it could be attended to. The procedure had taken nearly two hours and J.D. sat impatiently at the table, fidgeting with his medical kit, waiting for the unconscious animal to awaken.

  His patience ran out when the contents of his pack had been stored back into their proper places for the third time. Waiting by the animal’s side just made him more anxious now that he had nothing to do, which only added to his irritated state. J.D. stood, looked down at the dog, stroked its head lightly with affection, and walked toward the cabin door. He stepped outside to the fire and stoked it, placing a few more pieces of wood on top of the hot coals. The new wood smoked and crackled, taking a few moments to flame up. He would have to be patient now. There was nothing else he could do to hasten the animal’s recovery. Barkley probably needed several more hours before he would wake, and by then the dawn would begin to wipe the stars from the sky like letters from a chalkboard.

  Ryan sat down next to his leader, his arm still in a sling and in minor pain from the jar he received tripping over the dead dog.

  “How’s the arm?” J.D. asked.

  “It hurts.”

  “When we get back,” he told Ryan, “I’m gonna do some acupuncture will help, greatly.”

  Ryan reached into the utility pocket of his left pant leg. He brought with him something that he hoped would alleviate his commander’s tension and take his mind off his rescue. “Here,” he spoke, unscrewing a cap from a metal flask, and then handing it to J.D.

  J.D. examined the container, and then sniffed its contents.

  “Ahh,” he said, “Old Number 7.” He took a swig and then handed it back to Ryan. “There a reason you brought this? Pain reliever?”

  “A good XO always sees to the needs of his commander,” he replied.

  “You know if we were in the real Army,” J.D. responded, “I’m sure that carrying around alcohol would get you time in the brig.”

  “I think you mean stockade,” Ryan gently corrected. “A brig is in the Navy.”

  “Okay, stockade.”

  “Well, if this was the old guard, then you’d be in the stockade, too, for impersonating an officer during a time of war.”

  “That’s very military of you, Lieutenant. So, I guess then there’s only one thing I can do about us drinking on duty?”

  Ryan inquired, “And what’s that, Colonel?”

  “Have another drink and be glad we’re the new guard.” Though alcohol had no inebriating effect on J.D. due to his high metabolism, he still enjoyed the taste. He took the last swallow from the small flask, and then asked, “Anymore?”

  23

  Barkley’s Big Adventure

  Barkley was a Golden Retriever somewhere around five years old and met many of the breed standards. Barkley’s head appeared balanced and well chiseled with a powerful, wide and deep muzzle accented by a black nose. His eyes were a dark brown, set well apart with dark rims. His coat, though mildly matted on his chest and abdominal regions, was flat and its color a rich, lustrous gold of various shades.

  His gait and movement had been powerful with good drive and long stride. This J.D. had noticed, as Barkley had been the one that had struck him down. Barkley in his former life had been someone’s pet, or perhaps, even a show dog. Certainly, many of the breed standards were evident, and in all likelihood Barkley was AKC registered. Nonetheless those days of being man’s best friend were behind him. He was now a free animal with a new family.

  This dog had not been the first J.D. had rescued since the aftermath of the plague. There had been one other, and that had been Otter. Otter was a four-year-old chocolate lab and had been owned by an acquaintance, Rick Bush. Rick, like J.D., had been a regular patron at McSorley’s Ale House. Rick was the only other person—J.D. being the first—to be allowed to bring their dog into the establishment. There were health code laws in the City of New York that prohibited animals into businesses that served food, with the exception of service dogs. Max, in a broad sense of the definition, was a service dog. Max and J.D. had gone to search and rescue school and were volunteers with the New York City Urban Park Service Search and Rescue Team. Why Pepe, the manager, allowed Otter into the pub he never understood, and never asked.

  The appearance of Rick’s well-mannered canine at the entry of the alehouse was not only unexpected, but a bit of a shock. Otter had managed to escape his home and had not become a meal for transmutes or half-mutes. Though J.D. had never seen either species eating a house pet, it didn’t mean it wasn’t happening, for both were certainly not surviving on rodents alone. On top of that Otter had come to the familiar place while J.D. and his old companions had taken a few hours to get away from the armory. Otter must have smelled thei
r scent and came searching, and J.D. was happy that he did.

  ***

  The sleepy fingers of dawn slowly stretched out across the night sky filling the horizon with beams of glowing orange until the grey of night vanished into the coming of day. It was morning and with the pending new day it was time to complete the rest of their long journey home.

  There wasn’t much to stow into the Stryker ESV, and within a half hour’s time they were prepared for departure. Barkley was semi-conscious as J.D. began his leave from the cabin, having had one last look at his patient. He dropped several small pieces of venison on the floor and made sure that the doors of the cabin were propped ajar so that his convalescing canine could leave the safety of its shelter when it was ready.

  Barkley was not Max. Furthermore, J.D was not in the market for a pet, especially one who had reverted to a feral state. There was no room in his heart for any dog but his own. He was no Max he kept telling himself, and he was doing the right thing by leaving Barkley behind.

  The rear door of the Stryker began to retract.

  Jonas called to his commander, “Colonel, sir?”

  “Yes, Private.”

  “Sir—the dog,” Jonas spoke in a half statement/half question.

  “What about the dog?

  “He’s here, sir,” Jonas answered his commander in a concerned tone. “He’s feet from the door.”

  Barkley sat and then dropped the deer meat he had been carrying in his mouth. The door had closed half way when the retriever made his presence known to all inside the truck.

  Barkley lived up to his name. He was a very vocal animal. Nonetheless the door closed and the Stryker pulled away from the cabin leaving Barkley still sitting and barking.

  The vehicle had not pulled more than a dozen yards down the cabin’s drive when it abruptly halted and the rear door lowered.

  Jonas called out, “Barkley, come. Come, Barkley.”

  However, the dog just cocked its head slightly to the side and looked at the private with an odd gaze. Barkley made no attempt to comply with the private’s request; instead the canine began to bark franticly.

  “Sir, the dog won’t come,” Jonas said, as he turned to the colonel.

  J.D. shook his head with disappointment. “Private, if you can’t even get a dog to follow orders, how will you ever mange to command a team?”

  The colonel stood and went to the gangway. With a loud snap of his fingers and a commanding “Tsst,” the dog was silenced. “Barkley,” he said to the animal in a calm, assertive, in charge tone. “Come. Now.”

  The dog picked up its food and slowly and calmly made its way down the gravel drive, up the ramp of the Stryker and into the troop compartment. Barkley’s big adventure was about to begin.

  24

  Hunter and the Hunted

  It was mid-evening on a late December day. Christmas had nearly arrived, and there was no Santa.

  They needed someone to play Santa.

  J.D. refused to be Santa.

  He couldn’t be Santa. He knew this. His daughter would know it was him. All the children would know it was him. His owl eyes and talon fingers would give it away. No, he told himself. Santa may have been fat and jolly, but he wasn’t a freak. Caitlin’s first Christmas was going to be special. “Dawd” was not going to be Santa. Besides, he and Ryan were to be the entertainment. It was to be a day of music, merriment, ham dinner, and Santa Claus.

  He would not order Peter to play an elf—that would be degrading—but he would order Paul to be Santa, and John and Michael to be Santa’s helpers. That was one command decision he enjoyed. It was good to be king, and not Santa.

  J.D. scanned the MRE food supply list.

  01 - Chili with Beans

  02 - Pork Rib

  03 - Beef Ravioli…

  … 22 - Chicken with Dumplings

  23 - Chicken Pesto and Pasta

  24 - Chicken with Salsa.

  Twenty-four MRE menu items but no ham. It was bad enough that the government hadn’t had number 18 - Turkey Breast w/Gravy & Potatoes on their MRE menu list since 2002, James informed J.D. prior to Thanksgiving, but now he found out that they did not have ham on their menu either. “What kind of Department of Defense would not have ham as a menu item?” J.D. thought. He flipped through the other food stocks list. Still no ham. He cursed silently to himself, shaking his head slightly with disappointment, and then handed the inventory list back to Paul.

  They had canned tuna, corn, canned peas, canned potatoes, canned yams, and even canned gravy, though mostly of the beef and chicken variety. They even had supplies to make apple and cherry pies. But no ham! “Unacceptable,” he told Paul for a second time. “Have Lieutenants Alexander and Duncan report to me immediately. We’re less than 36 hours away from Christmas and we’re lacking a proper feast.”

  “We have a lot of canned Spam, sir,” Paul half commented/suggested.

  “Spam!” J.D. exclaimed with disdain and irritation. “Are you out of your mind, Wiese? This is a holiday! Damn if we’re going to serve anything but a proper holiday meal. And why am I finding out about this now? Isn’t this part of your administrative duties?” he asked him, nearly livid.

  “Yes, sir. But with all due respect, I file a report for your review every week, sir,” Paul informed his superior.

  J.D. ignored Paul’s reminder for he knew it was still probably sitting in the pile of unread reports on his desk. “Damn it, Wiese. Now we’re going to have to rearrange duty assignments so I can take a team out tomorrow and find ham. This would never have happened if Kermit were here.”

  And that is why J.D. found himself and his team of eight at an Upper Eastside supermarket clearing the shelves of all the canned hams and some other items. It wasn’t that there weren’t closer grocery stores, but those had been cleared out and the food distribution warehouses he knew about were either in the Bronx or Astoria, which were too far. Furthermore the stores in Lower to Mid-Westside Manhattan were in the area of Stone and his men, and J.D. and crew had no time for a hostile engagement over a ham dinner.

  When finished, part of the team departed with the ESV, leaving James, John; and himself behind with the Humvee. There was one more stop J.D. wanted to make before heading back to base, and that was Penn Station.

  He had not given much thought to the girl he had seen nearly a month ago. If she had any sense she would have vacated the area, and for the winter found herself a more suitable and hospitable place to dwell.

  The temperature of the clean, crisp, biting late December air seemed colder than any other year he could remember. He was sure that it was the lack of heat being generated by the thousands of cars that used to fill the metropolis’s atmosphere on a daily basis. The cleaner air was welcome, but the chill was not.

  Standing at the front of the truck that he and James had discovered previously, he discussed with John the feasibility of resurrecting the 5-ton, 6-wheeled long cargo vehicle.

  As they stood with the vehicle cabin propped up, revealing the engine, and discussing the possibility of jumpstarting the motor—providing the fuel had not been tainted with water condensation—J.D. abruptly caught movement out of the corner of his right eye. It was coming from the same area as the last time he had visited. He quickly turned his head. It appeared to be the girl. She fled quickly, knowing she had been spotted.

  He hesitated in pursuit, not sure if there was enough daylight left to chase the phantom again, but then changed his mind, grabbed his 9mm submachine gun and was off. This time he did not move toward the loading dock area, but headed for an entryway under the colonnade that was above the same pedestrian path that he believed the mystery girl had used for her prior escape.

  J.D. ran after her with more speed and agility than an Olympic hurdler. He was amazed with himself. Though he knew he had better reflexes because of his enhanced fast-twitch muscle fibers,
he had not run with any intensity of act or determination of purpose since he had become transhuman. He jested to himself as he reached the entry that he was Velociraptor fast.

  He knew the underground structure fairly well, enough to be able to navigate the subterranean corridors with relative familiarity. If one was to hide and survive for a long period of time and were trapped or chose to seek refuge in the darkness of the lower level of Penn Station, then one would want to seek shelter in a place were food would be abundant, and that would be the sanctuary of the food court promenade.

  The automatic glass doors that led from the pedestrian walkway into the Pennsylvania Station complex had been shattered. Geometric fragments of glass covered the ground like crystalline hail, and crunched under his boots as he crossed the threshold of the outer world of light and into the darkness of the stairwell of the labyrinth.

  He barely turned on the weapon’s tactical light when he turned it off again. The flashlight could give away his position and he didn’t need it at the moment; there was enough natural light for him to see adequately, providing he removed his sunglasses.

  The path down the stairs to the main level corridor was clear, but as he neared the bottom a hail of automatic weapon fire greeted him.

  “Buddha’s balls!” J.D. cursed to himself, as he jumped over the right sloping handrail of the stairway enclosure to use as cover. The girl really didn’t want him to catch her. This just made him want to even more.

  J.D. couldn’t see her position, even using the weapon’s scope. However, he was no longer on the receiving end of rapid fired bullets, so he cautiously made his advance, stepping over the remains of a soldier’s corpse. As he moved from the stairwell into the wide passageway, he observed the sealed archway to his right to what had been the entrance to the NJ Transit Ticket & Information windows, which led down into the pavilion for train access to NJ Transit Tracks 1–8. Opposite this was another entry, just a few feet ahead to his left. This entrance was to the lower level that would bring you down to the intersecting corridor of the lower main concourse, the one that served as access for the Long Island Rail Road Waiting Room and for Tracks 13–21. This entry too had been sealed off, which meant the food court promenade was inaccessible from the direction in which the girl had fled.