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

by Ts Alan

  J.D. had jumped out of the way as the bullets struck the first vehicle, and then had quickly rolled back along the curb past two parked cars. The gunner continued to fire, going from one car to the next, but J.D. had been quicker than the gunner and light operator, and had begun his flight across the avenue by the time the spotlight had reached the third car. The noise of the machine gun had cancelled out the noise of his running. As he dashed across the faded double yellow lines that marked the center of the street he released his last hand grenade like he was releasing a bowling ball. He hoped this one worked. It rolled toward the rear of the truck. He ducked in between two parked cars as the grenade reached its target. The back end of the Humvee reared up as the grenade exploded, just as the spotter caught him with the light.

  J.D. didn’t hesitate. He ran to the burning truck, and before the driver could get clear of the burning wreckage he dug his talons into the man’s throat and ripped it out. There was another in the Humvee, a man slumped in the passenger seat with his head against the window. The Humvee was a mass of flames and was about to be totally engulfed. J.D. looked at the unconscious man. It was too late; the driver’s cabin was ablaze before he could get the door open. The spotter who had been sitting on the passenger side roof had been thrown off the vehicle when it exploded. The man had landed about ten feet away. The blast had stunned him, but he managed to right himself. He saw J.D. charging forward. He raised his pistol just in time and put three slugs into J.D.’s chest, not knowing J.D. was wearing body armor. The man stepped to the fallen J.D. to put one final shot into his adversary’s head when he found himself on the receiving end of a leg sweep, which picked him up off his feet and knocked him to the ground. Before the man could recover, J.D. was atop of him about to tear out his larynx when J.D. saw the man’s scar. It was the scar that Peter had described on one of the men who held him while Stone raped his daughter. J.D. punched the man in the face instead, rendering him unconscious.

  It was not J.D.’s right to take this man’s life. That right belonged to Peter Dunne. He would decide the fate of this man, and in the process maybe they would be able to extract the whereabouts of Stone’s hideout.

  He threw the unconscious man over his shoulder after securing his prisoner’s hands and feet with nylon cable ties, and wrapped his mouth shut with camouflage tactical body tape. All trussed up like the proverbial Christmas Carol goose for dinner, a gift for Peter “Cratchit.”

  It was the first time Peter smiled since his arrival at the armory. In fact, Peter was borderline euphoric in his way of thanking J.D. as he peered down at the man.

  “He’s yours,” J.D. told him, as he tossed the man to the ground before Peter. “Yours to do with as you see fit.”

  The man looked up; he recognized Peter. The prisoner’s eyes bulged with fear as he thrashed and squirmed about in a vain effort to escape. J.D. slammed his foot down on the man’s chest. The man convulsed slightly trying to catch his breath, but he got J.D.’s message.

  “All I ask is before you kill him is try to extract as much information out of him as possible.” J.D. requested. “But let’s not do anything here. Let’s make this party a threesome. I have an idea.”

  6

  Lager Lout

  April 6, Day 363.

  It was after midnight when J.D. wandered into McSorley’s. This had not been his destination. He had just found himself there, as he had every time he had killed one of his enemies or needed to think. Although on this particular night the comfort of one of his old haunts did not ease nor comfort his aching soul. This night his thoughts were of Luci, for it was this night that he had finally found those who had killed her. Tonight, he had not killed these men quickly or mercifully, but had methodically and slowly tortured them, hoping in some way their painful and prolonged deaths would give him some measure of satisfaction and peace of mind at finally killing those who took Luci from him. It didn’t.

  He sat at his usual table, the one where he always sat, the one in front of the kitchen next to the fireplace, the place next to where his and Max’s picture hung. He sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the wooden table, a table filled with a dozen empty Jack Daniels bottles and many empty glasses once filled with ale, his chair tipped back vicariously on its two back legs, and his eyes focused on the singular glow stick on the table that dimly lit the backroom—the glow stick was for ambience. The black uniform he wore was soiled and sticky and his face speckled with his victims’ blood that he hadn’t realized had stained his pale, drawn face and makeup.

  He was singing the Irish republican folk song The Boys of the Old Brigade as he played a bell accordion that he kept at the pub. It was a song he knew well, as he used to sing it on the ale house’s anniversary; it was the only day the ale house had live music. However, upon reaching the first bridge of the song, he abruptly began to sing the refrain to the raucous Irish rock song Rock ‘n’ Roll Paddy by Shane MacGowan. His vocals were slurred and incoherent, and he was out of key. He was drunk; there was no doubt about it—finally!

  He stopped his pathetic rendition and began to call out to Richie Welsh.

  “Hey, Richie. Richie! Another round,” he said trying to get the waiter’s attention.

  There was no response.

  J.D. called out again, this time turning his head around 180 degrees to look toward the front room where the bar was located—having been seated with his back to the front room—while simultaneously outstretching his left arm, the one that he had barley been using to depress the instrument keys. His sudden head movement, arm gesture, and his inebriated state put him off balance. His chair tipped back, its legs slid out from underneath itself. J.D. tipped rearward, falling back toward the dirty floor. As the chair went crashing back he barely managed to rotate his head face forward. The back of his skull thudded hard and loud on the old wooden floor. His head spun. Everything turned a bright white and then dark.

  “Are you all right?” he heard a voice in the darkness.

  “I don’t know,” J.D. muttered as he looked up. Richie stood above him. “How the hell did I manage that?” he asked his old friend.

  Richie helped him to his feet, as he said, “You haven’t eaten and you’ve had a few rounds.”

  “Well, you know what Marry says about that?” he spoke, as he sat back in the chair.

  “No. What?” he asked.

  J.D. called out toward the kitchen to Marry.

  “Marry! Marry!”

  He heard her sweet Irish accented words arriving before her appearance in the doorway. “Yes, darlin’?”

  “Tell Richie what you always say about eating?”

  “And what’s that? You should never eat on an empty stomach?”

  “Aye! That’s it.”

  “Yes, my dear. But I didn’t mean you should drink until you’re pissed,” she sternly told him.

  “I’ve only had a few.”

  “Apparently, a few too many,” he heard her voice fade back into the kitchen.

  “Well, that’s not a lot,” he told Richie.

  “That’s twelve rounds, J.D.—that makes twenty-four. And then there’s all the whiskey.”

  “Yeah, well—it’s my birthday!” he retorted. Except Richie had vanished, and whirly, swirly spinning and white shooting lights inside his head had now replaced the apparition.

  J.D. looked up. He was on the floor, his accordion atop his chest. He raised his arm and depressed the illumination button on his watch. It was shortly after 0300 hours. His head throbbed as he stood up and set his instrument on a chair. He made his way out the door and to the street, dirty sawdust falling off the back of his head—with no thought about brushing it away. To his dismay, he was sober.

  It was nearly 3:30 a.m. when he arrived in front of the Open Pantry on Second Avenue, near the corner of 12th Street. It had taken him nearly double the time it usually took. He chalked it up to having to stop f
our times to urinate.

  He sat down on the bench that had been placed to the left of the door and directly under the large red stenciled window that read ‘Open Pantry.’ The bench he sat on was usually stored inside the shop when it was closed; there were two of them, but he had only dragged out one. He kept the coiling grill door rolled down and the green awning rolled up, as a precaution as not to draw attention to the fact that he frequented the shop. He had even gone so far as to replace the broken pane of glass on the door that he had shattered all those months ago when he had gained access, the day he had come with his old comrades and Max so he could have a Green & Black’s chocolate bar. He had actually felt guilty for breaking into the storefront, but it had been worth it. The chocolate, as always, had been sweet, creamy, and delicious, and had satisfied his craving.

  J.D., for the most part, always seemed to find himself sitting on the bench after one of his “search and destroy” missions, or the “hunt,” as he thought of them. Sitting on this bench had always calmed his mind and soothed his aching soul, but tonight his mind raced with depressing thoughts of his past, thoughts of those who died in the plague and those he had lost since. Even thoughts of Joseph Joshua Daniel Young tormented him.

  Joseph had died tragically at the hands of a half-mute. Though he never did like the ex-Marine turned civil engineer for the City’s Department of Transportation, his untimely death still haunted him. He had been a member of his original group.

  Tonight, though, was the first night in nearly a year that he thought about his parents, a painful memory, and like all his pain he tried to bury it deep within himself.

  What was it about this particular night that triggered his recollection of the loss of his parents? It could have been the excessive drinking. It may have been spending his birthday alone. It may even have been the pending one-year anniversary of the end of civilization that was just days away. Except what it really was, was the cold, harsh reality that this night he realized the brutal, vindictive acts of murder he was committing in the name of vengeance had made him no better than his nemesis—a sick, twisted, sadistic murderer who had no regard or concern for human life and he was unmoved by the revelation. That indifference was the underlying cause for his brooding and anger. He had gone against everything moral and proper his parents had instilled in him, and he knew if they were still alive he would be an extreme disappointment to them. That was the only regret he had about what he had become.

  Anger. He felt more rage and anger than he had ever felt in 29 years. His anger was for the death of his family, for the loss of his love Marisol, and for the loss of his former companions, and those of his survivor group that had perished. Mostly, though, he was angry with himself. Angry for not being able to save Luci and angry for not being able to go with his friends and dog to England. Though above all, he suffered the greatest anger for not being able to keep the promise he made to Peter Dunne, to find and rescue his daughter Victoria and the others who were being held captive and abused. All of this fueled his hate for Stone and his followers. One way or another he was going to put an end to Stone.

  7

  Way of the Little Dragon

  May 27, Day 414.

  There had been no more training of survivors. Furthermore, the instructing J.D. did with his troops had been relocated to a large storage room in the basement. It was there Katie O’Hanlon was headed to test her defensive skills with her master. It had been five months since she had begun her training, and she was confident that she would pass. As she neared the entry she saw Jonas McGann exit the room with Liz Hudson waiting in the hallway for him. The two kissed as they greeted one another. Katie had become friendly with Liz, so she heard firsthand the harrowing story of Liz and Jonas’ survival. It wasn’t any surprise to Katie that the two had become lovers having shared such a traumatic experienced together. As Liz and Jonas moved from the entryway, Jonas nodded his head in passing to her and gave Katie a knowing smile. It was odd. Jonas had never once smiled at her before. As Katie moved to the threshold she almost ran into Christina as she exited.

  “Careful,” Christina warned. However, she was not telling Katie to watch where she was going. “He’s in an unforgiving mood today,” Christina finished as she exited.

  J.D. was practicing with Peter Dunne as she entered. A full-on match was taking place with Peter wielding his staff as J.D. bare handedly defended himself against the short man’s powerful advance. She stood in the doorway and watched J.D. as his lean body glistened with the perspiration that covered his chest and back. A small golden cross around his neck bounced lightly as he countered the staff’s jabs and swings with hand strikes. The large tattoo of the angry dragon that adorned his chest rippled across his torso as if it were in flight as he moved and flexed his body. She had seen him with his shirt off only a few times, but that was before the new body art that covered his chest had been completed. The tattoos that adorned his physique were one of many things that attracted her to him. Katie even thought the grayish stripe of mutated skin that ran the length of his spine was erotic.

  She had desired him for a long time, though she had hated him at first, the day he had hunted her down, tied and gagged her, forcing her from her sanctuary. Nevertheless, she discovered he had a gentle side to oppose the brutality, and that was shown with his love for his daughter. She had dropped subtle hints, which went unanswered, and only fueled her want for him more. She had fantasies about her commander, sexual fantasies that she did not share with anyone. She wanted to feel his hard, muscular body atop her. To feel his sweat dripping from his chest down onto her breasts as his he drove his hardness deep inside her wanting loins as they had hours of intense, passionate sex. She had not felt a man’s touch, let alone the pleasure of an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced even long before the plague, and now, seeing his glossy, glistening body and new artwork, the want and desire to have J.D. was even more intensified.

  She knew that he was aware that she was watching, but he did not stop the fight. She had arrived three minutes early and he would make her wait to the exact time he had given orders for her to appear. Katie stared intently at him, partly out of the excitement and pleasure she got from seeing him partially undressed but also out of amazement at the fluidity and intensity of his movements, as he jumped and leaped over the staff as Peter swept it toward his legs. However, it appeared to her that J.D. was continuously on the defensive and that Peter had the upper hand using the weapon. Then J.D. let out a cry and instantly the staff was snatched from Peter’s grip and used against him. With a quick and forceful sweep across the man’s legs, Peter was knocked off his feet and the end of the staff pressed against his chest. The bout was over. For a moment Peter didn’t move, he was clearly dazed. J.D. reached out and helped the man up. After they bowed to one another, J.D. handed Peter back his staff and said, “Outstanding, Peter. You’ve come such a long way. I look forward to our next practice.”

  As Peter departed, he gave Katie a wicked smile, like he knew something that she didn’t.

  “Come,” J.D. finally said, as he motioned her over to him. She stood silently before him. “I know you are extremely competent in hand-to-hand and have excelled in knife skills,” he said as he circled her. “You’ve trained hard with me and have proven your ability and desire to learn. Ryan and James have informed me that you have shown great leaderships skills and could make a good team leader… So, you come before me today to test your skills. Are you planning on using those zai?” he asked, seeing them tucked into the belt of her karate uniform.

  Over the past ten years J.D. Nichols had trained in many different martial arts styles and with a variety of weapons. His weapons familiarity was extensive, though the practical use of most of the armaments he knew was limited. The nunchaku was the first weapon he learned many years after seeing Bruce Lee use them in Enter the Dragon. Although J.D. became extremely adept in their use, he had barely practiced them in the years since his instruct
ion by an Okinawan Kobudō master.

  He was also familiar with basic elements of the bo, also known as a staff, and had recommended it to Peter Dunne, due to its reach and striking power. However with the zai his skills were self-taught and short lived. Like many of the weapons he had explored, it was not a perfect match for him. However, the weapons he excelled in, and had continued to practice throughout his life, were his bastóns—Filipino fighting sticks—and a pair of Bolo machetes. These felt right to him, the ones he was lethal with. The ones he had become one with.

  Katie knew her master was not skilled in the use of the weapons she had chosen. He had told her so when he gave her the instructional book to them. This she believed would be to her advantage. Katie knew it was impossible for her to best J.D., but she didn’t have to. All she needed to do was prove she was competent in the weapon she had chosen in order to pass the test. She had no doubt that she would excel for she believed that with zai in hands she would be lethal against anyone other than her master.

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “You choose a weapon in which I have limited knowledge, one that I was not able to give you proper instruction in. Learning from a book is a poor substitute for practical instruction. I for one know. I commend you on your initiative and dedication in learning it… However, I don’t believe you’re ready—and before you say anything, I am well aware of the hours you spend practicing every day. All the sparring you’ve done with James, Ryan, and Peter. Nonetheless it takes hundreds of hours of practice and sparring to achieve a level of proficiency with any weapon.”