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

by Ts Alan

  As Paul stood and said farewell to his class, J.D. came into the drill hall with Ryan and began speaking with the new intakes. The man was waiting to speak with J.D., as were the other new refugees, all eager to meet the base commander. However, the body language the skinny man was portraying suggested something entirely different. It wasn’t an excited anticipation he was exuding; it was anxiety.

  As Paul drew nearer he suddenly realized this man was no ordinary refugee; it was one of Stone’s men. There was a glint in the man’s right hand, an object. J.D. moved onto the next refugee, greeting and welcoming them to their safe haven, promising he and his men would do everything they could to keep them safe and comfortable. The man moved slightly toward J.D. and Ryan as Paul quickly approached. Something slid from the man’s sleeve into his hand. It was some sort of pointed weapon. The man turned his head slightly, and seeing Paul in a hurried approach gave him a wicked smile.

  Paul was still too far away to do anything but yell, so he screamed as loud as he could, “Weapon! Weapon! He’s got a weapon!”

  J.D. looked toward Paul and saw him pointing in his direction. Abruptly someone pushed Ryan to the ground from behind. J.D. saw a blade coming toward him and quickly sidestepped. The blade barely missed. As J.D. moved his foot it became entangled with Ryan’s and he lost his balance. The man raised his knife again and as he did Paul abruptly struck him down.

  There were screams from the civilians when they finally realized what was happening. Paul and the man tumbled to the floor and rolled away from J.D. and Ryan. Paul let out a howl of pain. The man had stabbed him in the left shoulder at the upper pectoralis major near the shoulder joint. It was a surgical scalpel the man was wielding. Paul sat on top of the man’s chest struggling to hold the knife at bay.

  Ryan had scrambled across the floor before J.D. could recover, which had been surprising since Ryan was still in a sling and his recent wound had now been re-injured in his fall. The assailant rolled over in an attempt to free himself of Paul. A pistol suddenly pressed against the man’s temple.

  “Drop it, drop it now!” Ryan ordered. The man looked at him. He could see the nervousness, the fright in Ryan’s eyes. Ryan felt the gun trembling on the man’s temple. Paul rolled clear. “I said drop it!” Ryan demanded again.

  The man looked at Ryan and gave him an evil grin and then attempted to swing his arm across. The pistol went off. The scalpel dropped.

  Ryan rose and then looked at the brain and blood spatter coating the floor. A deep red pool began to spread out from the large hole in the man’s head. Ryan excused himself. J.D. understood. He too had needed to vomit the first time he had killed someone.

  “I was wrong about you, Wiese.” J.D. told Paul. “No more mops. Report to Lieutenant Alexander in the morning. I’m putting you on special assignment. Consider your request for enlistment granted, Private Wiese. Dismissed,” he said, and then saluted his newest recruit, giving him a smile. “Now stop bleeding all over my floor. Go see Doctor France.” Paul returned the salutation and the smile.

  J.D. picked up the scalpel that had fallen from the dead man’s hand. James had come running with a few men at hearing the sounds of the shot. “I think we need a body bag,” he told James. “And I think I’m going to have a talk with Dick,” he said, showing James the weapon.

  Several hours later the light tower was lowered, and the beacon that illuminated the night sky extinguished permanently. There would be a moratorium on further refugees allowed into the armory, until a more secure process could be implemented. The moratorium only lasted for a few days, when Michael Panton’s group arrived.

  ***

  “Come,” came a voice from the other side.

  Paul opened the old wooden door with its frosted glass window, stepped through the archway, and shut the door behind him. He did not salute his commander; it was not required. “Sergeant O’Hanlon wishes to see you, sir.”

  “Does she now? Send her in.”

  Paul stepped back into the smaller outer office and addressed the sergeant, having left the commander’s door open. “The commander will see you.”

  Katie saluted Paul. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Paul returned the salutation.

  Katie saluted her commander as she approached J.D.’s desk. He did not return the salute.

  “At ease, soldier,” he replied instead. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve come to request not to be promoted and reassigned, sir,” she answered him respectfully, but with a reflection of anxiousness in her tone.

  Katie placed the leather case that her teacher had left under her bed on the lip of his desk. J.D. glanced at it and then looked up at her.

  “Request denied. Is there anything else, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t you have to be somewhere in a few minutes, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you pick up your weapons and dismiss yourself. You have a tactical meeting, and I highly suggest you don’t make Major Alexander wait.”

  She began to move toward the door, then stopped, turned back to her commanding officer, and addressed him.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

  “Permission granted.”

  “Please forgive me, sifu.” She humbled herself before him by getting down on one knee with a bowed head. “I know by allowing you into my bed we crossed the line of commander and subordinate. I’ve dishonored you and shamed myself. But please do not punish me by sending me away. I beg you.”

  Her begging forgiveness reminded him of the old Hong Kong kung fu flicks of the 1970s, he so loved to watch.

  “At ease, soldier. And Katie, get up off the floor.” She did as he instructed. “Is this what you think it is a punishment? Katie, we are not the military of old. What we did last night is no one’s business but our own.”

  “Then why are you sending me to Mechanicville?”

  “It’s a command decision, and frankly I do not have to explain myself. However, since you are an exceptional warrior and kind to my daughter, I will tell you… I promoted you because you are ready for the next level in command responsibility. And that step is to be second in charge of the civilian relocation. I did not make that decision lightly.

  This is an extremely dangerous and vital mission. There are very few in this armory I trust implicitly. You and Major Alexander will be commanding a very large column of supply and combat vehicles, and most of our civilian population. Your fighting skills are exemplary. That’s why I’m placing you on the Alpha Team.”

  Katie’s expression went from disappointment to appreciation at the compliment and trust he had in her.

  J.D. added, “You’re the first protégé I’ve ever had that’s shown exceptional promise. I know if anything should happen to me you’ll be there to continue the tradition of martial arts. And you are ready; you just don’t know it yet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me, Sergeant. This isn’t a holiday. You’re going to have a lot of work and a lot of responsibility. I need that town fully operational by the end of June. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then report to Major Alexander, you are dismissed.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Sergeant!” J.D. called to her.

  “Sir?”

  He asked, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Begging the commander’s pardon, sir!” She saluted him, having forgotten.

  “Sergeant O’Hanlon. I was referring to the zai. Those are a gift. They were the ones I used to train with. They’re yours now. Put them to better use than I did.”

  She smiled and picked up the case.

  9

  In a Mirror, Darkly

  The doctor had warned J.D. if he did n
ot get sleep his condition would worsen. However, he had not heeded the doctor’s warning and had begun a dangerous downward spiral in his mental behavior.

  He sat on the padded examination table with his shirt off. The doctor had concluded a first round of questions, followed by the administering of an EKG, drawing a blood sample, listening to his heart, and taking his blood pressure. J.D. had been poked, prodded, and interrogated and the doctor had still not come up with a conclusion. He was physically sound, as far as the doctor could see from his preliminary exam.

  “So, besides your headaches, what other symptoms are you aware of?” France asked. “Are you still having hypersexuality issues?”

  “Not at the moment. And I keep telling you, it’s severe migraines.”

  “And have there been any of the accompanying physical changes after the onset of the headaches?”

  “No.”

  “And is this what brought you to the conclusion that these are migraines?”

  “I’m a paramedic, remember? I know a migraine when I feel one.”

  “No, I have not forgotten, especially since you have made that quite clear since the day we met. However, that does not qualify you as a doctor. And since I am, I will be the one who determines the diagnosis.” The doctor took a note pad and pen from his table. “You do not have any symptoms of a migraine. There is no nausea or vomiting. No increase in your sensitivity to light. You have no sensitivity to noise or smells. Your headache does not get worse with routine physical activity. And you have no history of migraines in the past. The only symptom of your headache is the severe throbbing. This is not a migraine… Have you been taking the medication I previously gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have difficulty doing tasks?”

  “No.”

  “Short attention span?”

  “What?”

  The doctor looked at him disapprovingly. “You are quite amusing, Mr. Nichols. Now answer the question. Short attention span?”

  J.D. replied with irritation, “No!”

  “Irritability would be a yes,” Doctor France noted dryly.

  The doctor’s questioning became tiresome to J.D. “How much longer with the questions? I’m busy. I just need something for the headaches.”

  “I am not at liberty to be dispensing medication just because you think your problems stem from migraines that are not migraines.”

  “What problems? It’s just a fucking headache…! You know I could just go out and get something on my own.”

  The doctor countered with a stern tone, ignoring J.D.’s threat of finding his own medication. “That would be your decreased need for sleep, mood swings, depression, decreased self-control, irritability, rage, and your risk-taking behaviors, Mr. Nichols! Do you think that no one has noticed? You snipe at your men. You prowl the streets at night. When you come back, if you come back, you are dirtied and bloodied; you proceed to pace the halls or stand vigil on the roof, not even having the courtesy or decency to wash. Your behavior is concerning. You exhibit symptoms of a chemical imbalance. More precisely hypomania, however—”

  “Bipolar?! You’re saying I’m bipolar?! Listen, you quack! You’re not even a real doctor, just some bureaucrat with some fancy degree who can’t tell a headache from a hemorrhoid!”

  “I have a degree in biochemistry. What do you have? The great J.D. Nichols: warrior, hero, paramedic. The great savior of mankind! Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Nichols. Any first year EMT student could conclude your headaches are not migraines.”

  J.D. stood up and pointed his finger at the doctor, but before J.D. could speak France laid into him. The doctor had grown livid over his belittling comments. France burst forth in an angered tone. “I have put up with your insults,” he said, as he touched the index finger of his left hand onto that of his right, and then proceeded to touch the next digit as if counting out—accenting his finger animation with forward hand thrusts—“your threats, and your indignations ever since we met. Yes, I helped destroy the world. Yes, that is unforgivable.” He directed his finger now at J.D., punctuating the resentment he felt toward his tormentor. “But do not—do… you do not have the right to question my ability as a physician. If it was not for me volunteering to stay behind, there would be no one here to give aid and comfort to the sick and injured, no one to extract bullets and shrapnel from the men who fight for you on this holy crusade you are obsessed with. For this, I have earned the right to respect in regard to my ability as a care provider. So, shut up and sit back down until I give you leave, or I will have you declared medically unfit for duty and remanded to my care pending review. Do I make myself clear, Colonel?” France ended, condescendingly using J.D.’s military title.

  It had been J.D. who had given the doctor the power to declare a person physically or mentally unfit for duty. In an effort to bring order back from the chaos and to protect the innocent from harm, he, Ryan, James, and, begrudgingly, Doctor France, had constructed and instituted a series of governing laws that all in the armory must follow explicitly. One such article gave Doctor France the authority to evaluate the mental and physical health of any soldier and judge them fit or unfit for duty, and if deemed unfit would be relieved from his or her duties until the doctor deemed otherwise. This was for the protection of the common good, and this included J.D.

  Doctor France had put his commander on warning, and J.D. knew he was over the proverbial barrel.

  “Volunteered my ass!” J.D. scoffed, knowing full well the doctor stayed behind knowing he would probably have been executed for his hand in ending the world if he had gone to England. “Well, at least you finally grew some balls, Dick,” J.D. congratulated him. He resentfully sat back down.

  “Now, shall we continue?”

  “By all means. Carry on, doctor.”

  “Unfortunately, the body doesn’t have a built-in dipstick for me to check the chemicals which relay messages from nerve to nerve, and without the availability of a PET Scan, I am forced to evaluate your neurotransmitter levels by looking for indicators in thought, behavior, mood, perception, and/or speech that are considered related to levels of certain neurotransmitters. You have many of the outward signs of bipolar disorder but you are not bipolar. I will run your blood and check your dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and gamma aminobutyric acid levels. However, I think that will be moot. We are both aware of what is really the underlying cause of your symptoms. And there is nothing that can be done about it. I can adjust your current medication to help counter some of the symptoms; nevertheless, I also highly suggest you get some sleep, and I do not mean for one or two hours. You need to be getting a minimum of six hours daily before you take your meds. You may be part transmute, but even transmutes need sleep.”

  “I can sleep when I’m dead,” he informed the doctor.

  “Well, if you do not get sleep you may soon be dead, or worse, you may get someone killed by a lack of clear judgment. So, I am ordering you to go to your room and get some sleep.”

  “And what about my headaches?” J.D. asked.

  “Clearly you were not listening. It is your brain chemistry. Your lack of adequate sleep and your constant worrying has exacerbated your condition. However, I am sure I can find something to help alleviate the discomfort.”

  J.D. did not have a choice. He knew the doctor was serious, and he knew if he disobeyed France’s order the doctor would inform his subordinates. There had always been a standing rule with regard to his behavior. It had been established at the GCC with his original team, and the order J.D. had given to protect his friends and dog was that if it was felt that he was a danger to others he could be expelled or, worse, terminated. His decree had carried over. He went directly to his room with his added regiments of medications. He slept for four hours.

  ***

  J.D. had a great reason to be concerned about his condition. The original antigen that h
e had injected himself with had not eliminated the virus from his body. What had prevented J.D.’s complete mutation into a transmute was the antigen in unison with his own immune system that had forced the virus into dormancy.

  However, dormancy was only a temporary state, and the virus with its accompanying mutations had re-emerged on several occasions. The doctor noted that the re-emergence of the virus was triggered by severe stress. J.D. had changed the day he had been attacked at Pier 17 and again the night he lost Luci.

  He was sure it was only a matter of time before his transmute side took over. This would put everyone on the base in danger, for his transformation would not be like Luci’s but more aggressive and dangerous like the males of the species.

  Except what J.D. did not know and the doctor had no intention of revealing, was that there was something more sinister happening to him. That revelation was yet to come.

  PART III

  THE DARKNESS

  Passion and shame torment him, and rage is mingled with his grief.

  —Virgil

  1

  Tattoos & Scars

  John David Nichols had been through many youthful trials and tribulations, and even a near death experience in which he had emerged a better person for it. He had also mellowed over the years, becoming more empathetic, and though at times his faults would seep through his strong but gentle exterior, he had overcome most of his shortcomings through the discipline of his martial arts and meditation. He had even found his life’s calling as a paramedic for Saint Vincent’s Hospital, a career that brought him much satisfaction.

  However, he was no longer the man he once was either before the plague or since the loss of his love Marisol De La Garza and his original survivor group. He was lonely and missed their companionship and that of his dog Max. Ryan was a friend of sorts, but his relationship with Ryan was different from those who had left him. He and Ryan’s relationship was one of more commander and subordinate, not like the one he had with David. He did have Barkley as a canine companion, but he certainly wasn’t Max.