The Romero Strain

by Alan, TS

  David shrugged and poured himself another drink. “That European tour we did was one big party. I don’t remember much of it.”

  More than half the bottle was gone.

  “Jeez, I’m buzzed. And I gotta piss again. Hey, Julie. Find anything?”

  “Yeah. Lots of stuff.”

  “Yeah, but nuts and bolts don’t count. I mean useful, like that emergency kit on the wall you’ve walked by four times.” I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to go. “Alright everyone, I gotta use the sink. Just a warning.”

  When I returned David was arranging the crowded desktop with the items Julie had set down: tools, flashlights and other possibly useful objects. Her foraging expedition seemed to have paid off.

  “All right,” I said to David. “What’s your plan?”

  “Pack this stuff up in the totes and head down the tunnel to Amtrak.”

  “We catchin’ a train?”

  “Sort of,” he responded, and that was all.

  “All right, the suspense is killin’ me. What gives?”

  “The Amtrak East River tunnel. What do you know of it?”

  “A lot, actually,” I said. “Let’s see. There are two pairs of tunnel tubes under the city and the East River, consisting of four single-track tunnels, twenty some feet in diameter. The tunnels are located between 32nd and 34th Street and run from Penn Station under the East River to Queens. There are cross passages between the tubes every fifty feet, I think, and two openings in the whole length of the tubes through the center partition. Access shafts, one for each tube, were provided near the ends of the end sections, by which access can be obtained to the interior of the tubes, and there are several evacuation shafts throughout Manhattan. And that’s about everything I know.”

  It was amazing I could retain so much information on the city’s history and infrastructure, but I had barely passed my history classes in college. Looking back, I realized it really didn’t matter because in the long run, a lot of what I had been taught had been incorrect anyways. Every year it seemed there was a new discovery in science or history to correct, disprove, or contradict that which we thought true. I’d learned more from the History Channel, the Discovery Channel and the National Geographic Channel then I ever did in school.

  “Impressive, but you’re missing something,” David said.

  “The project was completed on March 18th, 1908 and opened in November 1910.”

  “And?”

  “And… uh…?”

  David looked at me, hoping for the response he was trying to evoke from me. But that was all I knew.

  “Coffer-dams,” I blurted out. There’s something about coffer-dams, but I can’t remember.”

  “True, but not it. In juxtaposition of location relative to the conEdison tunnel, where is the East River tunnel located?”

  “It’s underground.” I gave a half statement, half question. The Jack Daniel’s was clouding my thought processes.

  “Ours runs under theirs.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So,” David said. “What the public doesn’t know is that we gave Amtrak permission to construct a tie-in tunnel, because their closest evacuation shaft, which is by the river, is nearly a century old and utilizes an antiquated ninety foot spiral staircase. By constructing the exit point they could utilize our shaft and its elevator for egress.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “I was a part of the engineering team for the emergency exit.”

  “Where we going?” Julie interrupted, placing the First Aid kit on the desk.

  I didn’t wait for David to make a decision. I knew where we could go. “Grand Central Terminal,” I said.

  “Why?” They both asked simultaneously.

  “It’s a P.O.D.”

  “What’s P.O.D.?” Marisol wanted to know.

  “Boy, you’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” I said. “Points of Dispensing. It’s a location where the Office of Emergency Management distributes treatments or vaccines for disease breakouts and biological events. There should be law enforcement or military presence there, too. Hopefully there’ll be an evacuation out of the city.”

  “And how do you propose to get there?” David questioned.

  “Since your tunnel connects to the East River Tunnel, we can use it to gain access to the IRT Line. We can walk straight up the tunnel into Grand Central.”

  “Can we get from there into the subway tunnels?” David asked.

  I was hesitant in my response. “I read there was a construction shaft that both the Pennsylvania Rail Road and the IRT shared because construction in each tunnel was going on concurrently. I also read somewhere that it had been converted into an emergency exit for the PRR, which should be at the subway station near 33rd Street.” I hoped I was correct. If not, we’d have to go to Penn Station and take our chances.

  “That’s the best I got. It’s either that or we head to Penn Station, but I don’t know if it’s a P.O.D.”

  We all agreed to try to locate the entrance into the subway tunnel, since it was in the direction of Pennsylvania Station.

  IX. Bad Day for the Living

  David had made it sound simple: walk a few blocks and access the tie-in tunnel. However, it was neither simple nor time efficient. What David had left out was that we would walk ten blocks north, descending another forty feet under the city. Then reaching the end of the tunnel we had to take an elevator up thirty feet, exit the elevator at the tie-in access point, and walk south several blocks before getting to get to the Amtrak tunnel.

  When I asked why they didn’t build a set of stairs descending from the Amtrak tunnel into theirs, he began a monologue on the civil engineer difficulties. By the time he had finished his in depth explanation my head was throbbing. However, I would discover that the severity of my headache had nothing to do with David’s clarification, but was the beginning of something I hadn’t considered. It was an oversight that would have far greater ramifications than I could have ever thought possible.

  The door we exited was unlocked, but the one at the other end of the tunnel was secured. As David unlocked it and pulled the chrome-plated door toward him, he triggered a red revolving light mounted on the opposite tunnel ceiling. As it began to flash, David spoke in German.

  I had to translate for Julie. David had delivered the Gene Wilder line about the most secret room in the factory from the film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

  I asked David why there was no blaring siren or warning noise. He assured me there was a silent alarm wired into the central alarm system at police headquarters in Brooklyn, the East River Station, and Penn Station. But I didn’t expect an immediate police reaction, or any response for that matter. We were one hundred and twenty-five feet below the city.

  Diffused fluorescent lighting, pinkish in color, reminiscent of wide spectrum plant lights and not ideal for vision, illuminated the Amtrak/LIRR tunnel. The lights were flickering, which further hindered visibility. It was also an indication that power was failing. Though I was not concerned about stepping onto an electrified third rail, since the tunnels utilized a catenary system, I was concerned about the darkened tunnel section ahead.

  David, Julie, and Marisol each carried a dual action spotlight/fluorescent lantern—dual action because there was also a lamp on its belly, so it could be used as a lantern—useful for lighting up a work area and to broadcast our presence. I, on the other hand, pulled out my lightweight, five-inch aluminum flashlight with its super bright, one Watt LED from my pack. If the batteries ran out of juice, I was prepared. I always carried a backup—a self-powered crank light.

  Max and I lead the way, with Marisol holding onto Max’s leash, not for Max’s sake, but for her own comfort. There was no knowing who or what was in the tunnels. When we were in the conEdison passageways, we were relatively safe in the sealed environment. As we walked west along the tracks there was the potential of encountering infected people, not only from Amtrak and Long Island Rail Roa
d commuters, but from anything else that made its way into the tunnel system from Queens.

  In theory, we only had to walk five blocks before coming to an old construction entrance/exit to access the IRT East Side Line (Interborough Rapid Transit Company), which was called the Lexington Avenue Subway Line by most New Yorkers. From there we would walk north up the tracks to Grand Central, out of the tunnels, and into awaiting salvation, though I knew that the 33rd Street was the proverbial end of the line for me.

  If I emerged with the others, they would assume that everyone was infected and we would be placed in quarantine, or worse, shot on sight.

  As I said, in theory, we would find safety soon. But people often use the word theory to signify a conjecture, an opinion, or a speculation. My theory was not based on facts; it was not required to be consistent with true descriptions of reality.

  Reality would prove different.

  We crossed 3rd Avenue and were nearing 4th. We knew this because Amtrak was kind enough to have posted street signs inside their tunnels along with other markings, which I assumed were identification markers for the train engineers.

  The tunnel further on was dark, but there was a bright light ahead in the distance. At first we thought it might be a train parked on the tracks, but the light was low to the ground. As we drew near we realized what it was. Someone had abandoned a large, heavy-duty flashlight on the tracks. I picked up the light and read the inscription: Property of NYCDOT. Evidently a Department of Transportation worker had been there, which alarmed me but did not raise an alarm with Max.

  “D.O.T.,” I said.

  “Where’s the owner?”

  “No blood or body parts,” I responded to David. “Something must have scared him.”

  “Like what?” Julie asked.

  “Most likely us,” David said.

  I knelt down next to Max and unleashed him. I let him smell the flashlight. “Revier, Max. Revier.” He was off.

  Max was not a professional search dog, but he and I had been trained through the Federal Emergency Management Agency to do basic urban search-and-rescue and were certified Type 1. I had been motivated to get a dog after seeing all the canines on television searching through the rubble of the World Trade Towers. When Max was old enough he went to obedience training school, followed by search and rescue school. We volunteered with the New York City Urban Park Services Search and Rescue, and in our months off, due to my accident, Max and I had been spending a great deal of time at the facility, mostly practicing to keep our skills sharp.

  It took Max only seconds to pick up a scent. I watched his body language and knew he had found someone, not something. If it had been one of the infected, he would have voiced a warning instead of sitting and waiting.

  “There’s no use hiding in the shadows,” I said, in between my stroking and praising Max. I shined my flashlight against the tunnel wall to reveal a partly exposed, masculine arm protruding from a small recess behind the inner butt-joints where the tunnel had been fitted and riveted together.

  “Is it one of those zombies?” Julie asked.

  “I don’t think zombies cower,” I told her. “And Max isn’t freaking out.”

  Marisol held her pistol in both hands. “Maybe he’s dead,” she commented, as she kept an eye toward the wall.

  “Don’t blink,” I told her, knowing she wouldn’t get the reference. I addressed the living statue. “Come out or I’ll send my dog in. Gib laut, Max. Gib laut.”

  Max barked, but the man remained motionless.

  I scanned my flashlight along the tunnel floor for some debris to throw.

  Whoever was hiding in the dark recesses was not a reanimated corpse. I could have sent him in to flush out whoever was cringing in the tunnel niche, but where was the fun in that?

  I picked up a piece of concrete that had broken away from the tunnel. I threw it hard. It struck the pillar with a ping, just inches from his shoulder. Whoever it was flinched slightly, and abruptly sprung from the darkness and charged while letting out an intense ooh-rah.

  Max bolted at him and knocked him down to the tracks. He tore at the man’s shirt. I grabbed his leash and ordered, “Aus,” as I gave the leash a pull. “Ruhig. Sitz.” Max fell silent and sat.

  Marisol and I stood above the man with our pistols ready, just in case he wasn’t human. He turned over and gave us a dazed look. He held his hands in front of his face to block the light from the flashlights David and Julie were shining on him. The palms of his hands were scraped and dirtied. His shirt, emblazoned with a New York City Department of Transportation logo, was badly soiled and his chin was abraded. A small patch of blood pooled on his chin. He had the look of a man who was acting brave, but trying to cover his cowardice.

  “Go ahead and shoot. I’m unarmed,” he defiantly said, half daring me to pull the trigger.

  “Ooh-rah,” I said. “What the fuck was that?”

  “If you’re going to shoot, shoot.”

  “Dude, it’s okay,” David assured him, as he turned off his spot and turned on the lantern. “We weren’t sure what you were.”

  He still held up his hands. He looked up at me. He was a stocky man in his thirties with short blonde hair cut military style. His tight fitting work shirt revealed a muscular build.

  “What?” he asked, as he slowly and hesitantly lowered his arms.

  “You can get up,” I told him, as I lowered my pistol.

  The man stood and stared at us, not making a sound. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for an opportunity to charge me again, make a run for it, or if he was just pissed because I messed with him.

  “Listen, buddy—”

  “Joseph.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Joseph. Joseph Joshua Daniel Young, not buddy,” he said, with a hint of pompous conceit in his voice.

  “Okay, Joe. Two middle names, huh?”

  “Joshua Daniel was my grandfather’s name. My friends call me J.J. You’re not one of them.”

  “Good for me,” I said, scanning my flashlight over his body. “You get bit?”

  “Bit?” He examined the area where Max had torn his shirtsleeve. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not talking about my dog.”

  “What?”

  “You know what’s going on topside?” David asked.

  “I don’t follow. How did you get down here?”

  I answered. “Hey, knucklehead. How about you shut up and listen. There’s a shit-storm going on above and you don’t seem to have a clue.”

  “You mean the riot?” He said, and backed away from us. “You’re not part of the mob that attacked us, are you?”

  “Us?”

  “My colleagues and I.”

  “That’s not good,” Marisol said.

  “Max. Pass Op!” I commanded, pointing in the direction he should watch. He trotted down the tunnel a dozen feet and stopped. He sat silently as he watched.

  “They didn’t follow me,” Joe told us.

  “Why were you hiding?” Julie asked.

  “You never know what direction your enemy may come from.”

  “You leave a flashlight on so they can find you?” I responded snidely.

  He did not answer.

  I followed with, “Scared shitless, were you?”

  “I wasn’t afraid. I was being evasive.”

  “Evasive?” I said, with ridicule in my tone. “Yeah, good job. You get your training from Saddam?”

  “I got my training from the United Stated Marine Corps!” he proudly boosted.

  “Okay, G.I. Joe. You still got captured. Consider this an interrogation and skip the name, rank and serial number crap.”

  “It’s service number,” he quickly responded, making sure I was aware of my mistake.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “You don’t have any clue at all, do you?” David interjected.

  “Clue to what? Four trespassers?”

  My head was throbbing. I turned to David and told him to h
andle it, because I was tired of talking to jackasses. Joe reminded me of Jack, and was beginning to compound the throbbing headache that pounded at my temples.

  “It’s not a riot. It’s a plague or something causing people to kill one another,” David explained. “They’re eating their victims.”

  “Yeah, right,” he responded, with condescending disbelief in his voice. “Like what? Zombies? Are you all insane?”

  “Here we go! Yes, zombies… walkers, the living dead, the undead, whatever you want to call them.”

  “C’mon, zombies!?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I yelled at him. “And listen, ’cause the last person to disbelieve me ended up being hamburger… and I got bit!”

  “So… what? You going to turn into a zombie, now?” he mocked.

  Joe was another Jack, admonishing and ridiculing what we were telling him.

  “Listen, jackwagon! I don’t need another bane of my existence.”

  Joe looked at me dumbstruck; the big word obviously confused him.

  “Ahh, what?”

  “How about little words? I don’t need another irritant in my life. Got that?”

  “You’re a real asshole,” Joe sneered at me.

  “Thank you. And I’m outta here. The rest of you coming?”

  I walked away and Marisol followed. Julie stood next to David. The Amtrak tunnel carried their conversation clearly.

  “Listen. J.D.’s a little pissed off. He’s had a bad day,” I heard David say, as I approached Max.

  “Like, I haven’t? I was chased by some maniacs, my co-workers. Uh, then I get threatened. I think—”

  “I think you should come with us.” Julie interrupted, trying to hurry the conversation along, seeing I had started down the tunnel.

  “Yeah, you should,” David confirmed.

  By the time they finished their conversation and caught up, David was able to extract some details from Joe as to who he was, what he was doing in the tunnel, and what happened to his associates.

  David told me later that Joe had once served as a Private First Class in the Marine Corps’ 4th Combat Engineer Battalion during Operation Desert Storm as an engineer surveyor. Joe was a civil engineer for New York City’s Department of Transportation. He was leading a team of newly assigned inspectors on a tour of the emergency escape exits in the Amtrak tunnel near Herald Square. City engineers routinely inspected the City’s transportation infrastructure, including tunnels and bridges. They also ensured that construction projects by any corporation, such as the MTA, Amtrak, or conEdison, was in compliance with maintaining the structural integrity of their tunnels and exits.