The Romero Strain (Book 1): The Romero Strain

by Alan, TS

  Her comment struck me as odd, since she had alluded to being fifteen years old. However, I was too busy to question her on it. There was a big corridor ahead of us. I hoped it would lead to the old section of the building.

  “We can’t stay… This way.”

  The corridor led us to two blue-colored, double-leaf doors, like the ones at the entrance of a cinema. As I pushed the doors away from me, they struck something. I looked through the long and thin glass window on the right door. There was a body blocking our entry. I pushed the right door away from me again, hard and fast. It struck the body and swung back a few inches. I grabbed the door before it could swing closed and pulled it toward me. The human doorstop was a cop.

  ConEd had started contracting off-duty uniformed police officers for security through the NYPD Paid Detail Unit, like many other places in the City of New York. Using police discouraged intruders, plus they had full law enforcement powers to do whatever was necessary if unauthorized individuals tried to gain access to the facility.

  He was dead. He had bled out. I took his Glock and removed the magazine. It was empty. Luckily, he still had one remaining magazine on his utility belt. My father used to say, If you don’t have a backup, you don’t have a plan. I stuck the magazine in my pocket and left the pistol.

  The turbine room was three floors. The main level, which we were on, was level two. The first level, below us, was where the generators stood. The floor above was the third level, which I knew nothing about. The entire inner structure was open-concept, surrounded by railings and staircases. I looked over the guardrail, down into the abyss.

  One hundred plus miles of steam mains stretched from Lower Manhattan to 96th Street, with over eleven hundred manholes. I could go anywhere in the Borough of Manhattan, by way of the steam or subway tunnels.

  I had read that they had bored a tunnel, twelve feet in diameter, up First Avenue from 20th Street to 36th Street, which was at the Queens Midtown Tunnel. I was sure there was an exit tunnel somewhere under the First Avenue Canarsie Line Station, since tunnels ran along 14th Street to First Avenue.

  The BMT Canarsie Line (Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation), known to New York City urbanites as the L train, ran directly under the power station, from Brooklyn, under the East River, to Manhattan’s First Avenue Station. We could use the tunnel system to make an escape and find help.

  “We’re not going down there,” Marisol said, half asking and half stating.

  I replied, nonchalantly, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s that why again!” I shook my head disapprovingly.

  I took her hand and she followed, for the first time without hesitation. I spoke in a whisper as we walked toward the stairs, ever über-vigilant.

  “Ever walk up Avenue C and see those big conEd manhole covers, or the grates in the sidewalk at First Avenue by the L train entrance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of them are emergency exits for the MTA and some are access points for conEd tunnels. There’s a huge tunnel below that can take us west along the L line or north along the FDR. So down we go.”

  We ascended the stairs as quietly as possible. Max covered our backs.

  V

  Tunnel Vision

  Goddamn it! It was my cell phone. And the ringer was on full volume. The Reno 911! ringtone told me it was my father.

  After having served twenty-two years with the New York Police Department, my father moved out west to Arizona to retire. Within six months he joined the Tucson Police Department’s Motorcycle Division—something he always wanted to be, a motorcycle cop. His original plan was to buy a ranch so he could relax and ride horses and fish all day. After four months on what he would later call “the funny farm,” he became bored and decided to come out of retirement.

  The only relaxing he did was ride motorcycles, watch The Colbert Report, and re-runs of Reno 911!. He especially loved Reno 911! because it was the most realistic television show he’d ever seen, more realistic than Cops. He later admitted that he thought Reno 911! was a spin-off of Cops, the bloopers, until he found out they were actors.

  I answered as quickly as I could. “Dad?” I tried to be quiet as I spoke. “Dad. Are you all right…? What do you mean? What did you hear?”

  Marisol pulled on the waist of my shirt. I ignored her.

  “No, I didn’t hear that… I’m fine. Yes, I’ll make sure I stay in and not answer… Dad? Dad? Shit!”

  I lost the connection as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was 6:21 a.m. in Arizona.

  Marisol tugged harder on my shirt. I heard low growls from Max. She pointed up, directing my attention to the dead cop that we had just encountered moments ago.

  I grabbed Marisol’s hand and ran. “Schnell, schnell!”

  They were coming down the stairs from the top level and the level we had just descended. As we ran between two GE gas turbines we saw several partly eaten technicians sprawled out on the floor in bloody pools.

  Ahead of us more corpses were hidden behind machinery. There was a guard surrounded by several of the undead. Apparently, he had managed to fend off a few attackers before he succumbed to overwhelming odds. I saw Marisol eyeing a pistol on the ground. I pulled on her arm, telling her to ignore it, as we ran around the carcasses.

  We were nearly grabbed from the opposite side of the large turbine to our left. As he lunged for us, he slipped in his victim’s blood, lost his balance, and fell over one of his fellow undead, crashing to the ground. We ran straight ahead, never slowing to look.

  From the main turbine room, I could see the pipes overhead running north, then jutting east and west in an area ahead of us. It was the way to the 14th Street tunnel. I followed the highway of piping into the tunnel ahead. A half block west the tunnel took an abrupt right turn, heading in a northerly route under Avenue C. In my haste to flee the impending onslaught, had I missed the tunnel to 14th Street? Had it been somewhere to the left of the turbines? There was no going back.

  As we headed north, passing from one tunnel section to the next, the piping ran into a ceiling abutment and disappeared, only to reappear on the northern side of the next section. It made a downward slope as the tunnel narrowed in height and width.

  We reached a section, maybe fourteen by fourteen feet wide. It was well-lit, but not as bright as before. Five figures stood in the tunnel talking to one another as we advanced. The tunnel turned in a northwesterly direction, thirty feet or so from where they stood. Several flashlights were flickering back and forth along the eastern part of the wall and along the ceiling. Since I didn’t think the undead used flashlights, I felt it safe to proceed.

  They stopped whatever inspection they were doing as they saw our hurried approach. It was easy for them to hear us as we neared. A man, his dog, and a girl running through a large subterranean tunnel caused echoes, plus the sight of us would be unusual.

  They stood in our way, blocking our escape. One guy outstretched his arm and put up his hand like a traffic cop giving direction to halt. Two women stood behind three men, forming a barricade.

  “Stop!” A stocky, little man with black hair instructed. “How did you get down here?”

  “Move or my dog will rip your balls off!” I demanded.

  “No,” he responded, authoritatively, and then held up a large Maglite flashlight in an attempt to dissuade us from passing.

  Marisol pleaded. “Please, they’re coming. They’ll kill us.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, miss. Now how did you get down here?” Maglite man demanded to know. He appeared to be the one in charge.

  I raised the pistol, pointed it at them, and spewed one of my favorite lines from Scarface. The one about saying hello to my little friend, and finished with, “Now get the fuck outta my way.” The jackass with the Maglite, whose ID badge read Anthony DiVincenzo, backed away.

  Deliberate, slow clapping came from a tall, medium-built man with dirty-blonde hair and a beard. There was a badass intensity a
bout him.

  “You think that’s funny, jackwagon,” I asked, not the least amused.

  “Yes,” he replied, snidely. “Nice Tony Montana imitation… I have one for you. He rattled off a line about there being two key words for tonight, and they were caution and flammable.”

  I didn’t know to what he was referencing. “What?”

  I pointed the pistol at him. He wasn’t intimidated. He was either stupid or thought he could take me.

  “Don’t know that line? Try Bruce Campbell, Bubba Ho-Tep. If you shoot that pistol in here and miss, you could rupture a natural gas line.”

  Bruce Campbell was one of my favorite actors. I met him once at a book signing. I had watched Bubba Ho-Tep several times, but I didn’t remember the line from the film.

  I could get to like anyone who could reference dialog from a movie, especially if it was a line I didn’t know, and I knew a myriad of lines. Too bad he’d probably be zombie chow in a few minutes. And so would we, if we didn’t keep moving.

  “Hey, pal. Put the gun down before you hurt someone,” a well-groomed All-American ordered as he stepped forward. He was clean-shaven and wore a work uniform that was too sterile to be anything but a supervisor. His name was Jack Blas-something-or-other. I couldn’t completely read his identification badge.

  I pointed the pistol at Jackass and told him to go fuck himself, as we nudged our way around the three idiots attempting to thwart our flight.

  “There’s cameras everywhere,” Jack warned me. “Security will be here any moment. So make it easy on yourself. Put the gun down.”

  “Really? You think we snuck by security to take the dog for a walk?” I asked him. I grabbed Marisol’s hand and we bolted.

  I heard DiVincenzo shouting, “Here they come now!”

  We looked back and saw three people advancing on the unsuspecting conEd workers. Marisol and I both knew security wasn’t coming for us. We both saw the dead cop from earlier leading the way.

  “Oh, no,” Marisol gasped.

  “Run,” I shouted. “Just run!”

  Fuck you very much! I thought. Those idiots had about sixty seconds to live. I heard a girl scream as we fled up the tunnel, and I knew it was over for them. I didn’t look back again.

  I wasn’t sure where I was going, but the little pit stop we were forced to make could have cost us dearly. As horrible as the thought was, I hoped those things stopped to snack for a while. I was wrong. I could hear three sets of footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. I couldn’t outrun them with Marisol in tow. The smart thing to do would be to get rid of the girl. Except Confucius had taught me, To know what is right, and not to do it, is the worst cowardice. I chose the honorable thing to defend her.

  “Marisol,” I said. “When I tell you, let go of my hand and keep running. Understand? Don’t look back!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry. Just run, understand?”

  “Sí.”

  “Ready… NOW!”

  She kept going. Max and I stopped to face the enemy.

  “NO. Don’t shoot!” a voice rang out. It was the Bruce Campbell fan, Jackass, and a dark-haired Asian girl.

  I didn’t miss a beat. As soon as I saw all three were of the living, I started to run with the others on my heels.

  “Blondie and Maglite-man toast?” I asked, as Bruce caught up.

  He responded, “More like pulled pork.”

  The tunnel ahead was smaller. As we ran into the section, Bruce slapped something on the tunnel wall. I heard mechanical sounds from behind. My curiosity got the better of me; I glanced back for a look.

  Two large stainless steel doors were sliding together. I could only see one of the creatures, it was the cop, and he was attempting to squeeze through the door as it shut. As the two pieces of the gate came together, it sheared the man-thing’s legs off between the pelvis and knees. It fell, landing on its head.

  Glancing back, I could see it spinning in circles as it propped its upper torso up with its arms. Round and round it moved, either dazed or brain damaged from the fall.

  Bruce yelled, “Stop, STOP,” between heavy breathes. “It’s okay. The doors are shut.”

  “Nice job with the blast doors,” I said, also panting—just slightly—trying to breathe normally.

  “They’re not blast doors,” Bruce replied. “They’re security doors with ISO 9001:2000 locking mechanisms.”

  “What?”

  “ISO… the International Organization for Standardization. It’s a worldwide—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You told me they were blast doors.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he contested.

  I looked at him with confusion, as I took off my backpack and reached in for some water. “But you quoted that Bubba Ho-Tep line.” I passed the water bottle to Marisol. “This isn’t a gas tunnel?”

  “No, dude. It’s a water supply feeder for the steam generators. But don’t worry. The doors are blast and fire resistant as well as rated for a fifteen minute dedicated attack duration,” he reassured. “Those guys aren’t getting in.”

  I called Max to my side and retrieved his bowl from his pack. Marisol poured him some water.

  “Listen, Bruce—” I began, but was quickly corrected.

  “David,” he said.

  “David. Those aren’t guys,” I informed him.

  “Then who are those guys,” Jack asked.

  I glared at him with a go-fuck-yourself look, and then turned back to David. “You’d never believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  I paused and shook my head. “Okay,” I said, knowing they weren’t going to believe me no matter how I said it. “They’re the living dead,” I announced, in a wry and chilling tone.

  “What?” Jack exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re crazy! You watch that zombie festival on television last night? Now you think the world’s coming to an end?” he mockingly taunted.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. So what?”

  I could understand that the dead coming back to life and attacking the living was an absurd concept for most people. But belief in the Resurrection, and the raising of Lazarus—though no historical proof of the events exists—was completely fathomable and accepted by billions of people who never witnessed it. It was an absurd concept, but I didn’t disbelieve it, either.

  No one could conceive or imagine all the wonders and horrors in the world. Have I ever seen fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s not proof that they are not there. So why can’t the dead come back to life without the intervention of God?

  The Asian girl asked, “Are you for real?”

  “No, I’m deliberately wasting your time,” I told her with a bit of snarky.

  She glanced down to my hands and saw me holding the pistol in one hand and Marisol’s hand firmly in my other hand, and then announced, “I think you’re lying. I think you’re criminals on the run.”

  “What?!” I exploded.

  Marisol interjected, bitterly denouncing the girl’s misconceived deduction. “Were you born retarded, or were you born and then became retarded?”

  I thought I heard that somewhere before.

  “You think because I have a gun, I’m a gangsta? You’re so stupid. You almost got eaten by some dead people, puta. ¡Bolla de idiotas pendejos! Marisol said to me, “Debemos irnos. No los necesitamos. Dejalos que se pudran en el infierno. Pajúos.”

  Marisol may not have been a gangster but she sure had a tough ass attitude.

  “What is she saying?” the Asian girl asked, directing her question at her coworkers.

  David replied, “Something about leaving the assholes behind.”

  The Asian girl was irritated and frustrated. “Well… Diu gau lei, ju hai.”

  “Suck ju lei go see fut long,” I returned. She was taken aback and gave me a bewildered look. “Yes, I understand Cantonese,” I told her.

  “Enough of the bullshit,” Jack demanded. “And enough of t
he zombie crap.” He was clearly trying to irritate me, even more than he had already. “There are no zombies, there are no dead people walking around. It’s a couple of—”

  “Of what…? Well?”

  Jack refused to believe what he had seen and was rebuking my explanation. He had witnessed something beyond his comprehension. What was he to make of a reality where seeing wasn’t believing? After all, if he could not trust his own eyes, what could he trust?

  Having a discipline in martial arts and having embraced Chinese philosophy and spiritualism, I truly believed, without trepidation, that the impossible was possible, the unbelievable believable, and the absurd reasonable.

  “They’re terrorists. And security will take care of them.”

  “Hello?! Hello? Anybody home? Huh? That was security, and they ate your coworkers,” I ridiculed as I shook out the remaining water from Max’s bowl and repacked it into his carrier harness. “And what about Officer Friendly over there?” I asked, pointing to the half a cop who was still spinning in circles. “Explain that. Go ahead.”

  “Him…? It’s a nerve reaction, like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  “Did you get hit by a parked car when you were a kid? I’m done talking to you because it’s obvious you are the biggest moron I’ve ever met… And what about you?” I asked David. “Does that look like a nerve reaction to you?”

  “No,” he responded.

  “Thank the Creator,” I praised. “A man of intelligence.”

  “That doesn’t mean I believe that Tarman has risen from the grave.”

  Torso boy let out a weird groan that startled us all. We looked; the thing was face down on the ground, twitching, and then it died.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “A fuckin’ chicken.” I took Max’s leash and Marisol’s hand, leading them away.

  David asked, “Dude, where you going?”

  “Out the next exit I find. And the name is J.D.,” I informed him.

  “You want to convince me you’re telling the truth?” David asked, following with his coworkers in tow.

  “You must believe me if you’re coming with us.”