The Romero Strain (Book 1): The Romero Strain

by Alan, TS

  The strike had worked; all he could do was gasp for air. I led him to an empty room. It wasn’t a closet, but it was a room that I could lock him in.

  “Try and escape and you’ll be shot.”

  “Hey, what if I have to use a bathroom?” he said, barely able to get the sentence out, still in pain from the strike I gave to him.

  “Then you know what to do.”

  I closed the door behind him and snapped the padlock shut. He’d have to find the light switch himself.

  We left an hour before dawn, under the cover of darkness to cloak our departure. I let Sam drive since it would probably be the last time he would drive a Cadillac, let alone be inside one. Headlights were not necessary. The onboard thermal imaging system allowed for a nearly clear view of the streets. Marisol was behind the command center computer, Max at her feet, while David was in the back monitoring the rear view screen for anything hostile that could come from behind. I stood up in the gunner’s port looking out into the darkness observing everything around us. Kermit sat as close to the front of the vehicle as he could while Julie and Otter sat near David.

  We were heading for the South Street Seaport to where I had told Major Ramsey to make the exfil. It was a place I knew well and a place where a chopper could easily land. I told Sam not to rush. The traffic was light, I jested. Pier 17 was the pickup point and a half hour after dawn was the time. We parked the vehicle facing the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive underpass at South Street, between the yellow colored New York Water Taxi ticket booth and the pea soup colored South Street Seaport Museum Visitors Center. There was more than enough room for a large helicopter to land.

  David had reported that he was catching glimpses of something following us, but was unsure what it was. When I turned around and scanned the darkness from where we had come, I saw no threat, just glances of animals scampering and scurrying about, peeking their heads in and out of the shadows that the buildings of Fulton Street cast from the waning moon.

  I watched and waited, gazing not at the sky but back across South Street, past the Heartland Brewery, beyond the Fulton Market building, up the plaza toward the Titanic Memorial Lighthouse at Pearl Street. I was watching to see if anything was coming, but the night was motionless.

  Dawn was approaching, but for the moment I had time to do one final gesture of friendship for the man who was going to keep my love safe and protected, and that was to give him a birthday present.

  I closed the upper hatch as I ducked back into the truck. I picked up a camouflage backpack, turned to David and told him, “Happy birthday, DD,” handing him the bundle.

  “Birthday?” he asked, taking the pack from me.

  “What? You forget what today is? It’s October 14th.”

  “Shit. Didn’t even think about what day it was. How did you know?”

  “It was Julie. We we’re planning a surprise party for ya, but I guess you won’t be getting any cake this year ’cause it’s back at the armory. Chocolate I think.”

  “Double chocolate fudge,” Kermit corrected. “And that would be an incorrect assumption. I packed cake in my duffle bag. You’ve spoiled Julie’s surprise.”

  “I suck, don’t I?” I announced. “It would have been nice if someone would have said something,” I retorted with slight irritation, glaring at Kermit.

  Julie consoled me. “It’s okay, J.D. I didn’t know about the cake either.”

  When light finally broke, I threw out a smoke flare to indicate our position. It was only a few minutes before the distinct sound of a helicopter broke the silence of the dawn. It was an HH-60 Pave Hawk Sam pointed out. I was actually going to miss his rambling lectures and excessive information. The helicopter landed, its side facing us with its manned machine gun protruding out the cabin window. It wasn’t as ominous as I had expected; there was no large caliber machine gun mounted in the cabin door like in Apocalypse Now.

  The tailgate opened and Kermit and Sam disembarked, taking up defensive positions, as I headed toward the Pave Hawk with the doctor’s pack in hand. Everyone knew the drill. When I signaled, the girls and canines would board first, followed by David, and finally Sam and Kermit.

  As I approached the chopper, a sergeant greeted me.

  “Master Sergeant William “Swig” McDaniels, United States Air Force, 48th Fighter Wing, at your service. Glad to meet you, Sergeant Nichols.”

  I didn’t salute, I knew not too, but held out my hand in friendship; he reciprocated.

  “The 48th? I thought the 422nd was coming?” I replied, as I climbed aboard.

  “We’re here. I’m originally from Liberty Wing out of Lakenheath. The sergeant here is from Croughton, Flight Engineer McCormick is from Alconbury and our pilot and co-pilot are from the 100th Air Refueling Wing, Midenhall. We’re all 422nd ABG now.”

  “Lakenheath, that’s James Bond, Tomorrow Never Dies, right?” I asked, not being able to curb my geekness.

  “That’s correct. Let’s get everyone aboard; we have a long trip home.”

  “Here,” I said, as I handed him a small cooler and a small pack, “That’s for Major Ramsey.”

  I signaled to my team; they deployed as discussed. Marisol came first with Max on his leash, then Julie with Otter. We were suddenly interrupted. The half-mutes were coming. The sound of the helicopter had attracted their attention.

  “I got unknowns coming in, unknowns coming in,” I heard the gunner sergeant yell. I saw the gun move. I saw the half-mutes running toward us from the plaza. I had only a few moments before they would reach the pier.

  David and I quickly got Julie and Otter aboard.

  “Half-mutes,” I said aloud, shouting over the propeller noise, which had begun to spin up. “If you shoot, you’ll only attract more. My team can handle them. Just get ready to go.”

  I jumped out of the helicopter as David climbed aboard.

  I quoted him the character Kane’s line from the film Highlander: The Final Dimension, about seeing him in Hell.

  David’s pause was brief; he correctly responded with Connor MacLeod’s line about being the judge of that.

  He was good.

  I quickly moved away from the chopper for the Stryker. Kermit and Sam were already running toward me. The half-mutes were nearly upon us. I unsheathed my blades.

  I couldn’t stop them all. A few ran past. I heard the whirling blades of the chopper grow louder, and then its machine gun. I didn’t have time to look behind; I just hoped Kermit and Sam had made it. I thought I heard Marisol’s cries as the chopper lifted off. Then something struck me. I went down. I had been shot from behind. I saw half-mutes falling, but I saw more coming. I was too far from the safety of the Stryker. I struggled to stand. My thigh flared in intense pain. I tried to work through it, but I wasn’t going to be able to stand very long. I could feel the blood flowing out of both holes the bullet had made when it passed through me.

  The rattle of the machine gun stopped, the chopper moved away. There was nowhere to run. More of them came running toward me. I tried to escape to the water, but it was as equal in distance as was the truck. I would have to make my stand where I stood. It was slice and dice time. I twirled my machetes ready for the onslaught.

  “Okay, David!” I shouted out, knowing he wasn’t going to hear me. “This one’s for you.”

  I recited the same final words as the Nexus-6 replicant Roy Batty uttered right before his death in Blade Runner. But I left out the part about dying.

  THE END

  About the Author

  TS Alan is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, and suspense, but also frequently incorporates elements of fantasy, science fiction, mystery, and satire. Alan has published two novels, and six short stories.

  As influences on his writing, Alan lists Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Edgar Allen Poe, and O. Henry, among others.

  Alan is also the co-founder of the entertainment website Zombie Education Alliance (zombieeducationalliance.com).

  His w
riting credits also include two short stories published in Devolution Z magazine, a short published in an anthology called What Went Wrong? (Legendary Stories), and a short published in an anthology called Whispers of the Apoc. His third novel, World War Dead, will be released in 2019.

  Visit TS Alan at: www.tsalan.com