by Ts Alan
They came toward the ambulance. The woman knocked Marisol’s paramedic down like a wolf bringing down its prey. He never had a chance to finish his sentence. She tore at his larynx with wild abandon and voraciousness. He screamed, but his screams quickly turned to muffled gurgles as his throat was ripped away from his neck.
IV. Run Away, Run Away!
The man came at Officer Rodriquez in a frenzy; his eyes were milky and his flesh was pale and blistered. She didn’t have time to reach for her gun. She was on the ground writhing in pain as the man bit into her throat. The crowd and the second EMT ran, but were intercepted by another wild-eyed man coming from the other end of the street. Screams of terror and panic pierced the morning louder than Marisol’s had. Officer Johnson tried to pull Rodriquez’s attacker off her, but he was too late. She laid victim to the predator; her throat ripped open, blood gurgling from a deep hole and the surrounding lacerations.
Johnson didn’t know what he was in for. The crazed man turned from his meal and looked at Johnson with disdain through his clouded eyes. Johnson stepped back, pulled his duty carry pistol as the man stood up, and put four rounds into his chest. The man stepped a foot back, but did not fall. Johnson again aimed, this time for the head, and with another loud report he connected with the kill zone. The man’s head blew apart as the nine-millimeter bullet ripped a path through the frontal bone and out the parietal.
But Johnson had made a mistake. He momentarily looked at Rodriquez after he made sure the assailant was down for good. In his moment of disbelief, the aberration that had attacked Marisol’s EMT ravenously set upon him. The lieutenant had just begun to turn away from his fallen partner when the she-beast jumped on him, knocking his pistol from his hand. The gun slid along the roadway toward the police cruiser.
The thing bit into his jugular as it held fast to him, clamping its legs around him, frantically trying to keep Johnson from pulling its biting mouth away from his neck. Johnson spun around several times. The attack set him off balance. He fell to the ground as the creature gnawed his neck.
I called Max to follow as I grabbed Marisol. I heard that Monty Python line inside my head about running away. But there was no escape. We were momentarily caught in between two crazies from the east and one from the west, and I had a bad feeling it wouldn’t be long before there would be more. We slunk down in front of the squad car. I corrected Max for growling and told Marisol she needed to be silent and do exactly what I said if she wanted to live. I had no illusions that it was going to be an easy out. I’ve had idiots on the subway try to pick fights with me because they thought they had the right to get on the car before I could get off. I’ve had punk-ass kids try to fuck with me in front of my own doorway, just because there were six of them, they had been drinking, and were looking for trouble. Those situations paled compared to the one I was in then. Idiots and jackasses were one thing; crazed, murdering cannibals were another.
Officer Johnson’s dislodged pistol had slid along the roadway, stopping feet from the front driver’s side tire. It was a Glock 19.
The NYPD Glock 19 had twelve pound NYPD connectors, meaning it had a twelve pound trigger pull for safety, with a magazine capacity of fifteen rounds, not including the one in the chamber. The NYPD issued the Gold Dot hollow-point 9mm cartridge by CCI Speer, because my father found it to be satisfyingly powerful on the street. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t stop the creatures unless I knew where to aim, as John had found out.
I knew a few things about a Glock 19, not because I was a weapons’ aficionado, or had ever fired one, but because my father carried one. In my line of duty, I had seen the damage the weapon could do to someone. I needed to get the pistol and get the hell out of there.
Out. But to where? No time to think. Time to run. The things were engaged. I grabbed Marisol’s hand.
“Let’s go.”
We began our departure, stealthy and silent as not to be noticed. We were nearly clear of the car when Marisol let go of my hand. She turned from me and went to the sidewalk where Officer Rodriquez lay.
Two creatures were further down the sidewalk, engorging themselves on several bystanders that had run south along the avenue trying to escape. The other was still feeding on Lieutenant Johnson, several yards from Rodriquez.
Marisol glanced at me.
I gave her a look that said, What the fuck are you doing?
She bent over the bloody, shredded corpse and unholstered the pistol. The she-beast looked up and spotted fresh meat. Marisol raised the pistol and pointed it, trying to fire. The gun did nothing. The safety was on.
Rodriguez’s weapon was a Smith & Wesson LE Duty Carry pistol finished in satin steel. It used 9mm Parabellum ammunition, but had fully ambidextrous safety levers and an external hammer, unlike a Glock pistol, which employed three internal safety mechanisms, all based on the trigger that prevented the gun from firing if it was dropped or jolted. I doubted Marisol knew the differences, let alone how to aim a pistol.
A shot rang out. Dead bang to the head. It was a lucky shot. I had never fired a pistol before. Marisol wet herself. The urine ran down her leg and onto her sock.
“I think—” she began to say, embarrassed.
“I see,” I said, before she could finish. Lucky that had been the worst thing that happened. “Let’s go.”
The other two looked up, but were too engaged in their dining to give chase.
I took Marisol by the hand, holding it tight, letting the strength of my grip show her that I was not going to allow such recklessness to happen again. “Max, fuss,” I whispered, as we picked up our pace and headed toward the Con Edison power station directly up the street.
V. The Electric Company
It was Wonka-esque in the old days. The old, dreary energy factory with its four big smoke stacks looming high into the East River sky. Its old, worn brick exterior walls aged with stains of weathered time now gone, replaced and expanded with a structural steel fabrication, a façade of prefabricated panels of red and black faux brick. It was called the East River Repowering Project; the commercial operation of the renovated facility began in April of 2005, when the second of two state-of-the-art, natural-gas-fired steam generators began providing power to the electricity grid.
Before the project, conEd gave tours of the facility. Post-9/11 they discontinued them. I had toured the facility once, fascinated by the old turbines and the piping that ran out of the facility and under the streets of New York. I often visited unusual, non-tourist type places. It was my love of movies that started my hobby as an urban explorer. I started with underground film locations, then became interested in other places, like the abandoned City Hall Station of the IRT East Side Line, where the 6 Train turns around to go uptown, and the forgotten Atlantic Avenue Subway Tunnel, which led me to the power station tour.
* * *
A car came tearing down the street, honking its horn wildly and weaving erratically. The male driver waved his hand back in forth like he was trying to tell us to get out of his way, but we were on the sidewalk. He continued speeding north up Avenue C, past the main entrance to the facility. Something was amiss as we approached the main gate. I didn’t see anyone walking around inside the enclosed area. It was early Monday morning, but in a busy complex I expected to see someone outside.
The chain-link fence was closed and locked. A blue and white striped Con Edison pickup truck sat across the entranceway near the guard shack to prevent unwanted intruders. As we reached the main gate, I saw the door to the small, dirty white, aluminum-sided guardhouse open, and there appeared to be no one sitting behind the wheel of the pickup truck, which seemed wrong.
I looked down 14th Street and saw a flurry of activity near Associated Grocery. It appeared to be police and emergency vehicles, but it was too far to walk in the open to take the chance.
I thought about crossing the street and going to the auto parts store for sanctuary. Once inside I could call 9-1-1 again. But if I wanted immediate assistance, perhaps res
cue, I needed a place that the police would respond to immediately. Whether anyone at the generating plant believed my story or not, gaining unauthorized access to one of the main suppliers of the city’s electrical grids would get the NYPD to us quicker than flies on shit.
As we crossed in front of the gate, I thought I saw a shadow under the truck. I moved swiftly but cautiously to the employee entrance, which lay to the left of the eight-foot fence. The walkway led to a small building, which looked more like a kid’s clubhouse than a storage shed. The checkpoint served as an employee entrance and visitors’ entrance. Inside I would find at least one guard checking identification and doing bag inspections.
As we rounded the gate to the walkway, I could not see anyone through the large window to the right of the door. The white two-panel steel entry door was ajar. I approached the doorway cautiously. Max halted and let out a low growl. I raised the pistol up and I put an index finger to my lips to let Marisol know to be silent. “Ruhig,” I whispered to Max. His growling ceased.
I expected to be attacked by a mob of the undead before I could breach the doorway. Yes, that was what I decided they were. Just like those Romero films I loved. Had I missed something? If I had been working, would I have been aware of the uprising? If I had watched the news the night before, or turned it on before I took Max out, would I have known to barricade myself inside my apartment instead of venturing out? What if? Well, what if didn’t matter. It had come, Dawn of the Dead. And I was about to jump from the frying pan and into the—
They were dead. Blood and flesh was splattered all over the white semi-gloss walls and pooling on the floor. It wasn’t like the movies. There were fewer dismembered body parts and exposed organs and more lacerated flesh with chunks torn out with teeth. Less Hollywood, more real life, but surreally disturbing just the same.
Marisol entered, took one look, and quickly exited. I heard her projectile vomiting on the sidewalk. Funny, she didn’t have a problem taking the pistol from Rodriquez, but the sight of blood pooling with chunks of flesh sickened her.
She came back in. “I can’t go any further,” she said.
“What?” You wanna stay and be meat?”
“No, that’s not it. I got to change.”
“Change?” I said, confused by her announcement.
“Yes, change. I can’t go any further. I’m wet.”
“Now?” I exclaimed, keeping my voice low. “You gotta change now?”
“Yes.” She walked behind the low counter where the guards conducted their bag searches, took her backpack off, and opened it. “Turn around.”
“Turn around? Turn around why?”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to look.”
“Ah, Jesus. You’ll change in the middle of dead people, but you’re afraid I’ll sneak a peek at your cooch. Unbelievable.”
I turned away. “Max. Pas op,” I said, pointing to the opposite door. “Hey, wait. You might need this.” I took off my backpack, opened it, and pulled out a packet of Nice ’N Clean antibacterial hand-wipes. “Make it fast. We’re going back to 14th Street,” I said, and tossed them to her. “And stay out of the blood.”
She smiled and made little circles with her index finger indicating for me to turn around.
I could hear her behind me as she undressed. My curiosity at what she had in her bag, and the fact that I hadn’t seen a naked woman in over a year, got the best of me. I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of the most perfect ass I had ever seen.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
Her response had not been immediate, and I was not completely sure if she had been truthful.
“Fifteen. Shit,” I said, with slight disappoint in my tone, and feeling like a pedophile.
“Why?”
“Ah, no reason.”
She asked, “How come you know Spanish? You fluent?”
“Part of my job. I’m a paramedic for Saint Vincent’s Hospital. I speak some Cantonese, but my Spanish is better.” I heard a zipper go up. “You done?”
“Almost. You can turn around now.”
She had changed into a pair of faded stonewashed blue Levis with narrow legs. Over her school blouse she wore a white hoodie with three distinctive stripes emblazoned across her chest. They were the colors of Columbia. Her soiled clothes were on the floor.
“Where do you live?” I asked, as she began tying the laces to her black Air Jordan sneakers.
“Why?” she asked with suspicion.
I retorted, “Why is everything why with you? Every time I ask you something, it’s why! How about, because I want to know?”
“Okay.”
I waited a moment for her to answer the question but she didn’t; I asked again. “So?”
“I live on—” A look of extreme fear came over her. She realized in all the mayhem she had forgotten about her family. “Oh, my God. ¡Mi madre!” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket.
I could hear the voice on the phone stating that all circuits were busy, please call again later. Marisol cursed in Spanish, eyeing the phone like the operator could hear her. She looked up at me and sobbed. She walked to me and put her arms around me. She wanted comfort and reassurance that her family were fine, but I couldn’t give it. I didn’t know if her family were fine, or even if mine were all right. I held her for a moment, then Max growled.
I quickly let her go, and approached Max. I looked through the window on the door but saw nothing. Max continued his low growl. “Gute hund, Max. Gute hund.” I still saw no one, but by the way Max was reacting I knew there was something out there.
Marisol spoke from behind me in a concerned tone, “There are people coming.”
“I don’t see anyone.” I misunderstood what she was trying to tell me.
“No. This way!”
I turned around and saw Marisol pointing out the front door. There were people moving swiftly toward the complex. Alive or undead, I didn’t know; they were too far away, but I wasn’t about to wait and find out.
“Marisol, time to go.”
I walked toward Max. “Fuss,” I said, as I opened the door. I followed Max out, and held the door for Marisol, but she was not directly behind me.
“Marisol,” I snapped.
She grabbed her nearly forgotten backpack and locked the front entrance door.
“Marisol! Now!” She ran to me and out the door. “Not too fast, let Max lead.”
Ahead of us the open area of the complex stretched all the way to FDR Drive. The building to our immediate left housed the turbines, the heat recovery system, and the station monitoring system. To our right, as we exited the visitor check-in building, was the guardhouse with the pickup truck adjacent to it. We moved cautiously along the sidewalk, which stretched along the paved lot. We could see the back end of the pickup as we cleared the twelve by twelve foot trailer. Max stopped. He curled his lips back and rumbled a low, guttural growl.
There was the driver, half hanging out the truck, his body dangling and twitching as his attacker gnawed on an arm. He had been unable to escape. His leg was caught in the steering wheel.
The creature looked up and stopped chewing. It wanted fresh meat.
“Run!” I cried. “Schnell, Max. Fuss!”
We ran hard and fast. We came to the entryway of the main building. It was open. He was almost upon us. Marisol went in, followed by Max. I tumbled to the pavement as I was set upon. The gun flew from my hand and landed just out of reach. I struggled to keep his mouth away. I held on firmly with both hands around his throat, trying to strangle him. This would not be a deterrent, but I hoped to hold him back from ripping out my throat. He frantically tried to kill me, whipping his arms and hands at me in a frenzied fit. He scratched at my face. I didn’t know if he had penetrated my skin, but I felt a sting.
I couldn’t punch him in the face, for if I did there was the possibility of lacerating my knuckles on his teeth, so I began to elbow strike him
on the side of the head. For a moment the blows disoriented him, enough for me to scoot my body over those few extra inches to reach the pistol. I shoved it in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.
I saw Marisol with weapon in hand. The gun was aimed at me. She had a frightened look on her face.
“I tried to shoot it,” she said, her voice quivering. “But the gun won’t work.”
I responded, “Yours has an external safety. I’ll show you later.”
She lowered the weapon. “You got some blood on your face.”
“Shit. Just tell me it’s my own,” I replied in an agitated tone. “Damn it!” Then I kicked the creature.
“It’s okay. I can wipe it off,” she said in a calming and reassuring voice, as she took out a hand-wipe and cleaned my face.
“You don’t understand. Is there any on my eyes or mouth?”
She assured, “No, no. You’re okay.”
“Not if it got in my eyes or mouth. Shit, what about the scratch on my face?”
“Scratch? It’s just a little mark.”
“Are you sure?” I demanded to know. “Is the skin broken?”
She couldn’t understand my concern. “Why are you freakin’ out? It’s nothing.” She finished cleaning my face and tossed the towelette to the ground.
“You don’t understand. If blood gets into your system, you can turn into one of them.”
“What? Now you’re buggin’!”
“You have no clue to what’s going on. Those crazy people. They’re the undead. And you can get infected through blood or saliva.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes, it is.” I confirmed, with deep sincerity in my voice.
“What? How do you know this? I was bleeding, remember?” She held out her overly bandaged arm. She began to panic. “I don’t want to be one of those things. I don’t want to be—”
I interrupted. “You’re buggin’. You didn’t get bit, right?”
“No.”
