The Romero Strain: A Zombie Novel

by Ts Alan

  Xylocaine was a local anesthesia used to block pain in a specific part of the body, allowing the patient to remain fully alert. The area that was anesthetized was usually small and superficial and the injection numbed the area to pain and any other sensations. Lidocaine was typically used for dental work, skin biopsies, or stitching a superficial wound. Though her wounds were neither superficial nor small, it would have to do.

  I checked the drawers below the doors in search of a syringe, and having found one, I prepared the appropriate amount for the injection. As I approached her, she saw the needle and began to panic. In a soothing tone I assured her there was nothing to fear and that the needle was a good thing. I stuck the needle in my arm to show her that it was okay, her fear subsided and she lay back down.

  Though the needle still frightened her, she allowed me to repeatedly inject it into her shoulder area. As I waited for the area to numb, I searched the room for the correct surgical instruments: scalpel, Kelly forceps, a retractor with blunt prongs, surgical gloves, sponges, tape, bandages, disinfectant, and sutures and needle. I found everything but a surgical probe.

  I never had any surgical training, human or otherwise, and my paramedic training certainly didn’t cover bullet extraction. I liberally applied the Betadine antibacterial solution, a brown rusty-red colored liquid, to the surrounding tissue. It was a solution for cleaning minor wounds and used in hospitals to prepare a patient’s skin prior to surgery. I stood there with instrument in hand, like a hapless med-school graduate on his first day in practice.

  The bullet had penetrated deep into the human part of her flesh. Blood flowed freely as I cut a one-inch incision above the wound and then carefully probed with the forceps in search of the lead slug. I sponged away the crimson flow.

  Removal of the slug was uncomfortable for both of us, but it had to be done or she would not survive. I hoped the projectile missed all vital arteries and veins, and that my probing didn’t cause further damage. After extracting the bullet from her pectoral region and dressing the wound, I addressed the matter of the slug in the back of her left leg.

  The wound to her leg was less severe, having barely penetrated beyond her tough, thick skin. The small-needled syringe was not made to infiltrate such a hard surface, so I inserted the needle inside the wound in order deaden the area. I could tell she was in pain as I did so, but she did not cry out. I spoke to her in a soft, gentle voice, first telling her that she was going to be okay, and then about the procedure I was trying to perform, since she was facedown and unable to see. Abruptly, she spun around and faced me. I jumped, startled at her movement. Suddenly I knew what my companions had experienced when I inadvertently rotated my neck the first time. I composed myself and began speaking to her again. I did not know if the words were soothing to her, if it was my sincere and concerned tones, or if she actually comprehended what I was saying, but the tension eased from her body.

  I apologized for my act of surprise. I wasn’t sure if she understood, but a slight smile came to her face. Not a true human smile, but a… simper? No, it was a smile; coy and thin as it was, it was a smile. I wondered if the doctor had seen her facial expression. If he saw what I saw, would his assessment or judgment of this creature—this changed human—remain narrow-minded and adamant in regards to her fierceness?

  She observed my retrieval of the mangled piece of lead, my dressing of her upper leg and the superficial injury to her side.

  Bullet holes were not closed with stitches unless there was a large loss of blood or the blood was squirting out, in which case I needed to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Wounds of that type healed from the inside out, with regular cleaning, disinfecting and redressing of the traumatized area to prevent infection. I was not going to be able to do that, and I did not know the extent of time needed for her body to mend, so suturing the wound was the only solution. She could not stay inside the room; it was too much of a risk for everyone. David and Marisol might be sympathetic and understanding, but the others wouldn’t, especially Joe.

  I helped her sit up; we needed rest before I could find a way to get her out of the facility. My last transformation had weakened and tired me. I needed food, and I was sure that my colleagues and Luci could also benefit from a meal.

  I carried Luci back to the room where I had cleaned her. As I sat on the bed next to her and covered her naked flesh in the bedding, she cautiously cupped her hand to my face and stroked my cheek twice, as if to say thank you. She held her hand to my jaw. I place my hand over hers for a moment. The coarseness of her flesh felt strange against my soft skin.

  “It’s okay, Luci,” I said to her. “You need rest.” For a moment I thought she had recognized her name, but her hand went limp; she had fallen asleep.

  IV. Flesh for the Beast

  It had been nearly eighty minutes since I had discovered her, and I was sure my friends, especially Marisol, were impatiently awaiting my return. It appeared the doctor had been correct; there was no one left alive or undead. They had all fallen victim to the transmutes.

  As I entered the mess hall, I pulled the pistol from my waistband. I needed to be ready in case there was something on the other side of the door. It occurred to me that the pistol was not adequate if a horde of the undead emerged from behind the door. I surveyed the hallway for the closest dead soldier with a weapon, as plenty were scattered throughout the hall. I picked up a rifle from a soldier dressed in black. I had never seen that kind of weapon before. It appeared to be a machine gun, but had no protruding barrel, and a folding butt stock. I looked at the side of the weapon for some writing. Imprinted in tiny lettering was Heckler & Koch GmbH, followed by Model: MP5K-PDW, then a serial number. I was amazed how clear and legible the lettering was. I would never have been able to read the stamped lettering previously without the use of a magnifying glass. My new eyesight was indeed useful.

  I checked the magazine, but it was empty, and there was no ammo on the soldier. I moved a few feet down the hall to another soldier, this one dressed in camouflage fatigues. Next to him was a Colt M4 carbine. I picked it up. It was loaded. This one had no rocket launcher, but was equipped with a high intensity light, which was mounted under the muzzle, along with an optical gun sight.

  I ran the doctor’s ID card through the reader, no yellow light. I swiped it again in case the reader failed to translate the card properly, like a MetroCard at the subway turnstile, which always seemed to fail when I was in a hurry. Still, the indicator light remained red. It appeared the doctor wasn’t authorized for opening the mess hall, just like he hadn’t been authorized to open any of the officer’s living quarters.

  I needed to find a swipe card that would work. I walked along the corridor searching for a soldier with a rank greater than sergeant. I needed a high-ranking officer with full access to the facility. I walked toward the command center instead of the labs. I figured that the grunts would have been sent in before the officers. There were more dead soldiers dressed in black fatigues than dressed in digital camouflage. I surmised that they were the Special Forces teams sent in to oversee the closing of the complex. The men had no rank insignia or group insignia, with the exception of one soldier who wore a sleeve insignia of a medic.

  U.S. Army Special Forces would have dispatched an A-team and B-team. I knew this, not just because of my war film knowledge, but because the doctor had said that two teams entered the facility to shut it down.

  The Base Security Force had full insignia and rank emblazoned on their uniforms. The unit insignia was a white caduceus—a winged staff with two snakes wrapped around it—stitched into a black background with white piping. It was the symbol of a medical unit. However, there was only one ranked higher than a sergeant. I examined soldier after soldier, but couldn’t find a commissioned officer amongst the dead.

  I reached the command center. Then I saw it: one of the male creatures. It had made it to the intersection of the command center corridor and the north hallway. It was dead––sitting in the corn
er, in a pool of its own blood, riddled with bullet wounds.

  I examined the naked creature. It was different than Luci. All of its skin, with exception of its genitalia, had become thick, grey, hide-like flesh. Its eyes looked owl-like, with no human characteristics at all. The creature was far more frightening and menacing than Luci. Apparently it was difficult to kill, as revealed by the numerous bullet strikes it had taken. But it had succumbed, most likely, by the single shot to the head.

  I backtracked, and checked the pockets of every soldier for a security card. I returned to the mess hall doors, having collected three cards. They were white with no markings on them, aside from their magnetic strip. I wasn’t sure if each card would work, or if they were authorized for certain sections of the facility. I started with the last card in the stack, trying to convince myself it would be the only one I’d have to swipe. I activated the light on my newly acquired machine gun, drew a breath, and swiped the card. My logic had been incorrect; it was the second card that worked. The lock disengaged. I cautiously turned the lever and slowly pushed the door forward. The lights were on.

  The room was devoid of the living and the living dead. The eating area was not overly large. There were seven tables, and at quick glance it appeared the room could seat thirty-five or forty. There had been no food prepared behind the serving counters, no food in the hall at all. I imagined that sundry items related to food preparation and consumption would be the last items to be removed; after all, apples, I would think, were less important than a viral agent. Of course, I had not done a complete search of the base to see what had or had not been removed. My first priority had been to kill transmutes and the undead, making sure the base was secure in order for my companions to enter. My plan went awry when I decided to save the transmute. Though I hadn’t found any undead, nor heard another transmute, that didn’t mean there weren’t any, especially since the doctor said two male transmutes were held captive.

  As I stepped behind the serving counter, into the darkened kitchen and pantry area, I was surprised at the room’s immensity. It was three times larger than the eating area, with the front portion being the food preparation area. With the dining hall light at my back, I could easily see through the darkness. There were several long stainless steel tables, several stove convection oven combination units, several tall mobile heated cabinets for keeping food warm, and a myriad of sealed boxes. There were also two large walk-in refrigeration units on the far side of the room.

  I had seen enough horror films to know that nine times out of ten someone or something was hiding, or trapped, inside one of the units. If it was in a freezer unit, the human was probably dead. If it was a creature, it had most likely been lured inside. Trapped and frozen, it would resurrect the moment it became warm. If it was just a standard refrigeration unit, someone may have taken refuge in it. And upon opening the door, the openee usually got blasted in the face or guts with some type of weapon by the hidee.

  How to approach this dilemma, full on assault or subtle manipulation? I chose brain over brawn. I addressed the unit to the left by pounding on the heavy steel door with my fist. “Anyone in there?” I said, “Doctor France sent me.” There was no response. I repeated the question. Still no response. There were two light switches on the wall to the right of the door handle. I flipped the left one up, assuming the closest switch was for the unit I was about to open. I pulled the door handle, yanking the door open. With my machine gun slung over my shoulder, I quickly stepped back and raised my rifle, aiming it through the sight. The muzzle light pierced the darkened recess. Nothing jumped out, only the cold air meeting the warm. This was the freezer. I surveyed the interior—nothing dead except a lot of frozen meat. I closed the door.

  Now that the freezer unit proved to be empty of anything hostile, the other unit was most likely a refrigerator. I moved toward the door and reached for the light switch. This one was in the upright position. The lights were on; maybe someone was home.

  Being trapped in a dark confined space could cause an unexpected sense of helplessness and panic, and elevate stress levels, which could bring about a mental imbalance. Prolonged exposure to such conditions could produce long-term psychological effects. If I chose to be confined in a small space, I would keep the light on.

  Again, I knocked on the door. “Doctor France sent me. It’s clear to come out. The danger is over!” I yelled, and pounded on the door once more. There was no reply. The moment I opened the door something would charge at me, guns a blazin’ or arms extended, looking for a meal. I took a few deep breaths, to compose myself, then pulled on the handle and heaved hard on the door. I jumped back and took another readied stance with rifle aimed. Out came… some wisps of cold air. I found it unlikely, but not totally improbable, that someone was not hiding. Or perhaps I had watched too many movies. I was still cautious as I approached the archway. I stood at the edge and peered in. I tested my new focusing ability, by studying each portion of the room intensely. Then I saw it, a wisp of breath near the floor behind a large steel rack. The items on the shelving obscured him, but I saw another breath, then another. Someone was hiding.

  The gentle approach had failed; it was time for an alternative—brawn this time. I wasn’t about to go charging forward, because I didn’t know if he was armed. I would order him out like I was a Special Forces member, but I couldn’t remember any appropriate movie quotes; I had to improvise.

  “You inside the cooler!” I shouted with bravado. “Lay down your weapons, stand up, and walk toward the light with your hands above your head.” With authority in my voice, I continued, “If you do not make your presence known immediately, you will be considered hostile and we will engage with extreme prejudice!” I hoped that I sounded military enough. “Do it now!”

  “All right,” came a shout from inside. “I’m coming out. I’m unarmed. My name is Master Sergeant Kermit Brown, United States Army!”

  I repeated my order, “Make your presence known, Master Sergeant. I will need visual confirmation of your facility identification.”

  He stepped from behind the shelving and into the light. He walked slowly toward the doorway. I kept the gun light on his face to obstruct his sight.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them and step out of the doorway toward the light!” I ordered, and he complied.

  He asked, “Did I hear you correctly? You said Doctor France sent you?”

  I replied with, “All in due time, Master Sergeant.”

  The good news: he wasn’t infected and his badge confirmed who he claimed to be. The bad news: when I opened the door to his hiding place the virus may have entered. He, in all probability, was infected.

  As he crossed the threshold, he got wise to my deception. The light from the cooler offered enough illumination for him to see I was not in military dress.

  “What the hell. You’re not military!” he announced. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the guy with the gun, and I never said I was military. But Doctor France did send me, sort of.” My voice falling off on the sort of.

  He started toward me.

  “Stand down or I’ll drop you.”

  He didn’t believe me, so I squeezed the trigger and let off a round. The bullet hit a can on the shelving he had been hiding behind.

  He responded with, “Okay, okay. Why don’t you put down the gun, son, and we can talk about this?”

  “Cut the psychological bullshit and get on your knees,” I said, gesturing with the carbine. “Stay there while I turn the lights on, then we can get a good look at one another. I’ll brief you on the situation.”

  “All right, all right. You’re the man with the gun.”

  I started to walk away. He wasn’t going to listen. He would try a sneak attack. Sure enough, I hadn’t walked more than five yards when he tried to follow, but I had an advantage, a rotating neck and built in night vision. For the first time I was glad to have the oddities. As I walked away, I kept looking back over my shoulders, literall
y. He was only feet from me when he made his final move. But having better visual acuity in the dark along with my revolving cervix, I was prepared.

  I had slung the machine gun over my shoulder as I reached the entry. To the right of the door I could see the light switches on the wall and I could see the master sergeant coming up behind me. As I flipped the light toggles up, he was directly behind me with his right arm raised, clutching a large wooden rolling pin. The sight of my backwards head and mutated eyes looking directly into his eyes briefly startled him. I rotated my body around, disarmed him, and used a Muay Thai grappling move to yank him toward me by grabbing the back of his neck with my two hands, while simultaneously raising my knee and forcing it into his sternum. I hit him with enough force to knock the breath out of him and send him wheezing to his knees, but not hard enough to break bones or make him unconscious. He wasn’t my enemy and there was no need to use excessive force at this moment.

  I pointed the rifle at his unkempt face. It appeared he hadn’t shaved for some time.

  “You just couldn’t do what I asked,” I berated. “You had to be a hero. You always have to be a hero. All that military gung-ho shit.”

  He looked up at me in agony. For the first time I clearly saw his entire face. He looked like Chef, Jerome “Chef” McElroy from the animated television series South Park. The resemblance was uncanny. I started laughing.

  “Well, suck my salty chocolate balls!”

  “Your eyes, your head… what the fuck are you?” he asked in a frightened tone.

  I retorted, as usual, with a smart-ass attitude, “I told you. I’m the guy with the gun. No more heroics. Okay, Chef? Just sit there and listen to what I have to say.”

  “I saw your head. It was backwards!”

  “And did you see visions of sugar plum fairies dancing in your head, too? I musta cracked you too hard.”