The Romero Strain: A Zombie Novel

by Ts Alan

  * * *

  I was still erect, my penis pointing directly north, like I was sixteen and horny. My transmute DNA had supercharged my sexual drive. At least being my age, I was able to control my lust—well, partly.

  Luci had had enough of lying in bed. She wanted out and I couldn’t stop her. She moved toward the bathroom, beckoning me to follow. I sat up and watched her. When I didn’t respond to her request she tugged on my arm, urging me to follow. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to go into the bathroom or why she wanted me with her. She could see I didn’t understand.

  She made a fist, moving it up and down her body as if she was wiping something off. She pulled on my arm again, telling me to come with her. Then she repeated the wiping motion.

  It finally struck me. She wanted to go back into the shower. She wanted me to bathe her again.

  The warmth of the water felt good against my body. I stood behind her with my erection pressed firmly on her buttock’s crease. The sensation of her hide-like flesh upon my sensitive manhood felt odd but arousing. I was strong and hard. There was no sign of my erection going limp. It was as if I had taken a handful of Viagra and I didn’t know when it would come down. As I gently washed her, I could see the blood in the water as it flowed down the drain. There wasn’t a lot; just enough to know she hadn’t completely clotted.

  She pressed herself against me, nudging me, indicating she desired me again. She slowly turned her head around to face me. She stared at me with her strangely horrific but compelling face.

  She attempted, I suppose, what to her was a kiss. She bit my lip with her sharp teeth and drew blood. She licked the blood from my lip. She tried again to kiss me, biting my tongue lightly. She bent over, urging me to enter her. I obliged.

  Our act of procreating was slightly terrifying, but extremely invigorating with her head turned backwards and her odd eyes gazing into mine. I kissed her passionately on the mouth, showing her the proper way to kiss while we fornicated, but she didn’t seem interested in the gentleness of my lips against hers, just the intensity of our motion. And the livelier our movement became, the louder she vocalized, “Tu whoo.”

  Afterwards we sat on the shower floor, Luci cradled in my arms. The warmth of the water felt good against my body, like a warm summer rain on a hot day. For a short time all I did was hold her, comforting her. I thought about my time in the hospital, wishing that I had had someone to give me comfort, other than my concerned parents.

  Luci had fallen asleep, the back of her head resting upon my shoulder and her arms wrapped around mine. She was roused when the water began to cool. We couldn’t have used all the hot water, so it must have been facility failure. It was time for me to reacquaint myself with reality and address the issue of what to do with the creature Doctor France deemed pure evil.

  Her bandages were wet. It was time to remove them and redress her wounds. I gently patted her afflictions to dry them. I was amazed how rapidly they were healing. She was as tall as I was and somewhere in the range of one hundred and thirty pounds, but as I picked her up in my arms and carried her back to the bed, she felt very light. I didn’t notice before. I needed to go back to the infirmary for the medical supplies, but she was not going to have that. She pulled me onto the bed and sat on top of me again.

  Her wet shoulder-length hair, a natural, deep rich strawberry blond, covered her nearly earless features. She had radiant, deep blue eyes. Strangely, I thought she had retained her iris color and mine had morphed.

  I was struck by a television memory. I remembered the episode of Masters of Horror, titled Jenifer. In the episode, the detective who rescued Jenifer from an insane asylum had uncontrollable feelings of lust and attraction for her lustful, wanton body, though her face was ghastly. When he realized that she was a human beast too dangerous to keep near people, he moved with her to an isolated old cabin in the woods, and tragic consequences ensued.

  Watching the television show with my girlfriend at that time, I said I could never have sex with a woman that had a face like a beast, even with such an incredible body. I would have been afraid she’d bite my dick off. The character in the episode had pointed teeth for ripping flesh and performed oral sex on the cop. “It’s just too freaky and dangerous,” I told her.

  Her comment was, “I thought all men think with their dicks. That’s why they get drunk, do stupid shit, and knock-up ugly chicks.”

  I tried to convince her we weren’t all that stupid, but as I reminisced, I recognized that maybe most of us were.

  “Luci, stop,” I firmly told her, “There’s no time,” but she wouldn’t listen or didn’t understand.

  She mimicked what I had done to her when I had been on top. She kissed and licked my neck, that time not biting. She moved her mouth down to my chest and licked my nipple. She moved toward my stomach and down to my erection.

  I wanted oral sex, but that freaky, dangerous feeling came over me. I drew her up and moved her above me in order to insert myself. She held me down like the first time, when she grabbed me and threw me on the bed. She slowly moved back and forth along my fullness, almost allowing my erection to come out of her. It felt good. I could feel the pleasure building up within me. I wanted hard and aggressive sex again, but she wouldn’t allow it. I grabbed at her buttocks while attempting to lift my pelvis upward, driving my hardness deep into her. She slammed her vagina onto my pelvis while simultaneously pushing her hands against my shoulders, digging her claws into me, forcing me flat on the bed. She was telling me she was in control, and when I succumbed to her wish, she extracted her nails from my flesh and released the pressure from my arms.

  She continued her rhythmic motion, slowly at first, teasing me, building my orgasm, building hers. It was like she knew what she was doing. But how could this be? Had she retained that much of her humanity? The doctor had said that there were neurological changes in both size and function of the overall frontal and temporal lobes. How was pleasuring herself and a partner was achievable? Her body language appeared to be lovemaking, not instinctual mating.

  Her motion became quicker and more defined. Her vocalization began again. She pressed down on my shaft as she reached my pubic area, forcing my erection deeper inside her while contracting herself slightly. She released and moved upward again, but only halfway up my manhood, then drove herself down again and released. As she repeated the motion, I could feel her wetness running onto my scrotum. She moaned, not entirely human-like, but not animal-like. She became louder as her motions became more frantic.

  She stopped and her stomach drew in, becoming tight. The muscles of her vagina contracted strongly around my penis. She pressed down on me repeatedly, tightly wrapping her warm, moist womanhood around me, arousing me to the extreme. I felt my testicles tingle with a warm, burning sensation. My erection pulsed, spewing copious amounts of fluid, which were ejected deep into her. It was the most intense orgasm I had ever had, even after several times.

  She lay upon me; her head nestled in mine.

  I could spend hours more, even days, pleasuring myself with her, but I had spent more time with her than I planned. I needed to redress her wounds and take her to the outside world––for the safety of everyone. She was not human and not of our kind, though I was not of anyone’s kind.

  I stood up and my erection stood, too. I certainly couldn’t roam the halls naked with my pride saluting the world, especially since it was getting close to the four hours. I knew Marisol well enough to know that she’d be urging David for an earlier arrival. I needed to get to the infirmary and back, dress her wounds, and get her out before they entered.

  Inside the closet I found a bathrobe amongst the meticulously pressed pants and shirts. I put on the bathrobe and a pair of oversized shoes, and picked up the pistol from the dresser, just in case. As I walked toward the door, Luci called to me in a low-pitched screech. I didn’t have to know the language to know she was trying to get me to stay. I tried to firmly deny her wishes, but a forceful screech came out of me. I
frightened myself with how loud it had been.

  Luci fell silent in compliance.

  * * *

  There was nothing more I could do for her. Her wounds were dressed and it was time to go. I dressed in some oversized fatigues, and dressed Luci in an oversized fatigue shirt. I thought of putting pants on her, and reconsidered. I was not sure about the whole bathroom thing; would she know how to de-pants and go to the bathroom, or would she just soil herself?

  I picked her up in my arms and carried her out the door and down the hall, to the main entrance. I hoped I could exit that way. I stood her up and activated the elevator with the white swipe card. The card worked. As the elevator took us up, I tried not to look at her. She knew I was expelling her. She gently clawed at me. I tried to ignore her, but I knew what she was trying to say. I wasn’t trying to be cold-hearted and callous by the act I was committing. I honesty did feel remorse for rejecting her. Out of lack of good judgment, we mated , repeatedly, and she had most likely formed a bond with me. But ousting her was what had to be done, guilt or not.

  The automatic door opened revealing a room nearly as big as the elevator car. As we entered, I saw a biometric security scanner to my right. The door closed behind me. If my magstrip card did not override the terminal security I was screwed.

  On the opposite side of the room I found a simple magnetic stripe card reader, no biometrics, no keypad. I passed the card through the thin slot and the door opened. Before us was a two-sectional, heavy steel door, painted drab olive. At first I did not see any way of opening the door, but then I noticed an unobtrusive button set in the doorframe. The two sections of the heavy door parted, one section retracting upward into the ceiling, and the other into the floor. There was an entrance into an old, dimly lit, narrow freight elevator, which looked vaguely familiar. I pushed the button marked Open. The door behind us shut. I didn’t know if I could get back from where I came.

  The elevator door parted like the other. We were under Grand Central on an unused platform. I glanced to my left. There was an entrance with a sign that read: M 50. I had seen it before, on television. We had emerged from the old manual freight elevator of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

  It was the six-foot wide elevator that President Franklin Delano Roosevelt supposedly used when he traveled by train to New York City. Reportedly, his armor-plated Pierce Arrow car would drive off the train, onto the platform, and into the elevator. Once at street level, the elevator gates would be opened to reveal 49th Street.

  The locked entrance to the secret station was down a stairway concealed behind a brass door marked 101-121 49th Street, below a sign that read, Metro-North Fire Exit. There was another stairway exit, without an elevator, on the 50th Street side of the hotel building.

  I was standing on the platform of Track 61. Tracks heading to and from Grand Central ran under Park Avenue between 42nd and 97th Street, deep below street level. Some of the tunnel lights were still lit. Grand Central’s power source, some which came from the New York Power Authority, remained active. Though it was nighttime, the length of the enclosed train shed prevented me from seeing the night sky.

  At the platform’s edge was a military transport train, six cars in length. It was how project personnel and equipment got in and out of the facility unnoticed. The train blocked my view of the southern portion of the passageway, but as I scouted north I could see a few people quickly moving toward us. I was sure they were the undead.

  “I’m sorry, Luci. But you can’t stay with me. You have to go.” I nudged her forward. She was resistant.

  She wasn’t going to leave. I was forced to do something I didn’t want to do, yell at her. As I began, another abrupt screech came bellowing out. “Shit,” I gasped, having frightened myself. Somehow she understood my vocalization, even though I had no idea what it could possibly mean. To me it had just been an involuntary absurd vocalization. She fled in the direction of three undead. I feared for her. She was an injured creature about to encounter stronger opponents. My worries were unfounded. She swiftly evaded them and made a successful escape. Luci disappeared into the darkness. I hoped she would survive the insurmountable odds that awaited her out there.

  I saw others approaching. I re-entered the car, pressed the Close button, and quickly ran to its opposite end. As I swiped the card through the reader I heard the thunderous, frantic pounding of the undead on the platform door. I moved into the complex elevator and the door leading to the freight elevator closed. It was the moment of truth. If the card in my hand required a biometric scan, I was screwed. I whispered a brief prayer to my god before I swiped it through the scanner. Whether it had been divine intervention or merely luck, I felt blessed. The door opened.

  There was one other thing I needed to do before I returned to my friends: enter Doctor France’s room. I wasn’t sure what I would find, but I hoped in his haste to flee he left something that would shed light on the inconsistencies in his various stories.

  I had been correct. On his desk were nearly a dozen file folders neatly stacked, a diary, and an open letter placed squarely in the middle. I briefly skimmed the letter. It was a two-page notice regarding the shutdown of the facility, the transfer and reassignment of base operations support personnel, and in-house civilian personnel, including him. There were also files regarding the transmutes, called Project Night Owl. He was being reassigned to Fort Wyvern and would be reporting to Doctor Josephson. It appeared Dick was going to lose his stature as the lead scientist and become a subordinate, which I’m sure didn’t sit well with him. The letter was dated March 16th and signed by General A. Wolfe, Base Realignment and Closure Commission, Department of Defense.

  VI. Sex, Lies & Video Tape

  I leaned back in Base Commander Colonel R.D. Harmon’s comfortable, brown leather chair, awaiting Doctor France. It was our ninth day in our new home. I thought about how much we had accomplished in our short occupation. The first three days we spent disposing of the bodies, disinfecting the facility, and making repairs to the facility electrics. However, we made repairs to the facility electrics was an incorrect statement. None of us we were allowed to touch the electrics, nor were we allowed to simply toss corpses into the facility incinerator.

  “This is not a cremator but a rotary-kiln waste incinerator for energy recovery and incineration that burns refuse-derived fuel as well as diesel,” Corporal Drukker’s lecture began. “You will not haphazardly toss dead bodies into my incinerator. This is our lifeline. The heat produced by the rotary-kiln is used to generate steam, which is then used to drive that turbine in order to produce electricity.” I tried to point out that dead bodies were refuse-derived fuel, but the five-minute lecture went unbroken.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to right after our survivor group entered the underground complex.

  Our first task, before we attempted a thorough security check of the facility, was to arm ourselves. Though there were plenty of weapons scattered through the hallways we did not use them, not because most had been soaking in coagulating pools of possibly contaminated blood, but because the master sergeant was not going to allow it. “A dirty weapon is a dangerous weapon,” he warned.

  The weapons storage room was not as providing as I thought it would be. The space was small and only contained a half a dozen shotguns, a few pistols, eight rifles and not a lot of ammunition. It appeared they had begun to remove the items for transport, for everything contained in the narrow room had been tagged and coded.

  Though the room had yielded little, it was a secure place to temporarily leave Max. Our first destination was to be the command center, and none of us could be certain that we would find it free of any threat. It was better if he was out of harm’s way.

  After I secured the weapons’ depository, Master Sergeant Brown gave us a quick demonstration on how to lock and load and effectively neutralize an enemy. Our A-team stood next to the entrance of the command center with weapons poised. I figured since no troops came after me when I enter
ed the complex there was no one living inside the facility, or at the very least, no one willing to venture out of their safe place.

  The master sergeant pounded heavily on the door, and peered up at the camera mounted to the left of the top of the doorframe. He waved and held up his ID badge, but received no response. The speaker next to the camera was silent and the door remained closed. We had our answer, there was no one living inside.

  Everyone took a defensive position to the left of the door as I swiped the card. That is, everyone except the doctor who sat on the floor, still in pain from his bite and the bitch-slapping I gave him hours ago.

  I stepped back in line with the others in the corridor, knelt down next to the Kermit, and aimed my weapon. The door opened. Nothing sprung out. We waited silently for the invasion with our guns aimed at the entry. Ten to fifteen seconds the door automatically closed, though the tension and suspense we felt made it seem longer. I tapped the sergeant on the shoulder and told him I was going to re-open the door. The group moved up a few feet more, confident in the fact that there was no one in the control room. I had an uneasy feeling about what lie beyond the entrance. So did the sergeant, who had not taken his aim off the door even after it had closed.

  I swiped the card again and quickly moved into position. As I did they appeared.

  Three zombies abruptly stepped over the threshold, into the hallway. We jumped back. I knelt down to shoot, making sure I wasn’t in the line of fire. I didn’t want to get shot in the back of the head by Gung-ho Joe. A barrage of lead was unleashed. The three creatures did not jerk nor twist as a multitude of projectiles riddled their bodies. There was no macabre projectile puppetry or grisly bullet ballet. Simply, the dead don’t dance.

  In real life people don’t get thrown back or twitch as bullets enter the body; usually there was little movement at all, unless there was a point blank range shotgun shell to the chest, and even then it was barely perceptible. The theatrics and over the top melodrama seen in films was a product of Hollywood; it made for better cinematic drama. How boring would it be to witness someone getting shot and just falling down dead?