The Romero Strain: A Zombie Novel

by Ts Alan

  I first saw the cross around her neck when I found her in my room, but had not paid much attention to it, not even while I was caressing her breasts. She wanted me to have it as a token of her love, so she would always be with me. It was not in my nature to be over sentimental and romantic, and I thought the gesture, though sweet, was a bit too sappy for me. But when she explained that it had been given to her by her abuela (grandmother) for her Quinceañera, and that her abuela had saved for a whole year to buy it, the cross actually being platinum with a diamond accent, I knew it was of great sentimental meaning to her, and that to refuse her gift of love would be insulting and hurtful. I accepted her token and was sworn to wear it around my neck from that moment on.

  * * *

  I walked into the cafeteria with Marisol by my side and Max trotting behind us. Sitting at one of the tables was David and Julie. They were in a passionate, all-out tongue kiss.

  “Hey you two… get a room!”

  David looked up. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be an entirely different person. Julie seemed slightly embarrassed.

  “Wow! You really are McLovin,” I told him. “Nice to see the caveman scruff is gone.”

  David’s eyes went to my crotch.

  “Jesus, J.D., is that a pistol in your pants or you just glad to see me?”

  “It’s a pineapple; my dick is bigger.”

  With a devilish grin Marisol shook her head in agreement.

  “Oh, God,” Julie commented.

  “Actually,” I said, as I reached into my pant pocket, “it’s a pineapple hand grenade. Or more accurately, a cigarette lighter. Here. Catch!” I tossed it to him.

  “You give this to me after I quit smoking?” he asked, catching the gift with both hands like an outfielder catching a pop fly.

  “Did you actually quit ’cause you wanted to, or did you just run out of smokes?” I asked as we sat down.

  “There was no smoking allowed down here. I couldn’t find any.”

  “I guess commanders don’t count, ’cause there’s a humidor of cigars in his office. I’m away for five weeks and you two hooked up?”

  “Why?” Julie inquired. “Does that bother you?”

  “No, not at all. But I’ve seen the groupies David used to have and you’re nothing like them.”

  David was getting anxious and uncomfortable.

  Julie grew suspicious. “And what does that mean?”

  “Julie, don’t read things into it that aren’t there. I’m just saying that you are a step up. It’s nice you two hooked up.”

  “Thank you. I think. And I’m glad you and Marisol finally got together.”

  “Thanks. I think! So where’s Chef? I’m hungry. I could go for some Salisbury steak with buttered noodles and vegetable medley.”

  “I heard that,” Kermit said, as he came from out of the kitchen. “What did I tell you?”

  “Well, suck my salty chocolate balls. Marisol gets to call you Chef and I can’t?”

  “You think that whole South Park thing is funny, don’t you?”

  I answered while he was still talking, though his question was rhetorical. “Yes, I do.”

  “Marisol doesn’t call me Chef, because she thinks it’s funny. She calls me Chef out of love and respect.”

  “Hey. Mine’s out of love and respect! South Park is my favorite cartoon, and Chef is my favorite character. Well, him and Big Gay Al. So yeah, it’s funny that you remind me of Chef. But I’m not making fun of you. I love Isaac Hayes. So how about it?”

  The answer was still no.

  I entered into light conversation with everyone as we ate, getting caught up on the weeks I had missed. The remaining facility repairs had been accomplished, as was supply inventory, which had been completed before I left. Zombies were still running rampant and there had been no broadcasts received through satellite communications. It was, as they all agreed, boring and routine, with nothing new to report.

  “Okay,” I said, asking David, “how about a round of Jeopardy to break up the monotony?”

  “You never give up, do you?” he responded.

  “No. Your categories are pop music, rock and roll roots, and film.”

  “I’ll take rock and roll roots for two hundred, Alex,” David said.

  “For two hundred dollars, who is generally credited with coining the term rock ‘n’ roll?”

  “Who is Alan Freed?” he responded

  “The correct answer is… Alan Freed!”

  “I’ll take pop music for four hundred.”

  “Spinal Tap said you know where you stand when you are where?”

  “What is in a hell hole?”

  “The correct answer is… in a hell hole.”

  He was good, but I was only getting started.

  “I’ll take film for a thousand, Alex,” he requested.

  “Oh, gonna make me think of something tough. Think you can outwit me?” I laughed, and then recited the most famous line from the film the Princess Bride, the one about never going against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

  “Okay, Princess Buttercup, just get on with it.”

  “That was Vizzini, not Buttercup,” I replied.

  “Duh! But you’re still Princess Buttercup to me.”

  “Yeah, so what do you call Julie?”

  Julie was quick to answer. “None of your business,” she scolded.

  I said to David, “We’ll talk later,” and gave him a wink so Julie would see.

  “You will not,” she said, then punched David in the deltoid.

  “Damn!” he cried out. “Why you hitting me?”

  “Cause I can’t reach him.”

  I laughed.

  “Thanks, J.D., I’ll smack you later. Next question, Buttercup.”

  I paused for a moment, thinking. “Okay. This 2001 film, South of Heaven, West of Hell was directed by, and starred, what country singer?”

  “I hate country.”

  “What!?” I asked, astonished at his statement.

  “I think country music sucks,” he adamantly added, fervently condemning the genre.

  “Now hold on there, David,” Kermit interjected, having returned from the kitchen with Max’s food bowl. “Don’t be disrespecting country music. We don’t disrespect whatever music you were doing.” He set the bowl on the floor, calling Max to eat.

  I confronted him on his disdain. “Hold it, hold it. That’s just ludicrous, and I don’t mean the rapper. You hate country music, but you wrote a big country hit several years ago?”

  “He did?” Julie asked.

  “Oh, yeah he did. It was called, “Take Your Socks Off”. And was recorded by… Miranda Lambert,” I announced, calling him out on his words.

  “No, it wasn’t,” David said.

  “Yes, it was,” I retorted.

  “No, he’s right,” Kermit informed us. “It was Miranda Wilson. She’s a fine lookin’ woman for a skinny white girl. So that was you?”

  “No,” he stubbornly replied, not willing to admit the truth.

  “Anyways, it went double gold,” I continued.

  “Platinum,” David corrected.

  “A-ha! See, Mister Country Music Sucks. You hated it so much that you went to the CMA Awards and sat next to Miranda Wilson, but I’m sure you hated it so much that you didn’t keep any of the royalties,” I said with sarcasm.

  “All right, I admit it. I wrote the song, I went to the awards, wasn’t nominated, but went anyways. And yeah, I made a lot of money off it. Satisfied?”

  “See,” I said.

  David felt the need to explain, to justify his actions—his betrayal to the world of rock ‘n’ roll. “But let me tell you, it wasn’t meant to be a country song. It was originally called, ‘Take Your Box Off’, and it was my tribute to Aerosmith’s ‘Get Your Rocks Off’. But I could never get the lyrics the way I wanted.

  It was my manager’s idea. He told me Miranda was a huge fan, which I thought was really weird. She wanted me to write a song for he
r. So as a joke I rewrote the song and changed box to socks. I was hoping that would have been the last of it.”

  “Guess that backfired,” I snickered.

  “I miss music,” Marisol said.

  “Me too,” Kermit nodded in agreement. “I loved my jazz and country.”

  “I miss lychees,” Julie added. “Fresh lychees.”

  “My guitars. I really miss not having my guitars. What about you, J.D.?” David asked.

  No one had mentioned family, and for good reason. Though everyone knew it, no one wanted to accept the fact that their families and friends were gone, including me. So instead of saying my job—the thing I truly missed the most—I said my martial arts gear. If I had mentioned my job, I would also have included my EMT partner, and best friend Siyab. I thought it best for the morale of the group to steer away from the memories of those we lost.

  “You know what I miss?” Sam said as he came into the cafeteria, wearing full uniform and cap. “I miss not having to cover for you,” he directed at me. “You’re late. You were supposed to have relieved me at twelve hundred hours.”

  “Since when?” I asked.

  His answer was quick in reply. “Since six weeks ago. When you approved the duty roster, before you went on vacation.”

  He was right. I approved the duty roster and it was my responsibility to man the command center from noon until 6:00 p.m. that week. I apologized and started to leave when I realized David never answered the question.

  “By the way, David,” I said, as I began my departure, “The correct answer was Dwight Yoakam.”

  I called to Max, but my furry friend wasn’t interested in leaving with me. He looked at me, whined, and then pawed at his food dish. He wanted finish his breakfast. I left him in Marisol’s care.

  IX. Cause and Effect

  There had been other consequences to my refuge, more than just shirking my responsibilities. I had also placed the burden of responsibility for Joe’s behavior and conduct onto everyone. Joe’s willfulness and flagrant disregard of the rules and what was required from him brought numerous complaints. I was forced to call him into the office like an insolent schoolchild being called to the principal’s office for a reprimand.

  My requests regarding being on time for his assignments, completing the tasks given, and showing respect and courtesy to others, fell on deaf ears. Warnings regarding consequences were shrugged off. Within two days he was three hours late for his post at the command center. When Julie informed me, it was time for a committee meeting.

  I called for a hearing with all personnel, which meant the command center was unattended. I felt confident that the security interruption was tolerable because nothing remarkable had happened during the previous few weeks. It was important that everyone concerned could voice an opinion and discuss all options.

  We discussed Joe’s behavior for over an hour. We agreed that giving him another chance was not going to be effective. The option of confining him to his quarters for the duration of our stay was also discussed, but I convinced the group to dismiss the idea.

  “Mohandas Gandhi,” I explained, “once said, ‘To deprive a man of his natural liberty and to deny to him the ordinary amenities of life is worse than starving the body; it is starvation of the soul, the dweller in the body.’”

  I believed that confining him to his quarters would only nourish more discontent and anger on his part, which could potentially make him dangerous. Besides, that wasn’t a punishment. It was accepting of his behavior and rewarding him with exactly what he wanted: not to work. It would also impose a greater burden on our efficiency, manpower, and personal time, having to constantly monitor and cater to him, like everyone had done for me. After a brief discussion everyone concurred.

  “I think he’s an ass and I don’t like him. He angers me. Therefore, I prefer to abstain in the vote on any decision,” I announced.

  “He is an ass. And he makes everyone angry,” Julie said.

  “But I am angry now. ‘No judge must give judgment between two people when he is angry.’ Muhammad. Therefore I abstain because my judgment is clearly clouded by my personal feelings.”

  “That’s unfair to the rest of us. I don’t like him either. He’s a ban jau,” Julie emphatically said. “But we voted you as our leader because you are a person of action and conviction and of good moral judgment. You saved our lives. Now you’re getting all philosophical on us. What happened to the person that we first met?”

  “You give me more praise than I deserve. That guy you first met told you to shut your ass. I also made you cry.”

  “You were sick, J.D.,” Marisol tried to convince me.

  “That’s no excuse. Listen, everyone. If we judge him on the fact that we don’t like him, we’re judging him unfairly. He should be judged on his actions and deeds, not personality. Can all of you put your prejudice aside? Can you? Truly? If you can then I will join in the vote.”

  Everyone gave acknowledgment to fair judgment, but we still hadn’t come to any conclusions. It took us nearly until noon to come up with a plan.

  Joe was summoned, but he rebuked us and refused to acknowledge the request. We were forced to use other measures in persuading him to attend: Kermit and Sam.

  Joe stood at the far end of the large wooden oval conference table, rebellious in his attitude, refusing to sit. I sat on the opposite end while Kermit stood by the door. The others had been dismissed––Marisol to watch the monitors, David and Julie to secure Joe’s room, in case he had any hidden weapons, and Sam to his duties.

  “Joseph Daniel Joshua Young,” I began. “You have been asked here today because you have left us no choice. I spoke with you several days ago about your lackadaisical attitude and your tardiness, and told you that consequences would follow if you didn’t take things seriously and fulfill your responsibilities. Either you didn’t believe me or just didn’t care.”

  “I don’t recognize your authority. And I won’t recognize your decisions, either,” he brazenly informed me.

  “Strange, Joe. When we set up our decision making team you didn’t want anything to do with it, and yet you constantly challenged me. It’s not my authority, but the collective you’re challenging.”

  “Then where is everyone else?”

  “They are busy fulfilling their responsibilities, something you refuse to do, which is the reason you are here. There are three matters that have brought us to our decision. The same ones we discussed several days ago. One: lack of courtesy and respect to your fellow survivors. Two: constant tardiness and failing to do your assignments. And three: failing to complete the tasks assigned, when you decide to do them. Do you have a response to this?”

  He was defiant in his answers. “One: didn’t ask to be here. Two: even if I did, this isn’t the military and I don’t have to abide by your rules. Three: leave me alone.”

  “‘If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.’”

  “What?”

  “It’s the Dali Lama, Joe. You eat our food and enjoy all the amenities, but are unwilling to contribute to the wellbeing of the group. That hurts us all. After careful consideration we have made a decision. If you cannot, or will not, be respectful and do what is required of you, then you will be ejected from this base.”

  “Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “‘If a viper lives in your room and you wish to have a peaceful sleep, you must first chase it out.’”

  “I don’t give a shit about Dali Rama; you still wouldn’t do that. You’re too much of a bleeding heart.”

  “It’s not Dali Lama, it’s Buddha. And it is entirely up to you. Your fate lies in your own hands.”

  “No, my life is in your hands and my fate your will. I didn’t choose to be here.”

  “Very poetic. But as I recall I was against you coming with us, advice which some didn’t heed. Besides, I didn’t see anyone pulling an ear or twisting an arm forcing you to join us. You had free
dom of choice, and therefore effective control over your own destiny.”

  “Go ahead, kick me out.”

  I questioned his new tactic. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t matter what’s out there?”

  “No.”

  “You’re always daring me to do you harm. It’s as if you want to die.”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  “No, it is my business. All we have left in this world is each other. There’s no one that’s going to protect us except ourselves. You can’t change what’s happened. So why are you being self-destructive?”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “No, you told me it was none of my business.”

  “Now I’m telling you to shut up!”

  Joe was becoming increasingly agitated. He moved toward me. Kermit tried to intervene, but I motioned for him to stand down. This was between Joe and I, and it had been festering for a long time.

  I stood up to confront him. “Are you looking for another fight? It will only lead to more disappointment.”

  He was in my face, goading me, pushing me, trying to provoke me into hurting him. When he realized that his tactic wasn’t going to work, he took a swing at me. I countered with simultaneous parrying and a hand trap. I followed by twisting his wrist and arm, forcing him to the floor in agony. I finished by applying nerve destruction to his forearm.

  “Now that I have your attention, I think it’s time to tell me what crawled up your ass.” I continued twisting his arm, almost to the point of dislocation.

  “I told you that is was none of your fucking business,” he gasped.

  “Wrong answer. Why do you have a death wish?”

  Still defiant he replied, “Fuck you.”

  “You’re not my type. Now why?!” I pushed on his nerve harder.

  Tears welled up in his eyes from the pain he was enduring. He grimaced with a twisted face, and then gasped, “It’s my business.”