The Romero Strain (Book 2): The Dead, The Damned & The Darkness

by Ts Alan

  J.D. struck the others head on. There was no martial arts training in his attack; he was in instinctive animal mode. He swiped and tore at them with his talons. A severed finger from one of his enemies fell before him. Most turned in fear and took flight seeing the carnage this strange smelling and fearsome half-human was doing to their kind. J.D. slashed his talons across a female half-mute’s chest, ripping deeply into her flesh. As the creature fell, J.D. jumped atop of it and began ripping out its throat, pulling a necklace from it as he did. The blood gushed upward splattering onto his face and sunglasses, saturating his clothing. A shrill cry came from the half-mute with the missing finger that was with a few others. J.D. raised his bloodied hands into the air and screeched angrily at them, letting them know they had been warned. They quickly retreated. With his face still flush with the fury he felt, he stood up and walked several feet toward the Stryker. Intense pain suddenly seized him. He collapsed, unconscious.

  5

  Call of the Wild

  J.D.’s calls from the Seaport echoed throughout the city, its sound traveling all the way to the West Side and as far north as Central Park. What little noise there had been from the creatures that now inhabited the city had abruptly fallen silent on his first cry. Birds had scattered, rodents had fled to hide, and even the light breeze that whispered through the Seaport seemed to have gone silent. But there was one creature that heard the cry and was compelled to reply. There was one creature that knew the distinct tonal acoustics of his screech, one who had heard it before, and that was Luci. She had been the mysterious shadow that David had reported trailing them on their trip to the rendezvous point, and it was she who had come to his aid. Except there were others that emerged, not at first when the first call rang out, but after the conflict was over and the Seaport was again calm, with only a few gulls and a breeze making noise.

  There were only a few who came to investigate but even the few could be a threat. They were inquisitive, but also an aggressive species. These grayish-blue colored creatures with hide-like flesh were just one of the mutations that the plague had spawned. These were not the infected reanimated, but as Doctor France once told him, “These are the infected altered.”

  Richard France had been the scientist who had accidentally created these creatures while experimenting on humans with an aggressive virus called Trixoxen. This had been the virus responsible for turning the world’s population into the walking dead, the plague that had destroyed the world, and the disease that had even mutated J.D. The virus J.D. had named the Romero Strain.

  The small parliament of human/owl hybrids was bold in their approach. Their large, solid black eyes, which now lay under brow ridges that had receded to become flush with the cheekbone bones to form a facial disc, studied him. There had been another distinct change to the facial structure. The temporal bones were now channeled and led from the facial discs to large holes in the skull where ears had once been. The female, however, was spared total loss of the ear; a small vestige of what had once been still remained.

  They inched closer, their sharp, jagged teeth revealed, razor-like talons upon elongated fingers extended and ready. Luci cried out to them, giving them warning not to approach. But they were curious and wanted to see, to see the one that gave out these cries of warning. Luci screeched at them to stay back, but these were males and had a more aggressive mindset. One was bold, far more than the others. He came closer, and Luci reacted quickly. She rose quickly and lashed out at him, striking him across his chest with her outstretched talons. Her swipe ripped at his chest, enough to abrade his flesh but not enough to penetrate below its tough exterior. However, Luci’s physical act had been enough for him to realize that the female was serious in protecting this creature and the warning she had given was enough to make him retreat; the others followed in his example.

  She went back to him again and sat down, placing his head in her lap and rocking back and forth as she cooed and stroked his face. He was unresponsive at first, but slowly awoke to discover her above him.

  “Luci,” he whispered, with a slight smile. “You’re always saving me.”

  Her robust, pungent odor stung his nostrils.

  “Luci needs a shower. Luci stinks,” he said to her, in short sentences with simple words.

  She smiled back. He knew she understood. Though speech was beyond her capability she could still comprehend the meaning of words, the tone of a voice. J.D. had been right all along; the doctor knew little about the creatures he helped create. Doctor France had not fully studied nor tested the transmutes. He had made assumptions—though he emphatically declared that his statements in regard to the transmutes’ intelligence levels, retained memories of being human, and aggression levels were based on the facts of his research—based solely upon preliminary studies. In fact, he had barely enough time to spit before the first transmute had been whisked away by the DoD after he had reported the phenomenon to his superiors. But Doctor France’s continued experiments had spawned three others, a female and two males.

  Luci was to be the only of the three who was to be transported to Fort Wyvern in California, when the men in unmarked black uniforms came for the second time. However their agenda was far more than just securing a mate to the original male; they had also come to shut down the research facility.

  However, Luci had unknowingly escaped her fate when the two males of her species went berserk in an attempt to save their own lives, helping to destroy the research labs and killing most everyone in the facility. She, however, had survived the soldiers’ attempts to kill her. Injured and weak, she managed to crawl to a darkened area of the facility to rest and heal. Then this strange creature came. It smelled of both human and of her own kind. This strange smelling male saved her, fixed her wounds and mated with her. From that day forth she was bonded to him. She was his mate for life.

  She had stayed close to the facility even after J.D. forced her to leave. She followed him to the armory and saved him from the transmutes that had made it their home. She stayed close to him as much as possible, letting him see her from time to time under the cover of darkness, but never too close as to be seen by the others.

  Luci had sensed something that morning was different. The humans who now inhabited the former home of her kind never came out before dawn, not since they took up residence. It was odd for her to see them rustling about in their machine, so she was curious, and when they had departed through the gates that separated her from her mate she stealthily followed. She was drawing near, but staying out of visual contact with them when she heard the loud whirl in the sky. She hid, out of instinctual necessity. Except she was intrigued by the noise. Somewhere in her mind she had heard it before, and something told her not to be afraid. She watched as this whirling machine came down from the sky and landed on the pier. She tried to remember where she had heard the noise and seen the machine before, but it would not come back to her. She grew sorrowful. There was something missing in her, she knew, but couldn’t remember what it was. Then she saw them, the others.

  She was afraid of them as all transmutes were. The others were dangerous. They killed her kind and sometimes fed on their insides. But the others were mostly day creatures. They hid away at night and were seldom seen, unless you made noise. Noise attracted them, noise made them angry. And these that ran toward the whirling machine were angry and hungry. There were too many of them, she could not help her mate. Though her body wanted to go, her instincts forced her to stay hidden.

  Then the frightening repeating noises of the “guns” came. It was a word she knew and a sound she was familiar with. The guns that made the pain. The guns they used to hunt her. The guns that killed her kind. The guns the bad humans used at the armory. The noise that filled the air brought back the memories she couldn’t understand; disjointed fragments of her past. The pictures inside her mind of wearing spotty brown clothes and a gun. The memories of her shooting a gun. It was all so confusing and
frightening. She curled up shaking, waiting for the noise to stop, waiting for the bad things inside her head to go away.

  Then the cry of her mate came, so loud and resonating, so powerful and compelling; she had to answer him, she had to go to him. Now he lay in her lap. He was like she once was, limp and weak and unable to defend himself. He was bloodied from the gun, like she had been. She stroked him as he spoke so gently to her.

  J.D. had dressed his wound, applying a pressure bandage to suppress the blood flow. He had been lucky the bullet that passed through his leg missed the artery.

  “Luci. We go. To the truck,” he pointed. “To the truck. We go. We go now.”

  J.D. needed to reach the truck. The Stryker could give them an impenetrable sanctuary from the half-mutes if they decided to return. Inside the truck was also where he needed to be in order to get back to the armory. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to drive with his damaged leg trying to apply pressure to the vehicle’s gas pedal, but he had to try, for he knew there was no way he was going to walk or crawl all the way back without being attacked, if he could even accomplish the act of walking.

  “Up, Luci. Up,” he instructed her.

  She supported his weight as he tried to hobble to the Stryker ICV with her assistance. Luci abruptly stopped.

  “Luci. We go. We go to the truck.”

  Luci shook her head no. He was astonished. He had never seen a response like this before. She was telling him no like a human. Suddenly Luci scooped him up into her arms and carried him to the open doorway of the Stryker. He was amazed at her strength and ability. He had forgotten about transmute strength, and though she was a female she was unbelievably strong for her frame.

  He retracted the gate behind them and with her help he hobbled to the communications station. He radioed to base; he hoped that Ryan or the doctor would hear. He knew that Ryan was expecting him, but now he wasn’t calling base to let Ryan know he was going to be late, he was radioing to let them know he was in distress. Except his calls went unanswered, so he was left to help himself. He crawled into the driver’s position; the truck had been left running as he instructed Sam to leave it.

  “Luci sit. We go. Okay?”

  Luci sat down; J.D. released the brake and stepped on the gas. The vehicle lunged forward then stopped. A loud cry of pain came from J.D. His leg wasn’t going to allow him to depress the gas pedal. He tried again this time using the other foot. The truck began to move once again, but then he put the brake on. It wasn’t going to happen. He was in too much pain and discomfort to try the awkward left over right foot to push the pedal. It was time for an alternate plan, and that was pain medication. If he could inject a small amount of morphine into himself the throbbing pain should diminish enough to be able to use his right foot.

  He injected himself. The pain should have gone away in a few minutes, but it hadn’t. He thought it must have been the transmute in him, so he prepared another syringe, this one stronger. This time the pain went away, but it was too much medication. He felt himself drifting away.

  “Oh, shit. Night, night time,” he told her as he felt himself losing consciousness.

  6

  The Superior Man

  Doctor France suspected something had gone wrong when “the colonel” did not immediately return from seeing the others off and it concerned him. Not because he was directly worried about J.D. Nichols’ welfare but that of his own. France knew he was between a rock and a hard place. Going to England with the others was not an option. There would be too many questions on how he knew so much about the plague and how he developed an antiviral. However, he also knew he was totally unprepared to survive on his own. Though he was a brilliant scientist and Mensa member as he had pointed out to his former fellow survivors, he was acutely aware that some other faculty than his intelligence was necessary for survival. His superior intellect did not include that ability. He would need to rely on a guardian, and that protector was Mr. Nichols. Nevertheless, he certainly wasn’t going to go on a manhunt; it was simply too dangerous. He needed to get someone else and his options were limited.

  Doctor France knocked on the locked door but there was no response. He knocked again, and then addressed the occupant behind the door, keeping his voice low. “Mr. Wiese, are you still there?”

  Paul responded, “Is that an attempt at humor?”

  “No, Mr. Wiese. I leave that for others.”

  “So who the hell are you and what do you want?” Paul asked.

  “Simply,” the doctor replied, “your freedom.”

  “Well then open the damn door and let me out,” Paul retorted.

  “I am afraid it is not as simple as that. To begin, I do not have the key.”

  “Brilliant. And who the hell are you?”

  “Doctor France, your only ally. I have come with a proposition. One that will certainly be of interest to you.”

  “How about you stop flapping your gums and get to the point.”

  “Fair enough. Mr. Nichols has not returned from his outing and I fear he may have run into some difficulty.”

  “Who the hell is Nichols?” Paul asked.

  “That would be the leader of this facility. You know him as the colonel.”

  “You mean the asshole who calls me Piss Pants?” Paul scoffed sardonically, “No loss there.”

  “I can understand your reason of dislike. He does come off as a bit brutish at times. However, Mr. Nichols is… How should I say this so you clearly grasp the full breadth of your situation? Mr. Nichols is a man who is not afraid to get his hands dirty when it comes to dealing with hostilities that would compromise the safety of those within these walls. And he has more than effectively proven his abilities at hostility resolution on several occasions. He is also the kind of man that you will want as an ally rather than an enemy.”

  “Why should I give a damn? If he doesn’t return then all the better for it.”

  “You do not quite comprehend yet, so allow me to elaborate. Mr. Nichols does not trust you. He believes you to be a spy. Therefore, if he does not trust you then Mr. Duncan will not either, especially since your companions tried to kill him. For those reasons I am sure that Mr. Duncan will be inclined to execute you as a precautionary measure. On the off chance that Mr. Nichols returns under his own volition, what do you think will happen to you then? He is convinced you are an infiltrator. With a few well-placed words I am sure I can convince him of that. Now do you comprehend?”

  “Yeah, I get it. I’m in a lose/lose situation. But you’re not telling me everything, are you? If you’re asking me for help, then that means you must be desperate. And that makes me ask myself, why? Simple answer is you don’t have anyone else to help, do you? So it would appear I have the upper hand in negotiating terms of whatever proposition you have,” Paul said.

  “Let me assure you, Mr. Wiese,” France began to succinctly explain. “We may be a smidgeon under-staffed but you are locked behind a door with no chance of getting out unless you come to my terms. Now on the off chance that you decline my proposition, Mr. Nichols does not return and Mr. Duncan does not shoot you, the probability of this facility falling into the hands of your former associates is highly probable. Now if Mr. Nichols is correct about you, and you are a spy, you have nothing to worry about. However, if he is incorrect as I suspect, what do you think your former associates will reason when they discover you locked up? Being the educated man that I am, I would presume you were attempting to seek comfort and aid from the enemy. However that is just me.”

  Paul knew everything Doctor France had stated was correct, and if there was the chance of freedom and not being executed as a spy, then it was his only option for survival. “So what are you proposing?” Paul asked.

  “I am certain that Mr. Duncan is as concerned as I am over Mr. Nichols’ late return. Having observed his budding relationship with Mr. Nichols, I can conclude tha
t there is a bond of developing friendship, undoubtedly enough to motivate Mr. Duncan in going to Pier 17 to find out if something indeed went wrong. If you were to agree to accompany him on this endeavor it would certainly be in your favor, not only in the eyes of Mr. Duncan but also in Mr. Nichols’. And when it comes time for the decision on your fate, I will give full recommendation that you be granted asylum, as you had previously requested, being that you selflessly risked your life for the betterment of all.”

  “And how do you propose I accompany your Mr. Duncan, if I’m locked in this broom closet?”

  “Your release will be forthwith, of this I am sure. However, be advised Mr. Wiese, although Mr. Duncan is a man of better virtue, he is also a man you do not wish to trifle with. He will not hesitate to kill you if given the slightest provocation or doubt in your intention on aiding him in his effort at retrieving Mr. Nichols. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Not quite. There’s one non-negotiable codicil.”

  7

  Down a Rabbit Hole

  The room was small and the lighting poor, though adequate. Paul Wiese sat on the floor with his back up against a file cabinet waiting for a promised release by the armory’s doctor, who had visited earlier with a proposition. Paul had come to the armory to seek their help, but had been considered hostile and sequestered to a cell to await judgment. He knew the story he had to tell, the story that must be told not only for his own saving grace but for the children. For it was the children, all children, that needed to be saved. Except he had not been allowed to tell what needed to be said, of the horrors the children were enduring under Edward Stone and his enforcer Richard Barlow, the one who pretended to be a former corrections officer. He had seen things and he had heard things that frightened him to his core, and he knew if he spoke up against either of them that both would not hesitate to take great pleasure in torturing him to death. So he had followed his orders, biding his time to make an escape and to find someone—military, police, anyone—to rescue the children.