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

by Ts Alan

  ***

  The operating room had been prepped by Doctor France, who had been informed that Ryan had been wounded and needed immediate surgery. France was not informed of the extent of the injury, so he assumed the worse and prepared for most battle trauma scenarios, equipping the operating room with an overabundance of all things needed for major surgery. France was relieved to see the injury Ryan sustained was not massive, though by the damage to the deltoid he knew Ryan would have to keep his arm immobile for an extended period, followed by a regimented program of physical therapy.

  J.D. had conducted the extraction of the bullet from Ryan’s arm. However, he had to have Doctor France close several incisions he had made that allowed enough room to insert a surgical probe, Kelly forceps, and retractor into Ryan’s flesh to retrieve the fragments. Doctor France also had to remove the glass fragments from Ryan’s face and forehead. Even if J.D. had clipped his talons, he still would not have had the manual dexterity to properly tie sutures or remove tiny bits of glass.

  Continuously throughout the procedure, J.D. kept rubbing at his left biceps. It wasn’t until after Ryan’s surgery that he discovered that Four Fingers had given him two deep scratches. The lacerations had an itchy and burning sensation to them, and they were still bleeding. France was concerned. He knew half-mutes had some residual radiation to them as well as some very bad bacteria under their sharp nails, which he had discovered while doing an autopsy some months back. France gave him several medications, and told him to take them until he said otherwise. When J.D. asked about any side effects or bad interactions they might have with the medications he was still taking for the leg wound, the doctor dismissed his concerns with an offensive tone. J.D. didn’t take France’s remarks as anything more than being his usual dickish self, and never thought about it again.

  When all was done, J.D. changed his clothes and departed the armory. He needed to retrieve Douglas’ body.

  20

  A Little Night Music

  The night sky sang with the sound of bursting munitions, lighting up the city with a pyrotechnic extravaganza that was reminiscent of a Macy’s Fourth of July celebration. Flames danced, licked, and grasped at the stars. It was a glorious blaze, a symphony of sight and sound. It made J.D. grin with perverse pleasure watching the pyrotechnic display.

  He was alone, standing on the roof of a nearby building looking west toward the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center. Though he was a safe distance away, he was still close enough to feel the fire’s heat upon his face, which suffocated the chill from the brisk night air around him.

  After the ambush, J.D. knew that trips to the convention center were too dangerous until they were better prepared, but by then he knew whoever had attacked them would have finished clearing out what they had left behind. J.D. was not going to allow this to happen. Never leave anything your enemy could use, especially if it could be used against you. If J.D. and his men couldn’t have what remained, then neither could anyone else.

  The entire sky grew brighter with its dancing flames and fireworks as the north end of the Javits became engulfed. There hadn’t been this much nightglow since the world went dark. Anyone who was still alive in the city would see the orange glow and hear the exploding ordnance. He hoped one particular group of men would take notice, those who had attacked their convoy. He waited patiently, watching the roadways for headlights. His fortitude soon paid off.

  Three vehicles came from the north, down 11th Avenue, slowing and then stopping in the intersection at West 37th Street. The exploding munitions were preventing them from advancing. They paused and then retreated. Turning east toward 10th Avenue the column of vehicles disappeared. A moment later they emerged heading west on 36th Street, heading toward J.D.’s position.

  The three Humvees passed his building and stopped just before 11th Avenue, facing the main entrance to the convention center. J.D. patiently waited for the occupants to make their exit. He watched them, studied them. He saw their faces clearly. His night vision was superior. He did not see the stuttering man, the one that pretended to be Stone, nor the real Stone, and he was certain that this group were what remained of the marauders who had attacked his team on 34th Street.

  What he was about to do he could not do to Stone’s gang. He needed Stone alive, alive to tell him where the abductees were being held. The men below, the men on the street, the men who had shot the truck out from under him, the ones who had injured Ryan—those who had killed Douglas Tyler—those men… those men would die tonight.

  J.D. raised the Milkor M32 multi-grenade launcher that still contained five rounds of 40mm air-consuming thermobaric shot and pointed it toward his enemy.

  It had been against his morality to take another’s life, but that was before it became a kill or be killed world. Although the thought of killing another human had once sickened him, the thought of Douglas Tyler’s shattered face and partially burnt body sickened him even more. He knew this action would change his life forever. His detective father had told him that when he shot and killed his first perp, it had been the most traumatic experience in his life, one that remained with him forever. Except J.D.’s planned action was more than self-defense. It was an ambush motivated out of a need for revenge.

  There was no going back. He was about to cross the line. His eyes were on his enemy, who were heading toward the building entry. No one fucks with my family, the voice in his head said. He put his finger to the trigger and sighted in on the lead vehicle.

  He hesitated.

  How easy it would be to kill with the single pull of a trigger, he thought. A man needs no courage to hide in the darkness and kill his enemy from afar. If he could not face his enemy in battle then how could he lead others into combat?

  He pulled the trigger.

  The thermobaric shot over and passed the vehicles at 262 feet per second and rocketed into the Javits Center. The large glass frontage exploded, raining down fragments of glass like a fierce hailstorm. The percussive blast hurled his enemies from the entryway back onto the pavement.

  He who fights with guns and knives is a coward, he told himself. He must face his enemy with his hands and feet and nothing but! Let that be the measure of his true strength and courage.

  Stunned and confused only four of the nearly dozen men began to rise. A man furthest from the blast zone stumbled back toward the vehicles. He grabbed a two-way radio from the driver’s side seat and began to call. That is when he saw J.D. approaching. The man grabbed his pistol and pointed it at him, giving warning. “Don’t move!” Nonetheless, J.D. knew he needed to be a few more feet closer in order to disarm the man before any of his friends arrived. J.D. attempted to engage the man in conversation to distract him as he cautiously advanced.

  “I heard the explosions. I came to see if anyone was hurt,” J.D. told him.

  “I said don’t move. I’ll shoot!” the man informed him.

  J.D. was exactly where he wanted to be—point blank range. He stopped.

  “Raise your hands!” the agitated man instructed.

  The man holding the gun expected J.D. to comply and did not expect to be disarmed. J.D. quickly raised his left hand and grabbed the pistol by the slide and redirected it down as he twisted. Before the man had any clue as to what was happening, J.D. had firm control of the weapon when his right hand came up and punched the man three times in the jaw. J.D.’s right hand then went down underneath the sideways pistol and grabbed the back of the hammer, and then rotated the weapon 180 degrees, breaking the man’s trigger finger. It snapped like a dry twig, and as it did the dazed man cried out painfully. J.D. rotated the pistol back to release the man’s broken digit from the trigger guard and pulled the weapon free. The man collapsed to the ground unconscious.

  The others did not immediately see J.D. coming, and by the time they realized that they were under attack he had disarmed and incapacitated them. He had made a decision that taking p
risoners could be profitable in extracting information about this group’s strength and location, instead of leaving corpses strewn about. He then moved to the enemy that had not risen, those closest to the Javits entry. Four of the six that lay closet to building’s entry had not survived the blast, but he didn’t need more than a few prisoners anyway. The remaining two were severely injured but still alive. He pulled them back from the blazing building toward the street to examine them.

  One by the truck, three that stood, and six on the ground made ten. But there had been eleven he had counted from the top of the building. The other had fled or… J.D. heard the footfalls closing in. “Don’t move!” an angry voice shouted at him from behind. “Don’t fucking move, you stupid son-of-a-bitch.”

  The man was nearly behind him when J.D. was given the order to stand up. He did what was commanded, but as he did he stepped back. The man rammed the tip of the automatic rifle into J.D.’s spine. It was exactly what J.D. wanted, to know how close the weapon was to his person.

  “I said—” the man began, but his words fell short as J.D. rotated his head around, giving the man a ghastly shock, and giving J.D. the opening to rotate his body to the outside. The weapon discharged as he did. As J.D. put one arm under the rifle and grabbed the stock taking control of it, he pulled the weapon forward and rotated it, slamming the barrel into the side of the man’s face. J.D. had the rifle in hand as the man collapsed to his knees. J.D. released the magazine and tossed it aside, and then threw the M-16 rifle even further away.

  “Hands on your head,” J.D. ordered aggressively, as he unsheathed one of his machetes as a threat. The man complied. “I recognized you. I saw you in the garbage truck. What is your name?!” J.D. demanded to know.

  “Who are you? What are you?” the man asked, his voice trembling as he gazed into the blackness of J.D.’s irises and then peered to the claw like fingers.

  “‘I am the flail of god. Had you not created great sins, god would not have sent a punishment like me upon you,’” J.D. told him, quoting Genghis Kahn. “Do you understand? Now what is your name?”

  “What does it matter? Just finish it,” the defeated man groggily responded.

  J.D. commanded, “I want to know the name of the man who helped kill a friend of mine and nearly killed another. Tell me this and maybe I’ll kill you quickly, instead of cutting you from groin to gullet,” J.D. told him, pressing the blade against his throat.

  “It’s Michael. Now get it over with.”

  Except J.D. wasn’t through with him. He needed to know what had incited the man’s group into ambushing his. “Why did you assault us on 34th Street? What did we do to your people to provoke that attack?”

  “Hostages. We needed some of you as hostages.”

  “Hostages?!” J.D. questioned the man’s nonsensical comment. “Hostages, why?”

  “Our children. Our women. We wanted them back. If we had some of your people, we thought we could trade them back for those you took from us.”

  J.D. was shocked at the revelation. “Now who’s the stupid son-of-a-bitch? You killed my friend for nothing. We’re not those people.”

  J.D. wanted to kill the man for what his group had done, but he knew he couldn’t. There had been enough tragedy caused by Stone and he would not be the source of anymore suffering for this group.

  “The killing stops. Do you hear me? Too many people are dead over this mistake. We’re not the people who took your children. We’ve suffered the same. But I know who he is. We can move forward as enemy or forward as ally. But it ends tonight.”

  The Javits Center creaked loudly behind them as the steel of the structure began to give way.

  “You know who he is?” Michael asked with surprise.

  “Yes. And I’ll never stop hunting for him.”

  The building began to heave, as the intensity of the flames grew hotter and higher. The darkness that was night melted into near day, as the fire glowed brightly lighting the sky.

  “Then perhaps my enemy’s enemy could be our friend. But that is not up to me. I’m not in charge,” the still glassy eyed Michael told him.

  J.D. heard a cry. For a moment, he thought it was Four Fingers, but the timbre in the creature’s shriek was different. He looked to the distance and saw them—half-mutes! The noises and the brilliance of the Javits engulfed in flame had roused them from their hiding places. J.D. had not thought of this. Half-mutes were day creatures and their constricted vision made them blind at night. However, with his pyrotechnic destruction of the convention hall, J.D. had inadvertently transformed night into day.

  “Get down,” J.D. instructed. “Get on your belly and don’t move. They’re coming,” he warned.

  Michael was muddled, as he saw J.D. pull out his other blade. At first he thought he was about to be decapitated, but then realized that the man in front of him had a dire look of concern on his face. Michael understood something bad was coming. He did as J.D. ordered.

  J.D. walked toward the oncoming creatures. He let out a loud screech in warning. A few halted in their advance taking heed of J.D.’s notice, and then fled, but eight others stood their ground. Another cry came again, and then the pack charged forward, razor fingers extended and at the ready to slash and tear the flesh from J.D.’s bones for a meal.

  Michael Panton lay on his stomach trembling while he witnessed the carnage. He had never seen any person move so swiftly or kill with such fury and ferociousness, as did the man with the machetes. As the man finished slaughtering the day stalkers—as he knew them by—cleaving the last one’s head cleanly from its body with one swing, he cried out with a piercing screech almost like an owl. Somewhere in the distant darkness came return screeches, all with owl like sound but none with such an intensity of timbre of voice as the one before him. It had sounded unworldly. Michael knew the man who had just slaughtered almost a dozen day mutants was also definitely not human. He also realized that whatever this fellow had become was exactly the ally his group needed to help hunt down the group that had killed many of his fellow survivors, and abducted their women and children.

  21

  Enemy Mine

  The ancient proverb “The Enemy of My Enemy Is My Friend” is widely attributed to the Arabs, but it is actually much older. It originated in the 4th century B.C. in India. Kautilya—the “Indian Machiavelli”—wrote about the idea in the Sanskrit military book, the Arthashastra. It was a book that J.D. had read. However, J.D. had also read the Art of War by Sun Tzu, and knew very well that an enemy could be unpredictable and treacherous. He was not going to fall into a trap.

  Under the cover of darkness, hours before sunrise and the appointed time, J.D. Nichols and Peter Dunne set off for the rendezvous location that had been mediated by Michael Panton and Paul Wiese to discuss a collaboration between the two survivor groups in hunting down Stone and his men. However, just because Michael Panton seemed sincere and willing to cooperate in said combined effort, didn’t mean that the chief of his group would mutually agree. After all, Michael did tell J.D. that it was not up to him but the group’s leader, and to trust that the meeting was in good faith would be foolish, especially since J.D. had killed some of their company. With the possibility of the meeting being a ruse to lure J.D. into the open, he had fully prepared strategies for the meeting place as well as for the armory if it came under attack in his absence.

  The meeting had been set for 8:00 a.m. at a neutral location, Bryant Park on the upper terrace of the Sixth Avenue side of the New York Public Library. Although the park was tree lined, it was late in the year and the leaves had fallen from them allowing a better view of the park and surrounding areas. There was only one vantage point for an ambush—unless you were a highly trained sniper that could hit a target from an extremely long distance—and that was the library that would be shadowing the negotiation.

  J.D. had guided Peter through the building’s dark interior to
the optimal viewpoint of where he believed his enemy would strike if they were looking to assassinate him. They did not discover any of Panton’s group waiting, but it did not mean that they wouldn’t take up position at the window. It was shortly before 3:00 a.m. J.D. and Peter waited silently. James had orders to pick J.D. up on Fifth Avenue in front of the library a few minutes before the meeting. An hour before sunrise, J.D. heard the shuffling footsteps of several people. He and Peter moved out of sight as two beams of light bobbed in the darkness on approach. J.D. would wait before making his move, he wanted to make sure the two men got settled and reported to their leader that they were in position.

  ***

  As agreed, J.D. had brought only three other men with him, all fully garbed in battle dress uniform not only as an intimidation tactic but also as a show of unity. They had also brought with them the remaining two wounded men that J.D. had taken back to the armory for medical attention after the melee at the Javits Center. The third injured person from the group—one who had only suffered minor injuries—had returned with Michael as a show of good faith to prove that J.D.’s group meant them no ill will. This token J.D. hoped would be a catalyst for a meeting, and it had.

  Arriving in two Humvees at the designated location, J.D., Paul and James escorted the two recuperating guests back to their group. However, the meeting was not to be cordial.

  After Michael Panton introduced his group’s leader, Kane Dinger, and the men accompanying them, Paul in turn did the same. Their leader asked J.D. to join him on the terrace, gesturing to a chair that J.D. knew would have been the perfect position for the two gunmen to have the best shot. J.D. declined the man’s offer, and before the leader could say anything, J.D. addressed him.

  “Everything that has transpired between our two groups happened because of a misunderstanding,” J.D. reminded Kane. “Good people on both sides have died because of this. We came in good faith hoping to move forward in a mutual relationship at working together to rescue those who have been taken from us, and to punish those who are responsible. But you have not. You would have me sit to assassinate me.”