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

by Ts Alan

  He breathed deeply, trying to relax himself. He knew the kind of anxiety he had just experienced had previously brought on morphological change. His transmute genomes were already drifting in that direction and he feared that eventually he would change completely. However this time there had been no headaches, no pain, and no burning in any of his extremities. He looked at his hands; still just talons and no other physical change. He put them to his face, slowly running them over his features, studying his facial appearance, as a blind person would often do to elicit an image of a person. Everything felt normal. He was relieved.

  As he shared his meal with his companion, he came to the conclusion that it would have been wiser to have returned to his vehicle and waited to be sure the noise he had made opening the shop had not attracted any attention. There was no place in this world for bravado or stupidity. He had been foolish and had been in a hurry and not heeded his own words of, ‘Anything can happen at any time, and probably will.’ Then it happened again.

  Barkley growled deeply. Something had alarmed him and J.D. was certain he knew what it was. Aloud thud upon the roof, as if something had coming crashing down upon it. He instinctively grabbed his bladed weapons. Then a figure jumped from the roof onto the hood and peered in with a menacing look as it pressed a hand against the windshield. J.D. saw the half-mute’s missing left finger. It was Four Fingers again. This time Four Fingers did something odd, he held up a necklace, dangling it so J.D. could get a clear look at it. Then Four Fingers pointed an index finger and let out a ghastly, angry cry as he looked at J.D. It leapt back up onto the roof and then was gone. This half-mute had certainly some weird obsession with him and it was eerie. However, J.D had no idea why the creature had held up a piece of jewelry. He pondered the encounter for a moment and then looked to the knives that he still held. With no desire to pick up another pair of bolo machetes, he would embrace the kukri. The blades suited him well. With a minor handle modification and practice he could become equally as proficient with the new weapons as he had been with his bolos.

  Crimson-stained and wet from Luci’s blood on that fateful night, he could not bear to retrieve his machetes. The weapon he mainly used to smite his enemies had been turned against him and used on his mate. Though using his bolos as a tool of revenge would have been sweet, the bitterness of how they had been used had traumatized him so deeply that the attempt to pick up the blades that Stone’s men discarded, induced uncontrollable trembling. For a moment, his mind wandered back to that night.

  ***

  Two of his men had died that night too, and his communications sergeant had disappeared. Sergeant Schumacher’s intuition had been right. This was the third time he and his team had been attacked.

  This could not be coincidence. Was it possible that Stone had infiltrated the armory with a spy? J.D. had once caught one man from Stone’s horde hiding amongst the shadows of long unused buildings, watching the comings and goings of he and his men. That ended badly for the spy. That was also the night he found a small radio, but he had unwittingly stepped on it and broken it.

  Even with their screening process in place it was not possible to do background searches, not in the post-apocalyptic, non-electronic communication, dystopian world. It was more than possible, J.D. thought, that there was someone on the inside.

  His suspicion grew toward Sergeant Peter Shumacher, for he had miraculously escaped that night and returned to the armory unscathed. J.D.’s suspicions were further reinforced by a note Stone had written and attached to the severed head of Frasier Dunphy, who had been killed at the time of Luci’s death. The note had been penned on white cloth in blood—the blood of the victim.

  J.D. knew the message was for him. Though the note was unsigned, the signature was clear.

  ‘Peter Peter pumpkin eater

  Had a child but couldn’t save it.

  Peter learned to talk and tell.

  In hopes of sending another to hell.’”

  Stone was taunting him again.

  His right hand trembled for a moment as a flashback of that horrid night filled his thoughts.

  He had been caught off guard and shot with something. It should not have happened, but he had been distracted. Projectile vomiting can do that to you.

  Beaten, weak and unable to break from the men who held him, Barlow and his men forced him to watch his woman’s brutal murder. The grisly sight brought on overwhelming anguish that triggered his mutation. Like the comic character Dr. Bruce Banner changing into The Hulk, an acute metamorphosis began. Except unlike the transformation of the withdrawn and reserved physicist into the humongous, angry, green fictional superhero, J.D. only became uber-strong.

  He heard himself roar with anger and anguish, and did not try to choke back the cry before he lost control of it. His sudden, violent outburst shook his enemies, seizing them with panic and fear. The rage had built so immensely from within that it exploded in a fury unlike it had ever done before.

  Adrenalin-fed, virus-laden blood pumped into every muscle, every tendon, and every ligament, fueling his rage. He was not himself. He possessed more strength than any transmute and as much fury as a half-mute. He was savage and relentless in his attack against his tormentors, though it was an act that he could not recall.

  When his gory, hateful rampage was over, the blood of his enemies was splattered across his clothes and face like a Hermann Nitsch abstract painting, while flesh from his enemies’ throats and stomachs, skewered upon razored hands, adorned his talons like cubes of meat that make up a shish kabob. Then he collapsed, unconscious. The transformation had exhausted him and altered his physical being again—a change he wouldn’t immediately realize.

  PART II

  THE DAMNED

  1

  Exposition

  January 23, Day 290.

  Exposition.

  Just filler.

  A time waster.

  The really boring part, J.D. thought to himself as he prepared to enter the conference room. It was the weekly staff meeting. J.D. hated these endless meetings listening to status reports, but as leader of the survivor group, he had to attend, though he believed his time would have been better spent hunting his enemies or scavenging for supplies.

  Paper work sucks, he thought to himself, as he drew a breath, gripping the doorknob.

  He opened the door and entered.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” he addressed James and Ryan, trying, but failing miserably, at a cheerful smile. He immediately noted that several personnel were missing and that there were two crude looking pedal devices sitting on the table. However, before he could address the matters, Ryan and James had stood at attention and saluted him, as they did every meeting. J.D. hated it.

  “Ryan. James,” he addressed them. “I asked you two not to salute me when we’re in this room. Do I need to make that an order?”

  “No, sir,” they both replied simultaneously, and then sat after J.D. had seated himself.

  “Okay, am I early or are the other four late?” J.D. asked.

  “They’ll be here in a half hour after we discuss the promotion requests,” Ryan said.

  “Very well,” J.D. acknowledged, and then turned his attention to the two mechanical devices sitting on the table. “So those are the pedal extensions, I assume?”

  “Completed as requested, sir.” James spoke up.

  J.D. asked, “Has Peter seen them?”

  “No, sir,” James replied. “I thought you’d like to see them first.”

  J.D. picked one up one of them and examined it. “Panton did a fine job,” he commented. “I think Chief Dunne will be pleased.”

  “It was actually a collaborative project of both Private Panton and Finlay Mackay,” Ryan enlightened his commander.

  “Well, let them both know they did a great job. So now, who’s going to bore me first?” he asked, as he set the device down.r />
  Ryan and James looked at one another.

  “Never mind. I’ll start,” he announced. “The promotion requests. Make Wiese a master sergeant; bump up Dunne to… warrant officer two. Make Lott a SFC, Panton a corporal or specialist and McGann a staff sergeant,” he told the two, with little concern.

  James disagreed with his command decision. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t recommend that.”

  “Which one and why not?”

  “Dissension, sir,” James informed him. “You’re giving non-military personnel substantial promotions over trained military. Lott is currently a sergeant. If you don’t do right by him we risk losing him. Don’t forget he’s here because he wants to be not because he has to be. Show him the courtesy and respect he deserves. That’s why Ryan and I gave you the recommendation report for personnel promotions.”

  “Now I have issue with some of what you just said,” J.D. rebutted. “I have always respected and appreciated the contributions Lott has given toward our survival—as I do all of you. But this isn’t the military, and I never meant for our governing committee to be a military unit.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” Ryan disagreed. “You started this military unit when James agreed to recognize you as leader and you began using rank to recognize our stations on the hierarchy of base leadership. You subsequently continued that trend with Lott, Wiese, Dunne, Panton, and every man and woman who has been sent out into the field to hunt down Stone or scavenge for supplies. And let’s not forget that we operate our refuge as if it were still the 69th Regiment Armory and you even call us the 69th Infantry. With all due respect, sir. This is a real military unit and you are the only one that doesn’t seem to realize that fact.”

  There was no arguing with Ryan’s point of view, because he was right. Now J.D. had no choice but to own up to what he had started and recognize the governing body for what it truly was—the military.

  “You’re right, Ryan. You’re both right. I started out—we started out to save people and give them a sense of community and safety, and in order to do that we had to put ourselves in an authoritative position to maintain order and discipline to achieve that goal. What we’ve created here is a military base and whether I like it or not, we are soldiers. Your words Ryan have made me realize that today. So, I will accept your recommendations and sign off on them, but I do have two issues with the promotion list.”

  “And what would that be, sir?” James asked.

  “Neither of you are on it,” J.D. replied. “So as the commander, I hereby promote you James to captain and you Ryan to first lieutenant. And I think I deserve to be brigadier general.”

  James and Ryan weren’t sure if their commander was making a joke. J.D. of late had seemed to have lost his sense of humor.

  “Just kidding—about your promotions.” J.D. smiled, slyly, in jest.

  ***

  Peter Dunne’s supply report, read aloud by J.D., was the first of several reports that were concerning. Food stocks were getting low and sundry items like toilet paper were nearly depleted, which meant Dunne’s scavenging team would have to journey farther north to search for supplies. Panton’s facility repair report had also been disturbing. The armory’s infrastructure was a mess, especially the plumbing. Although Lott’s vehicle repair report was satisfactory, he had also reported that fuel for the generator was near critical.

  “Are you kidding me?” J.D. interrupted Paul Wiese, who was attempting to conclude his recruitment section of his personnel report. “Peter Dunphy?”

  “Yes, sir. Peter and Frasier Dunphy. They’re brothers.”

  “Yeah, I got that part. But Peter. Another Peter? What? Is this like the most common post-apocalyptic name? That’s like—five now! All these damn Peters and you wonder why I’m always confused… I’m sorry, finish,” he said, as he rubbed one hand to his face.

  “They are both able bodied men and have passed Doctor France’s physical exam,” Paul continued. “They, too, await your approval for enlistment.”

  Refugees in January were no surprise to J.D. He knew that there would be people who would try and hold onto the past as long as possible, people who were desperately clinging to hope, praying and waiting for the world they once knew to be restored to some sort of normality. Except that way of life would never return, and those last desperate survivors who clung to the past were coming to the realization that the world of old was dead.

  Strangely, most survivors didn’t truly understand how lucky they were that the world ended so abruptly. If the pandemic had been prolonged, it would have caused worldwide civil unrest and famine. Dwindling resources such as food, medicine, and fuel would have set neighbor against neighbor and country against country in a battle of global survival. The quick zombification of the world didn’t give much time for people to loot or kill thy neighbor or prey upon the weak. Although there had been a time when radiation from the Indian Point Power Station had drifted over the city, the window of exposure had been brief and only a few survivors that had come to the armory had signs of radiation sickness.

  The City of New York was still a dangerous place. There were marauders, half-mutes, and transmutes. Diseases, such as cholera and dysentery, in post-apocalyptic Manhattan—at least in the armory—was not too much of a concern. Water was not an issue either. The city’s vast underground network of delivery pipes are sloped at an angle from its upstate source which gives enough natural pressure to reach a fifth floor apartment without the need of added artificial pressure. As long as there was pressure from the street you could flush the toilet and wash yourself. The downside was the dwindling fuel supply and the armory needed a lot, for the furnaces to generate heat and for the generators to provide electricity.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that we’re still getting refugees, even this late in the season,” J.D. commented. “Though I would have thought that most people would have fled the city for warmer climate or sought us out sooner. But I’m grateful. We could use the manpower. So tag their files and I’ll review them tonight. Ryan, you’re next.”

  “I have one report of a petty theft that turned out to be just a lost item that was recovered. However, we have had two physical altercations this week, one resulting in substantial bodily injury. Doctor France treated the man and released him… Things are a little tense seeing that no one is allowed outside. Cabin fever.”

  “Understandable. Issue a memorandum to the effect that fighting no matter how incidental will not and cannot be tolerated. Anyone who is involved with physical violence will spend three days in lockup. And then figure out some outlet for their aggression. Add another movie night. Or if they want to kick the crap out of one another then start some amateur boxing night, and let them beat one another in a civilized manner. Understood?”

  Ryan continued. “Suggestion, Colonel. Instead of adding a movie night or beat on each other night, how about a live music night?”

  “Sure, Ryan, if you think that singing Altar Boyz and Shrek songs will calm the populous. Be my guest.”

  In the pre-apocalypse, Ryan had been an actor both of stage and screen, and J.D. was commenting on the two musicals he knew Ryan had preformed in.

  “I was thinking more on the lines of a piano vocalist.”

  “Between training new recruits and civilians,” J.D. spoke as he began to count with his fingers, “training with you, James, Peter, Katie, and constantly in staff meetings… I realize we’ve lost our arts and culture. And I respect that you desire to give them a sense of community and happiness through music. Except I don’t have the time.”

  “With all due respect,” Ryan replied, “I wasn’t talking about you. Though I would need the use of your keyboard setup for the show.”

  Believing Ryan was asking him to preform again, J.D. was startled at the revelation that Ryan was referring to someone else. “Oh,” J.D. remarked with surprise. “I wasn’t aware of anyone else who co
uld play piano.”

  “Her name is Christina Custode. Paul gave you her file to review several weeks ago. Did you not see it?” Ryan asked.

  In fact, J.D. had not read her file. J.D. rarely read any file right away that had not been red tagged by Paul. Files with a red tag indicated a survivor with needed skills and was discussed in the weekly staff meeting, and then thoroughly reviewed later that day by J.D. for approval. However, those without red tags seemed to be read several weeks after Paul submitted them, and only skimmed over. J.D. never made a duty assignment for that was Paul Wiese’s job, so he didn’t feel the need to review the non-tagged files with any urgency.

  J.D. did not acknowledge Ryan’s question. The name Christina Custode struck a sour note with him. There had been an incident in J.D.’s past that had got him banned from performing at his favorite piano bar, and it had involved someone he had believed was part of another performer’s party, and that was of an up and coming piano playing songstress named Christina Custode. However, J.D. could not fathom how it could be the same girl. She had been from Buffalo, NY.

  “I’m sorry, did you say Christina Custode?” J.D. asked.

  “I did,” Ryan replied. “Why? Have you heard of her?”

  “No, not possible. If it’s the Christina Custode I’m thinking of—it can’t be her. She’s like from Buffalo. Is she?” J.D. asked, looking to Paul for an answer.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have that information,” Paul told him. “That isn’t part of the information I collect, and it didn’t come up in the interview. But if you’d like to find out, she’s assigned to sanitary detachment, civilian bathroom detail.”