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

by Ts Alan

  Nevertheless, what had changed him for the worse was the horrific loss of the mother of his child. He was a tortured soul, a man who had become disillusioned, reclusive and distant, filled with a hate and revenge that consumed his total being, with a madness-fueled fixation in his resolve in finding the missing and to punish the man that was the cause of so much suffering to so many.

  The Trixoxen virus that had mutated J.D. to a transhuman to a certain extent had been beneficial. The transformation had left him with the ability to turn his head completely backward, useful in surprising the enemy, with minimal change in the elongation of his neck. His fingernails had fallen off. The nail beds had been replaced with flesh, but his fingertips had spontaneously sprouted talons. These were not proportionally long compared to an owl’s, but they were just as sharp and as deadly, and were sheathed in keratin—making them a lethal weapon that could rip flesh. Though at times his talons proved to be challenging when attempting something that required significant manual dexterity, he adapted—at first clipping them with dog nail clippers, but less as time went on.

  Although his visual acuity had been hyper extended, the only outward change in his eyes had been their color. There had been other changes, too. The strength, agility and stamina the doctor had told him about were there—he had developed more fast twitch fiber in the muscles of his arms and legs—but the high metabolism that was associated with it demanded more food for energy, far more than he had consumed even when he was heavily training in his martial arts disciplines.

  His higher tolerance to pain and rapid cellular regeneration that gave him the ability to heal quickly from injuries was also advantageous, especially since he had been shot through the leg and found that after four days it had healed with only a scar remaining. There seemed to be no damage to his leg, no loss of function whatsoever. There had been one final major transformation to his outer metamorphosis and that was a four-inch wide long patch of transmute skin that ran from the base of his skull down the spine to his coccyx. Of course, there was also the complete loss of body hair, except for his scalp. It was great that he never had to shave—anywhere.

  However, there was one other change that Doctor France neglected to inform him or was unaware of—hypersexuality. His sexual compulsivity to copulate hadn’t been an issue, for he enjoyed the immensely heightened gratification, the longer duration climaxes, and the ability to have multiple successive orgasms without a waiting period that his mutation provided. The problem was his nearly constant erection and his increased need to fuck, since Luci’s death. He feared he would not be able to maintain control much longer, so he sought the doctor’s help.

  After running a few tests, Doctor France reported that his persistent genital arousal disorder, or his “raging hard on,” as the doctor had referred to his heightened state in an unsuccessful attempt at witticism, was not due to lack of sexual release or increased testosterone levels but a high probability it was a physiological change in the frontal and temporal lobes, which was the area of the brain for regulating libido. This was also the area of the brain that Doctor France had told him long ago was where most of the neurological and physiological changes occurred during mutation into a transmute; that certain parts of the brain associated with reasoning, planning, speech, emotions, problem solving, and memory, had been impeded, while other parts of the brain had heightened sensitivity important to cognitive inhibition and memory for negative emotional information—heightened aggression, less fear, and a memory for anything bad that may have happened to them. This, the doctor had told him, was the root cause of his unremitting headaches.

  Suffering a neurological disorder was something J.D. never considered could happen, or at least he denied it could happen. It didn’t seem possible since all the acute changes had happened early on. However, France reminded him that further transformation was possible considering the virus had not been eradicated from his system, but rather had become dormant with periodic bursts of further mutation, referring to his skin change.

  J.D. now understood that his outbursts and violent nature was a result of a transformation in brain function that caused his heightened aggression, decrease in fear, and a sensitive memory for traumatic experiences. Even though the doctor told him an X-ray would be required to verify any brain abnormalities, he declined. J.D. was certain the doctor’s preliminary diagnosis was correct, which was the first time J.D. ever took anything the doctor told him at face value. The doctor gave him some medication and told him to follow his prescribed regiment with the pills.

  Though J.D. had become more demanding and less tolerant of mistakes, he refused to put anyone’s life at risk above his own. Lead by the front was something he remembered once hearing, and it was this creed he adapted, taking point and commanding every mission. Not all of his men liked him; they thought him at times callous and overbearing, but every one of them respected him and followed his orders to the letter for they knew that everything he did was for them and for the children. When things got rough between his men and his demands, Ryan was the buffer; the one who could smooth things over, explain his behavior. Ryan was second in command, the one that stayed by his side through everything.

  Sleep was something J.D. rarely had the luxury of. Even when there was time he was still unable to reach a deep and restful slumber. An hour or two uninterrupted was his usual, but this to him was fine. To sleep too heavily was to allow the memories of the past to invade his mind, to remind him of a time that was no longer and of friends who were no longer a part of his life. These memories reminded him of who he once was, and today, of all days, was a day he did not wish to remember those days of past. Today was a day that there was no charity or forgiveness in his heart. Today was the day he would question one of Stone’s inner circle—the red-haired stuttering man.

  ***

  Peter Jonathan Dunne, the dwarf. A man who had more hate and desire for revenge in him than J.D. Peter, by sheer will and determination, had found his way to the armory a week after James’ arrival, and over a month after the encounter with his and his daughter’s kidnappers. Doctor France was amazed after hearing this man’s tale of survival. The wounds and trauma that he had suffered to his face alone should have killed him, but not to have succumbed to a massive mouth infection astonished France, especially after what Peter had relayed about his fight to survive and ward off infection. He had lain in the pit for what he believed was several days, until the swelling of his face had gone down enough that he could pry his eyelids apart, enough to get slivers of vision back. After discovering he had not broken any bones having been tossed into the pit, he struggled for a day to crawl out and make it to the closest bodega. He hid in the back of the store in a bathroom drinking Gatorade and vitamin waters for nourishment and rinsing his mouth out with salt water every few hours, taking in and expelling liquids through a straw. He had also made a jaw sling to hold his jaw back in proper position. That was once the swelling had gone down enough that he could push his dislocated jaw back into proper alignment. He spent four weeks hiding and recuperating, fearing that they would discover he was gone and would come looking for him to finish the job.

  The scars ran deep on this little person. He had been forced to kill his own son and wife in order to survive. Then when he thought the world was once again becoming safe, he and his daughter were dragged from their apartment. He awoke with hands bound behind his back in a basement with others who had been kidnapped, but his daughter was no longer with him.

  He asked the others if they had seen her, but they warned him not to ask, for it would cost him his life. When they came for him, he pleaded to them to tell him where his daughter was. The man responded with, “The little bitch is entertaining the boss. Do you want to see? Do you want to see what a good little fuck your daughter is?” The supervisor gestured to his two men. One with a scar on his face wacked Peter to the back of his head with a long club. In a daze Peter fell to his knees, and then the two men d
ragged him from the basement and took him to a room where his daughter was being held. His daughter, Victoria, was naked and strapped across a small table. Her face was bruised and bloodied. Her eyes pleaded to her father for help as she struggled, but he could not save her. They held him tightly, two each holding an end of a broom handle firmly against his throat, while the supervising man stood next to them.

  There was a man standing in the room, his back was to him. He was wearing no shirt, and held a knife in his right hand. One of Peter’s restrainers spoke.

  “Boss, this little freak wants to see his daughter. I thought you might like some added entertainment,” the tall man with a balding crown atop of his head stated.

  The man turned around. He was of average height with blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “That’s what makes you my perfect right arm, Barlow. We think alike.”

  “I doubt that, Stone, no one thinks quite like you.”

  “Would you look at this fuckin’ smurf!” Stone exclaimed, smiling, as he gave the captive a once over.

  The man walked over to him, spinning the knife in his hand.

  “Do you have a name, smidget?” Stone spoke calm and softly, as he prodded his captive with the tip of the knife. “Well, speak up smidge.”

  Peter gasped for air trying to speak. The man with the knife smacked the closest of the two who were pressing the pole too tightly, a man with a distinct scar on his face.

  “Ease up, assholes,” he addressed the two men. “The midge is trying to speak… So, what is it midge? What’s the name?”

  “Peter,” he muttered, trying to catch his breath.

  “Peter? Well, Peter. Did you help make this juicy piece? She don’t look like no midge, though she certainly is fun sized.” Peter’s restrainers laughed. “It must be true what they say about midgets then? Is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter responded. “I’m not a midget.”

  “Not a midge? Then what are you, an Oompa Loompa, a Hobbit?”

  “I’m a dwarf.”

  “A dwarf? A dwarf you say?” The man held out his hands, gesturing like he was weighing objects. “Dwarf, midge, munchkin, who gives a shit! You’re a freak, a midge. And I want to know if it’s true what they say about midges.”

  The man cut his shirt open and pulled it back. A large smile came to the blonde-haired man’s face.

  “Holy shit, look at this,” he told his cohorts. “He’s got tattoos all over him. Tattoos on a midget! That’s fucking hilarious. He’s a sideshow freak.”

  The others started to laugh.

  Stone took his knife and cut the dwarf’s belt off.

  “Time for the unveiling!”

  “For God’s sake,” Peter pleaded, “not in front of my daughter. She’s only—”

  “God?!” the man asked. “There’s no God here. Only me, the King of New York! Hail to the king!”

  “Hail to the king,” one of Peter’s restrainers stuttered to get out.

  “She’s only eleven. Please,” Peter begged.

  “Eleven! Damn, a little old for me. Well when you get served lemons, you just have to make lemonade,” he taunted, as he ripped open the man’s pants and pulled them down exposing his genitals.

  “I guess the stories aren’t true,” the blonde-haired leader spoke with disappointment. “What an anti-climax. Oh well,” he said as he moved toward Peter’s daughter. “She’s got a lot of spunk, this one,” he cruelly tormented. “Usually they break so easily.” He stepped behind the girl and slapped her ass, and then raised her head so she could see her father, clearly.

  “Smile for daddy, baby. It’s gonna be a moment worth remembering.”

  He unzipped his pants and pulled them apart, exposing his erect penis.

  “Oh, I hope this hurts, you little tease,” he whispered sadistically to the half-conscious girl.

  Peter struggled and began to loudly protest. He tried to break free but the three guards were too much for him.

  “Shut him up. Shut him up, God damnit!” Stone shouted, his calm demeanor falling away. He looked down at his penis and became irate. “You fucking little prick,” he shouted, great anger in his tone. “Look what you’ve done. Look what you’ve done,” he ranted as he stepped around from behind the girl exposing his flaccid state.

  He zipped up his pants and went to the man. He grabbed the back of his hair while the others held him tightly.

  “You little piece of shit. How dare you come in here and make demands and ruin my fun,” he angrily spoke with enraged eyes, as he pulled Peter’s head back, making sure he was looking up.

  The antagonist raised his ring-adorned right hand into the air, making a fist, and began to repeatedly hammer away at the little man’s face, pulverizing it into a bloodied, disfigured mess. He continued to beat his captive even after he passed out. The dwarf’s face was bloodied, his lips split apart, his face began to balloon and his eyes became swollen shut.

  “Jesus, that feels so good,” he spoke, pleased with the damage and suffering he had inflicted. “I feel the wood comin’ back.”

  He went back to the table where he had placed the knife and picked it up along with a pair of pliers. He returned to the unconscious Peter and opened his mouth, grabbed the man’s tongue with the pliers and outstretched it. “This will teach you to interrupt me,” he said sadistically, then cut out his tongue. Blood poured from Peter’s mouth.

  “Oh, God, that feels so good,” he announced, relishing the deed. “Take the little freak back to the basement as an example to the others. Then tomorrow throw him in the meat pit… Damn, my dick is hard.”

  The others left the room, dragging the mutilated and nearly dead Peter with them. The blue-eyed man waved Peter’s tongue in front of the sobbing girl’s face.

  “Oh, shush, shush,” he spoke to her, as he stroked her dirty, matted golden hair, and then wiped the tongue across her face to clean away the tears.

  “We’ll save this,” he told her. “Maybe you’d like daddy to lick your pussy later.”

  ***

  Peter rose early, too, and was already prepping for the upcoming interrogation of the stuttering man. Not only was he going over the instruments he would be using for the questioning, but was rehearsing for his and J.D.’s show for their Theatre of the Absurd.

  2

  Borstal Breakout

  They had been hailed as heroes, the saviors of The United Kingdom, of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The data they had brought from Doctor France helped significantly in developing a vaccine against the secondary plague; thousands of lives had been saved. Within six months after their arrival, the massive cleanup of the remaining half-mutes throughout the United Kingdom had been completed. Ireland was now reopened and people moved home. Industry and trade began again. Farmers returned to their fields, store keepers to their shops, and factory workers to the plants. The country had returned to a certain normalcy, as much as could be after three-quarters of their country’s population had perished.

  Kermit had been promoted to Chief Warrant Officer and given the duty of overseeing the specialized teams that had been put together to eradicate the non-human threat, which included eliminating transmutes, a job which was offensive to him, knowing that transmutes posed no threat—having witnessed this back in New York with regard to Luci. To him it felt like he was conducting genocide. As distasteful as the murderous acts were, he had to follow orders. He wasn’t in New York anymore—these were the rules of a sovereign nation that he swore to defend, so there was no choice but to do what he was instructed to do.

  Sam had been promoted to Staff Sergeant and assigned to Logistics Management and it was now he who was second in charge of logistical planning of operations deployments, sustainment, recovery, and support procedures. David and Julie were given honorary ranks of Technical Sergeants in the United States Air Force and were contracted as E
ngineering Technicians. And Marisol got her wish; she got to go to school. Though Marisol wasn’t able to go to an English University, since they had remained closed for the first six months after their arrival, The United States Air Force, as a thank you, allowed her to train in computer science technology alongside other soldiers without enlisting.

  Their bonds of friendship remained close. They were all assigned housing in the same building, and spent as much of their off time together as possible. Once a week Kermit would invite them over to his apartment and cook for them, and even prepared something special for Max and Otter. But even after all the good things that came from their leaving New York, none of them were truly happy, and none of them wanted to believe that J.D. was dead. Every week as they sat around enjoying each other’s company they talked about home.

  Home, however, was far away and a place they knew they would never see again, but their time in England was drawing to a close. The British government had now re-established its sovereignty over The United Kingdom and as a year had passed those non-citizens who so valiantly had defended the nation were no longer needed or wanted.

  Since the safety of the UK had been secured there was no longer a need for armed foreign troops on its sovereign soil, and therefore the British military felt that RAF Croughton, was no longer needed and should be closed. Though the United States Air Force base was owned by the British government and was on lease to the United States, under international law, like diplomatic missions, RAF Croughton benefited from an extraterritorial status, which didn’t allow the host country to enter the representing country’s base without permission. However, since the government of the United States no longer existed, international law would no longer be recognized or honored by the UK. They declared that the US Air Force base’s lease was now forfeit and in lieu of back payment all its properties and contents belonged to the British military, and all its occupants were to disarm. If any U.S. military personnel wished to continue its service to the well being and protection of the United Kingdom then they would be welcome to enlist in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, or otherwise retire.