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

by Ts Alan

  Peter left the room and as quickly as he had exited he returned, pushing a four-wheeled food service cart draped in a white sheet into the corner of the room. Atop the pushcart was a wooden pole. Peter picked up the staff and began to twirl it, jabbed it in the air, and then smacked its ends on the floor. He jumped, spun, landed, and then repeated the movements as he moved forward. Though to the man it appeared to be some demented dance, it was actually staff fighting moves from Shaolin Kung Fu that J.D. had taught him.

  “Wha-wha—what kind of f-f-freak show is—is this?”

  J.D. squatted down next to him and pulled his head up again by his hair so he could get a good look at the little man before him. J.D. stroked the man’s injury and told him, “The kind that’s going to make you squeal… like a pig.”

  Peter stopped his martial arts movements in front of the table, and as a taunting jester he made the “tah-da” stance.

  “A short man with a pole held across his throat by you and a scar-faced man. Does that ring a bell?” J.D. asked

  The man sobbed, “I-I-d-d-don’t know. He’s just some mige-mige-mi—” The prisoner abruptly stopped, the color withdrew from his face, replaced by a pale look of fear. He now realized who the dancing man was.

  Stutters began to tremble, he pleaded with J.D. trying to bargain what he knew of Stone in return for a reprieve. But it was too late.

  “That’s my warrant officer,” J.D. told him. “He’s very good at his job. You know what that job is?” he asked with a wicked smirk. “That is to extract information. And he’s very good at extracting things… He’s going to hurt you, Stutters. He’s going to hurt you so much that you’re going to beg him to kill you. But the more you scream and cry for mercy the more he’s gonna hurt you. That’s what he does. You think about that poor innocent child that Stone raped and tortured in front of his eyes. You think about his daughter as Peter ass-rapes you with that pole,” he told him, as he pointed to the staff gripped firmly in Peter’s hand. “You think about that!”

  He kissed the man on top of his head and whispered to him, “There’s no love like love lost. No pain like a broken heart. No greater anguish than losing a child… and I’ll be in the corner watching Peter prove that.”

  J.D. pulled out a condom from his top shirt pocket, and slapped it down on the table in front of the man’s face. He turned to Peter and told him, “Don’t forget the condom. No glove, no love.” He picked up his accordion and began to play once again.

  The man squirmed frantically as Peter gave a twisted, evil grin. The man called out to J.D. as he sat in the corner. “You can’t do-do—do this. You prom-promised you wo-wouldn’t k-k-kill me… if-if I told you!”

  “And I won’t,” J.D. grinned as began to play his accordion again, “but he will.”

  ***

  Stutters let out a howl of extreme pain and agony as Peter drove the pole into his rectum.

  “Matthew Downey,” a voice came from the corner of the room. “That’s barely a few inches,” J.D. declared. “You’re screaming like a little bitch. Is that how you squealed bending over in prison? Yes, we know your name. We know you were at Rikers with Stone and Barlow. We know much about you, Stutters,” he taunted.

  The man cried out, pleading, his speech impediment missing as he begged, “Please. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Give him some more, Peter,” J.D. told his chief, and then addressed Downey. “No, Stutters. It’s not a time for talk. It’s a time for payback.”

  The anal probing continued for several more minutes.

  “I think we’re ready now,” J.D. said, seeing their captive was nearly unconscious.

  Peter extracted the feces and blood-smeared pole from the man’s anus. He placed it in the corner of the room and then went to his cart and rolled it toward the prisoner. Retrieving a hand held digital recorder, Peter turned it on, and then placed it on the table next to Stutters. He turned back and picked up a 14-inch bolt cutter. Peter snapped its jaws in front of the restrained man, and gave him a pleased grin.

  With tear-filled eyes and anguished voice, Stutters begged for mercy, except there was no forgiveness in Peter’s heart.

  Stutters could not tell them where Stone was hiding, for he did not know. He could only tell them where they had set up operations—and this was not in the same location where the captives were held. Nevertheless, the information was useless. Stone’s men never stayed at the same location for long, especially since they knew they were being hunted.

  However, what Stutters did reveal, before Peter cut out his tongue, were two very important things. The first, to Peter’s relief, that some of the children, including his daughter, were alive and with Stone. The second piece of information, and equally as important, was that Richard Barlow knew where Stone could be found, and Stutters knew when and where Barlow could be found alone.

  “Loose lips sink ships,” J.D. spoke as he continued to play his bell accordion.

  ‘Italian Wine Merchants’ were the last words Matthew Downey would ever speak. Then his tongue was gone. Stutters was left alive and taken to the same pit where Peter had been thrown into. Peter’s revenge, at least for this man, had been extracted.

  ***

  Richard Barlow had a passion for vintage wines, red mostly, and one region in particular—Langhe, Italy. Having been born into an extremely wealthy family, he had wanted for nothing. But with all his family provided him, it could not take away the boredom. The endless parties, the women, the young boys, the expensive designer clothes, flashy jewelry, the imported European cars—nothing seemed to satisfy him or give him the rush of life he desperately thought he needed and deserved—so he found it in murder. He had been a thrill killer.

  He, like Stone, had been awaiting sentencing, and he, like Stone, had been one of the few survivors at Rikers Island after the living dead had expired. His alliance with Stone had been beneficial and the new world order in the aftermath of the plague provided a much more favorable world for him, rich with possibilities and ripe with countless survivors to abuse and exploit. He could go unabated in whatever he chose to do. That was until he discovered that a people’s champion and savior, a military commander, still remained alive, and began to interfere with his personal agenda.

  Though most of his vices were no longer important to him, there still remained one obsession, Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino Riserva. This rare, special reserve wine had always been, and continued to be, his favorite, and was one thing he refused to do without.

  Barlow relished the way it flowed from the glass with stunning depth and purity, caressed his palate with a rich tapestry of dark plums, cherries, smoke and licorice, the layers of aromas and flavors emerging with a sensual enveloping personality within the glass. This was one addiction he needed to quench, and it was this one habit that lead to his capture.

  Stutters had told them of his persistent need for this wine and his endless effort to locate it throughout the metropolis. Like worshippers are drawn to church on Sunday, he was drawn to his cathedral of the sacrament every seventh day at noon.

  He had found a wine shop that had an extensive array of vintage wines, and many bottles of his holy Conterno Barolo, and that was Italian Wine Merchants. Stutters knew this because Barlow would always bring two bottles home in a brown paper bag imprinted with the shop’s name.

  J.D. had recognized the store’s name immediately. It was co-owned by famed Italian chef Mario Batali. He knew the shop’s location. It was near his old neighborhood, in the Union Square area.

  ***

  J.D. sat atop the armory’s roof with a pleased look upon his face. To say it was a smile would be an exaggeration, however, it was one of satisfaction. Stutters had been punished and he now knew how to get to Barlow. He sat in his usual spot that gave him the best vantage point to see both entry gates. Barkley nestled at his feet, the moon glowing brightly, the
stars shinning, and the critters of the night scampering about pleased him. He had forgotten how serene the night could be when he was doing nothing but keeping guard from his perch. However, the serenity of the moment was about to be broken.

  Barkley whimpered and raised his head from off his outstretched front legs. A moment later the canine stood up and growled. Barkley was alarmed and agitated. Then J.D. could smell it. It was a half-mute. How could this be? J.D. thought. Half-mutes don’t prowl the night. Then he saw it approach the gate. It was Four Fingers and he was carrying something. The creature tossed the object over the fence and then fled. J.D. went to investigate.

  J.D. was aghast over the discovery. Four Fingers had tossed in a severed head, but it wasn’t just any head. It was the detached skull of Ann-Marie, and there was something partially dangling from her mouth. J.D.’s horror turned to grave concern. If Ann-Marie had been killed by half-mutes then what of Michael Adam? J.D. bolted with Barkley to Hearst Tower.

  Ann-Marie’s body was ravaged to the bone. The half-mutes had made a feast of her leaving only discarded intestines and gnawed bones. To J.D.’s relief none of the remains belonged to James’ son. Nonetheless that didn’t mean the child was safe and alive. He headed to the upper floors to where Ann-Marie had made their “nest,” hoping the child was safe and sound, and he and Barkley weren’t headed into an ambush.

  Michael Adam Alexander was right where he could always be found, unharmed and very happy to see J.D. The young lad had grown at the same rate that Caitlin had. However, Michael Adam’s features leaned more toward the male transmute side. However, even with him looking slightly more like a transmute, it didn’t diminish his capacity for learning. He had comprehended some basic human language skills almost as quickly as his daughter.

  J.D. knew he could not leave the child to himself. He was not mature enough to hunt or defend himself. He knew the child had to come back to the armory with him. J.D. just hoped that he could understand that his mother was dead and he needed to come with him for his own safety. Michael Adam left with J.D. without resistance. He had heard the shrieks of his mother and the unknown cries of something else. The boy knew something bad had happened for he knew his mother would not have abandoned him for so long.

  4

  Dark Places

  August 24, Day 504.

  Today was a most extraordinary day. This was the greatest capture they could have achieved, aside from Stone himself. This was Stone’s right hand man, a man privy to all of Stone’s dark secrets and plans, and as his second he would surely know where the hideout was to be found. So today J.D. decided to talk with the one called Richard Barlow alone, before Peter joined in the conversation.

  J.D. had waited for Barlow alone in the darkness of Italian Wine Merchants. Like clockwork the man had arrived on time as Stutters had confessed he would. Barlow never got to reach for the wine he desired. J.D. had been waiting for him. Knocked out, tied up, and stuffed into a body bag, J.D. arrived with his bundle at the armory and took him directly to the basement and locked him into a darkened room.

  They had kept him in isolation for three days: no light, no food, no clothes, and no bathroom. All he was allowed were two buckets. One empty to use as a toilet and the other filled with water to use as he saw fit.

  Richard Barlow sat naked in the chair, which stood in front of the desk in the cold, low lit room that smelled of piss and shit. J.D. entered dressed in his usual attire, black uniform and boots, gloves that covered his claws, sunglasses that shaded his eyes, his kukri strapped to his chest, a sidearm on his right hip, a knife strapped to his right thigh, and his Eskrima sticks in his right hand. He had forgone the makeup and had tucked his Mohawk style hair up into his cap. He had also taken off his BDU shirt and wore only an olive drab A-shirt.

  J.D. didn’t speak as he entered the room. He just stood in front of the door as he closed it behind him and stared at the man.

  After a moment the man spoke out, “What the fuck you looking at, huh? You want me to stand up? You want a good look at me?”

  The man stood up and exposed his fit and trim physique. He was muscular, though not as well defined and as large as J.D. However, J.D. knew the naked man would have made a formidable opponent if it had not been for his own enhanced strength and agility of his mutation.

  Barlow grabbed his genitals and yelled, “Here! Here, get a good look… You like that, bitch?”

  J.D. did not utter a sound. Instead he pulled out a pair of boxer shorts from his left pant pocket and threw it at the man. Again J.D. said nothing, but twirled one of his sticks in his right hand, as the man dressed.

  “What?” the man spoke with irritation. “What the fuck now? Am I supposed to be scared? You with that stick in your hand. Is that supposed to intimidate me? My daddy used to beat me with a bigger one than that, until I took it from him and beat him senseless. So, go ahead tough guy, c’mon over here. Show me what you got!”

  J.D. spoke in a measured tone of voice. “Your name is Barlow, Richard Barlow. Is that correct?”

  “What? You going to be the good cop? You wanna be my friend, get to know me, get me to tell you about the children? Fuck you, I’m not talking.”

  “Strange, for someone who isn’t talking you’ve just said a lot.”

  “Fuck you, asshole. Go ahead and give it your best shot. But you get nothing from me.”

  J.D. stopped twirling his stick and moved away from the doorway. He placed his weapons down on the desk’s top and pulled out its chair and sat in it.

  “You have it all wrong, Richard,” he began to explain. “I’m not here to get you to talk. No. I’m just here as a courtesy before the inquisitor arrives. So please, have a seat. Go ahead… I know you and Stone were in Rikers together. I know you’re a convicted murderer and I know that Stone is a real sick son-of-a-bitch, convicted of numerous murders and a long list of other offenses. I know this because there have been several others of your psychotic group I’ve had the displeasure to speak with. Stutters was the last. Or as you called him, Matthew Downey. He, too, was defiant like you, for half a minute. But in the end, when the inquisitor came, he was cryin’ for his mama, giving up everything, begging for the pain to stop. Have you ever had needles stuck in your eyes? It really hurts, I hear.”

  “Fuck you!”

  J.D. remained calm and focused.

  “Fuck me?! Are you sure? From what I hear you like to fuck little boys!”

  “Balls deep night and day,” Barlow boasted, taunting J.D.

  The mere mention of the act sickened and enraged J.D. J.D. lost his composure, snatched up one of his sticks, and without rising from his chair slapped it across the man’s face. Though Barlow was stunned, bleeding from his mouth and in obvious pain, he didn’t cry out. Instead he licked the blood from his split lip, and then spit it at J.D. Barlow had gotten to him, and J.D. knew he had been bested.

  “How original,” J.D. said, keeping his voice calm, unruffled, as he took off his sunglasses to wipe the spit from his face.

  The man saw J.D.’s eyes.

  “Seen them before, freak!”

  J.D. took off his gloves and placed them on the desk next to his dirtied sunglasses.

  “Freak?! You wanna see a true freak?” he asked Barlow, and then rotated his neck around.

  J.D.’s parlor trick came in useful when he wanted to shock and disorient an enemy or use his ability for a tactical advantage. However, Barlow was neither horrified nor impressed. Unmoved he replied, “Save the circus act for the boons and retards. You see, I know much about you, and I know Stone has planned something very special for Caitlin.”

  J.D. felt the anger welling up inside him again. He wanted to snap the man’s neck for the threat against his daughter, but he knew he couldn’t. The information he knew about Stone and the whereabouts of any remaining survivors superseded his desire to kill the man. No, he wouldn’t kill him, just yet
, but he was going to put a very big hurt on him. He pulled out a Pneu-Dart tranquilizer gun and shot Barlow. The dart logged in Barlow’s pectoral muscle.

  Barlow looked at the dart and laughed, then said, “Seriously?”

  “Wait for it,” J.D. said.

  Barlow’s smirk fell from his face. He felt oddly woozy. Then his voice rose in panic, as he felt the loss of use of his extremities. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

  “That was totally cool watching that smug grin fall right off your face,” J.D. told him, almost ecstatic with the results. He then held up the pistol and smiled. “Got this off one of your men. Was it what you used on me that night at the fire?” Barlow didn’t answer. “Makes no difference,” he told him. He reached across the table and pulled the dart from Barlow’s chest, and told the slumping man, “Just a small amount of paralytic. Enough to make you cooperative, but not enough to render you completely speechless,” he assured.

  After securing Barlow to his chair so he wouldn’t slip from it, and then placing both of Barlow’s hands palm down on the table, J.D. sat next to him on the tabletop. He pulled out his knife from the sheath strapped to his leg and pressed its point into Barlow’s breast.

  “You’re a smart man,” J.D. began, “so I’m sure you know that interrogation doesn’t mean sticking a gun in someone’s face and threatening them if they don’t talk. Interrogation is a process, sometimes a long, extremely painful procedure. Do you know in ancient China they used to torture men to death by slowly slicing into the flesh with precise cuts, starting with parts on the body that would inflict the least amount of pain to the greatest? The flesh is cut from the body in very small pieces,” J.D. enlightened him, as he slowly rotated the knifepoint into the man’s chest. “Slices so precise that neither vein, nor artery, nor nerve would be severed until the end. It’s true. It was called Líng Chí, the Death of a Thousand Cuts. They could keep men alive for days, screaming in all that pain.” He ran the 420 modified stainless steel military knife down Barlow’s chest, cutting him enough for the blood to flow, but not deep enough to do severe damage. Though Barlow could feel the pain from the blade slowly slicing across his flesh, he remained silent and defiant.