The Romero Strain

by Alan, TS

  I ignored him, took a syringe out of the case, popped off the protective cover of the needle, and inserted it into the vial in my hand.

  “Do not inject yourself. I implore you,” he told me.

  “Implore away. I drew back the liquid into the syringe. “How much, Doc?”

  “I do not know.”

  “How’s that leg?” I asked, my voice acerbic.

  “Twenty units,” he said reluctantly. “I used twenty units. You’re being hasty. Injecting the serum could have negative effects.”

  “Instead of being a flesh eating zombie?”

  “What’s in it?” I asked, as I finished filling the syringe.

  “You would not believe me,” he responded.

  “Humor me, anyways.” I held the syringe with my right hand and handed David the vial.

  “It’s based on the delta-32 fusion inhibitor.”

  “And what is that?” David asked, as he placed the glass container into the case.

  The doctor answered before I was able to reply.

  “Doctor O’Brien of the National Institutes of Health,” he said smugly, his superior intellect paraded before us once again. “He discovered certain people in Europe were immune to the Black Death. O’Brien’s research with the mutated form of the gene CCR5, called delta-32, showed that it prevents HIV from entering human cells and infecting the body. O’Brien theorized this principle could be applied to the plague bacteria, which affects the body in a similar manner. He tested the DNA of modern-day descendants of plague survivors and found the same mutated gene. I mutated it even further for my antiretroviral.”

  “What does that all mean?” asked Marisol.

  I wasn’t good at explaining things in common, simple terms; my paramedic education caused me to communicate in a clinical manner.

  “For a disease-causing microorganism to infect the human body there must be a gateway or portal through which it enters into human cells. When HIV infects a normal cell, it does so by latching onto a protein called a receptor. This receptor is the gateway into the cell. Simply said, his delta-32 antiretroviral blocks the crucial gateway into human cells that his Romero strain needs. His serum has prevented him from contracting his zombie virus.”

  A concerned Julie asked, “Is that a cure?”

  “I don’t know. But I have nothing to lose.”

  “Aren’t you going to swab that?” David asked, as I injected myself.

  “Or what?” I replied. “I might get an infection?”

  “Ass,” he said.

  XI. Quod nomen mihi est?

  Looking at the intravenous injection point, I felt lightheaded and my vision was blurred. The spot where I inserted the needle bled slightly, rising up into a crimson bead. The skin began to rise and a stream of blood flowed down my arm.

  I thought I heard myself say it was growing bigger.

  “What are do be?” I swore I heard someone say. There was laughter in my head, and a mocking voice called me a jerk. I recognized the voice inside my head; it was Bad Ash from the film Army of Darkness.

  I felt my legs grow weak, my muscles gelatinous. I lost my balance and as I collapsed, David caught me. I think I yelled, “Bad Ash! Bad Ash!”

  “I warned you,” the doctor said, with a I told you so attitude.

  “Think you better sit here for awhile,” David might have said, as he and Marisol propped me up against the tunnel wall. Max sat down next to me.

  “David, do do tings for me. Strike that.” I spoke more slowly. “Do two things for me, no make it tree… three.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fust… first, don’t let that… son-of-a-bitch out of your sight… he’s still lying tus—”

  “Sure.”

  “Second, if… if I turn I want you to shoot me.”

  “What!? I can’t do that.”

  Marisol was shocked at the words even coming across my lips. She looked at me in utter disbelief and said “no” as David tried to return the pistol to me. I pushed it away.

  “You… don’t have a choice. Somebody has too. And it hasdo… has to, be in the head. Just like the movies.”

  David responded with the Paul Newman line from Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid about having never shot anyone before.

  I followed with Robert Redford’s line about one hell of a time to tell me. “But you have to. Marisol and Julie won’t be able to do it. And I certainly don’t want Private Parts to do it. He’d enjoy it.”

  “What’s the third thing?” David asked.

  “Don’t put me on the cart until you know I’m really dead.”

  He was puzzled, “The cart?”

  “What do you mean cart,” Marisol asked.

  “Think Python,” I told him.

  It immediately came to him. “Oh, the cart. Don’t worry, no premature cartage.”

  “What do you mean by putting you on the cart?” she asked again, a bit more insistent on an answer.

  “Just another movie,” I said, and left it at that, quickly changing the subject. “Marisol, would you take out Max’s blanket from the right pouch on his pack and put it on the floor for him?”

  I dug into my backpack and pulled out a pen and a green, marble covered, notebook––the kind with The Original printed on it. I began to write.

  “What are you writing,” she asked inquisitively, looking at the strange words on the pad as she sat on my left side.

  “Verbal commands for Max. If I die, you need to take care of Max for me.”

  “Oh, no. You are not going to die, so stop writing.”

  “I may not hold out much longer, and I don’t really want to chance it. Who can I trust with Max? Not Joe. Joe would want to do everything his own way, not mine. And David and Julie, they don’t know Max. That’s why I decided that it would be you, a very honest, loving girl to whom I could entrust my most loyal companion. Besides, Max likes you.”

  She did not reply, but instead slipped her arms under my left arm and put her head on my shoulder to comfort me.

  I could hear Joe making some snide remark about me being with a twelve-year-old to the rest of the group. I heard David telling him to shut the fuck up.

  “What are those words?” Marisol wanted to know.

  “Max’s commands are in German and Dutch, so no one else can give him orders. I’ve written them down phenefically. Phonecically. Shit. The way they sound for you.” I handed her the paper. “Keep them secret. Okay?”

  “Sí.”

  She whispered the words as she read the commands, trying to memorize them.

  Max put his head on my outstretched legs, and looked at me with a sad expression. Animals have a keen sense of human emotions and the human condition, and recognizing the subtle details of body language. He knew his pack leader was ill and he empathized with me.

  I quickly wrote down my thoughts as I could feel my chills worsening, and the pain and stiffness in my muscles growing more intense. It was difficult for me to concentrate; my vision was distorted and my thoughts were disjointed. Difficult as it was, I jotted down some of what had happened to me.

  * * *

  My name is J.D. and I am undead, or will be shortly…

  My loyal friend is next to me as I write these passages.

  Max’s head popped up from my legs; he whined and sat up. He barked to get attention. Something was wrong. I started to ask Max what was wrong, but felt the rapid onset of a piercing headache accompanied by an agonizing ringing in my ears. I felt the urge to vomit. Before I could move my weakened body to a spot to regurgitate, I convulsed violently. Twitching and spasming, I realized what brought on Max’s anxiety: it was me. He sensed what was going to happen before it did.

  I started vomiting on myself. That’s the end of another shirt, I thought.

  Then I heard Joe yell, “Shoot him. Shoot him!” Damn, the end of me.

  “Fucking shoot him!”

  My body felt a strange sensation that I had never experienced before. My eyes went out of fo
cus, and my neck felt like someone was tugging on it, trying to detach my skull from my torso. Severe pain, numbness, weakness, and tingling erupted throughout my cervical spine. A burning pain radiated from my spinal nerve roots into all my peripheral nerves. My eyes seared with a fiery pain as though someone had jabbed a burning stick into them. The pain and burning throughout my body became intense, horrific. I wanted to scream but my vocal cords felt frozen. A bright white light filled my vision.

  “Shut the fuck up before I shoot you. I gave him my word that I would make sure he was dead before I shot him.”

  “No, you didn’t. All you said was, ‘I never shot anyone before’. If you’re going to be a pussy give me the gun.”

  “Fuck you. Did you ever hear of an unspoken promise?”

  “He’s not dead,” Marisol yelled, shoving Joe in the chest.

  Joe slapped her hard. “Shut up, bitch. No one’s here to protect you now!”

  My twitching stopped.

  Joe turned away from Marisol and put his attention toward me. “Look! He’s not moving! Shoot him!” he ordered David once again.

  As Joe approached me, three shots echoed. “Fuck you, pendajo!” Marisol told him as the last round left the chamber. All the shots were grouped nicely in the center of Joe’s back.

  My eyes popped open, and I stood up. David raised the pistol in Marisol’s direction. It was too late. I grabbed Marisol and sank my teeth into the side of her neck. I ravenously tore at the tissue and muscle to get to the arteries. The deep, rich arterial blood pumped out of her neck and onto my face. She struggled only a moment, and went limp. David had not been able to take a shot in fear of hitting her. It didn’t matter. Julie was paralyzed with fear; she would be an easy kill.

  I saw him in front of me, pointing the pistol at my face, just feet away. There was a shout, “Shoot him. Shoot him!” Then everything turned white.

  * * *

  My eyes popped open.

  Whoa! I jumped up with the sheets wrapped around my head like a shroud. I had startled myself, like waking from the sensation of falling. But worse. I had dreamt I turned into the undead, and was shot in the head. Too much Jack Daniel’s, and too much Romero marathon the night before. I needed to piss. I pulled the sheets from my head. A blurry silhouette before me gave an indistinguishable shout and everything went white again.

  I felt a hand on me, but didn’t know whose it was, for I could not get my eyes open. Later I found out it was David, who had come to see if I was still alive. I grabbed onto his forearm, and felt him pull away, but I had a firm grip. I began to recite lines from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory about no light showing and the fires of hell a-glowing.

  I released him. Everything turned gray.

  “Is he dead now?” Julie whispered.

  With my eyes closed, I replied, “I’m not dead.”

  From I distance I heard David ask me, “What?”

  I whispered in a fake English accent, trying to imitate The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t, telling him I wasn’t dead.

  David drew closer and mimicked Eric Idle’s line as the Dead Collector, telling everyone I was not dead.

  Marisol looked at David oddly, she didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  David spoke to me again, telling me I would be dead soon because I was very ill.

  I told him I was getting better. I was barely able to remember the lines.

  DD continued with more Python lines, attempting to imitate the character Large Man with Dead Body. He told me not to be such a baby.

  “Why are you talking to him like that?” Marisol wanted to know.

  I tried to deliver the final line of The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t, the line before the Dead Collector silences the Body with a whack of his club, but I choked on the words. I could barely open my eyes. They were burning and watery. I sat up, hacked like a cat, and spit a big gob of residual puke. It was sour and thick. “Anyone have mouthwash? Jack Daniel’s will do… no… anyone? Can someone help me up? Why are you all staring at me… from way over there? Max?” Max whined and wouldn’t come. “Did my head spin around?”

  I pushed myself up, and leaned my aching back against the wall.

  “You puked all over yourself,” Joe said, with a tone of satisfaction in his voice.

  I looked at my shirt. “Ah, so I did. I thought that was part of the dream.” Eying Joe, I said, “I thought you were dead.”

  “You wish.”

  “Cha. You’re right.” I told him.

  “If you weren’t covered in puke, I’d kick your ass!” He spoke matter-of-factly, pointing his finger at me.

  “Here’s a finger for you,” I replied, raising the middle one up. “Childish threats are best left to children.”

  “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP,” Julie scolded. “I’m sick of your fucking testosterone bullshit! Can we just get out of here?”

  I placed my hands over my ears before she finished yelling. “God damn. Stop shouting. You’re killing me. And whoever is pointing that flashlight at me, you’re blinding me.”

  “No one is pointing a flashlight at you,” David informed me.

  “What the hell is that bright light?”

  “It’s just the lamps,” Marisol said.

  “How many do you need on?” I asked, as I struggled to sit up.

  “There’s only one,” Julie said.

  “Damn, it hurts. Someone turn it off.”

  “Light sensitivity?” the doctor questioned, with genuine concern.

  “Jesus. You still alive, too?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Disappointment in life always happens when hope collides with unexpected reality.”

  “Well said,” David praised. “I don’t recognize that quote. Where’s it from?”

  “That would be the book of J.D. Nichols. God, what is that smell?”

  “It’s you, papi.” Marisol informed me.

  “Oh.”

  I pulled out my multi-tool from its nylon holster, which was attached to the back right side of my belt. “Marisol,” I said as I locked the knife blade in place, “can you cut my shirt off from the back?”

  I pulled my soiled shirt from my body, took a bunch of antibacterial wipes and cleaned off the wet, sticky bile that had soaked through the shirt onto my chest.

  “Your neck looks funny,” Marisol said in a concerned tone. “It’s all bumpy.”

  She tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the knife. I closed the blade and sheathed it.

  “Really? Again? I rubbed the back of my neck. It was swollen and sensitive to the touch. “What the hell?” The vertebrae felt strange, not like I needed a chiropractic adjustment, but like something I couldn’t quite explain. It was odd, deformed.

  I removed the last two wipes from the packet and cleaned my face. I looked at my chest again. Weird, I thought. All my chest hair is gone.

  It wasn’t a strange reflection on a day I had shaven my chest––I went to the gym and to the dojo several times each week, and on those days my chest and abdomen were freshly shaven. Vain as I know it was, I shaved to accentuate my muscle development. But I had stubble when I had changed out of my dirty postal code graphic shirt in front of Marisol. I brushed my hand over my right breast; it was as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, and so were my arms and armpits. I quickly put my hands to my face and chin. It, too, was soft and free of facial hair.

  “What are you doing?” Marisol asked.

  “No stubble. I know I had stubble earlier.”

  The doctor spoke, anxiously, “Are you sure?”

  I reached up for my head. My chestnut brown hair still remained. I checked my eyebrows. They were still there. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “How about below the chest?” he asked.

  “Below?” I asked.

  “Yes. I mean below,” the doctor affirmed.

  I had to be sure. I stood up. “Excuse me,” I said aloud, then unbuckled my EMT pants. I pulled back the
waistband of my underwear. “Holy crap.” I was as bald as a male porn star.

  “What’s wrong?” Marisol asked again.

  “Ahhhh…” I was slightly embarrassed to answer.

  David laughed.

  “Are you hurt, papi?” Marisol wanted to know, a reflection of concern in her voice once again.

  Joe blurted out, “He’s lost all his ball hair!”

  “Oh, God,” Julie said, slightly grossed out. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “It could have been worse,” David said. I didn’t know if he was being sincere. “You still have a head of hair…” He began to recite the refrain from the song Hair.

  “Really?” I asked, as he returned the pistol. The burden I had forced upon him had been lifted.

  His snickering subsided.

  Marisol put her hand on my bare shoulder and whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, I won’t mind.” She gave me a light, sensual kiss on the neck.

  A feeling of pleasure and wanting swept over me. But it was the wrong time in the wrong place. I put on a clean white t-shirt and cleaned out my rancid mouth by gargling with Jack Daniel’s. “Such a waste,” I spat out the liquid onto the ground, aiming at the drainage ditch. I took a long drink then realized I drank from the bottle. “Oh shit. Sorry, David. I forgot.”

  He motioned me to continue.

  I rinsed my mouth several more times, and took a few swallows. I finished off the bottle. “We’re going,” I said, as I tucked in my clean shirt. I suddenly became dizzy and was forced to prop myself against the wall.

  “Maybe you should rest a bit more,” Marisol told me.

  “No. Julie’s right. We need to get out of here.”

  The head rush subsided.

  “Where to?” David asked.

  Max barked. The doctor had partially snuck away, crawling up the tunnel about five yards.

  I announced, “We’re going to Dick’s lab.” I turned and pointed at the doctor. He got the message.

  “You’re nuts!” Joe said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “‘What is madness? To have erroneous perceptions and to reason correctly from them?’” David quoted.