TS Alan, author of The Romero Strain
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THE ROMERO STRAIN
By
TS Alan
“The
Romero Strain. Best zombie book I’ve ever read. It should be a movie... or a
mini series... or a game, or all of the above!” ~ Punchline Dvd OZ & NZ
- BOOKS of the DEAD -
This
book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in
this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely
coincidental.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the
purpose of reviews.
Graphic
Design by Derek Daley
Edited
by James Roy Daley & Paul A. Wiese
Cover
Art by Diego Candia
For
more information, contact: Besthorror@gmail.com
Visit
us at: Booksofthedeadpress.com
THE ROMERO STRAIN
Copyright
2014 by TS Alan
For
more information visit:
In Memoriam
David DiMinni
(1960 – 2003)
Special thanks to friend and editor Paul
A. Wiese
And my wife for everything
PART I
WHEN
DARKNESS FALLS
I. Book of
the unDead
My name is
J.D. and I am undead, or will be shortly. The virus that ravages this city has
infected me, and I am about to enter into phase three symptoms, or so I have
been told. By whom, I will explain shortly.
My fever
is high, and I can feel a chill running deep into my body with an accompanying
pain that pierces my stiffening muscles. My recollections of earlier hours are
a bit hazy, but I remember telling my dog Max to slow down and heel. Max is
well trained, but he sometimes forgets his place and gets excited when he knows
he’s heading home. I have to remind him, on those rare occasions, who the pack
leader is. My loyal friend is here next to me as I document this chronicle of
events. I write for history’s sake, if there is a future. Let this End of Days’
record enlighten anyone who may read it. Not all of humanity went out in a
miserable whimper, but as the expressions goes, kicking and screaming.
Or as I
did, kicking and killing.
II. A Virgin
amongst the Living Dead
It began
like any normal Monday morning in April, just a few days past my 28th
birthday. It was a mild day in New
York City–
We had
just come from the East
Village Park East River , crossing over the
pedestrian bridge at 10th
Street 12th Street
She was a
young schoolgirl, made obvious by the school uniform she was wearing, though
the uniform couldn’t hide her physical maturity. As she drew nearer, I could
see her well-developed chest through her partly undone white Peter Pan collar
blouse, bouncing vigorously on her slim frame. Her complexion was light brown.
Her hair, a deep rich, shining brunette, was pulled into a ponytail.
My
fixation distracted me momentarily from her pursuer, until a twinge of guilt,
slight as it was, told me she may look eighteen but was more likely thirteen.
Her loud screams and pleas for help jolted me out of my schoolgirl uniform
fantasy as she drew within feet of me.
I saw him
moving toward us as the girl grabbed my arm and hid behind me. His hurried
approach was more borderline lumbering than running. Max’s fur along the back
of his neck stood up. He was poised to lunge, snarling with his teeth bared,
ready to protect me if necessary. But I wasn’t too concerned. I knew how to
defend myself.
* * *
Being the
son of a police officer sucked. It did not earn me automatic respect. Having a
cop for a father earned me less respect than being the fat sloppy kid in
school. I was the skinny, dorky kid whose parents made him take ballet and
piano lessons. It wasn’t that my fellow classmates disliked the police; it was
the fact that when I first started getting picked on I used the My father is
a cop and if you don’t leave me alone he’s gonna kick your dad’s ass card
once too often. It wasn’t long before my tormentors realized I was full of
shit. It was true; I was full of shit, and I was called on it on a
regular basis.
My father
was not amused by my bragging, but was sympathetic to my dilemma. He decided I
needed to be taught how to defend myself, and took me to the YMCA every
Saturday for six months for kickboxing and self-defense lessons, which were
taught by one of his commanding officers. I was twelve. Having successfully
mastered the basics in kickboxing and self-defense techniques, my father
enrolled me in a Jeet Kune Do academy, the same place the police
department had sent him to train.
Some kids
get sent to summer camp to get away from the city, to enjoy nature, and so
their parents can have some privacy. My parents sent me to summer camp at The
Inosanto Academy of Martial Arts in Marina Del Rey, California
Having
learned practical elements of Kali, Eskrima, Jun Fan kung fu, Silat, and
advance elements of Jeet Kune Do, I returned home with a strong body and
a stronger will—will, not mind. I had embraced the physical aspects of Way
of the Intercepting Fist, but not the spiritual. Instead of being a
perpetual victim, I became the constant bully. I garnered the wrath of my
middle school teachers, and my father’s. He never allowed me to take another
lesson while under his roof. My bad attitude would continue into my early
twenties, when a fateful event brought upon an epiphany.
* * *
As the man
approached I could see he looked ill. His face was pale, grey, and drawn with a
few open sores. His eyes were sickly and glassy, but filled with a singular
intensity of doing me harm. Max barked and growled wildly. I had never seen such
an intensity of alarm from him. I gave his leash a tug and told him to be
silent.
The sickly
man drew within yards. I shouted for him to stop but he kept steadfast in his
intent to apprehend the girl. When he refused to yield and reached out for me;
I side-kicked him above the larynx, hard enough to put him down but not hard
enough to break the hyoid bone or tear any thyroid cartilage. I expected him to
drop to his knees, but he staggered back and lunged at me again. I snap-kicked
him square in the testicles, but nothing. I became concerned, very concerned.
If those two places didn’t bring him to his knees, he must have been completely
tweaked out. I was able to sidestep him on his third lunge and kick him in the
left kneecap. He went down hard, not even trying to brace his fall with his
hands. I had to do something quick, and kicking him again wasn’t going to do
it. I had the girl screaming in my ear and Max ready-to-go on my command, but I
wanted this guy for myself.
“Achterzijde,
blif,” I commanded, and Max stepped back. I stepped back a few feet and grabbed
a municipal green mesh garbage can, which stood next to the crosswalk light. I
hoisted it up and swung it, slamming it in the middle of his back. He went down
again; his face slammed on the sidewalk.
As quickly
as he fell he began to rise up.
“Stay
down!” I yelled, but he didn’t heed my warning. Again I slammed him squarely in
the upper lumbar region, but for a third time his fall only momentarily impeded
him. I raised the receptacle yet again, this time higher, and slammed it
against the back of his head. Down he went once more, his head thumping loudly
on the hard sidewalk. But like the previous times, it did not stop him from
rising. I couldn’t believe he was getting up again.
I lifted
the can nearly above my head, and as he was almost upright, I slammed it into
the upper side of his skull. The impact of the hard metal bottom support ring
slamming against his cranium was so devastating that it split his parietal bone
open. He finally collapsed. He lay twitching on the ground, brain matter
exposed, hemorrhaging a deep purple color.
“God damn
it!” I yelled, and turned to the girl, who was still screaming. “Shut up!” I
bellowed over her incessant, grating noise. I was pissed. My red ringer 10003
postal code t-shirt was ruined from all the shit that had slid out of the
trashcan while I was defending her, and all she could do was scream in my ear.
She stopped screaming and cried, which was a lesser irritation but still damn
annoying.
“What that
fuck is going on?”
“I don’t
know, I don’t know,” she sobbed repeatedly, and began to mutter rapidly in
Spanish. “Él intentó agarrarme. Él tenía ojos locos. Me separé de el y
comencé a correr. ¡Pero él me sigio! Grité y grité. ¡Pero nadie me ayudaría!
Entonces yo—”
“Hey, hey.
Inglés, chica. Inglés.” I interupted. “No puedo entenderte cuando
hablas asi.”
I was
surprised that a crowd hadn’t gathered. I looked around as I took out my cell
phone to dial 9-1-1 .
It was only 7:00 a.m. , but
someone should have been sticking his or her nose into this.
“I want to
report an emergency on Avenue C and 12th
Street , Manhattan
That was a
fucking weird question, I thought. I looked at the girl who Max was
comforting, or I should say, who Max was sucking up to. “Max, afstammen.
Broeden op.” He moved from the girl to me and sat down. “Logeren.”
The girl
looked puzzled by what I was saying, and a bit pissed that I called the dog
away from her. At least she had stopped sobbing.
“Señorita.
¿Cuál es tu nombre?”
“Marisol,”
she said.
Why? I thought.
Why the hell not! I just saved your life and most likely killed someone, and
you ask me why I want to know your name? “9-1-1 wants to know if you were bitten,” I
said, holding my tongue.
“Él
solamente me… on my arm. See,” she said as she revealed the
small scratch on her forearm. “See. A small scratch, no bites,” she assured me.
“No. No
bites, just a scratch on her arm. Yeah. Yeah, all right.”
“What did
they say?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“He
said wait here for a patrol car.”
“Why did he
ask if I was bit?” Now she was being a smart-ass. A little spunk in her after
all.
“Yeah.
Weird, huh? Didn’t seem to interested in the assailant, just if we got bit.
That is kind of weird.”
I could
hear the police sirens growing closer.
His
name was Johnson, Lieutenant John Johnson from the 9th Precinct. He
was tall with sandy-blonde hair, an attractive, well-groomed and well-built man
in his thirties. His uniform held the regalia of a highly decorated officer.
They had dispatched the patrol supervisor for me––a sensible, no thrills,
by-the-book, cop. I’d known the lieutenant for years; he had been my CPR
instructor. He was a dot your i and cross
your t type of cop. Sometimes he could be a ball buster. He was tough but
good-hearted, and I had admiration and respect for him even though he could
come across as abrasive and curt at times.
John
taught me to recognize the signs, symptoms, and how to treat people who were in
shock. He also taught me the procedure
for dealing with an emotionally disturbed patient. Obviously, that was
something I had forgotten. Not only was he a highly respected and qualified
officer, but a highly qualified and respected emergency medical technician.
What,
where, how, why, when… had I seen the girl before, had I seen the assailant
before… did either of us come in physical contact with our assailant? The charm
of his personality was overwhelming. Meanwhile, Marisol was talking to a hot
looking Spanish cop named Rodriquez. Just a patrol officer; no medals on her
chest, but her uniform was nicely filled anyways.
An
ambulance finally arrived. It was a FDNY emergency vehicle. I expected the Beth
Israel Hospital ambulance that parked on Avenue B between 13th and
14th Street, in front of Brother’s Candy & Grocery—the team I
saw every morning as Max and I walked from 13th Street North on
Avenue B to 14th Street—but it wasn’t.
“Look,
Lieutenant. I’m fine,” I repeated for the fourth time. “Can I go now? I have a
job I need to go to.”
I
lied. I didn’t have to go to work. I was on medical leave for several months
due to a job related injury I suffered during a collision when responding to a
call. No, I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t the heroic type. Well, let me rephrase that.
I wasn’t heroic enough to constantly put myself in harm’s way, like my father,
who had been a patrolman and later worked in the NYPD Ballistics lab. I was an EMT -P for Saint Vincent ’s
Manhattan
* * *
I
loved working as a paramedic, especially at Saint Vincent ’s.
I worked the 4 p.m. to midnight shift, drove around in a
state-of-the-art paramedic ambulance and helped people. Saint
Vincent ’s Hospital Manhattan was a member of the EMS Emergency Ambulance Service and responsible for
ambulance and emergency services in a four and a half square mile area of the
lower Westside. Saint Vincent ’s was also a New York State
The
trauma center was the reason I chose to work at Saint
Vincent ’s. Seven years ago I ended up in their emergency room. The
how and why wasn’t important; just say it was a lack of any kind of judgment in
my youth which brought me there via ambulance. After that incident I had a life
altering revelation, and needed to
get my shit together. I tried applying to the Paramedic Education Program at Saint Vincent ’s Institute of Emergency Care EMT -B—B
for basic. I had my mind set on being a paramedic, so I applied to the EMT -B program and was accepted. Knowing my grades
were less than stellar in high school and community college, I was only
accepted because of the great recommendations my father’s friends wrote—all
cops. As a thank you, I proved my worth by graduating at the top of my class in
both EMT -B and EMT -P, a paramedic.
* * *
“No,
not yet,” he sternly said. “I need to let the paramedics look you over first.”
Since
he helped train me, I wanted to say, Lieutenant,
are you saying a Beth Israel EMT
are more qualified to render a diagnosis than me? I didn’t. Instead, “I’m
fine.”
“You’re not fine until Beth Israel gives you the clear.
Once—”
He
stopped speaking when he heard his radio. There was a disturbance a few avenues
away.
“10-34…
10-34. 14th Street First Avenue
He
turned his radio down.
A few
people had finally gathered around while one ambulance attendant covered the
body. Officer Rodriquez commanded the small crowd of onlookers to stand back.
God she was hot when she was forceful.
Marisol
was getting bandaged, a lot of gauze for such a little scratch. With all the
weirdness going on, the Gestapo insisted that I be examined for a non-existent
injury. The fact that the lieutenant was more interested in what the
perpetrator may have done to us, instead of what I had done to the assailant,
should have given me a clue.
I was
wasting my time arguing with him. After all, he was a cop and I was the guy who
just smashed someone’s head in. If he wanted me examined for an injury I didn’t
have, I should have shut up, before getting myself in real trouble… for killing
someone.
As I
approached the ambulance, I saw what appeared to be a man and woman briskly
approaching the scene. I wasn’t sure if the man was chasing the woman or if
they were advancing together. They were a block away, moving from the east
toward us. Perhaps more gawkers; after all, accidents attract the morbidly
curious. I waited for the paramedic to finish with Marisol. Rubber gloves, a
mask and eye goggles? That was certainly overkill.
I
looked again toward the on-comers. “Oh, fuck,” I said in disbelief. “Hey, hey
Johnson,” I yelled and pointed. “Two more!” I grabbed Marisol and pulled her
away from the back of the vehicle. Max growled. He could smell them.
“Wait! She has to go—”
They
came toward the ambulance. The woman knocked Marisol’s paramedic down like a
wolf bringing down its prey. He never had a chance to finish his sentence. She
tore at his larynx with wild abandon and voraciousness. He screamed, but his
screams quickly turned to muffled gurgles as his throat was ripped away from
his neck.
IV. Run Away, Run Away!
The man
came at Officer Rodriquez in a frenzy; his eyes were milky and his flesh was
pale and blistered. She didn’t have time to reach for her gun. She was on the
ground writhing in pain as the man bit into her throat. The crowd and the
second EMT ran, but were
intercepted by another wild-eyed man coming from the other end of the street.
Screams of terror and panic pierced the morning louder than Marisol’s had.
Officer Johnson tried to pull Rodriquez’s attacker off her, but he was too
late. She laid victim to the predator; her throat ripped open, blood gurgling
from a deep hole and the surrounding lacerations.
Johnson
didn’t know what he was in for. The crazed man turned from his meal and looked
at Johnson with disdain through his clouded eyes. Johnson stepped back, pulled
his duty carry pistol as the man stood up, and put four rounds into his chest.
The man stepped a foot back, but did not fall. Johnson again aimed, this time
for the head, and with another loud report he connected with the kill zone. The
man’s head blew apart as the nine-millimeter bullet ripped a path through the
frontal bone and out the parietal.
But
Johnson had made a mistake. He momentarily looked at Rodriquez after he made
sure the assailant was down for good. In his moment of disbelief, the
aberration that had attacked Marisol’s EMT
ravenously set upon him. The lieutenant had just begun to turn away from his
fallen partner when the she-beast jumped on him, knocking his pistol from his
hand. The gun slid along the roadway toward the police cruiser.
The
thing bit into his jugular as it held fast to him, clamping its legs around
him, frantically trying to keep Johnson from pulling its biting mouth away from
his neck. Johnson spun around several times. The attack set him off balance. He
fell to the ground as the creature gnawed his neck.
I
called Max to follow as I grabbed Marisol. I heard that Monty Python line
inside my head about running away. But there was no escape. We were momentarily
caught in between two crazies from the east and one from the west, and I had a
bad feeling it wouldn’t be long before there would be more. We slunk down in
front of the squad car. I corrected Max for growling and told Marisol she
needed to be silent and do exactly what I said if she wanted to live. I had no
illusions that it was going to be an easy out. I’ve had idiots on the subway
try to pick fights with me because they thought they had the right to get on
the car before I could get off. I’ve had punk-ass kids try to fuck with me in
front of my own doorway, just because there were six of them, they had been
drinking, and were looking for trouble. Those situations paled compared to the
one I was in then. Idiots and jackasses were one thing; crazed, murdering
cannibals were another.
Officer
Johnson’s dislodged pistol had slid along the roadway, stopping feet from the
front driver’s side tire. It was a Glock 19.
The
NYPD Glock 19 had twelve pound NYPD connectors, meaning it had a twelve pound
trigger pull for safety, with a magazine capacity of fifteen rounds, not including
the one in the chamber. The NYPD issued the Gold Dot hollow-point 9mm cartridge
by CCI Speer, because my father found it to be satisfyingly powerful on the street. Unfortunately, it
wouldn’t stop the creatures unless I knew where to aim, as John had found out.
I knew
a few things about a Glock 19, not because I was a weapons’ aficionado, or had
ever fired one, but because my father carried one. In my line of duty, I had
seen the damage the weapon could do to someone. I needed to get the pistol and get
the hell out of there.
Out.
But to where? No time to think. Time to run. The things were engaged. I grabbed
Marisol’s hand.
“Let’s
go.”
We
began our departure, stealthy and silent as not to be noticed. We were nearly
clear of the car when Marisol let go of my hand. She turned from me and went to
the sidewalk where Officer Rodriquez lay.
Two
creatures were further down the sidewalk, engorging themselves on several
bystanders that had run south along the avenue trying to escape. The other was
still feeding on Lieutenant Johnson, several yards from Rodriquez.
Marisol
glanced at me.
I gave
her a look that said, What the fuck are
you doing?
She
bent over the bloody, shredded corpse and unholstered the pistol. The she-beast
looked up and spotted fresh meat. Marisol raised the pistol and pointed it,
trying to fire. The gun did nothing. The safety was on.
Rodriguez’s
weapon was a Smith & Wesson LE Duty Carry pistol finished in satin steel.
It used 9mm Parabellum ammunition, but had fully ambidextrous safety levers and
an external hammer, unlike a Glock pistol, which employed three internal safety
mechanisms, all based on the trigger that prevented the gun from firing if it
was dropped or jolted. I doubted Marisol knew the differences, let alone how to
aim a pistol.
A shot
rang out. Dead bang to the head. It was a lucky shot. I had never fired a
pistol before. Marisol wet herself. The urine ran down her leg and onto her
sock.
“I
think—” she began to say, embarrassed.
“I
see,” I said, before she could finish. Lucky that had been the worst thing that
happened. “Let’s go.”
The
other two looked up, but were too engaged in their dining to give chase.
I took
Marisol by the hand, holding it tight, letting the strength of my grip show her
that I was not going to allow such recklessness to happen again. “Max, fuss,” I whispered, as we picked up our
pace and headed toward the Con Edison power station directly up the street.
V. The Electric Company
It was
Wonka-esque in the old days. The old, dreary energy factory with its four big
smoke stacks looming high into the East River
sky. Its old, worn brick exterior walls aged with stains of weathered time now
gone, replaced and expanded with a structural steel fabrication, a façade of
prefabricated panels of red and black faux brick. It was called the East River
Repowering Project; the commercial operation of the renovated facility began in
April of 2005, when the second of two state-of-the-art, natural-gas-fired steam
generators began providing power to the electricity grid.
Before
the project, conEd gave tours of the facility. Post-9/11 they discontinued
them. I had toured the facility once, fascinated by the old turbines and the
piping that ran out of the facility and under the streets of New York IRT East Side
Line, where the 6 Train turns around to go uptown, and the forgotten
Atlantic Avenue Subway Tunnel, which led me to the power station tour.
* * *
A car
came tearing down the street, honking its horn wildly and weaving erratically.
The male driver waved his hand back in forth like he was trying to tell us to
get out of his way, but we were on the sidewalk. He continued speeding north up
Avenue C, past the main entrance to the facility. Something was amiss as we
approached the main gate. I didn’t see anyone walking around inside the
enclosed area. It was early Monday morning, but in a busy complex I expected to
see someone outside.
The
chain-link fence was closed and locked. A blue and white striped Con Edison
pickup truck sat across the entranceway near the guard shack to prevent
unwanted intruders. As we reached the main gate, I saw the door to the small,
dirty white, aluminum-sided guardhouse open, and there appeared to be no one
sitting behind the wheel of the pickup truck, which seemed wrong.
I
looked down 14th Street
I
thought about crossing the street and going to the auto parts store for
sanctuary. Once inside I could call 9-1-1 again. But if I wanted immediate assistance, perhaps
rescue, I needed a place that the police would respond to immediately. Whether
anyone at the generating plant believed my story or not, gaining unauthorized
access to one of the main suppliers of the city’s electrical grids would get
the NYPD to us quicker than flies on shit.
As we
crossed in front of the gate, I thought I saw a shadow under the truck. I moved
swiftly but cautiously to the employee entrance, which lay to the left of the
eight-foot fence. The walkway led to a small building, which looked more like a
kid’s clubhouse than a storage shed. The checkpoint served as an employee
entrance and visitors’ entrance. Inside I would find at least one guard
checking identification and doing bag inspections.
As we
rounded the gate to the walkway, I could not see anyone through the large
window to the right of the door. The white two-panel steel entry door was ajar. I approached the doorway
cautiously. Max halted and let out a low growl. I raised the pistol up and I
put an index finger to my lips to let Marisol know to be silent. “Ruhig,” I whispered to Max. His
growling ceased.
I
expected to be attacked by a mob of the undead before I could breach the
doorway. Yes, that was what I decided they were. Just like those Romero films I
loved. Had I missed something? If I had been working, would I have been aware
of the uprising? If I had watched the news the night before, or turned it on
before I took Max out, would I have known to barricade myself inside my
apartment instead of venturing out? What if? Well, what if didn’t matter. It had come, Dawn of the Dead. And I was about to jump from the frying pan and
into the—
They
were dead. Blood and flesh was splattered all over the white semi-gloss walls
and pooling on the floor. It wasn’t like the movies. There were fewer
dismembered body parts and exposed organs and more lacerated flesh with chunks
torn out with teeth. Less Hollywood
Marisol
entered, took one look, and quickly exited. I heard her projectile vomiting on
the sidewalk. Funny, she didn’t have a problem taking the pistol from
Rodriquez, but the sight of blood pooling with chunks of flesh sickened her.
She
came back in. “I can’t go any further,” she said.
“What?” You wanna stay and be meat?”
“No,
that’s not it. I got to change.”
“Change?” I said, confused by her
announcement.
“Yes,
change. I can’t go any further. I’m wet.”
“Now?”
I exclaimed, keeping my voice low. “You gotta change now?”
“Yes.”
She walked behind the low counter where the guards conducted their bag
searches, took her backpack off, and opened it. “Turn around.”
“Turn
around? Turn around why?”
“Don’t
be stupid. You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to look.”
“Ah,
Jesus. You’ll change in the middle of dead people, but you’re afraid I’ll sneak
a peek at your cooch. Unbelievable.”
I
turned away. “Max. Pas op,” I said,
pointing to the opposite door. “Hey, wait. You might need this.” I took off my
backpack, opened it, and pulled out a packet of Nice ’N Clean antibacterial hand-wipes. “Make it
fast. We’re going back to 14th
Street
She
smiled and made little circles with her index finger indicating for me to turn
around.
I
could hear her behind me as she undressed. My curiosity at what she had in her
bag, and the fact that I hadn’t seen a naked woman in over a year, got the best
of me. I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of the most perfect ass I
had ever seen.
“How
old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
Her
response had not been immediate, and I was not completely sure if she had been
truthful.
“Fifteen.
Shit,” I said, with slight disappoint in my tone, and feeling like a pedophile.
“Why?”
“Ah,
no reason.”
She
asked, “How come you know Spanish? You fluent?”
“Part
of my job. I’m a paramedic for Saint Vincent ’s
Hospital. I speak some Cantonese, but my Spanish is better.” I heard a zipper
go up. “You done?”
“Almost.
You can turn around now.”
She
had changed into a pair of faded stonewashed blue Levis Columbia
“Where
do you live?” I asked, as she began tying the laces to her black Air Jordan
“Why?”
she asked with suspicion.
I
retorted, “Why is everything why with
you? Every time I ask you something, it’s why!
How about, because I want to know?”
“Okay.”
I
waited a moment for her to answer the question but she didn’t; I asked again. “So?”
“I
live on—” A look of extreme fear came over her. She realized in all the mayhem
she had forgotten about her family. “Oh, my God. ¡Mi madre!” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket.
I
could hear the voice on the phone stating that all circuits were busy, please
call again later. Marisol cursed in Spanish, eyeing the phone like the operator
could hear her. She looked up at me and sobbed. She walked to me and put her
arms around me. She wanted comfort and reassurance that her family were fine,
but I couldn’t give it. I didn’t know if her family were fine, or even if mine
were all right. I held her for a moment, then Max growled.
I
quickly let her go, and approached Max. I looked through the window on the door
but saw nothing. Max continued his low growl. “Gute hund, Max. Gute hund.”
I still saw no one, but by the way Max was reacting I knew there was something
out there.
Marisol
spoke from behind me in a concerned tone, “There are people coming.”
“I
don’t see anyone.” I misunderstood what she was trying to tell me.
“No.
This way!”
I
turned around and saw Marisol pointing out the front door. There were people
moving swiftly toward the complex. Alive or undead, I didn’t know; they were
too far away, but I wasn’t about to wait and find out.
“Marisol,
time to go.”
I
walked toward Max. “Fuss,” I said, as
I opened the door. I followed Max out, and held the door for Marisol, but she
was not directly behind me.
“Marisol,”
I snapped.
She
grabbed her nearly forgotten backpack and locked the front entrance door.
“Marisol!
Now!” She ran to me and out the door. “Not too fast, let Max lead.”
Ahead
of us the open area of the complex stretched all the way to FDR Drive
There
was the driver, half hanging out the truck, his body dangling and twitching as
his attacker gnawed on an arm. He had been unable to escape. His leg was caught
in the steering wheel.
The
creature looked up and stopped chewing. It wanted fresh meat.
“Run!”
I cried. “Schnell, Max. Fuss!”
We ran
hard and fast. We came to the entryway of the main building. It was open. He
was almost upon us. Marisol went in, followed by Max. I tumbled to the pavement
as I was set upon. The gun flew from my hand and landed just out of reach. I
struggled to keep his mouth away. I held on firmly with both hands around his throat,
trying to strangle him. This would not be a deterrent, but I hoped to hold him
back from ripping out my throat. He frantically tried to kill me, whipping his
arms and hands at me in a frenzied fit. He scratched at my face. I didn’t know
if he had penetrated my skin, but I felt a sting.
I
couldn’t punch him in the face, for if I did there was the possibility of
lacerating my knuckles on his teeth, so I began to elbow strike him on the side
of the head. For a moment the blows disoriented him, enough for me to scoot my
body over those few extra inches to reach the pistol. I shoved it in his mouth
and blew out the back of his head.
I saw
Marisol with weapon in hand. The gun was aimed at me. She had a frightened look
on her face.
“I
tried to shoot it,” she said, her voice quivering. “But the gun won’t work.”
I
responded, “Yours has an external safety. I’ll show you later.”
She
lowered the weapon. “You got some blood on your face.”
“Shit.
Just tell me it’s my own,” I replied in an agitated tone. “Damn it!” Then I
kicked the creature.
“It’s
okay. I can wipe it off,” she said in a calming and reassuring voice, as she
took out a hand-wipe and cleaned my face.
“You
don’t understand. Is there any on my eyes or mouth?”
She
assured, “No, no. You’re okay.”
“Not
if it got in my eyes or mouth. Shit, what about the scratch on my face?”
“Scratch?
It’s just a little mark.”
“Are
you sure?” I demanded to know. “Is the skin broken?”
She
couldn’t understand my concern. “Why are you freakin’ out? It’s nothing.” She
finished cleaning my face and tossed the towelette to the ground.
“You
don’t understand. If blood gets into your system, you can turn into one of
them.”
“What?
Now you’re buggin’!”
“You
have no clue to what’s going on. Those crazy people. They’re the undead. And
you can get infected through blood or saliva.”
“That’s
crazy,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes, it is.” I confirmed, with deep
sincerity in my voice.
“What? How do you know this? I was
bleeding, remember?” She held out her overly bandaged arm. She began to panic.
“I don’t want to be one of those things. I don’t want to be—”
I
interrupted. “You’re buggin’. You didn’t get bit, right?”
“No.”
“Then
chill. You’re fine. I should know. I’m a paramedic, remember?”
“But—”
“No buts. Time to go.”
I
moved toward the door.
“No.
We can’t go that way. There are more bodies.”
“You
wanna go back that way?” I pointed to the way we came. Then I saw them: the
legion of dead at the gate. “Fuck,” I said, with slight disbelief and despair
in my voice. I had become so self-involved that I had forgotten about the mob.
Max
wasn’t with us.
“Where’s
Max?” I asked, looking around.
He was
behind the closed door. I looked at Marisol disapprovingly. “Kommen,” I said, opening the door. “Gute Hund. Gute Max.” I affectionately
roughed up his fur behind his ears, and turned to Marisol. “We go in.”
“I
don’t want to go in there,” she replied, despondently. She was frightened but
so was I.
“Look,”
I told her. “The barbarians are at the gate.”
“What
about the pickup?”
“You
wanna check out the pickup, go ahead. I’m going in. Your choice!” Max and I
entered the building.
Marisol
was right. There were dead bodies. And no one behind the reception counter to
the right as we entered. The door opened behind me. I was startled. I whipped
around with pistol in hand. Marisol screamed.
I said
nothing as I surveyed the area.
“Where
are we going?” she said, as I moved to an intersection of corridors.
“I’m
not sure. It’s all changed.”
“Changed?”
she inquired. “You’ve been here before?”
“January 22nd, 2000 .
But this part of the building wasn’t here then. Must have been part of the
repowering project a few years back.”
“I
remember the crane. It was huge.”
There
was a big corridor ahead of us. I hoped it would lead to the old section of the
building.
“We
can’t stay… this way.”
The
corridor led us to two blue-colored, double-leaf
doors, like the ones at the entrance of a cinema. As I pushed the doors
away from me, they struck something. I looked through the long and thin glass
window on the right door. There was a body blocking our entry. I pushed the
right door away from me again, hard and fast. It struck the body and swung back
a few inches. I grabbed the door before it could swing closed and pulled it
toward me. The human doorstop was a cop.
ConEdison
had started contracting off-duty uniformed police officers for security through
the NYPD Paid Detail Unit, like many other places in the City of New York
He was
dead. He had bled out. I took his weapon from him and removed the ammo clip. My
father used to say, If you don’t have a
backup, you don’t have a plan. I stuck the clip in my pocket and left the
pistol.
The
turbine room was three floors. The main level, which we were on, was level two.
The first level, below us, was where the generators stood. The floor above was
the third level, which I knew nothing about. The entire inner structure was
open-concept, surrounded by railings and staircases. I looked over the
guardrail, down into the abyss.
One
hundred plus miles of steam mains stretched from Lower
Manhattan to 96th
Street
I had
read that they had bored a tunnel, twelve feet in diameter, up First Avenue 20th Street 36th Street 14th Street First Avenue
The
BMT Canarsie Line (Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation), known to New York
City urbanites as the L Train, ran directly under the power station, from
Brooklyn, under the East River, to Manhattan’s First Avenue Station. We could
use the tunnel system to make an escape and find help.
“We’re
not going down there,” Marisol said, half asking and half stating.
I
replied, nonchalantly, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“There’s
that why again!” I shook my head
disapprovingly.
I took
her hand and she followed, for the first time without hesitation. I spoke in a
whisper as we walked toward the stairs, ever über-vigilant.
“Ever
walk up Avenue C and see those big conEd manhole covers, or the grates in the
sidewalk at First Avenue
“Yes.”
“Some
of them are emergency exits for the MTA
and some are access points for conEd tunnels. There’s a huge tunnel below that
can take us west along the L line or north along the FDR. So down we go.”
We
ascended the stairs quietly as possible. Max covered our backs.
VI.
Tunnel Vision
Goddamn
it! It was my cell phone. And the ring was on full volume. The Reno
After
having served twenty-two years with the New York Police Department, my father
moved out west to Arizona
The
only relaxing he did was ride motorcycles, watch The Colbert Report, and re-runs of Reno Reno Reno
I
answered as quickly as I could. “Dad?” I tried to be quiet as I spoke. “Dad.
Are you all right… what do you mean? What did you hear?”
Marisol
pulled on the waist of my shirt. I ignored her.
“No, I
didn’t hear that… I’m fine. Yes, I’ll make sure I stay in and not answer… Dad?
Dad? Shit!”
I lost
the connection as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was 6:21 a.m. in Arizona
Marisol
tugged harder on my shirt. I heard low growls from Max. Marisol pointed up. They had heard and they were hungry.
I
grabbed Marisol’s hand and ran. “Schnell,
schnell!”
They
were coming down the stairs from the top level and the level we had just
descended. As we ran between two GE gas turbines we saw several partly eaten
technicians sprawled out on the floor in bloody pools.
Ahead
of us more corpses were hidden behind machinery. There was a guard surrounded
by several of the undead. Apparently he had managed to fend off a few attackers
before he succumbed to overwhelming odds. I saw Marisol eyeing a pistol on the
ground. I pulled on her arm, telling her to ignore it, as we ran around the
carcasses.
We
were nearly grabbed from the opposite side of the large turbine to our left. As
he lunged for us, he slipped in his victim’s blood, lost his balance, and fell
over one of his fellow undead, crashing to the ground. We ran straight ahead,
never slowing to look.
From
the main turbine room I could see the pipes overhead running north, then
jutting east and west in an area ahead of us. It was the way to the 14th Street 14th Street
As we
headed north, passing from one tunnel section to the next, the piping ran into
a ceiling abutment and disappeared, only to reappear on the northern side of
the next section. It made a downward slope as the tunnel narrowed in height and
width.
We
reached a section, maybe fourteen by fourteen feet wide. It was well-lit, but
not as bright as before. Five figures stood in the tunnel talking to one
another as we advanced. The tunnel turned in a northwesterly direction, thirty
feet or so from where they stood. Several flashlights were flickering back and
forth along the eastern part of the wall and along the ceiling. Since I didn’t
think the undead used flashlights, I felt it safe to proceed.
They
stopped whatever inspection they were doing as they saw our hurried approach.
It was easy for them to hear us as we neared. A man, his dog, and a girl
running through a large subterranean tunnel caused echoes, plus the sight of us
would be unusual.
They
stood in our way, blocking our escape. One guy outstretched his arm and put up
his hand like a traffic cop giving direction to halt. Two women stood behind
three men, forming a barricade.
“Stop!
Where do you think you’re going?”
“Get
out of the way or my dog will rip your balls off!” I demanded.
“No,”
he responded, authoritatively.
A
stocky, little man with black hair raised up a big Maglite flashlight, as a
threat for us to stop.
Marisol
pleaded. “Please, they’re coming. They’ll kill us.”
“You’re
not going anywhere, miss. How did you get down here?” Maglite man demanded to
know. He appeared to be the one in charge.
I
raised the pistol, pointed it at them, and spewed one of my favorite lines from
Scarface. It was Al Pacino’s line
that referenced saying hello to a little friend. The jackass with the Maglite,
whose ID badge read Anthony DiVincenzo, moved back. So much for being in
charge.
Deliberate,
slow clapping came from a tall, medium-built man with dirt-blonde hair and a
beard. There was a badass intensity about him.
“You
think that’s funny, jackwagon,” I asked, not the least amused.
“Yes,”
he replied, snidely. “Nice Tony Montana imitation… I have one for you. He rattled off a line that ended with caution and flammable.”
I
didn’t know to what he was referencing. “What?”
I
pointed the pistol at him. He wasn’t intimidated. He was either stupid or
thought he could take me.
“Don’t
know that line? Try Bubba Ho-Tep. If
you shoot that pistol in here and miss, you could rupture a natural gas line.”
Bruce
Campbell was one of my favorite actors. I met him once at a book signing. I had
watched Bubba Ho-Tep several times,
but I didn’t remember the line from the film. Strange that out of all the films
about shooting a weapon off around a gas pipeline, he chose that one.
I
could get to like anyone who could reference dialog from a movie, especially if
it was a line I didn’t know, and I knew a myriad of lines. Too bad he’d
probably be dead in a few minutes. And so would we, if we didn’t keep moving.
“No
time for chit-chat, gotta run!” I said. I pointed the pistol at them, trying to
be menacing, hoping it would scare them enough to get out of the way so
Marisol, Max, and I could make a rapid escape.
“Hey,
pal. Put the gun down before you hurt someone,” a well-groomed All-American
ordered. He was clean-shaven and wore a work uniform that was too sterile to be
anything but a supervisor. His name was Jack Blas-something-or-other. I
couldn’t completely read his identification badge.
Somewhere
in The Journal of General Psychology
or perhaps The American
Journal of Sociology, there was a chapter relating to the
collective phenomena of the behavior of groups. An important concept in this
area was deindividuation––a reduced state of self-awareness that can be caused
by feelings of anonymity. Deindividuation was associated with uninhibited and
sometimes dangerous behavior. It was common in crowds and mobs, and could also
be caused by a uniform, alcohol, dark environments, or online anonymity.
It was
not a mob mentality driving the group to uninhibited and dangerous behavior. It
was their strength in numbers, the authoritarian uniform, and the low-lit
environment.
Perhaps
they were pissed off and felt threatened by me finding them fucking around on
the job. In any case, the men were trying to get in my face.
“Hey,
hero,” I said loudly, pointing the pistol at Jack. “Fuck you!”
He
jumped back.
Max
could sense my anger and frustration with them. He crouched into his
ready-to-attack stance. His lips curled back as he growled.
“I’m
calling security. You don’t belong down here,” DiVincenzo threatened, as he
moved to a wall phone and picked it up.
“You
think I’m down here for some hot sex on a steam pipe with the girlfriend?” I
asked him. “Just walked right by security to take the dog for a fucking walk?”
I grabbed Marisol’s hand and we bolted.
I
heard DiVincenzo shouting, “Guess I won’t have too. Here comes security!”
We
looked back and saw three undead proceeding toward them.
“Oh,
no,” Marisol gasped.
“Run,”
I shouted. “Just run!”
Fuck you very much! I
thought. Those idiots had about sixty seconds to live. I heard a girl scream as
we fled up the tunnel, and I knew it was over for them.
I
didn’t look back again.
I
wasn’t sure where I was going, but the little pit-stop we were forced to make
could have cost us dearly. As horrible as the thought was, I hoped those things
stopped to snack for a while. I was wrong. I could hear three sets of footsteps
rapidly approaching from behind. I couldn’t outrun them with Marisol in tow.
The smart thing to do would be to get rid of the girl. But Confucius had taught
me, To know what is right, and not to do
it, is the worst cowardice. I chose the honorable thing, as before, to
defend her.
“Marisol,”
I said, panting. “When I tell you, let go of my hand and keep running.
Understand? Don’t look back!”
“What
are you going to do?”
“Don’t
worry. Just run, understand?”
“Si.”
“Ready…
NOW !”
She
kept going. Max and I halted and turned, my pistol raised to fire.
“NO.
Don’t shoot!” A voice rang out. It was the Bruce Campbell fan, Jackass, and a
dark-haired Asian girl.
I
didn’t miss a beat. As soon as I saw all three were of the living, I started to
run with the others on my heels.
“Blondie
and Maglite-man toast?” I asked, as Bruce caught up.
He
responded, “More like pulled pork.”
The
tunnel ahead was smaller. As we ran into the section, Bruce slapped something
on the tunnel wall. I heard mechanical sounds from behind. My curiosity got the
better of me; I glanced back for a look.
Two
large stainless steel doors were sliding together. I could only see one of the
creatures and it was attempting to squeeze through the door as it shut. As the
two pieces of the gate came together, it sheared the man-thing’s legs off
between the pelvis and knees. It fell, landing on its head.
Glancing
back, I could see it spinning in circles as it propped its upper torso up with
its arms. Round and round it moved, either dazed or brain damaged from the
fall.
Bruce
yelled, “Stop, STOP,” between his panting. “It’s okay. The doors are shut.”
“Nice
job with the blast doors,” I said, also panting—just slightly—trying to breathe
normally.
“They’re
not blast doors,” Bruce replied. “They’re security doors with ISO 9001:2000
locking mechanisms.”
“What?”
“ISO…
the International Organization for Standardization. It’s a worldwide—”
“No,
that’s not what I meant. You told me they were blast doors.”
“No, I
didn’t.”
I
looked at him with confusion, as I took off my backpack and reached in for some
water. “But you quoted that Bubba Ho-Tep
line.” I passed the water bottle to Marisol. “This isn’t a gas tunnel?”
“No,
dude. It’s a water supply feeder for the steam generators. But don’t worry. The
doors are blast and fire resistant as well as rated for a fifteen minute
dedicated attack duration,” he reassured. “Those guys aren’t getting in.”
I called
Max to my side and retrieved his bowl from his pack. Marisol poured him some
water.
“Listen,
Bruce—” I began, but was quickly corrected.
“David,”
he said.
“David. Those aren’t guys,” I informed
him.
“Then
who are those guys,” Jack asked.
I
glared at him with a go-fuck-yourself
look, and turned back to David. “You’d never believe me.”
“Try
me.”
I
paused and shook my head. “Okay,” I said, knowing they weren’t going to believe
me no matter how I said it. “They’re the living dead,” I announced, in a wry
and chilling tone.
“What?” Jack exclaimed in
disbelief. “You’re crazy! You watch that zombie festival on television last
night? Now you think the world’s coming to an end?” he mockingly taunted.
“As a
matter of fact, I did. So what?”
I could understand that the dead coming back to life
and attacking the living was an absurd concept for most people. But belief in
the Resurrection, and the raising of Lazarus––though no historical proof of the
events exists––was completely fathomable and accepted by billions of people who
never witnessed it. It was an absurd concept, but I didn’t disbelieve it,
either.
No one could conceive or imagine all the wonders and
horrors in the world. Had I ever seen fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course
not, but that’s not proof that they are not there. So why can’t the dead come
back to life without the intervention of God?
The
Asian girl asked, “Are you for real?”
“I’m
joking?” I asked. “If you don’t believe me, sweet cheeks, ask her,” I gestured
toward Marisol.
She
saw the frightened look on Marisol’s face, then looked at me. “It’s Julie. And
I think you’re lying. I think you’re one of those killers and she’s afraid of
you!”
“What!?” I exploded.
Marisol
interjected, bitterly denouncing Julie’s act of stupidity. “Were you born
retarded, or were you born and then became retarded?”
I
thought I heard that somewhere before.
“Do I
look like I was kidnapped? You’re so stupid. You almost got eaten by some dead
people, puta, and you think he’s a killer? ¡Bolla de idiotas pendejos! If he wanted to kill you he would have
shot you.” Marisol looked at me. “Debemos irnos. No los necesitamos. Dejalos
que se pudran en el infierno. Pajúos.”
“What
is she saying?” Julie asked, directing her question at her coworkers.
David
replied, “Something about leaving the assholes behind.”
Julie
was irritated and frustrated. “Well… Diu gau lei, ju hai.”
“Suck ju lei go see fut long,” I
yelled at her. She was taken aback. She gave me a bewildered look. “Yes, I
understand Cantonese,” I told her.
“Enough
of the bullshit,” Jack demanded. “And enough of the zombie crap.” He was clearly trying to irritate me, even more than
he had all ready. “There are no zombies, there are no dead people walking
around. It’s a couple of––”
End of
sample
* * *
* *
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