The Romero Strain (11 page)

“Did you get it? Did you kill the thing that got me?” the dying man asked.

“I did, Mr. Hastings”

“Call me Deano.”

“Dino, like the dinosaur?”

“No. Deano like… Dean and… o.” He paused. “You gotta go.”

“I know. But I need to take care of you first.”

“You don’t understand… we thought… we were safe. But…”

Marisol held her hands over her face as he spoke. She was pale with fear. “Deano. Who’re we? Who was with you?”

“Tactical officers… and Tim. Tim McGarry. They took him. Maybe more… I don’t know. They got me, too. You got him, right?”

“Yes, Deano. I got him. I swear.”

He cried, “They ate my legs. I have no arms.”

He grew silent for a moment. Tears streamed down his face. He was trying desperately to live. But he would bleed out. I needed to end his pain. I pulled out the pistol.

I heard Max’s low growls.

“It got me,” he said again. “Don’t let them get you. You gotta hide… gotta hide.”

“Yes, Deano. It’s okay. We’re going to Grand Central. We’ll be safe there.” I turned to David and spoke softly. “Can you see what Max is up too?”

“Not safe. Gone. But… there’s a maintenance tunnel. Take… my keys.”

He continued, struggling to speak, in excruciating pain, as I removed the keys from his broken belt.

David returned. “They’re at the 33
rd
Street gates. A dozen of them at least.”

They had heard Julie’s screaming and my gunshots.

“At the end of the platform,” Deano gasped. “The last green door… a tunnel under the platform. The blue… capped key.”

I looked toward the northern end of the platform to where the 33
rd
Street exit was. The undead were accumulating behind the gates.

“No. South,” he gasped. “Go… go now.”

“Thank you, Deano.”

I put the pistol to his head. I pulled the trigger.

The sound of gunfire drove them to frenzy. There were more than the dozen David had reported. By the time he had returned, they had broken through the large metal gates that barred the entrances to the stairwells. More of them had joined the others and were tearing away at the less than secure gates that closed off the turnstiles from the platform. We had to go back the way we came, past the trash refuse room, past the 32
nd
Street turnstiles to the end of the platform. I grabbed the machine gun and as we ran south down the platform, they broke through. I hoped the blue tabbed key with the funny teeth worked.

More of them pulled at the barred gates at the 32
nd
Street and Park Avenue South exit as we approached. They had not broken through to the platform level yet, but they too were in a heightened rage. The 33
rd
Street pack was nearing as I placed the key into the tumbler. It worked! At least two dozen were near the exit, which was a mere sixty feet away. I heard the creaking of metal bending. The others were breaking through. It was a matter of moments before both groups would overwhelm us. I was not going to make it. I swung the machine gun around and fired. Loud spats pulsed from the muzzle, and abruptly stopped. I had expended what had remained in the magazine. The others had broken through and joined the horde. They were twenty feet from me. I kicked the door closed on my comrades as I reached for the grenade launch trigger, which was just forward of the thirty-round clip. I pointed it toward their feet, hoping the ensuing explosion would yield a sufficient blast radius, taking out the front of the pack, slowing them down enough for me to make a hasty exit onto the subway tracks.

The grenade exploded with tremendous force, throwing me off my feet and nearly off the platform. I was stunned; my equilibrium was off balance and my vision blurred. I couldn’t get up. I felt hands grabbing at me, dragging me. I kicked and swatted at them trying to fend them off, but there were too many. I heard voices. It was David and Marisol.

X. Dr. 07752

I was still dazed, but with the help of David we made our escape. We ran for at least four hundred feet, which meant that we would be clear of the 33
rd
Street Station. I kept looking back, expecting them to have broken through the door, driven by their singular conviction of devouring us. But as I looked along the corridor I could see nothing, and Max made no indication there was any
thing
following either. I stopped. I was out of breath and perspiring profusely. The sickness was fueling my fever and draining my body. I drank nearly two twenty-ounce bottles of water before my thirst was quenched. I was running out of time.

We continued down the tunnel after everyone had rested for a few moments, catching our breaths and drinking water for revitalization. The tunnel was poorly lit. A few forty-watt incandescent bulbs hung from old electrical wire, seemingly at random segments along the passageway ceiling. Most appeared to be burned out, blackened with soot and filth. The tunnel was damp and musty with old pipes, caked with years of grime, running horizontally midway up the wall to our left. The passage was much smaller than those we had used before. The tunnel, about six feet wide and eight feet tall, was narrow and lower than the others. A small drainage gutter ran along the wall to our right.

We hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards down the narrow passage when Max became alarmed. I knew the difference between an undead warning and an intruder warning by listening to Max’s vocalizations and reading his body language. This was an intruder alert and it was ahead of us.

“Wait,” I said, and held my arm out to signal for everyone to stop. “What is it, boy?”

Max growled.

“There’s something up ahead,” I said to the others. “Don’t move.”

I commanded Max to move up as we approached an artery. His reaction continued to indicate that it was someone, not something, but still a threat.

Someone was hiding around a corner in a darkened access shaft. He was silent as we approached, and Max not only heard his breathing but smelled him.

“Identify yourself, or I’ll send my dog in,” I warned.” There was no response.
“Gib laut,”
I ordered, which was Dutch for
speak
. Still there was no response. I knelt down next to Max and held his collar.

“Last chance!” There was just silence.
“Aanvallen!”
I let Max go.

He tore around the corner, and I quickly followed. A shrill of agony came from the darkness as something metallic hit the ground and slid. Max growled wildly as he held steadfast to the man’s pant leg, tugging and pulling at the man who was on the ground.

“Ruhig! Komm. Plaats,”
I commanded. Max went silent and sat at my side. I held my pistol up as the man tried to crawl to a small metal attaché case.

“Move and I’ll shoot,” I calmly told him.

“I want my case. It is mine!” he said in defiance.

The rest of the group approached.

“Who is he?” David asked.

I replied, “About to find out. Stand up and come out!”

“My case. I want my case,” he demanded.

“Get over here and shut up.” I pointed the pistol at him. “Your choice.”

Apprehensively he stood up and moved into the main, low-lit tunnel.

He was a man in his fifties, clean shaven with a touch of grey in his well-groomed and parted black hair. He had a bruise below one eye and was dressed in a soiled five-button white lab-coat over his white shirt, tie, black trousers and suit jacket. The lab-coat was dirty, wet and grimy with paw prints from Max pushing him to the ground. There was something else spattered on him, and it appeared to be blood.

“Who’re you?” I wanted to know.

“Richard France.”

“What’s up with the lab-coat, Doc?”

“I am not a doctor, just a lab technician. What about my case?”

I was suspicious of him. None of the lab technicians wore expensive dress clothes. He didn’t appear to be a threat, so I put the pistol away.

“A lab tech, eh? Where’s your lab?”

“My case?” he responded, ignoring my question.

“Someone grab the doc’s case. What’s important about it?”

“Nothing. Just personal items.”

Joe handed me the brushed aluminum case. “Fancy for a lab tech. Lunch box?” I asked sarcastically as I tossed the case up and down in my hands.

He grabbed it from me and clutched it in both arms, pressing it against his chest. I could see his perfectly manicured nails with a coat of clear polish slightly glinting under my flashlight.

“You know, Doc. You don’t add up. All the techs I know wear scrubs, not an expensive suit and a manicure. And that case—”

“Perhaps you need to upgrade your work environment,” he said, interrupting me. The case is mine,” he continued, as if trying to convince me.

“I just find it odd, you don’t have any believable answers. Or answers at all.”

“I assure you that I am who I say I am, and this property is mine. So I will be leaving now.”

I pushed him against the tunnel wall. “Not so fast, Doc. I think thou doth protest too much. How’s that, DD?”

“Actually it’s, ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’. Act III, Scene II; Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark.” David replied.

“God, how do you remember all that?”

David shrugged.

I turned to the doctor. “You need to tell me who you
really
are.”

He responded defiantly. “Who are you that I need to report to?”

“I’m the guy with the gun… and the dog! You’d think a person with nothing to hide would be a little more cooperative. But you seem to be evasive and fidgety.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Joe said.

“Shut up, Joe,” Julie said. “Not everyone is as stupid as you.”

“Very nice, Julie,” I complimented. “Who else besides the blathering idiot thinks Dick here is lying? Raise your hands.” Everyone did. “What about you, Max. Is
Dick
a liar?”

Max growled deeply.

“See,
Dick
. Unanimous. You’re a liar. Gimme the case,” I said as I gestured for him to hand it over.

“No.” He clutched the case tighter.

“C’mon. Give it up.”

“Go to hell. It’s mine!”

“Max,
ballen
fast!”

Max clamped down hard on his crotch. I grabbed the metal attaché case from his hands as he cringed in pain. “Here,” I tossed the case to David, “check it out. Like that trick, Doc? I’d be very still, unless you want to become a
eunuch… Vasthouden,
Max.
Vasthouden.”

Max growled and kept his grip on the doctor’s privates.

“No. Please. Be careful with the case. It is—”

“Now let’s see who you really are,” I interrupted.
“Gute hund,”
I told Max as I stroked him.

I padded him down and found a wallet in his left back pocket. I opened it and checked his identity. “Says here you live in Navesink, New Jersey. David, aren’t you from Jersey?”

“Navesink. That’s Monmouth County. I couldn’t afford a shack in that neighborhood.”

“Well, Doc, something you wanna tell us?”

He said nothing.

I checked the rest of his pockets. “Well, well, well. What do I have here? An I.D. card. Oh, looks like… looks like he lied, Joe. Says here that
Dick
is Doctor Richard France, Director of Microbiology and Virology, Research and Development, USABEIDCM, number GCC-010. Terrible photo, too. USABEIDCM,” I addressed the doctor again. “Very Project X, Doc. Hey, DD. What’s in the case?”

“Not sure. I got some syringes and four vials of a clear liquid marked Fusion Inhibitor?”

David showed me the contents.

I picked up one of the vials and I read the labeling aloud. “Xeroxtin Fusion Inhibitor.”

“Fusion Inhibitor?” David inquired.

“It’s an antiretroviral.” I turned back to the doctor. “You see this, Doc?” I stretched out my left arm and showed him the bloody bandage. I pulled it back to reveal the bite wound. The doctor’s face grew pale, not from guilt but from fear. “Tell me you didn’t cause this! Tell me this is just a bite and I’m not going to turn into Bub?”

I heard Marisol comment, “Bub?” David explained to her.

“
You
did this! Didn’t you?” I exclaimed with frustration and anger in my voice, waving my arm in front of his face. I ordered Max off and I grabbed the doctor by the throat. “What the fuck did you do? Huh!? What did you create?” I clamped down on his throat harder, digging into his larynx, cutting off his airway.

The doctor gasped, “That is not possible.”

David and Joe tried to pull my hand off his throat. Max growled loudly.

“J.D., J.D. If ya kill him we won’t know anything. J.D., let him go. Let him go!” David insisted, as he was able to release my grip.

“Motherfucker!” I yelled, though not directing it at anyone. My next expletive was directed at the doctor. “You fucking idiot!”

“J.D. What are you talking about? What did he do?” David asked.

“Don’t you get it?” I asked. “He’s the one. He created the virus!”

“Not this zombie shit again,” Joe said.

I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Fuck you, asshole.”

“Zombies, the undead. Who gives a shit? Do you hear this?” Joe proclaimed. “He’s nuts and you all believe him. This isn’t a movie! This is some kind of… pandemic… like Avian flu.”

“Avian flu!?” David exclaimed in disbelief at Joe’s utter lack in his ability to grasp the situation.

Max let out a low growl. The doctor was trying to steal away while we were arguing. I turned to him.

“Hey, fuckwit, going somewhere?” I asked, and commanded Max,
“Fass!”

Max torn down the tunnel and leapt at the doctor, knocking him to the ground. Max did what I had ordered: to bite. He viciously tore into the doctor’s leg. The doctor let out a howl of excruciating pain.

“Jesus!” David shouted, as Max pulled on the doctor’s leg. “Call him off before he tears a leg off.”

“Max! Aus. Aus!”
I commanded, and he let go of the doctor.
“Sitz, Max… Pass Auf.”
Max sat and kept his keen eyes on Doctor France.
“Gute Hund,”
I praised his obedient behavior.
“Gute Hund.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Joe screamed at me, before I had finished praising my dog. Joe moved toward the doctor, acting noble.

“Joe. Get away from him,” I warned.

“Or what?” he retorted, being brazen.

I pulled out my pistol and aimed it at him. “Don’t test me.” But he did anyways.

He said, “Do it, or shut the fuck up!”

I was tempted to give him a throat strike. The thought of watching him fall to his knees gasping for air would have given me a modicum of pleasure. I glowered at him while I pondered the thought, and tucked the pistol into my pants and pushed passed him, purposely thumping into him as I approached the doctor.

“You are insane,” the doctor shouted at me, holding his hand over his wound, attempting to stanch the flow of blood. “For God sake. Someone help me,” he cried. “I’m going to bleed to death if someone does not help me!”

“Doctor, heal thy self,” I said, calmly.

“J.D., you can’t let him bleed to death,” David said.

“I can’t?”

“No, man. It’s not right. Don’t you have a Hippocratic Oath to uphold?”

“EMT Pledge. But fuck it. Let him bleed!”

“If it is his virus, we need answers. If he dies, it may cause the death of us all. Do you want that?” David looked at me, desperation in his eyes.

“Oh, for shit sake… it’s just
a bite
.
Fine
,” I reluctantly acquiesced. “Here.” I handed David the pistol. “I’m going to need both hands.”

I took off my backpack and examined his leg. It was worse than I had expected. Max punctured the skin and tore some of the flesh away. “Okay, Doc., here’s the deal. I’ll patch you up. But if you don’t tell us everything, I’ll let Max rip off your balls. Understand?”

He didn’t respond. I squeezed his wound. He let out a scream.

“Does that get your attention?”

“Yes, yes! I understand.”

“Then start talking. What are you involved in?”

“It’s true,” France said with arrogance in his raspy tone, still gasping from the pain.

“Ah, here it comes. The arrogance. The self-importance… the omnipotence.” I said.

“Tell your dog to get away from me and I will tell you.”

I ordered Max back a few feet. He sat and stared at the doctor, intent on guarding him from escaping or doing me any harm.

“It is a microbial pathogen that kills in twelve to eighteen hours, then reanimates you.”

“What?” Joe exclaimed.

“Your friend is right. It
is
the living dead!” admitted the doctor, grimacing in pain.

“You’re nuts, too,” Joe said, pointing his finger at the doctor. “You’re
all
fucking nuts. Movies aren’t reality. Made up shit isn’t real!”

“You have a very highly developed sense of denial, Joe,” I told him.

“You’re all out of your minds. Whatever it is, it’s making all of you delusional. And I am done with
all
of you. I’ll find my own way out.” He started down the tunnel. “I’ll get out at Grand Central. The hell with you all.”

“You do not want to go that way!” The doctor warned.

Joe left disregarding the doctor’s advice. No one tried to stop him.

“Why not, Doc? What’s down the tunnel?”

“My lab. The virus.”

“Your lab?” David asked. “Down here?”

“No. Not in the tunnels. In Grand Central.”

“Grand Central,” I said in a patronizing tone. “Where in Grand Central? The Oyster Bar? The—”

“Oyster Bar. Do not patronize me. You think I am insane? There
is
a lab under Grand Central. I know. I have worked there for nearly nine years.”

“Underground! The only things down there are more steam tunnels. There’s no secret laboratory,” David said again.

“This wouldn’t be related to M42, would it?” I asked.

“Smart boy, you are. But it is actually below it.”

“M42?” Julie asked.

“Room M42,” I replied. “It’s the deepest and the biggest most secret basement in the city. During World War II there were shoot-to-kill orders if any non-authorized person showed up.”

“Why?” Marisol asked.

“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because it was where the power came from for the trains moving troops during World War II. And it’s still in use today. It’s the power plant for all rail traffic in the terminal.”

The doctor added, “Yes, but that is nothing compared to the level under it. It’s where the Manhattan Project started.”

“Hold it. I know that’s wrong. The Manhattan Project was originally headquartered in an office of the old Federal Building,” David emphatically said.

“Do not believe everything you read, college boy. That was a front, a government decoy. Unfortunately Hitler found out the truth. Why do you think two Nazi saboteurs were arrested in Grand Central in 1942?”

“But how do you know about it if it’s a secret” Julie inquired, directing her question at me.

“
Cities of the Underworld… Secrets of New York
. They looked at me without a clue. “It’s not a
real
secret—
obviously
—just its location is a secret.” I addressed the doctor once again. “So, Doc. You played God and it bit you in your ass? Went all
Resident Evil
on you?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“C’mon, Mister Umbrella Corporation, let’s hear it.”

“Yeah, let’s hear it,” David demanded, the others in agreement.

The doctor took a breath and sighed unenthusiastically. “The pathogen attacks and kills the immune system, thus killing the host. Once you are deceased, the virus which has bound itself to the AMPA receptors in the brain and nervous system will initiate fast synaptic transmission in the central nervous system, which reanimates you.”

“Doc,” I interjected. “I’m not stupid. I know biology and chemistry, and I know neurons would be damaged and killed by the over activation of receptors from the excitatory neurotransmitter glutamate in the AMPA receptor
and
the NMDA receptor. I also know that over pathologically high levels of glutamate can produce excitotoxicity by allowing high levels of calcium ions to enter a cell. A calcium ion influx into cells activates a number of enzymes that go on to damage cell structures such as components of the cytoskeleton, membrane, and DNA. Therefore, your virus would cause apoptosis induced by excitotoxicity leading to neurodegeneration throughout the nervous and synaptic systems. Your virus couldn’t sustain itself for very long, even if it could do what you claim.”

“But it has, has it not? That is how the Trixoxen works!” he said, with pride in his voice.

“What!?”
I asked, not believing his statement.

“Part of the pathogen replaces the GluR2 subunit in the AMPaR that renders the channel impermeable to calcium, thus allowing it to consume the high levels of calcium ions
that enter the cell. The pathogen excretes glycine, glutamate, and oxygen as a bi-product, which in turn feeds the glial cells of the cerebral cortex and the brain.”

“That doesn’t even make sense! There are so many things wrong with that. Without glucose production, astrocytic glial cells would die and there would be no support and protection for neurons. No nutrients, no cells, no matter how much oxygen your virus produces.”

He smiled slyly. “That is one of the beauties of Trixoxen, it’s a complex exogenous carbohydrate-based pathogenic microbe coupled to a protein carrier and GDNF!”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” DD asked.

“Glial cell lined-derived neurotrophic factor,” I answered.

“What is it?” Julie wanted to know.

I was about to explain when Max growled in the direction Joe had gone. Everyone stood still and silent. David raised the pistol up. Joe walked into site. We all looked at him.