The Romero Strain (13 page)

“I was not infected. The inhibitor was not developed specifically for the current strain, we never got that far.”

“Then what is this,
Dick?
Cough syrup?”

“No,” he plainly said. “It is an experimental broad spectrum counteragent to the pathogen.”

“What does that mean?” a concerned Marisol asked me.

“It means it may not work,” I reluctantly told her.

“No, but he’s alive. He’s lying to you.”

“No, it is the truth,” France said.

Marisol pointed an accusing finger at him. “But
you
took it!”

“I was not infected. It has no negative effects on the uninfected.”

I asked, “Why did you inject yourself?”

“We only introduced the inhibitor into those subjects at phase four. No recombinant vector, attenuated or subunit antigen we developed could combat and reverse the pathogen at the final stage. All subjects had to be terminated.”

“You developed a virus without a proper antiretroviral? That’s beyond reckless abandon, that’s terminal stupidity.”

“We only started inhibitor pre-trials a week ago. Preliminary results showed the antiretroviral was negative on the uninfected, but also promising on those we infected after they received the inhibitor. But it was never tested on subjects who were already infected. It was not a priority. We were only in the ninth week of testing that viral strain.”

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 focus, 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.