The Romero Strain (32 page)

There was the odd scattered M-16 with and without grenade launchers, a pistol still gripped tightly in a hand of a dismembered arm, different varieties of heavier caliber machine guns, one still upright behind a make-shift sand bag bunker mixed in with the dead, and a soldier still clutching the trigger handle of his flamethrower.

Sam pointed out a sixty kilowatt tactical quiet generator, enclosed in a cage of fencing. It had run out of fuel. Four diesel powered light towers with telescoping masts had been strategically placed to provide maximum situational awareness for the success and safety of the base. There was also an Oshkosh HEMTT (Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck) fuel tanker that could store twenty five hundred gallons of diesel or aviation fuel, used to refuel tactical vehicles and helicopters in forward locations. The words,
FLAMMABLE
and
NO SMOKING WITH 50 FEET
were stenciled on each side of the tanker in flat black and green camouflage lettering against its camouflaged colored paint scheme. The Army had been deployed there for the long haul.

There was a ramp overspread with bodies, covering the stairway leading up to the entrance of the armory; many of them lay charred and burnt. The foul smell of scorched, rotting flesh still hung heavy in the air. Since the facility had no loading dock, and the freight/vehicle elevator on the 26
th
Street side of the building was far too small to accommodate any vehicle larger than a Humvee, I assumed the ramp was used to load in whatever was needed for their long-term engagement.

I felt uneasy as we made our way up the incline, stepping on and over the shot down and burnt corpses that blocked the way to the large wooden doors that loomed on the other side of the shadowy vestibule. The wrought iron gate that once stood across the entrance to the antechamber had been ripped from its hinges. The ramp had been pushed partly onto the sidewalk. Before we made it to the archway, I could clearly see heavy scoring of mostly vertical lines running down the exterior of the doors; they were fingernail marks. The doors were ajar, so perhaps the undead had breached the interior, and that was why the armory had a feel of abandonment and doom hanging over it.

I wasn’t sure about attempting to open the door. A sense of dread came over me.

What lay beyond the door, the undead, transmutes, or just more poor souls that had succumbed to a painful prolonged death? I wish I had brought Max, but the girls felt safe with him, even though Kermit had stayed behind. Next time they’d have to suffer. I needed and wanted my dog at my side.

I was the idiot that would have to pull back the doors, for it was my intention to find our next place of sanctuary. The underground base, as safe as it was from the outside world, was impractical. Eventually our food would run out and our fuel supply would be expended. Without the necessary means to generate electricity, the pumps that removed the ground and rainwater that constantly seeped in from the bedrock would eventually fail. The facility was also a dismal place and a constant reminder of where the end of the world began. The lack of natural light was depressing and was a great cause of our group’s low moral. Exposure to the dangers of the outside world was a risk, but it was nearing the point of which there was no alternative left.

I was feet from the doorway. “Okay, boys, cover my ass.” I pulled back the right door and quickly stepped back. The heavy door swung slowly open. There was nothing but dead bodies and the putrid smell of rotting flesh.

I had never been inside the armory and had only once walked by when the door had been opened. I didn’t remember a secondary set of stairs, a second landing, and another pair of heavy oak doors beyond the first barrier.

There was another ramp. It had been pushed out of the way, and lay in a diagonal position across the fourteen steps, which lead up to the massive arched entry. As we cautiously approached the second set of doors, we saw a modern steel door that was painted black to our left. On the wall to the right were a telephone box and a key card swipe pad. A camera was above the doorway.

We were near the top of the staircase when David let out a blood-curdling scream of shock. A rotting hand grabbed his ankle. The undead creature was pulling itself out from under another body to get to David.

David quickly rotated and smashed the undead’s skull in with his boot. Its grip released.

“Fuck!” he said, exclaiming his shock and anger. “God, damn. I almost shit a Pinto.”

“Hey,” I replied, “you all right?”

“Yeah. Shit. Nearly lost control of the pucker valve.”

As we made it to the landing, I looked up at the security camera. It would be inoperative if they had no power. Then I realized, the odds of anyone living being behind the doors were slim. The generator was down. If the troops were still alive, surely they would send soldiers out to refuel and restart it, not just for comfort, but for practicality. They needed to power whatever communications system they had inside. And with the undead mostly expired, wouldn’t they have re-secured the compound, fortifying it against unknown enemies? And surely someone would notice us approaching the entranceway.

I turned the knob but it did not rotate. I tugged on it anyways; it was locked.

We looked at each other, and then David pounded on the door. I turned to my comrades, “I don’t think anyone’s alive. If they were they would have restarted the generator and secured the perimeter.”

“You think they’re all dead?” David asked.

“Undead is more like it.”

“Or worse,” Joe grimly added, “Transmutes!”

“Joe, I think if any turned into transmutes they’d have figured out how to get out. They’re not like the brain-dead undead.”

“How are we going to get in? We can blow it open!” Joe enthusiastically volunteered.

“Hold on there, Slick Sleeve. If you blow it up, I may not be able to fix it so it can’t be breached again,” Sam announced. “The hinges are in the inside so we can’t burn them off, but maybe we could punch a hole in the center, run a steel bar through it and pull it off with the Stryker.”

“Excuse you Private Schmuckatelli, but you want to rip the doors off! Explain to me how that is better than—”

“Hey, hey, Professor Chaos and General Disarray, we’re not going to destroy anything unless I know we can repair it,” I told them. “Tomorrow we’ll bring an acetylene torch and have a go at the metal door.”

I looked out to the late afternoon sky. The sun was starting its decline. The day seemed to have slipped away and there were still things that needed to be done. “It’s mid-afternoon and this armory isn’t going anywhere. Check the tanker and see if there is any fuel in it. If it has fuel, pull the vehicles up and fill ’em. We should also salvage anything useful lying around. Sam, you and Joe on the tanker. David and I’ll do a perimeter sweep. And don’t forget, there’s UDs still out here. Okay?”

Everyone nodded in acknowledgement, and then was off.

As we made our way down 25
th
Street toward Park Avenue, David and I watched as the Stryker moved into the compound.
Seeing the vehicle roll over the bodies was as majestic as a Panzer VI Tiger tank rolling over an African sand dune.
Sam had been right. We truly needed the Stryker.

There wasn’t much along the cross street to see or scavenge, just dead bodies, both soldiers and the undead, and a few rifles, which we didn’t need. As we approached the end of the building, my eyes caught the exit door to the southwest corner, which was ajar. It was barely away from its doorframe, but it was open. A sinking feeling came to my stomach. I held out my arm and as I did David ran into it, lightly tapping his chest. I motioned with an outstretched index finger. There were two flights of steps leading to the exit door. The first set was facing the opposite way from which we had come. At the top was a landing. The next set of stairs went the opposite direction, up to another landing, which lead to a doorway. I listened as we approached the top of the stairway. I couldn’t hear anything from within. I paused for a moment, and then reached for the handle. I grasped it and paused again. I let it go. I motioned David to retreat.

At the front of the building, he questioned me. “What was all that about? It was open,” he asked, confused by the abrupt change and tactical retreat.

“Yeah, it was open. B
ut even with my Nightcrawler abilities, there are only two of us and it’s getting late. At least we know we can get in.”

Joe and Sam were standing at the side of the tanker, Sam was placing the hoses into the truck, but Joe, who appeared to be standing watch, was not paying attention to their surroundings.

“Hey,” I yelled at them.

Joe and Sam looked up and were stunned at the sight of a UD. It was standing in the middle of the compound. When it had heard my voice, it turned and lumbered toward David and I, tripping and falling onto a body. It struggled to stand after crawling over the corpse it had tripped over.

It was slow and looked like it was lost and confused. Its head cocked back and forth, like it was struggling to hear some faint whisper.

I clapped my hands together. It turned and moved toward us again, but then stopped. David and I walked quietly toward it. I could see Sam and Joe approaching. I held out my hand to indicate for them to halt. We were eight feet away. I could see its eyes. They were cloudy.

I tapped David on the shoulder and indicated for him to take it out.

“Trigger treat, motherfucker,” he exclaimed, smiling dryly, and then fired from nearly point blank range. The bullets ripped its face apart. It dropped to the ground.

Joe and Sam joined us.

I asked, with irritation and dead seriousness reflecting in my voice, “You guys got CRS or is it just DAS?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

I never felt comfortable being the chosen leader of our survival group, but it was a responsibility I had accepted. In the GCC the burden had been minimal, with the exception of Joe’s behavior. But the outside world had those inherent dangers that we all feared, and the lack of respect and/or awareness of those dangers were apparent in the cavalier attitude of two of my team members. The need for strong leadership was pressing.

“Can’t Remember Shit or Dumb Ass Syndrome?” I explained. “What did I tell you two? Pay attention!” I reprimanded, in a commanding tone. “We can’t afford to lose anyone. Are we refueled?”

Sam knew I was pissed, and he knew I was right; they had not listened to my warning. Sam replied with military respect.

“Yes, sir! All tanks,” confirming his duty had been fully completed. “There was still pressure in the primary hydraulic pump.”

“Good,” I responded, affably. “Then let’s go. I don’t want to be out when the sun goes down.”

As we walked toward the vehicles David said, “Tell ’em.”

“Go ahead,” was my answer.

“What?” Joe asked.

“We found a way in.”

I added, “An open door at the end of 25
th
Street. But it can wait. It’s time to go.”

It was disappointing that we would have to leave without knowing what supplies may be stored in the armory, but we would return the next day to find out. Sam picked up the flamethrower that he collected and we departed.

As we traveled up Park Avenue and approached 32
nd
Street, I saw the UD again, the one that Joe had missed. I radioed to him. “Hey, Joe. Lock and load. Your target is still at the intersection.”

As we passed the UD, David shouted to me just as Joe unleashed another barrage. “Holy shit did you see that?”

“Did he miss again?”

“No, not that. The UD. Did you see that other UD? It ran up from behind the other one and slammed into the side of the Stryker. That fucker bounced clear back across the meridian.”

Before David finished, Sam radioed, reporting that he thought he might have damaged a wheel when he ran over a piece of concrete on the road—debris from Joe’s first attempt to neutralize the UD—and he wanted to pull over for a visual.

I ordered, “Negative, Sam, Negative. David has reported hostiles. Continue back to base.”

When we arrived back at Grand Central I pulled my vehicle near the doors and was about to shut off the engine when Sam zoomed past, crashing through the entrance doors, driving through Vanderbilt Hall, down the ramp into the terminal, past the information kiosk and to the tunnel from which we had originally emerged. I followed in his wake of destruction. When I pulled in behind him he was inspecting the Stryker, while Joe, surprisingly, kept watch.

“Just park it anywhere, Sam,” I said, disapproving of his trashing the terminal.

He ignored me. In a pissed off tone, he said, “Look at this! There’s chunks of crap all over the darn Stryker. This looks like part of a nose!”

V.
The Fighting Irish

Joe’s attempts to shoot the UD were farcical. The expression “hitting the broadside of a barn” came to mind. As we passed the UD again on our way to the armory, Joe once again missed.

I taunted him. “Joe, you want us stop on the way back so you can get out and kick him in the ass?”

He radioed back. “You’re almost funny… you wanna try? It’s not as easy as you’d think.”