The Romero Strain (35 page)

“Where is Joe?” Sam asked.

He wasn’t with the others. No one had noticed he was missing.

We looked toward the building and saw him sitting on the bottom entrance step. It looked like he was resting, but he wasn’t. I could see blood coming from his mouth. I could see the protrusion.

“Shit. He’s down!” I shouted, as I moved to him.

Joe had been impaled through his back on the spiked end of the wrought iron bars that made up the entrance gate. The gate had been partial ripped and mangled from its hinges and stood at a forty-five-degree angle toward the street.

Joe’s breathing was labored.

“I slipped,” he barely muttered. “I don’t feel so good.”

“It’s okay, Joe. I have something for the pain,” I told him, and then reached into the utility pouch that hung off my left hip. I pulled out a small plastic box that contained a syringe and morphine. I cut open his sleeve so I could get to a vein.

He coughed up blood in an agonizing expulsion. “I’m not going to make it, am I?”

Joe had been impaled deeply, and it appeared he had punctured a lung and most likely damaged his spine. If he had been wearing his body armor, the severity of his trauma would have been severe bruising and maybe a fractured rib or two.

“Try to relax,” I told him, as I gave him the injection. “The morphine will kick in momentarily.”

I knew a few things about combat medics and the supplies they carried. However, what I had tucked under Luci’s head was not a pack from a medic. It was a combat lifesaver aid bag, which was issued to combat lifesavers. A combat lifesaver was a non-medical unit member who received additional training to increase medical skills beyond basic first aid procedures. After training, the personnel are called combat lifesavers. Each squad, crew, team, or equivalent-size unit had at least one combat lifesaver, an EMT-B. I had taken the bag from one of the Special Ops members. The nomenclature of the bags did not include pain medication; those were only included in a medic’s bag. Nonetheless, I had taken morphine, amongst other items, from the facility’s medical supplies and made my own medic bag and utility pouches. Instead of carrying extra ammo, I carried additional medical supplies in preparation for any situation that may arise. However, there was nothing in my sundry items that could save Joe.

The tension in his body eased, and for the last few moments of his life he was without pain.

“I feel better,” Joe told me. “Can we go ho—”

Joe’s eyes slowly closed as if he were drifting into slumber. A moment later his bowel and bladder released. I checked his pulse. He was dead.

“May you find serenity in the arms of your god,” I whispered. I paused for a moment. Everyone was silent. David placed his hand on my shoulder. His gesture was a consolation, not just for me, but also for him. Though no one was fond of Joe, especially me, he was a team member and an integral part of our survivor family. There was no doubt he would be missed.

“Marisol and Julie,” I said, breaking our silence. “I want both of you back in the Stryker. Sam, you go with them and bring the Stryker in front of the entrance, ass end to the door in case we need to evacuate in a hurry. Join us when you’re done. Marisol, take Max. Go! Kermit and David, you’re with me.”

“What about Joe?” David asked.

“He’ll have to stay there for awhile. We need body bags. We should check the armory. Oh, shit!” I had left Luci lying unconscious. I ran back into the building, but she was gone. I picked up my pack from the floor.

David and Kermit had followed. I stood looking at the dead transmutes that Luci had saved me from. I knew it would not be the last time I would see her.

I hadn’t the time or the opportunity to examine what was stored in the drill hall. A sudden outburst of enthusiasm from Sam echoed throughout the hall. From his excitement it sounded like he had hit the mother load.

“Holy gravy… this is amazing!” he exclaimed, astonished at his find. “Look at all this stuff. There’s food everywhere! Whoa! Look at all the FSRs! Holy gravy!”

“Holy gravy,” I said, half-questioning Sam’s choice of words. “I think you watched too much Rachel Ray.”

“Yeah, Holy gravy! Do you realize how much food we have here?”

“Military rations suck,” Kermit said with disdain, then added, “There’s nothing like a
real
cooked meal.”

“No, you guys don’t get it. Those are first strike rations. The
FSR is a compact, eat-on-the-move assault ration designed for use during initial periods of highly intense, highly mobile combat operations. They’re awesome.”

“Normally, at this point in the conversation, I would crack wise. But since you’re literally as happy as a kid in a candy store, I’ll give you a pass.”

Sam responded, defending his knowledge. “It’s not like we got
The New York Times
delivered everyday. It was a lot of
Stars and Stripes, Soldiers
and
RDECOM
magazine, and watching a lot of the Military Channel. That’s why I know so much!”

“Body bags, Sam, body bags,” I instructed.

The large pallet of rations Sam stood by read,
MEAL, READY-TO-EAT, INDIVIDUAL.
In smaller letters it read,
Do not rough handle when frozen.
The far side of the box was stamped
Dairy Shakes, Chocolate.
I cut open the box and pulled out one of the cases. I sliced the seal open and pulled out a packet from the large box. In the package was a plastic flexi-pouch with a thin cardboard protective outer case sealed in clear plastic. I turned the ration package sideways and read the capital letter instructions:
TEAR POUCH AT NOTCHES. OPEN ZIPPER, ADD 6 OZ (1/4 CANTEEN CUP TO FILL LINE. CLOSE ZIPPER. SHAKE TO MIX. SINGLE USE ONLY. CONSUME PROMPTLY. (WITHIN 1 HOUR).
I turned it over, read the ingredients imprinted on the back, and found out why it was only good for an hour. I quickly tossed the package back into the individual case.

There were more pallets of rations. Sam would later volunteer to do supply inventory and was excited to report that the boxes contained meal pouches of shelf-stable pocket sandwiches (varieties including barbecue chicken and barbecue beef), HooAH! nutritious booster bars, which were similar to commercial performance bars, energy rich glucose optimized beverage mix, dairy bar, crackers, bread, cheese spread, two sticks of beef jerky, a package of dried fruit, a modified version of applesauce named “Zapplesauce,” pouches of tuna, chunk chicken, caffeinated gum, a Ziploc bag, and an accessory packet which included a wet napkin. But what truly excited Sam were the pallets of what he told us was the greatest food invention the military ever came up with––though Kermit refuted this emphatically––the unitized group ration-express, or as Sam liked calling it: a kitchen in a box.

The UGR-E box prepared hot meals for eighteen people with the pull of a tab. To heat the meal, a soldier merely opened the box, then, without removing anything, pulled a tab that released a salt-water solution that reacted chemically and heated the four trays of food in about thirty-five minutes. That was the simplistic version of how the UGR-E works. I made Sam give us the synopsis, not the full rendition.

* * *

Surprisingly, I didn’t know much about the armory building with the exception that it had been the home court of the New York Knicks professional basketball team from 1946 through 1950, and that it was a national registered landmark.

The administration building extended the full length of the block along Lexington Avenue, 25
th
to 26
th
Street. It was a three-story brick structure with limestone trim, topped by a high two-story roof with two slopes on each of the four sides. I was sure that style of roof had some architectural name, but architecture was something I was clueless about. The main elements of the building’s essentially symmetrical composition were two slightly projecting cornerstone end pavilions articulating the building’s corners, and a massive, deeply recessed arched entry way in the center bay. The arch was formed with concentric rows of brick headers. A sculptured winged eagle formed the keystone of the entry arch.

The interior was retro-like. In reality, it was antiquated, apparently having never been updated, harkening back to the days of the Knicks. The upper walls of the gallery area had been painted mostly in a hideous pea green color, while the walls of the main level of the hall were white with green trim. A balcony surrounded the inner perimeter of the drill hall. There were staircases at each corner that lead up to the gallery to tattered and worn seats that were once filled by eager fans during the golden days of the team. The western wall displayed a large rectangular orange sign with large black lettering that read,
Next Home Game
. Above it hung a large cream-colored banner with a heavy red border, dirtied from time, touting
69
th
N.Y.
Above that was a large, circular, hand-sweep clock, which we later discovered was broken, just another useless relic of the past. There were even black and white fallout shelter signs mounted on some of the drill hall walls—reminders of our Cold War past.

We spent the day exploring the vast armory. We found lots of medical supplies in a small four-story hospital wing at the southwest corner of the lot, identical in detailing to the administration building.

Though we were cautious making our way to the basement of the building, the odds were greatly in our favor that there were no transmutes lurking in the darkness. Basements were exactly what they sounded like––a substructure of a building. Transmutes were part owl, and like owls they took refuge in high places to keep predators at bay and to look out for food. The basement was too dark and dank, even for an owl, though I wasn’t too sure about the new creatures. We set up one of Sam’s portable light systems.

The underground garage was large and revealed the reason for the lack of power to the building. It wasn’t the outside generator at fault; it was the connection to the electrical boxes. The power cable that had run out the basement window to the junction box at street level was not a cable that was receiving power, but had been supplying power. The armory didn’t need to receive power from an outside source to maintain itself. It already had two backup generators of its own installed. After studying the generators and large fuse boxes on the basement wall, we came to a conclusion: one generator had been re-routed to the street to help support the electrification of the perimeter fencing, while the other generator continued to supply electricity to vital parts of the building. The cable Sam believed fed the armory was connected to the faulty fuse box. That was why the lights inside the building failed to come on when he engaged the power on the outdoor generator. Sam was off the hook for poor electrician skills.

Once the generators were refueled we were able to see the full extent of what was concealed in the cellar. In the main area we found another cache of supplies. There were a few boxes of hand grenades and a few boxes of ammunition for the M16 grenade launchers, but no rocket propelled grenades, no Claymore antipersonnel mines, and no semi-automatic sniper rifles. Just a lot of ammunition for side arms and rifles, along with a lot of NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) suits, several cars and vans, and leftover fencing and razor wire.

We found body bags, but to our shock we had also found most of the missing soldiers. Two rows of white bags had been lined up on the floor along the south wall. The bodies had liquefied, and even though the bags were made of heavy plastic to prevent leakage, they were not seepage proof. The stench was overwhelming. The bodies were months past being bloaters. They were even beyond poppers; just bones and remnants of clothing soaked in fetid bodily fluids. We counted forty-three bags, each with written information in black marker on the plastic surface: name, rank, service number, company designation and date of death.
They were the soldiers of the 1
st
Battalion, 69
th
Infantry Regiment (Mechanized), A and E
Companies, and soldiers from the 3-2 Stryker Brigade.

Later, when I combed through the military records of the armory, I would discover the rich history of the
Fighting 69
th
—some of its earlier history I had already known.

The regiment, whose roots could be traced back to the American Revolution when they were a militia unit, had served in combat in four wars and nineteen campaigns, including the American Civil War, World War I, World War II, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and Operation Noble Eagle. Their last campaign, the one against a microscopic enemy, was designated Operation Guardian Eagle. However there were only a few operational reports that described the activities prior to the armory’s demise. It was a small journal left by the regimental commander that chronicled the heroic but tragic end to the great fighting regiment that truly shed light on the real terror of what transpired, and the horrors the soldiers endured as the plague and the undead forced the companies to barricade themselves inside the walls of their armory, effectively entombing themselves.

His journal presented a chilly account of the last days of mankind, a fascinating yet horrifying read compared to the concise, unemotional daily activity reports, the few that there had been. The armory had been the Medical Command and the rear Supply Command post. However, the medical hospital located there was not for the medical needs of the city’s residents, but for those of the deployed troops, and was maintained by the 10
th
Support Brigade Troops Battalion out of Fort Drum, New York. Strategic Command had been set up at Madison Square Garden as the command post for the headquarters of the Guardian Brigade, and for the USAMRIID. It was the major P.O.D. for Manhattan. There was also a combat sustainment command post setup at the Javits Center for supply and transportation, maintenance, engineering, and the signal corps.

According to the commander, by the time their NBC suits arrived, it was already too late. He feared everyone had been infected, a fear that he later wrote had come to fruition before the first day was over. Out of necessity, and following the orders of his superiors, he was forced to shoot the men under his command, some of whom he had known for many years, some friends. By early the second day, the commander realized that saving the city from the devastating plague was not going to happen. The living dead outnumbered the living and were attempting to breach the fortifications. As a last ditch effort, he ordered all personnel to fall back into the armory and he ordered the electrification of the gating. However, as the troops retreated, the hordes of living dead were so overwhelming that the electrified perimeter failed. By the time the soldiers had begun to secure the first set of heavy wooden entrance doors, the undead set upon them; fortunately, they were able to secure the inner doors.

As more and more of his soldiers fell ill, he found that a handful showed no signs of the infection. By the early morning of day two, headquarters ordered an evacuation of all remaining military personnel from New York City. Those who showed no signs of infection were to be extracted by rescue helicopter; all others were to be terminated. The commander ordered seven soldiers to the roof for extraction; however, he wrote that the fate of the remaining ill was in the hands of God. He would never know the fate of either group. Having nearly succumbed to the virus, he had chosen to take his own life. The last words he wrote, before he shot himself in the head while sitting at his desk were,
“Faugh an Beallach.”
It was the battle cry of the regiment and meant
clear the way.

VI. A New World Order

Our first staff meeting was brief, but to the point. We gathered to discuss inventory and what needed to be repaired.

“First. Thanks to all of you for suffering through the past three days while we disposed of the bodies and cleaned up transmute shit.”

Three days of smelling and removing wretched rotting corpses—from inside and outside the armory—and disinfecting the armory’s gallery from all the feces left behind by the transmutes, we had found a construction site a few blocks east, a deep hole in the ground which was in the process of being dug out for a foundation of a new building. The worst part of the disposal was removing the bodies of the fallen soldiers of the 69
th
Regiment and 3-2 Stryker Brigade, the ones who had liquefied within their body bags. Those honorable fighting men were not callously and without emotion tossed in the pit and lit ablaze. Out of respect we prayed over the bodies to honor them before we torched them.

“Kermit, you first buddy. What’s our food stock like?”

“Sam and I compiled a list of food items. Our current provisions are mostly MREs. Pallet upon pallet. Enough to last us a year if we can keep the mice and rats out of them. However, even with the varieties at hand, I’m sure you’ll be sick of eating them after six weeks, with the exception of Sam.” Everyone laughed at the joke, except Sam. “We need staple items like powdered milk, powdered eggs, canned potatoes, canned meats, and so on. The more the better. We are also in dire need of an electric stove. I can’t cook unless I have one.”

“I’m all ready sick of MREs,” I answered him. “We can hit the large grocery stores at Union Square. However, I think it simpler to convert to propane, instead of trying to find an electric stove. I know two places where we can acquire gas. Which brings me to you, Sam. Transportation. I see you’ve turned 25
th
Street into a parking lot. How many of them are functioning?”

“Including the ones from Grand Central, we have three ICVs, five Humvees and a LMTV up and running. It’ll take me a couple more days for the rest. And the vehicles in the basement are also functional.”

“You’ve been a busy boy.”

“I will need to cannibalize the other Stryker at Grand Central if you want your medical Stryker working. And FYI, I haven’t spotted any other Strykers in our travels, so I should cannibalize it no matter what. Also the refuel tanker is good to go.”

I nodded. “Three Strykers are plenty. I was reading over some of the paperwork found in the commander’s office. This facility was setup for use as an army hospital, not as a P.O.D., hence the large amount of triage and surgical supplies. I’m not sure why there is such a large amount of food, but even though they are MREs, let’s be thankful we have food on hand. I found out that several Strykers were deployed to Madison Square Garden, which was the Strategic Command and the main P.O.D. for the five boroughs. Also, in the base commander’s report there was a mention of the 548
th
Corps Support Battalion setting up an ASC at the Javits Center. Kermit, do you know what that means?”

I may have been an avid film watcher, war films being one of my favorite genres, but this in no way made me an expert in military acronyms, protocols or procedures. I knew what a support battalion was, sort of; it was there to
support
the troops. What I didn’t know was what exactly the support battalion did. I was about to have my military knowledge enhanced.

“The 548
th
Corps Support Battalion would be the quartermaster battalion for the theater of engagement,” he told us all. “There would be several attachments to the battalion that would carry out vehicle maintenance, transportation, supply, and clothing and laundry service from the staging area.”