The Romero Strain (38 page)

In 1988 Phil and Randy founded Whiskers Holistic Pet Care, due in part to the proliferation of home computers, but mainly because Randy’s beloved dog became seriously ill. At that time there were few, if any, alternatives to traditional invasive and harsh drug-based animal care. They were among the early pioneers of the alternative, holistic pet care movement.

Phil was a stocky, jovial man in his early sixties with white hair and beard. He was cheerful, pleasant, and a joy to talk to. He was also a wealth of information on everything in his shop. If an animal was feeling out of sorts, all the customer had to do was tell Phil the animal’s symptoms and he could recommend a holistic medication. Phil was also the store greeter, the one with the treats, and Max just loved him. Dried lamb lung, that’s what Phil always gave to his canine customers. Max loves that almost as much as Greenies and Phil was more than happy to oblige him.

“There are three things in life,” he once told me. “Talk, walk, and ride. Talk on the phone. Walk the Dog. Ride the motorcycle.” However, his life was not
that
simple. Indeed he may have been the customer relation’s face of the store—four days a week—but he was so much more. Once a week he would drive one hundred miles upstate to a farm to buy certified-organic meats for their Whiskers’ Own brand products, which he oversaw the preparation of. Phil was also the guy who handled all the advertising design needs as well as talking to the distributors and placing orders. He worked six days a week, many hours a day. On his one day off he made time to take his bike out for a long ride. He had even taken me out several times and was willing to teach me to ride, though I never did follow up on that. Phil was the face, the backbone and the hands-on team leader. Phil was my friend.

The store was secured as we pulled in front of it, which was a sign to me that the Klein’s and their employees had not been trapped in their store. But it also signified that I would need Sam’s help in liberating what Max was so adamant in having.

With a couple quick snips of the bolt cutters we accessed the storefront door as well as the outside sidewalk basement entrance. Within twenty minutes we loaded up the Stryker with all of Max’s favorite foods, and some that were not, and of course every bag of Greenies we could find.

Max and I opted to walk to our destination, so Julie joined David and drove the Humvee and then trailed us up 9
th
Street to 4
th
Avenue, south to 7
th
Street and to McSorley’s. Walking wasn’t the smartest thing, since we never knew when a half-mute would set upon us—though we had discovered they are attracted to loud noises, it was never safe—but I needed this not only for my own well-being, but for Max’s. He had been too many months on the treadmill at the GCC and too little walking since we emerged.

After Sam sheered off the lock to the pub, we broke into the basement where I changed out the stale kegs for new. Since I was hosting this outing, I played bartender and offered them their choice of four beverage types: amber ale, dark ale, Coca-Cola or ginger ale; the latter two still could be found in the bar refrigerator.

McSorley’s Old Ale House was the oldest Irish Tavern in New York City, established in 1854, and one of the last “Men Only” pubs, that ended in 1970 due to a District Court ruling. It was difficult to describe McSorley’s. It was like a two room museum that had never been dusted. There was traditional sawdust on the wooden floor, cobwebs on the bar chandeliers, and the walls and ceiling were lined with artifacts, newspaper clippings and photos from the early 1900s. I found out that they kept adding but never removed anything since 1910. There was even a pair of framed Woodstock Festival tickets stubs behind a fan above the left corner of the women’s bathroom entrance. McSorley’s had an “Olde New York” feeling, like it was from another time.

We sat at the table next to a cast iron potbelly stove, third table from the window. It was not my regular table, and as a regular I had a preference, which was in the back room in front of the non-functional fireplace. But we sat in the front room, mostly because the back was too dark. After we rose our glasses together, I made a toast, first to our friendship and then to our benefactors, the 69
th
Regiment.

“To all of you. Friends and comrades, I give you this Gaelic toast,” I said, as I stood and raised my glass and spoke in the language of my ancestors. I then translated it on Kermit’s request. “
Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking. If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal a woman’s heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me.”

I raised my glass high and took a drink.

“Here, here,” Kermit responded.

I continued. “I’d also like to toast the gallant men of the Fighting Sixty Ninth.
We give you a hearty cheer, me boys, and we hope it greets you with smile. To the boys who feared no noise!” I cheered, and then took another gulp of the amber ale.

“This is really good beer. Thanks for the outing,” Julie said with appreciation.

“Teach you I shall, my young padawan, Beer is not served in this establishment,” I informed her. “Only ale, light or dark. And that is how Pepe would school you if he were here today.”

I sat quiet for a while thinking about the good times I had and the people I would miss.

There was Pepe, the manager and the ale pourer. Don’t call it beer, because Pepe would swiftly correct you with, “We don’t serve beer; we serve ale, light or dark.” Pepe lived in Chelsea on 19
th
Street and I often saw him outside his work environment. Pete, Richie and Michael were the waiters. I mostly saw Pete and Richie when I visited, for they worked days. The last time I had seen Michael was on a Tuesday about two thirty in the afternoon at the Stage Restaurant. Michael worked the evening shift and I rarely visited McSorley’s during that time. Regulars tended to stay away at night because of the college kids. So when I saw him at the pub, he was usually filling in for someone on the day shift, or at Stage having breakfast, which for me was lunchtime. On that particular day we were sitting around discussing our apartments and how long we lived in them. Michael had been in his for over seventeen years, a lot longer than I had mine.

I recalled one of the last memorable times I had been at McSorley’s. It was for their last birthday celebration. I sat across the room with Dennis, Mary, and their two friends Maggie and Naomi. The place was festive. Multi-colored helium balloons floated against the ceiling and banners touted the day. Pepe was behind the bar as always, barely noticing my arrival. The place had already become crowded with regulars, who they let in early. At two o’clock the Colonial Heritage Society did their traditional exhibition of musket firing. By two thirty I was buzzed. At three thirty the celebratory cake was served. At four I left and took a cab home.

My mind wandered to food. I remembered the lunch I had at the birthday celebration. Irish ham, mashed potatoes, and shredded cooked carrots with a touch of cabbage. McSorley’s could make a good burger, and a great lamb sandwich. I loved Marry’s cooking the best. Marry, like Chester, knew how I liked my burger and that my steak fries came with a side of gravy. Marry was a big person that loved to talk. Her sparkling personality and loving nature reminded me of my mother, though my mother was only half of Marry’s stoutness, most of which she had gained after a difficult pregnancy—the first sign of how difficult a child I would become.

My mother, though a true Irish woman in many ways, down to her stubbornness, couldn’t boil water to save her life.

I usually sat in the back corner, in front of the kitchen entrance next to the fireplace, where a photo of Max, Pepe, and I hung. I always sat at that particular table so Marry and I could spend time chatting. Even if the table was occupied upon my arrival—it could hold five—Richie or Pete would always make room for me. Marry was the sweetest woman I ever knew, with the exception of my grandmother. Marry, like my grandmother, had a gentle soul, a bubbly personality, and always a kind word to say. Though I would hear Marry telling Pete to bugger off once in awhile when he irritated her, which was often, I never knew her to get angry.

I missed my grandmother and I missed Marry.

Then there was Matthew Maher, the owner—Matty, as his friends called him. He was a jovial, generous Irishman with a kind heart and a good soul. Whenever he saw me in the bar, he would come over to say hello and buy me ale.

I was abruptly awakened from my daydreaming by Max. He whimpered and walked toward the front door. At first I thought it was a half-mute or a transmute, but then I heard scratching at the door. We were all alarmed, but as we approached the door with our rifles poised, ready to release a barrage of lead, we could see no one through the windows of the doors. The scratch came again, and Max began barking. Abruptly something jumped up before us.

It was Otter; he was alive.

I let him in.

There were only two dogs Pepe would allow in the Ale House—one was Max, the other, Otter. Otter was a four-year-old chocolate lab and was owned by Rick Bush. I didn’t see Otter and Rick very often, but when I did we stopped for a moment to exchange pleasantries, usually about our dogs, and we let Max and Otter have a moment of playtime.

I searched the street but there was no sign of Rick.

Otter had somehow survived and had been able to elude the transmutes. He was filthy, smelled slightly of urine, and was much underweight. I pulled out a can of Azmira Chicken & Beef from Max’s pack and fed him.

When Otter finished eating he padded over to Julie, rubbing his head against her leg, nudging her.

“Is he mean?” she nervously asked. “He looks like he wants to eat me.”

“Otter!? He’s a pussy,” I assured her. “Looks like you made a new friend.”

We had one more stop to make before we headed home, and that was to pick up supplies to restock our lounge. In the basement of the armory we had discovered a bar for both officers and enlisted men. Though it didn’t seem to have been used very often, we decided we could use it, since it was obvious we weren’t going to be going to any of the local establishments. We had been able to make minor repairs, including painting, relieving it from its original drab and unappealing appearance. However, there had been a problem: beverage deficiency. We had neither the time nor the inclination to make a run to a neighborhood liquor store for supplies. Since Astor Wine & Liquors was four blocks from McSorley’s, I decided it was time to make the liquor run.

We had nearly finished loading when we heard gunfire coming from the north on Lafayette. It sounded like it was in the Astor Place area.

There was no hesitation in our action. We quickly jumped into our vehicles, leaving boxes of booze on the sidewalk. It took us less than a minute to reach Astor Place. We saw civilians gathered around the entrance of the Uptown 6 train. There were five of them, and we had caught them off guard. They opened fire on us as we approached, and we responded with quick and deadly force that immediately eliminated two of them. The others quickly surrendered.

“On your knees. Hands behind your heads,” David shouted from his gun turret, as Max and I leaped out of the Humvee’s passenger side; Kermit had been driving.

Sam popped up from the Strykers’ topside port with rifle at the ready, while Marisol locked onto them from within their vehicle. Kermit joined me and the three complied without a word.

There was a man tied to one of the trees in the plaza; he was Spanish-looking. There were also several dead half-mutes scattered around. Out of habit I approached the two that were lying on the ground to check their condition, but they had been mortally wounded. I quickly turned to the man who was tied up and cut him free. He fell to the ground. Besides the obvious beating, he was also ill, but not enough that his life was in immediate peril.

“Amigo. ¿Cuál es tu nombre?”

“Ryan. Ryan Duncan,” A painful reply came. “Why are you speaking Spanish to me?”

Before I could answer Sam shouted. Half-mutes were approaching from the west, nearing the entrance to K-Mart.

I ordered my team to stand down. I didn’t need them blasting the half-mutes only to attract more. The idiots with the machine guns had caused enough noise to summon the creatures. I really wished I had my bolo machetes, but they were at my apartment.

I pulled out my knife.

I could feel the adrenaline pumping me up. I was nervous but not frightened. There was no time to be scared. The first one was way ahead of the other. If it had been a Rambo movie, John might have done a fancy, cool looking knife throw that would have embedded the knife’s blade deep into the creature’s heart. Then he would quickly, with much testosterone, yank the knife out of his first victim before the other could set upon him. I was certainly not John Rambo and that only happened in the movies. The reality was, if I took the type of military knife I carried and tried to stick it into someone’s chest, it wouldn’t work. My knife was not balanced for throwing, and I wasn’t about to test fate with a half-mute, be left without a weapon, and place everyone at risk. I would go mano a mano—with an advantage—against two.

They were strong, but not as strong as I was; after all, I was trained and fit, plus I had that extra transmute strength. I moved forward and met my adversary on the street. My instincts and training took over. The first one fell quickly. It was a simple sidestep and a forearm to the throat, which dropped him to the ground. I plunged the knife into his heart several times.