The Romero Strain (4 page)

He was dead. He had bled out. I took his weapon from him and removed the ammo clip. My father used to say,
If you don’t have a backup, you don’t have a plan.
I stuck the clip in my pocket and left the pistol.

The turbine room was three floors. The main level, which we were on, was level two. The first level, below us, was where the generators stood. The floor above was the third level, which I knew nothing about. The entire inner structure was open-concept, surrounded by railings and staircases. I looked over the guardrail, down into the abyss.

One hundred plus miles of steam mains stretched from Lower Manhattan to 96
th
Street, with over eleven hundred manholes. I could go anywhere in the Borough of Manhattan, via way of the steam or subway tunnels.

I had read that they had bored a tunnel, twelve feet in diameter, up First Avenue from 20
th
Street to 36
th
Street, which was at the Queens Midtown Tunnel. I was sure there was an exit tunnel somewhere under the First Avenue Canarsie Line Station, since tunnels ran along 14
th
Street to First Avenue.

The BMT Canarsie Line (Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation), known to New York City urbanites as the L Train, ran directly under the power station, from Brooklyn, under the East River, to Manhattan’s First Avenue Station. We could use the tunnel system to make an escape and find help.

“We’re not going down there,” Marisol said, half asking and half stating.

I replied, nonchalantly, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“There’s that
why
again!” I shook my head disapprovingly.

I took her hand and she followed, for the first time without hesitation. I spoke in a whisper as we walked toward the stairs, ever über-vigilant.

“Ever walk up Avenue C and see those big conEd manhole covers, or the grates in the sidewalk at First Avenue by the L train entrance?”

“Yes.”

“Some of them are emergency exits for the MTA and some are access points for conEd tunnels. There’s a huge tunnel below that can take us west along the L line or north along the FDR. So down we go.”

We ascended the stairs quietly as possible. Max covered our backs.

VI. Tunnel Vision

Goddamn it! It was my cell phone. And the ring was on full volume. The
Reno 911!
ringtone told me it was my father.

After having served twenty-two years with the New York Police Department, my father moved out west to Arizona to retire. Within six months he joined the Tucson Police Department’s Motorcycle Division—something he always wanted to be, a motorcycle cop. His original plan was to buy a ranch so he could relax and ride horses and fish all day. After four months on what he would later call “the funny farm,” he became bored and decided to come out of retirement.

The only relaxing he did was ride motorcycles, watch
The Colbert Report,
and re-runs of
Reno 911!
. He especially loved
Reno 911!
because it was the most realistic television show he’d ever seen, more realistic than
Cops
. He later admitted that he thought
Reno 911!
was a spin-off of
Cops
, the bloopers, until he found out they were actors.

I answered as quickly as I could. “Dad?” I tried to be quiet as I spoke. “Dad. Are you all right… what do you mean? What did you hear?”

Marisol pulled on the waist of my shirt. I ignored her.

“No, I didn’t hear that… I’m fine. Yes, I’ll make sure I stay in and not answer… Dad? Dad? Shit!”

I lost the connection as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was 6:21 a.m. in Arizona.

Marisol tugged harder on my shirt. I heard low growls from Max. Marisol pointed up.
They
had heard and they were hungry.

I grabbed Marisol’s hand and ran.
“Schnell, schnell!”

They were coming down the stairs from the top level and the level we had just descended. As we ran between two GE gas turbines we saw several partly eaten technicians sprawled out on the floor in bloody pools.

Ahead of us more corpses were hidden behind machinery. There was a guard surrounded by several of the undead. Apparently he had managed to fend off a few attackers before he succumbed to overwhelming odds. I saw Marisol eyeing a pistol on the ground. I pulled on her arm, telling her to ignore it, as we ran around the carcasses.

We were nearly grabbed from the opposite side of the large turbine to our left. As he lunged for us, he slipped in his victim’s blood, lost his balance, and fell over one of his fellow undead, crashing to the ground. We ran straight ahead, never slowing to look.

From the main turbine room I could see the pipes overhead running north, then jutting east and west in an area ahead of us. It was the way to the 14
th
Street tunnel. I followed the highway of piping into the tunnel ahead. A half block west the tunnel took an abrupt right turn, heading in a northerly route under Avenue C. In my haste to flee the impending onslaught, had I missed the tunnel to 14
th
Street? Had it been somewhere to the left of the turbines? There was no going back.

As we headed north, passing from one tunnel section to the next, the piping ran into a ceiling abutment and disappeared, only to reappear on the northern side of the next section. It made a downward slope as the tunnel narrowed in height and width.

We reached a section, maybe fourteen by fourteen feet wide. It was well-lit, but not as bright as before. Five figures stood in the tunnel talking to one another as we advanced. The tunnel turned in a northwesterly direction, thirty feet or so from where they stood. Several flashlights were flickering back and forth along the eastern part of the wall and along the ceiling. Since I didn’t think the undead used flashlights, I felt it safe to proceed.

They stopped whatever inspection they were doing as they saw our hurried approach. It was easy for them to hear us as we neared. A man, his dog, and a girl running through a large subterranean tunnel caused echoes, plus the sight of us would be unusual.

They stood in our way, blocking our escape. One guy outstretched his arm and put up his hand like a traffic cop giving direction to halt. Two women stood behind three men, forming a barricade.

“Stop! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Get out of the way or my dog will rip your balls off!” I demanded.

“No,” he responded, authoritatively.

A stocky, little man with black hair raised up a big Maglite flashlight, as a threat for us to stop.

Marisol pleaded. “Please, they’re coming. They’ll kill us.”

“You’re not going anywhere, miss. How did you get down here?” Maglite man demanded to know. He appeared to be the one in charge.

I raised the pistol, pointed it at them, and spewed one of my favorite lines from
Scarface
. It was Al Pacino’s line that referenced saying hello to a little friend. The jackass with the Maglite, whose ID badge read Anthony DiVincenzo, moved back. So much for being in charge.

Deliberate, slow clapping came from a tall, medium-built man with dirt-blonde hair and a beard. There was a badass intensity about him.

“You think that’s funny, jackwagon,” I asked, not the least amused.

“Yes,” he replied, snidely. “Nice Tony Montana imitation… I have one for you
.
He rattled off a line that ended with
caution and flammable
.”

I didn’t know to what he was referencing. “
What?
”

I pointed the pistol at him. He wasn’t intimidated. He was either stupid or thought he could take me.

“Don’t know that line? Try
Bubba Ho-Tep
. If you shoot that pistol in here and miss, you could rupture a natural gas line.”

Bruce Campbell was one of my favorite actors. I met him once at a book signing. I had watched
Bubba Ho-Tep
several times, but I didn’t remember the line from the film. Strange that out of all the films about shooting a weapon off around a gas pipeline, he chose that one.

I could get to like anyone who could reference dialog from a movie, especially if it was a line I didn’t know, and I knew a myriad of lines. Too bad he’d probably be dead in a few minutes. And so would we, if we didn’t keep moving.

“No time for chit-chat, gotta run!” I said. I pointed the pistol at them, trying to be menacing, hoping it would scare them enough to get out of the way so Marisol, Max, and I could make a rapid escape.

“Hey, pal. Put the gun down before you hurt someone,” a well-groomed All-American ordered. He was clean-shaven and wore a work uniform that was too sterile to be anything but a supervisor. His name was Jack Blas-something-or-other. I couldn’t completely read his identification badge.

Somewhere in
The Journal of General Psychology
or perhaps
The American Journal of Sociology
,
there was a chapter relating to the collective phenomena of the behavior of groups. An important concept in this area was deindividuation––a reduced state of self-awareness that can be caused by feelings of anonymity. Deindividuation was associated with uninhibited and sometimes dangerous behavior. It was common in crowds and mobs, and could also be caused by a uniform, alcohol, dark environments, or online anonymity.

It was not a mob mentality driving the group to uninhibited and dangerous behavior. It was their strength in numbers, the authoritarian uniform, and the low-lit environment.

Perhaps they were pissed off and felt threatened by me finding them fucking around on the job. In any case, the men were trying to get in my face.

“Hey, hero,” I said loudly, pointing the pistol at Jack. “Fuck you!”

He jumped back.

Max could sense my anger and frustration with them. He crouched into his ready-to-attack stance. His lips curled back as he growled.

“I’m calling security. You don’t belong down here,” DiVincenzo threatened, as he moved to a wall phone and picked it up.

“You think I’m down here for some hot sex on a steam pipe with the girlfriend?” I asked him. “Just walked right by security to take the dog for a fucking walk?” I grabbed Marisol’s hand and we bolted.

I heard DiVincenzo shouting, “Guess I won’t have too. Here comes security!”

We looked back and saw three undead proceeding toward them.

“Oh, no,” Marisol gasped.

“Run,” I shouted. “Just run!”

Fuck you very much!
I thought. Those idiots had about sixty seconds to live. I heard a girl scream as we fled up the tunnel, and I knew it was over for them.

I didn’t look back again.

I wasn’t sure where I was going, but the little pit-stop we were forced to make could have cost us dearly. As horrible as the thought was, I hoped those things stopped to snack for a while. I was wrong. I could hear three sets of footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. I couldn’t outrun them with Marisol in tow. The smart thing to do would be to get rid of the girl. But Confucius had taught me,
To know what is right, and not to do it, is the worst cowardice.
I chose the honorable thing, as before, to defend her.

“Marisol,” I said, panting. “When I tell you, let go of my hand and keep running. Understand? Don’t look back!”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry. Just run, understand?”

“Si.”

“Ready… NOW!”

She kept going. Max and I halted and turned, my pistol raised to fire.

“NO. Don’t shoot!” A voice rang out. It was the Bruce Campbell fan, Jackass, and a dark-haired Asian girl.

I didn’t miss a beat. As soon as I saw all three were of the living, I started to run with the others on my heels.

“Blondie and Maglite-man toast?” I asked, as Bruce caught up.

He responded, “More like pulled pork.”

The tunnel ahead was smaller. As we ran into the section, Bruce slapped something on the tunnel wall. I heard mechanical sounds from behind. My curiosity got the better of me; I glanced back for a look.

Two large stainless steel doors were sliding together. I could only see one of the creatures and it was attempting to squeeze through the door as it shut. As the two pieces of the gate came together, it sheared the man-thing’s legs off between the pelvis and knees. It fell, landing on its head.

Glancing back, I could see it spinning in circles as it propped its upper torso up with its arms. Round and round it moved, either dazed or brain damaged from the fall.

Bruce yelled, “Stop, STOP,” between his panting. “It’s okay. The doors are shut.”

“Nice job with the blast doors,” I said, also panting—just slightly—trying to breathe normally.

“They’re not blast doors,” Bruce replied. “They’re security doors with ISO 9001:2000 locking mechanisms.”