The Romero Strain (14 page)

Marisol looked at David oddly, she didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

David spoke to me again, telling me I would be dead soon because I was very ill.

I told him I was getting better. I was barely able to remember the lines.

DD continued with more Python lines, attempting to imitate the character Large Man with Dead Body. He told me not to be such a baby.

“Why are you talking to him like that?” Marisol wanted to know.

I tried to deliver the final line of
The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t
, the line before the Dead Collector silences the Body with a whack of his club, but I choked on the words. I could barely open my eyes. They were burning and watery. I sat up, hacked like a cat, and spit a big gob of residual puke. It was sour and thick. “Anyone have mouthwash? Jack Daniel’s will do… no… anyone? Can someone help me up? Why are you all staring at me… from way over there? Max?” Max whined and wouldn’t come. “Did my head spin around?”

I pushed myself up, and leaned my aching back against the wall.

“You puked all over yourself,” Joe said, with a tone of satisfaction in his voice.

I looked at my shirt. “Ah, so I did. I thought that was part of the dream.” Eying Joe, I said, “I thought you were dead.”

“You wish.”

“Cha. You’re right.” I told him.

“If you weren’t covered in puke, I’d kick
your
ass!” He spoke matter-of-factly, pointing his finger at me.

“Here’s a finger for you,” I replied, raising the middle one up. “Childish threats are best left to children.”

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP,” Julie scolded. “I’m sick of your fucking testosterone bullshit! Can we
just
get out of here?”

I placed my hands over my ears before she finished yelling. “God damn. Stop shouting. You’re killing me. And whoever is pointing that flashlight at me, you’re blinding me.”

“No one is pointing a flashlight at you,” David informed me.

“What the hell is that bright light?”

“It’s just the lamps,” Marisol said.

“How many do you need on?” I asked, as I struggled to sit up.

“There’s only one,” Julie said.

“Damn, it hurts. Someone turn it off.”

“Light sensitivity?” the doctor questioned, with genuine concern.

“Jesus. You still alive, too?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment in life always happens when hope collides with unexpected reality.”

“Well said,” David praised. “I don’t recognize that quote. Where’s it from?”

“That would be the book of J.D. Nichols. God, what
is
that smell?”

“It’s you,
papi.”
Marisol informed me.

“Oh.”

I pulled out my multi-tool from its nylon holster, which was attached to the back right side of my belt. “Marisol,” I said as I locked the knife blade in place, “can you cut my shirt off from the back?”

I pulled my soiled shirt from my body, took a bunch of antibacterial wipes and cleaned off the wet, sticky bile that had soaked through the shirt onto my chest.

“Your neck looks funny,” Marisol said in a concerned tone. “It’s all bumpy.”

She tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the knife. I closed the blade and sheathed it.

“Really? Again? I rubbed the back of my neck. It was swollen and sensitive to the touch. “What the hell?” The vertebrae felt strange, not like I needed a chiropractic adjustment, but like something I couldn’t quite explain. It was odd, deformed.

I removed the last two wipes from the packet and cleaned my face. I looked at my chest again.
Weird,
I thought.
All my chest hair is gone.

It wasn’t a strange reflection on a day I had shaven my chest––I went to the gym and to the dojo several times each week, and on those days my chest and abdomen were freshly shaven. Vain as I know it was, I shaved to accentuate my muscle development. But I had stubble when I had changed out of my dirty postal code graphic shirt in front of Marisol. I brushed my hand over my right breast; it was as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, and so were my arms and armpits. I quickly put my hands to my face and chin. It, too, was soft and free of facial hair.

“What are you doing?” Marisol asked.

“No stubble. I know I had stubble earlier.”

The doctor spoke, anxiously, “Are you sure?”

I reached up for my head. My chestnut brown hair still remained. I checked my eyebrows. They were still there. “Of course I’m sure.”

“How about below the chest?” he asked.

“Below?” I asked.

“Yes. I mean
below
,” the doctor affirmed.

I had to be sure. I stood up. “Excuse me,” I said aloud, then unbuckled my EMT pants. I pulled back the waistband of my underwear. “Holy crap.” I was as bald as a male porn star.

“What’s wrong?” Marisol asked again.

“Ahhhh…” I was slightly embarrassed to answer.

David laughed.

“Are you hurt,
papi?”
Marisol wanted to know, a reflection of concern in her voice once again.

Joe blurted out, “He’s lost all his ball hair!”

“Oh, God,” Julie said, slightly grossed out. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“It could have been worse,” David said. I didn’t know if he was being sincere. “You still have a head of hair…” He began to recite the refrain from the song
Hair
.

“Really?”
I asked, as he returned the pistol. The burden I had forced upon him had been lifted.

His snickering subsided.

Marisol put her hand on my bare shoulder and whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, I won’t mind.” She gave me a light, sensual kiss on the neck.

A feeling of pleasure and wanting swept over me. But it was the wrong time in the wrong place. I put on a clean white t-shirt and cleaned out my rancid mouth by gargling with Jack Daniel’s. “Such a waste,” I spat out the liquid onto the ground, aiming at the drainage ditch. I took a long drink then realized I drank from the bottle. “Oh shit. Sorry, David. I forgot.”

He motioned me to continue.

I rinsed my mouth several more times, and took a few swallows. I finished off the bottle. “We’re going,” I said, as I tucked in my clean shirt. I suddenly became dizzy and was forced to prop myself against the wall.

“Maybe you should rest a bit more,” Marisol told me.

“No. Julie’s right. We need to get out of here.”

The head rush subsided.

“Where to?” David asked.

Max barked. The doctor had partially snuck away, crawling up the tunnel about five yards.

I announced, “We’re going to Dick’s lab.” I turned and pointed at the doctor. He got the message.

“You’re nuts!” Joe said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“‘What is madness? To have erroneous perceptions and to reason correctly from them?’” David quoted.

“I like that. Who is it?” I asked, as I stepped toward the doctor.

“Voltaire. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the lab?” David asked.

“Ah, because I had a dream, well, a psychotic fantasy, anyway. And in my dream I found a golden ticket.” I produced the doctor’s swipe card from my pocket.

“He’s unstable!” the doctor said, interrupting.

“So is most currency.” I retorted as I walked toward him. “But you don’t see people—” I knelt down next to him, but was interrupted by his urgent need to escape.

“Get away from me!” Dick yelled, kicking at me and trying frantically to crawl away.

“Is there something you need to tell us about the lab, Doc?” I moved toward him again.

“I said
keep away!”

“What the hell’s your problem? What’s wrong at the lab?”

“It is not the lab, it is you!”

“Me?
I’m fine
.”

“You are not
fine
. You are one of them!” The doctor was completely terrified of me. “Look at your eyes,” he continued. “You are a transmute!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your eyes!”

“I heard you the first time.” I stepped back to David. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

He pointed the flashlight toward my face.

“Jesus, that burns,” I complained, placing a hand in front of my face to block the light.

David moved the light from my face and pointed it toward my neck. The others gathered around.

“Don’t go any further, Doc. Max might get hungry,” I warned France, as he was still moving up the tunnel to distance himself.

“Jesus, dude,” David said, with astonishment in his voice. “Your eyes… your eyes.”

“My eyes
what?
”

“Are weird. Your pupils are, like… elliptical and glowy.”

“Like a Strix occidentalis,” the doctor said.

“A what?” I turned my head, nearly rotating it one hundred and thirty degrees.

“Holy shit,” Julie exclaimed.

David dropped the flashlight and everyone backed away.

“
What the—?”
I said.

“What the fuck was that?” David asked, still in shock.

“Yeah. What he said…” I said. I approached the doctor and placed my foot on his leg.

He repeated himself, “A Strix occidentalis. A spotted owl.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You have signs of the mutation,” he said, answering my question with hesitation.

“Mutation?
What!?
Marisol, please. Stop staring at me.” I turned my head again, even farther.

Marisol let out a scream.

“J.D., you’re seriously freaking us out.” David warned.

“I told you to shoot him,” Joe resumed.

“Shut up,” David and I retorted simultaneously. He did.

“I’m sorry. Marisol. Do you have a mirror?”

She shook her head affirmatively.

“May I borrow it?”

She gave me the same headshake, and removed her backpack.

It
was
freaky. My pupils were elliptical and the irises had changed from brown to black, with a green-yellow luminescent glow when light passed over them.

“Shit. That is freaky. Okay, France. Let’s skip the Spanish Inquisition and go straight to the confession. What have you done to me?”

I eyeballed him. For the first time he was genuinely scared of me. I could see the fear in his eyes as he cowered.

“The virus has a chromosome aberration, a large-scale mutation phenomenon, that I named the
transmute anomaly
. In the clinical studies, I discovered that this neomorphic mutation might affect one out of every seven hundred and thirty two people on a massive physiological level.”

“Are you saying your virus alters DNA to the point of cellular metamorphosis?”

“
Must
I explain? DNA has what we term as hot-spots, where mutations occur up to a hundred times more frequently than the normal mutation rate. I was able to isolate the specific base pair deletion and I discovered it was CCR5-32.”

“Hold it. That’s the delta-32 gene.”

“Precisely. Those who had a single copy of the mutated receptor gene had a genetic disposition to a random and spontaneous transformation.”

“What the
hell
are you talking about?” I asked.

“The virus causes a morphological mutation.”

“You said that. Now clarify.” I didn’t want to believe him.

“I told you—”

“An owl. Yes. I heard that. You mean I’m going to grow feathers and fly?”

“Do not be absurd.”

“Don’t be evasive. What do owls have to do with this?”

“Recombinant owl DNA was used in creating the current viral agent, specifically a North American spotted owl.”

“Are mutant owls going to be flying around, competing with the living dead on who gets to eat us first?”

“Now you are being obtuse.”

“Am I? I’m the one who’s got owl eyes and my head spins around like Regan MacNeil!”

“Your symptoms were a response to your immune system eradicating the infection you received from the bite, not your immune system succumbing to the virus. Similar, but not as acute. Therefore, the antiretroviral I urged against appears to have triggered the mutation response. As for the change, the anomaly is random and only affects those who have a genetic makeup that contains a single copy of mutated gene.”

“That doesn’t sound too random to me. There are eight and a half million people in this city. That’s like… like…”

“Eleven thousand, six hundred and twelve.”