Free The Romero Strain by TS Alan

would find safety soon. But people often use the word theory to signify a conjecture , an opinion , or a speculation . My theory was not based on facts ; it was not required to be consistent with true descriptions of reality .
    Reality would prove different.
    We crossed 3 rd Avenue and were nearing 4 th . We knew this because Amtrak was kind enough to have posted street signs inside their tunnels along with other markings, which I assumed were identification markers for the train engineers.
    The tunnel further on was dark, but there was a bright light ahead in the distance. At first we thought it might be a train parked on the tracks, but the light was low to the ground. As we drew near we realized what it was. Someone had abandoned a large, heavy-duty flashlight on the tracks. I picked up the light and read the inscription: Property of NYCDOT . Evidently a Department of Transportation worker had been there, which alarmed me but did not raise an alarm with Max.
    “D.O.T.,” I said.
    “Where’s the owner?”
    “No blood or body parts,” I responded to David. “Something must have scared him.”
    “Like what?” Julie asked.
    “Most likely us,” David said.
    I knelt down next to Max and unleashed him. I let him smell the flashlight. “Revier, Max. Revier.” He was off.
    Max was not a professional search dog, but he and I had been trained through the Federal Emergency Management Agency to do basic urban search-and-rescue and were certified Type 1. I had been motivated to get a dog after seeing all the canines on television searching through the rubble of the World Trade Towers. When Max was old enough he went to obedience training school, followed by search and rescue school. We volunteered with the New York City Urban Park Services Search and Rescue, and in our months off, due to my accident, Max and I had been spending a great deal of time at the facility, mostly practicing to keep our skills sharp.
    It took Max only seconds to pick up a scent. I watched his body language and knew he had found someone, not something. If it had been one of the infected, he would have voiced a warning instead of sitting and waiting.
    “There’s no use hiding in the shadows,” I said, in between my stroking and praising Max. I shined my flashlight against the tunnel wall to reveal a partly exposed, masculine arm protruding from a small recess behind the inner butt-joints where the tunnel had been fitted and riveted together.
    “Is it one of those zombies?” Julie asked.
    “I don’t think zombies cower,” I told her. “And Max isn’t freaking out.”
    Marisol held her pistol in both hands. “Maybe he’s dead,” she commented, as she kept an eye toward the wall.
    “Don’t blink,” I told her, knowing she wouldn’t get the reference. I addressed the living statue. “Come out or I’ll send my dog in. Gib laut, Max. Gib laut.”
    Max barked, but the man remained motionless.
    I scanned my flashlight along the tunnel floor for some debris to throw.
    Whoever was hiding in the dark recesses was not a reanimated corpse. I could have sent him in to flush out whoever was cringing in the tunnel niche, but where was the fun in that?
    I picked up a piece of concrete that had broken away from the tunnel. I threw it hard. It struck the pillar with a ping, just inches from his shoulder. Whoever it was flinched slightly, and abruptly sprung from the darkness and charged while letting out an intense ooh-rah .
    Max bolted at him and knocked him down to the tracks. He tore at the man’s shirt. I grabbed his leash and ordered, “Aus,” as I gave the leash a pull. “Ruhig. Sitz.” Max fell silent and sat.
    Marisol and I stood above the man with our pistols ready, just in case he wasn’t human. He turned over and gave us a dazed look. He held his hands in front of his face to block the light from the flashlights David and Julie were shining on him. The palms of his hands were scraped and dirtied. His shirt, emblazoned with a New York