Free The Romero Strain by TS Alan Page A

City Department of Transportation logo, was badly soiled and his chin was abraded. A small patch of blood pooled on his chin. He had the look of a man who was acting brave, but trying to cover his cowardice.
    “Go ahead and shoot. I’m unarmed,” he defiantly said, half daring me to pull the trigger.
    “Ooh-rah,” I said. “What the fuck was that?”
    “If you’re going to shoot, shoot.”
    “Dude, it’s okay,” David assured him, as he turned off his spot and turned on the lantern. “We weren’t sure what you were.”
    He still held up his hands. He looked up at me. He was a stocky man in his thirties with short blonde hair cut military style. His tight fitting work shirt revealed a muscular build.
    “What?” he asked, as he slowly and hesitantly lowered his arms.
    “You can get up,” I told him, as I lowered my pistol.
    The man stood and stared at us, not making a sound. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for an opportunity to charge me again, make a run for it, or if he was just pissed because I messed with him.
    “Listen, buddy—”
    “Joseph.”
    “What?”
    “It’s Joseph. Joseph Joshua Daniel Young, not buddy,” he said, with a hint of pompous conceit in his voice.
    “Okay, Joe . Two middle names, huh?”
    “Joshua Daniel was my grandfather’s name. My friends call me J.J. You’re not one of them.”
    “Good for me,” I said, scanning my flashlight over his body. “You get bit?”
    “Bit?” He examined the area where Max had torn his shirtsleeve. “I don’t think so.”
    “I’m not talking about my dog.”
    “What?”
    “You know what’s going on topside?” David asked.
    “I don’t follow. How did you get down here?”
    I answered. “Hey, knucklehead. How about you shut up and listen. There’s a shit-storm going on above and you don’t seem to have a clue.”
    “You mean the riot?” He said, and backed away from us. “You’re not part of the mob that attacked us, are you?”
    “Us?”
    “My colleagues and I.”
    “That’s not good,” Marisol said.
    “Max. Pass Op!” I commanded, pointing in the direction he should watch. He trotted down the tunnel a dozen feet and stopped. He sat silently as he watched.
    “They didn’t follow me,” Joe told us.
    “Why were you hiding?” Julie asked.
    “You never know what direction your enemy may come from.”
    “You leave a flashlight on so they can find you?” I responded snidely.
    He did not answer.
    I followed with, “Scared shitless, were you?”
    “I wasn’t afraid. I was being evasive.”
    “ Evasive? ” I said, with ridicule in my tone. “Yeah, good job. You get your training from Saddam?”
    “I got my training from the United Stated Marine Corps!” he proudly boosted.
    “Okay, G.I. Joe. You still got captured. Consider this an interrogation and skip the name, rank and serial number crap.”
    “It’s service number,” he quickly responded, making sure I was aware of my mistake.
    “Yeah, whatever.”
    “You don’t have any clue at all, do you?” David interjected.
    “Clue to what? Four trespassers?”
    My head was throbbing. I turned to David and told him to handle it, because I was tired of talking to jackasses. Joe reminded me of Jack, and was beginning to compound the throbbing headache that pounded at my temples.
    “It’s not a riot. It’s a plague or something causing people to kill one another,” David explained. “They’re eating their victims.”
    “Yeah, right,” he responded, with condescending disbelief in his voice. “Like what? Zombies? Are you all insane?”
    “Here we go! Yes , zombies… walkers, the living dead, the undead, whatever you want to call them.”
    “C’mon, zombies!?”
    “Shut the fuck up,” I yelled at him. “And listen, ’cause the last person to disbelieve me ended up being hamburger… and I got bit!”
    “So… what? You going to turn into a zombie, now?” he mocked.
    Joe was another Jack, admonishing and ridiculing what we were telling