The Romero Strain (Author's Edition)

The Romero Strain

(Author’s Edition)

TS Alan

Copyright © 2018 by TS Alan. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or mutated should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially when the author has provided their names.

Published by TS Alan 09/24/2018

ISBN: 978-1-7328136-0-1 (softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-7328136-1-8 (mobi)

ISBN: 978-1-7328136-2-5 (epub)

Edited by Kevin Fern

Cover art by John Becaro

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

In Memoriam

David DiMinni

(1960 – 2003)

and to

The 69th Infantry Regiment

Special thanks to Kate, Paul, Kevin, and Naomi

Introduction and Acknowledgments

For me, getting creative story ideas from mind to paper isn’t hard. The difficult part is stringing the words together to make logical sentences that are entertaining — then having my editor tell me to go back and rewrite it so it makes sense.

I revised and expanded this novel because at the time I did not have an editor. The final corrections were to be done by my publisher. They were not. Eventually, the rights to The Romero Strain reverted back to me. I felt my fans deserved a better book.

I want to acknowledge my associated writers at Books of the Dead Press: Julie Hutchings, Weston Kincade, Bracken MacLeod, Mark Matthews, James Michael, Justin Robinson, and John F.D. Taff.

For without their encouragement and support through the early process, this new edition would not have come to fruition.

Thank you all.

And my dearest appreciation to the staff of McSorely’s Old Ale House.

Contents

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

BENEATH THE CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

IN THE ABSENCE OF

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

About the Author

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS

Part I

I

A Virgin amongst the Living Dead

It began like any normal Monday morning in April, just a few days past my 28 th birthday. It was a mild day in New York City — sunny skies, a light, cool breeze, and a few fluffy, white clouds. I was coming back from a walk with Max, my three-year-old German shepherd. I tried to give Max as much exercise as possible so he didn’t become bored. Being a working breed, we always went for our daily walks with packs strapped on our backs. Max didn’t carry much, just some essentials. I always carried too many items, even with my minimal go-bag . Being the city that it was, I needed to be prepared, even if I was walking the dog.

We had just come from the East Village Park along the East River, crossing over the pedestrian bridge at 10th Street and through the Jacob Riis Houses. As always, we turned north on Avenue D and headed toward 12th Street. There were other routes we could have taken, but that was the most peaceful, and in the spring, the most enjoyable. I liked to walk under the tall branches of the cherry tree that overhung the chain-link fence in front of Saint Emeric’s Church. I paused for a moment, looking up at the long limbs of the immense tree. Max, too, seemed to enjoy the tree, trying to catch a falling petal with his mouth. We cut through the Haven Plaza low-income housing courtyard which brought us to C Town Supermarket on Avenue C, known by people of Alphabet City as Loisaida Avenue; Spanglish for the Lower East Side. We were about to cross the street and head north when I heard a female voice screaming, Help, help, he’s trying to kill me!

She was a Catholic high school girl, made obvious by the school uniform she was wearing, though the uniform couldn’t hide her physical maturity. Her complexion was light brown. Her hair, a deep rich, shining brunette, was pulled into a ponytail. I could see her well-developed chest through her partly undone white Peter Pan collar blouse, bouncing vigorously on her slim frame as she sprinted toward me. For a moment I was fixated on her bounding attributes. That was until she drew within five yards of me. Then I felt like the creepy guy from the film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane. She may have looked eighteen from afar but closer up she looked more like fifteen.

I saw him moving toward us as the girl grabbed my arm and hid behind me. His hurried approach was more borderline lumbering than running. Max’s fur along the back of his neck stood up. He was poised to lunge, snarling with his teeth bared, ready to protect me if necessary. I wasn’t too concerned. I had studied various martial arts styles since I was a child. I knew how to defend myself.

The approaching man looked ill. His face was pale, grey, and drawn with a few open sores. His eyes were sickly and glassy, but filled with a singular intensity of doing me harm. Max barked and growled wildly. I had never seen such an intensity of alarm from him. I gave his leash a tug and told him to be silent.

The sickly fellow drew within yards. I shouted for him to stop but he kept steadfast in his intent to apprehend the girl. When he refused to yield and reached out for me; I side-kicked him above the larynx, hard enough to put him down but not hard enough to break the hyoid bone or tear any thyroid cartilage. I expected him to drop to his knees, but he staggered back and lunged at me again. I snap-kicked him square in the testicles, but nothing. I became concerned, very concerned. If those two places didn’t bring him to his knees, he must have been completely tweaked out. I was able to sidestep him on his third lunge and kick him in the left kneecap. He went down hard, not even trying to brace his fall with his hands. I had to do something quick, and kicking him again wasn’t going to do it. I had the girl screaming in my ear and Max ready-to-go on my command, but I wanted this guy for myself.

"Achterzijde, blif," I commanded, and Max stepped back. I stepped back a few feet and grabbed a municipal green mesh garbage can, which stood next to the crosswalk light. I hoisted it up and swung it, slamming it in the middle of his back. He went down again; his face slammed on the sidewalk.

As quickly as he fell he began to rise.

Stay down! I yelled, but he didn’t heed my warning. Again, I slammed him squarely in the upper lumbar region, but for a third time he began to rise. I couldn’t believe he was getting up again. I raised the receptacle higher and gave him a cross swing to the upper side of his skull. The impact of the hard metal bottom support ring slamming against his cranium was so devastating that it split his parietal bone open. He finally collapsed. He lay twitching on the ground, brain matter exposed, hemorrhaging a deep purple color.

God damn it! I yelled, and turned to the girl, who was still screaming. Shut up! I bellowed over her incessant, grating noise. I was pissed. My red ringer 10003 postal code t-shirt was ruined from all the shit that had slid out of the trashcan while I was defending her, and all she could do was scream in my ear. She stopped screaming and cried, which was a lesser irritation but still damn annoying.

What that hell is going on?

I don’t know, I don’t know, she sobbed repeatedly, and began to mutter rapidly in Spanish. "Él intentó agarrarme. Él tenía ojos locos. Me separé de el y comencé a correr. ¡Pero él me sigio! Grité y grité. ¡Pero nadie me ayudaría! Entonces yo —"

"Hey, hey. Inglés, chica. Inglés." I told her. "No puedo entenderte cuando hablas asi."

I was surprised that a crowd hadn’t gathered. I looked around as I took out my cell phone to dial 9-1-1. It was only 7:00 a.m., but someone should have been sticking his or her nose into this.

I want to report an emergency on Avenue C and 12th Street, Manhattan… Nichols, J.D. Nichols… 646-867-5309… What? No, I’m not being funny. The operator asked me to state the nature of emergency. "There was an attempted assault on a young girl by an aggressive and delirious male, in which I interceded using a garbage can… No, just the assailant who is unconscious, unresponsive, and suffering — what? Did anyone come in physical contact with the assailant? I repeated the operator’s question, which was an unusual response. My foot to his balls. Does that count? As usual, I was being a smart-ass. What? Bit?! I repeated, with astonishment and curiosity in my tone at such an unusual question. Ah… I don’t know. I didn’t. Maybe the girl."

That was a fucking weird question, I thought. I looked at the girl who Max was comforting, or I should say, who Max was sucking up to. "Max, afstammen. Broeden op. He moved from the girl to me and sat down. Logeren."

The girl looked puzzled by what I was saying, and a bit pissed that I called the dog away from her. At least she had stopped sobbing.

"Señorita. ¿Cuál es tu nombre?"

Marisol, she said. "¿Por qué?"

Why? I thought. Why the hell not! I just saved your life and most likely killed someone, and you ask me why I want to know your name? 9-1-1 wants to know if you were bitten, I said, holding my tongue.

"Él solamente me… on my arm. See, she said as she revealed the small scratch on her forearm. A small scratch, no bites," she assured me.

No. No bites, just a scratch on her arm. Yeah. Yeah, all right.

What did they say? she asked, concern in her voice.

"He said wait here for a patrol car."

"Why did he ask if I was bit?" Now she was being a smart-ass. A little spunk in her after all.

Yeah. Weird, huh? Didn’t seem too interested in the assailant, just if we got bit. That is kind of weird.

I could hear the police sirens growing closer.

II

Good Cop, Dead Cop

His name was Johnson, Lieutenant John Johnson from the 9 th Precinct. He was tall with sandy-blonde hair, an attractive, well-groomed and well-built man in his thirties. His uniform held the regalia of a highly decorated officer. They had dispatched the patrol supervisor for me––a sensible, no frills, by-the-book, cop. I’d known the lieutenant for years; he had been my CPR instructor. Sometimes he could be a ball buster. He was tough but good-hearted, and I had admiration and respect for him even though he could come across as abrasive and curt at times.

John taught me to recognize the signs, symptoms, and how to treat people who were in shock. He also taught me the procedure for dealing with an emotionally disturbed patient. Obviously, that was something I had forgotten. He was a highly respected and qualified officer, as well as a highly qualified and respected emergency medical technician.

What, where, how, why, when… Had I seen the girl before. Had I seen the assailant before… Did either of us come in physical contact with our assailant? The charm of his personality was overwhelming. Meanwhile, Marisol was talking to a hot looking Spanish cop named Rodriquez, who despite her body armor filled out her uniform very nicely. Okay, so maybe that’s a sexist comment, but Rodriquez was as beautiful as she was commanding.

An ambulance finally arrived. It was a FDNY emergency vehicle. I expected the Beth Israel Hospital ambulance that parked on Avenue B between 13th and 14th Street, in front of Brother’s Candy & Grocery — the team I saw every morning as Max and I walked from 13th Street North on Avenue B to 14th Street — but it wasn’t.

Look, John. I’m fine, I repeated for the fourth time. Can I go now? I have a job I need to go to.

I lied. I didn’t have to go to work. I was on medical leave for several months due to a job-related injury I suffered during a collision when responding to a call. No, I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t the heroic type. Well, let me rephrase that. I wasn’t heroic enough to constantly put myself in harm’s way, like my father, who had been a patrolman and later worked as a detective in the NYPD firearms lab. I was an EMT-P for Saint Vincent’s Manhattan.

Saint Vincent’s Hospital Manhattan was a member of the EMS Emergency Ambulance Service and responsible for ambulance and emergency services in a four and a half square mile area of the lower Westside. Saint Vincent’s was also a New York State designated Level I Trauma Center, the only trauma center on the lower Westside of Manhattan. The trauma center was the reason I chose to work at Saint Vincent’s. Seven years ago, I ended up in their emergency room. The how and why wasn’t important; just say it was a lack of any kind of judgment in my youth, which brought me there via ambulance. The incident was life altering, and I decided to get my shit together and focus on choosing a career path. I decided to become a first responder. I graduated at the top of my class in both EMT-B and EMT-P, a paramedic.

No, not yet, he sternly said. I need to let the paramedics look you over first.

Since he helped train me, I wanted to say, John, are you saying Beth Israel EMTs are more qualified to render a diagnosis than me? I didn’t. Instead, I’m fine.

You’re not fine until Beth Israel gives you the clear. Once —

He stopped speaking when he heard his radio. There was a disturbance a few avenues away.

10-34. 10-34. 14th Street and First Avenue in front of the McDonald’s. All available units please respond. Possible —

He turned his radio down.

A few people had finally gathered around while one ambulance attendant covered the body. Officer Rodriquez commanded the small crowd of onlookers to stand back. God she was hot when she was forceful. I was definitely going to get her cell phone number before she left.

Marisol was getting bandaged, a lot of gauze for such a little scratch. With all the weirdness going on, the insistence that I be examined for a non-existent injury, and the fact that John was more interested in what the perpetrator may have done to us, instead of what I had done to the assailant, the signs should have given me a clue.

I was wasting my time arguing with him. After all, he was a cop and I was the guy who just smashed someone’s head in. If he wanted me examined for an injury I didn’t have, I should shut up, before getting myself in real trouble… for killing someone.

As I approached the ambulance, I saw what appeared to be a man and woman briskly approaching the scene. I wasn’t sure if the man was chasing the woman or if they were advancing together. They were a block away, moving from the east toward us. Perhaps more gawkers; after all, accidents attract the morbidly curious. I waited for the paramedic to finish with Marisol. Rubber gloves, a mask and eye goggles? That was certainly overkill.

I looked again toward the on-comers. They had the same appearance as the one who attacked Marisol. Oh, fuck, I said in disbelief. Hey, hey John! I yelled and pointed. Two more! I grabbed Marisol and pulled her away from the back of the vehicle. Max growled. He could smell them.

Wait! She has to go —

They came toward the ambulance. The woman knocked Marisol’s paramedic down like a wolf bringing down its prey. He never had a chance to finish his sentence. She tore at his larynx with wild abandon and voraciousness. He screamed, but his screams quickly turned to muffled gurgles as his throat was ripped away from his neck.

III

Run Away, Run Away!

The man came at Officer Rodriquez in a frenzy; his eyes were slightly milky and his flesh was pale and blistered. She didn’t have time to reach for her sidearm. She was on the ground writhing in pain as the man bit into her throat. The crowd and the second EMT ran but were intercepted by another wild-eyed man coming from the other end of the street. Screams of terror and panic pierced the morning louder than Marisol’s had. Officer John tried to pull Rodriquez’s attacker off her, but he was too late. She laid victim to the predator; her throat ripped open, blood gurgling from a deep hole and the surrounding lacerations.

John didn’t know what he was in for. The crazed man turned from his meal and looked at John with disdain through his clouded eyes. John stepped back, pulled his duty carry pistol as the man stood up, and put four rounds into his chest. The man stepped a foot back but did not fall. Johnson again aimed, this time for the head, and with another loud report he connected with the kill zone. The man’s head blew apart as the 9mm bullet ripped a path through the frontal bone and out the parietal.

Except John had made a mistake. He momentarily looked at Rodriquez after he made sure the assailant was down for good. In his instant of disbelief, the aberration that had attacked Marisol’s EMT ravenously set upon him. John had just begun to turn away from his fallen partner when the she-beast jumped on him, knocking his pistol from his hand. The gun slid along the roadway toward the police cruiser.

The thing bit into his jugular as it held fast to him, clamping its legs around him, frantically trying to keep John from pulling its biting mouth away from his neck. John spun around several times. The attack set him off balance. He fell to the ground as the creature gnawed his neck.

I called Max to follow as I grabbed Marisol. I heard that Monty Python line inside my head about running away. Except there was no escape. We were momentarily caught in between two crazies from the east and one from the west, and I had a bad feeling it wouldn’t be long before there would be more. We slunk down in front of the squad car. I corrected Max for growling and told Marisol she needed to be silent and do exactly what I said if she wanted to live. I had no illusions that it was going to be an easy out. I’ve had idiots on the subway try to pick fights with me because they thought they had the right to get on the car before I could get off. I’ve had punk-ass kids try to fuck with me in front of my own doorway, just because there were six of them, they had been drinking, and were looking for trouble. Those situations paled compared to the one I was in now. Idiots and jackasses were one thing; crazed, murdering cannibals were another.

John’s dislodged Glock 19 pistol had slid along the roadway, stopping feet from the front driver’s side tire. I needed to get the handgun and get the hell out of there.

Out. But to where? No time to think. Time to run. The things were engaged. I grabbed Marisol’s hand.

Let’s go, I told her.

We began our departure, stealthy and silent as not to be noticed. We were nearly clear of the car when Marisol let go of my hand. She turned from me and went to the sidewalk where Officer Rodriquez lay.

Two creatures were further down the sidewalk, engorging themselves on several bystanders that had run south along the avenue trying to escape. The other was still feeding on John, about eight yards from Rodriquez.

Marisol glanced at me.

I gave her a look that said, What the fuck are you doing?

She bent over the bloody, shredded corpse and unholstered Rodriquez’s handgun. The she-beast looked up and spotted fresh meat. Marisol raised the pistol and pointed it, trying to fire. The gun did nothing. The safety was on.

Rodriguez’s weapon was a Smith & Wesson 5946 LE Duty Carry pistol finished in satin steel. It also used 9mm Parabellum ammunition but had fully ambidextrous safety levers and an external hammer, unlike a Glock pistol, which employed three internal safety mechanisms, all based on the trigger that prevented the gun from firing if it was dropped or jolted. I doubted Marisol knew the differences.

A shot rang out. Dead bang to the head. It was a lucky shot. I hadn’t fired a pistol in years. Marisol wet herself. The urine ran down her leg and onto her sock.

I think — she began to say, embarrassed.

I see, I said, as I took the pistol from her. Lucky that had been the worst thing that happened. Let’s go.

The other two looked up but were too engaged in their dining to give chase.

I took Marisol by the hand, holding it tight, letting the strength of my grip show her that I was not going to allow such recklessness to happen again. "Max, fuss," I whispered, as we picked up our pace and headed toward the conEdison power station directly up the street.

IV

The Electric Company

It was Wonka-esque in the old days. The old, dreary energy factory with its four big smoke stacks looming high into the East River sky. Its old, worn brick exterior walls aged with stains of weathered time now gone, replaced and expanded with a structural steel fabrication, a façade of prefabricated panels of red and black faux brick. It was called the East River Repowering Project; the commercial operation of the renovated facility began in April of 2005, when the second of two state-of-the-art, natural-gas-fired steam generators began providing power to the electricity grid.

Before the project, conEd gave tours of the facility. Post-9/11 they discontinued them. I had toured the facility once, fascinated by the old turbines and the piping that ran out of the facility and under the streets of New York. I often visited unusual, non-tourist type places. It was my love of movies that started my hobby as an urban explorer. I started with underground film locations, then became interested in other places, like the abandoned City Hall Station of the IRT East Side Line, where the 6 Train turns around to go uptown, and the forgotten Atlantic Avenue Subway Tunnel, which led me to the power station tour.

A car came tearing down the street, honking its horn wildly and weaving erratically. The male driver waved his hand back in forth like he was trying to tell us to get out of his way, but we were on the sidewalk. He continued speeding north up Avenue C, past the main entrance to the facility. Something was amiss as we approached the main gate. I didn’t see anyone walking around inside the enclosed area. It was early Monday morning, but in a busy complex I expected to see someone outside.

The chain-link fence was closed and locked. A blue and white striped conEdison pickup truck sat across the entranceway near the guard shack to prevent a vehicular incursion. As we reached the main gate, I saw the door to the small, dirty white, aluminum-sided guardhouse open, and there appeared to be no one sitting behind the wheel of the pickup truck, which seemed wrong.

I looked down 14th Street and saw a flurry of activity near Associated Grocery. It appeared to be police and emergency vehicles, but it was too far to walk in the open to take the chance.

I thought about crossing the street and going to the auto parts store for sanctuary. Once inside I could call 9-1-1 again. But if I wanted immediate assistance, perhaps rescue, I needed a place that the police would respond to immediately. Whether anyone at the generating plant believed my story or not, gaining unauthorized access to one of the main suppliers of the city’s electrical grids would get the NYPD to us quicker than flies on shit.

As we crossed in front of the gate, I thought I saw a shadow under the truck. I moved swiftly but cautiously to the employee entrance, which lay to the left of the eight-foot fence. The walkway led to a small building, which looked more like a kid’s clubhouse than a storage shed. The checkpoint served as an employee entrance and visitors’ entrance. Inside I would find at least one guard checking identification and doing bag inspections.

As we rounded the gate to the walkway, I could not see anyone through the large window to the right of the door. The white two-panel steel entry door was ajar. I approached the doorway cautiously. Max halted and let out a low growl. I raised the pistol and put an index finger to my lips to let Marisol know to be silent. "Ruhig," I whispered to Max. His growling ceased.

I expected to be attacked by a mob of the undead before I could breach the doorway. Yes, that was what I decided they were. Just like those Romero films I loved. Had I missed something? If I had been working, would I have been aware of the uprising? If I had watched the news the night before, or turned it on before I took Max out, would I have known to barricade myself inside my apartment instead of venturing out? What if? Well, what if didn’t matter. It had come, Dawn of the Dead. And I was about to jump from the frying pan and into the —

They were dead. Blood and flesh were splattered all over the white semi-gloss walls and pooling on the floor. It wasn’t like the movies. There were fewer dismembered body parts and exposed organs and more lacerated flesh with chunks torn out with teeth. Less Hollywood, more real life, but surreally disturbing just the same.

Marisol entered, took one look, and quickly exited. I heard her projectile vomiting on the sidewalk. Funny, she didn’t have a problem taking the pistol from Rodriquez, but the sight of blood pooling with chunks of flesh sickened her. It probably would have made me regurgitate too if it hadn’t been for my years as an EMT. I had seen a lot of blood and dismemberment on the job.

She came back in. I can’t go any further, she said.

"What?" You wanna stay and be meat?"

No, that’s not it. I have to change.

"Change?" I asked, confused by her announcement.

Yes, change. I can’t go any further. I’m wet.

Now? I exclaimed, keeping my voice low. You gotta change now?

Yes. She walked behind the low counter where the guards conducted their bag searches, took off her backpack, and opened it. Turn around.

"Turn around? Turn around why?"

Don’t be stupid. You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to look.

"Seriously? You’ll change in the middle of dead people, but you’re afraid I’ll sneak a peek at your cooch."

I turned away. "Max. Pas op, I said, pointing to the opposite door. Hey, wait. You might need this. I took off my backpack, opened it, and pulled out a packet of antibacterial hand-wipes. Make it fast. We’re going back to 14th Street, I said, and tossed them to her. And stay out of the blood."

She smiled and made little circles with her index finger indicating for me to turn around.

I could hear her behind me as she undressed. My curiosity at what she had in her bag, and the fact that I hadn’t seen a naked woman in over a year, got the best of me. I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of the most perfect ass I had ever seen.

How old are you?

"Why? Do I look fifteen?"

Are you?

Is it important? Marisol asked with an interested tone.

She was being evasive, so I wasn’t completely sure if she had been truthful. Nevertheless, I still felt like I was a pervert.

Never mind, I said, not wanting to feel any more shame over how inappropriate I had been.

She asked, How come you know Spanish? You fluent?

Part of my job. I’m a paramedic for Saint Vincent’s Hospital. I speak some Cantonese, but my Spanish is better. I heard a zipper go up. You done?

Almost. You can turn around now.

She had changed into a pair of faded stonewashed blue Levis with narrow legs. Over her school blouse she wore a white hoodie with three distinctive stripes emblazoned across her chest. They were the colors of Columbia. Her soiled clothes were on the floor.

Where do you live? I asked, as she began tying the laces to her black Air Jordan sneakers.

Why? she asked with suspicion.

I retorted, "Why is everything why with you? Every time I ask you something, it’s why! How about, because I want to know?"

Okay.

I waited a moment for her to answer the question but she didn’t; I asked again. "So?"

I live on — A look of extreme fear came over her. She realized in all the mayhem she had forgotten about her family. "Oh, my God. ¡Mi madre!" She pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

I heard the voice on the phone stating that all circuits were busy, and please call again later. Marisol cursed in Spanish, eyeing the phone like the operator could hear her. She looked up at me and sobbed, and then put her arms around me. She wanted comfort and reassurance that her family was fine, except I couldn’t give it. I didn’t know if her family was fine, or even if mine were all right. I held her for a moment, then Max growled.

The fur along Max’s scruff was raised again as he continued his low growl. I looked through the window on the door but saw nothing. "Gute hund, Max. Gute hund." I still saw no one, but by the way Max was reacting I knew there was something out there.

Marisol spoke from behind me in a concerned tone, There are people coming.

I don’t see anyone. I misunderstood what she was trying to tell me.

No. This way!

I turned around and saw Marisol pointing out the front door. There were people moving toward the complex. Alive or undead, I didn’t know; they were too far away, but I wasn’t about to wait and find out.

Marisol, time to go.

I walked toward Max. "Fuss," I said, as I opened the door. I followed Max out, and held the door for Marisol, but she was not directly behind me.

Marisol, I snapped.

She grabbed her nearly forgotten backpack and locked the front entrance door.

Marisol! Now! She ran to me and out the door. Not too fast, let Max lead.

Ahead of us the open area of the complex stretched all the way to FDR Drive. The building to our immediate left housed the turbines, the heat recovery system, and the station monitoring system. To our right, as we exited the visitor check-in building, was the guardhouse with the pickup truck adjacent to it. We moved cautiously along the sidewalk, which stretched along the paved lot. We could see the back end of the pickup as we cleared the twelve by twelve-foot trailer. Max stopped. He curled his lips back and rumbled a low, guttural growl. I now knew what Max had been trying to warn me about.

There was the driver, half hanging out the truck, his body dangling and twitching as his attacker gnawed on an arm. He had been unable to escape. His leg was caught in the steering wheel. I withdrew the Glock from my waistband.

The creature looked up and stopped chewing. It wanted fresh meat.

Run! I cried. "Schnell, Max. Fuss!"

We ran hard and fast. We came to the entryway of the main building. It was unlocked. He was faster than I expected and was almost upon us. Marisol went in, followed by Max. I tumbled to the pavement as I was set upon. The Glock flew from my hand, bounced, and then slid away. I struggled to keep his mouth away. I held on firmly with both hands