The Romero Strain by TS Alan Page A

door.
    “J.D., you all right?” a concerned David asked.
    “So much time and so little to do. Wait. Strike it. Reverse that.”
    “Dude, I know you’re losing it if you misquote Wonka,” he told me.
    “ What!? ” I asked, confused. “No… what’s the time?”
    David shined his flashlight on his watch. “Like, ten after three.”
    “ Three? ”
    “Yeah. Three.”
    “Holy shit! How did it get so late? We gotta get going. Help me up.”
    “J.D., maybe you should rest a few more minutes.”
    “Rest? I’ll rest when I’m dead, ah, undead. Whatever. We need to get through this door.”
    David was a few inches taller than me and could easily reach the roller assembly. As he pounded the mechanisms, rust and debris showered down. Marisol and I used the pry bar to loosen the door from its frame. Julie held the torchlight up to help us see, and Joe… well, Joe stood around and did nothing except haphazardly shine his failing flashlight in our faces, useless piece of shit.
    Freeing the door was like excavating the entrance to an Egyptian tomb: a lot of work while knowing the darkened passage may lead to disappointment. I hoped the trip upward would be more gratifying and a lot easier. But those immortal words came to my mind as we crossed under the archway, The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. I’m sure if I had said it aloud, David would have corrected me.
    I heard the voice of Slartibartfast from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy , telling me men didn’t have much to do with it. Slarti had been right. Or maybe I had said it out loud and it was David, not Slartibartfast, who had made the comment. I wasn’t sure.
    The narrow stairwell was dark, peeling, damp, dank and spiral. The smell of mold and mildew permeated the stale air. I placed my hand on the handrail. It was cold, wet and slimy.
    “Shit!” I wasn’t happy. “Watch the handrail,” I warned as I shook the slime from my hand and wiped the remainder on a pant leg.
    The trip up was a bit treacherous. Julie slipped, almost falling into Joe, but Joe moved out of the way and David caught her before she tumbled down several flights of steps. He held her momentarily and it appeared as if they were having a love connection.
    “Hey, McLovin,” I called. “Everything okay?”
    The embarrassed couple broke apart. But I was about to be more embarrassed than they had been. I hadn’t climbed three steps when I lost my footing. I managed to grab the handrail, but it was to no avail. My palm slid in the slimy goo, and as I stumbled backwards David caught me, too.
    David asked, “You okay? Or do you need another moment?”
    “Ah, if you’re looking for a kiss of gratitude, I’m sure Max will oblige.”
    He stood me back up. “No, just thanks will do.”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    Up the stairs we went. The warmer it became the less mold and mildew there was, though the air was still stale.
    “¡Hijo de puta!” I was even less happy than I was ten minutes ago. There was a brick wall where once a large doorway had been.
    “The end of the line,” Joe said.
    “Shut up, pajúo,” Marisol ordered. “You have no right to say shit.”
    “Damn right. No le hagas caso al malparido. El culo… can… ¡Chupa mi leche del pene! I hope I said that right.”
    “Almost perfect,” Marisol replied.
    “Hey, if you’ve got something to say, say it to my face!” Joe said.
    I told him, “Bend over pinga and I’ll repeat it.”
    “Pinga. That’s dick!”
    “And that’s what you are. A useless—” I stopped my sentence short. I turned my head toward the stairway and listened. I heard it again. It was a groan, a groan of something that didn’t sound human or animal.
    Marisol asked, “What’s the matter?”
    They didn’t hear it, but I didn’t imagine it. It was distinct and guttural and it had come from the Amtrak tunnel.
    I must have had a panicked or fearful expression, because they all gave me looks of concern, with the exception of