The Romero Strain Read Online Free

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 was 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.
    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 got to change.”
    “ Change?” I said, 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 her backpack off, 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.”
    “Ah, Jesus. You’ll change in the middle of dead people, but you’re afraid I’ll sneak a peek at your cooch. Unbelievable.”
    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 Nice ’N Clean antibacterial hand-wipes. “Make it fast. We’re going back to 14 th 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?”
    “Fifteen.”
    Her response had not been immediate, and I was not completely sure if she had been truthful.
    “Fifteen. Shit,” I said, with slight disappoint in my tone, and feeling like a pedophile.
    “ Why? ”
    “Ah, no reason.”
    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 could hear the voice on the phone stating that all circuits were busy, please call again later. Marisol cursed in Spanish, eyeing the phone like the operator could hear her. She looked up at me and sobbed. She walked to me and put her arms around me. She wanted comfort and reassurance that her family were fine, but I couldn’t give it. I didn’t know if her family were fine, or even if mine were all right. I held her for a moment, then Max growled.
    I quickly let