Johnson crept out of the establishment, his gun at the ready. A man scrambled right past him, limping and crying in fear. Johnson looked at the direction from which the man came and saw a large group of undead. Most were easily-dispatched green creatures, but some had chainsaws and axes. Johnson opened fire on the group, hoping he would catch the man’s attention.
The shooting attracted several of the creatures from other directions, but at least the man stopped running and limped back toward Johnson.
As Johnson unloaded his clip, the man garbled something Johnson couldn’t hear. The agent pulled the man into the restaurant.
“I’m a special agent of the . . . FBI,” Johnson said as he reloaded his Berreta. Two clips left.
“The government’s here? Thank God!” the man said quiveringly. “Shit! I don’t know why the fug we closed down those Bureaus of Enforcement when they could be saving our asses from a fuggin’ zombie invasion right now. At least the FBI is still around. I’m Freddy, by the way. Freddy Thompson.”
Andy came running out of the bathroom just then. “What’s happening? I heard gunfire.”
“We’re leaving,” Johnson said as he made his way toward the hallway with the bathrooms. “There was a fire exit here, correct Agent Andy?”
“Yeah,” Andy said as he followed Johnson. “Er, who’s this guy?” he asked as he gestured toward Freddy. Behind them, zombies smashed through the windows and doors. Andy drew his gun.
“I’m a local,” Freddy said as he limped quickly toward Agent Johnson.
The three burst out of the back exit into a concrete courtyard next to a side road. A few zombies were patrolling, but the trio managed to duck away back onto Main Street. Then Freddy realized their mistake. In this town, “Main Street” was synonymous with “Motel Alley.”
“Um, fellas,” Freddy began as they reached the car-strewn road. Then they were surrounded by the beasts. “It’s tourist season.”
***
As the zombies moved in closer and closer, Johnson and Andy quickly emptied their Berretas. When they ran out of bullets, Freddy had run out of hope.
No sooner did he say “We’re doomed” than a vehicle with wailing sirens came screeching though the hoard, attracting the zombies’ attention while plowing through them. Soon, it was right in front of Johnson, Andy, and Freddy.
Without a word, they all opened the doors of the police car and jumped in. Then the car sped up again and drove hastily down a side road.
***
Inside, Freddy got a better look at his rescuers. The pair was in the front seat. The driver was a wild-haired man in a black mock turtleneck and body armor. The passenger was a spectacled man in a white coat. He seemed to be frightened and was clutching a Glock pistol for dear life.
The agent that had previously identified himself as an FBI agent was speaking. “Agent Frink, how did you know to come?”
“I’m surprised you’re still alive,” the man in the white coat said bleakly. “You’re life signs flatlined. I guess I’ll have to repair those microchips I put in you guys if they’re malfunctioning like that.”
The agent that had identified himself as an FBI man asked, “Where are you taking us?”
The driving man answered tentatively, “Frink saw some heat signatures from the sewers. Man-sized. We thought they might be survivors.” After a moment the man added, “But then again, they could be those things.”
***
The borrowed squad car ran out of fuel a few hundred feet from their destination. Johnson volunteered to search for the sewer entrance. Freddy was forced to tag along with Johnson as a lookout.
“Prepare to run,” Johnson told Freddy right before they began their trek. Freddy gulped and followed the agent, keeping a close eye on any roaming zombies.
Unfortunately for the team members stuck at the car, plenty of zombies had been alerted to their presence and had followed them. Luckily for the team, Bionic had brought plenty of silencers.
Amazingly, Johnson didn’t appear to be tired at all during their walk. He was fully alert until they reached their destination.
Once at the manhole, Johnson noticed that the covering had been pried off with a tool and thrown to the side. The work of an intelligent creature. There were survivors here at one point.
Then Johnson climbed down.
Freddy followed closely. No zombies or anything else down here. It was almost too quiet.
After walking ab it further down the smallish sewer tunnel, the pair came upon a metal door. They could hear muffled noises from behind it. Johnson raised his Berreta and covered the metal entranceway.
***
Bionic was already down and grievously wounded. He would die if he didn’t receive immediate medical attention.
Andy was putting up a valiant firefight and managed to keep his cool, even against their humongous foe. A multi-headed serpentine creature had slithered toward their position. It was heavily armored.
Frink was trying his best to attend to Bionic while firing a small revolver at attacking zombies. It was a bit too much for the frail scientist.
Then the team heard quick, soft thumps coming from the air around them.
***
“Well, what should I do?” Freddy asked as the agent fixated his gun on the door.
The agent replied, “You have two choices. You can leave and find weapons, or you can stay here.” The G-man never moved his handgun, which was still trained on the door.
Freddy, with fear in his eyes, pleaded, “You want me to go out there? I can’t go out, I don’t have a fugging gun! It’s not safe!”
The agent replied with patience, “Agent Andy is out by the vehicle with Agents Bionic and Frink. I have this place covered, but I need Agent Andy to advance onwards from this point. I suggest that you find him if you want us to solve this problem.”
Freddy was scared to death but he realized the truth in what the agent was saying. Besides, the agents had rescued him from a hoard of those things. He believed they could end this nightmare.
Freddy slowly crept back down the sewer tunnel until he reached the ladder. “Well,” he sighed, “here goes.” As he lifted himself to the top of the manhole, two arms pulled him out.
***
As soon as Freddy had exited the tunnel, the muffled sounds from behind the door had stopped. Johnson was being as still and as focused as possible.
Then the door flew open. White flashlight beams pointed at Johnson, and past them were dark figures pointing small metal objects at him.
Once, Johnson’s eyes had adjusted to the bright light, he noticed that the figures were still dark. Then one of the figures spoke.
“Delta Delta Two Niner, lower your weapon.”
Johnson recognized the identification code from earlier that day. The strike trooper had called him that. Johnson replied the same way. “My name is not DD29. It’s Mark Johnson.”
The voice replied without hesitation, “Impossible. He was killed. Why are you impersonating a federal agent, civilian?”
Johnson reached back to his time travel adventure and tried to remember what he learned about the Majestic Twelve there. “Project Romulus was not terminated. Subjects Frank Martin, John Constantine, and Mark Johnson are still alive. I know you are the Majestic Twelve. I do not know why you are here.”
Another dark figure responded this time. “Well, I suppose we could work together to escape this. Don’t you think, Jasper?”
The first dark figure then ordered the other dark figures to lower their weapons and flashlights.
Then the two speaking figures walked up to Johnson. Once in better light, Johnson saw they were Caucasian males. One was of an older age, and one was younger. The younger one identified himself as ‘Bremen,’ the older as ‘Jasper.’ The walked Johnson into their subterranean holdout and closed the door.
“We’re here because we had to clean up this mess before it became a mess. Things got . . . out of our control,” Bremen informed.
Then Jasper added, “Although I suspect you have more questions on your mind than that. We will entertain you.”
“Who am I?” was Johnson’s first question.
“You are, as you probably know, a blueprint and tester for our cloning project. You probably know what that is,” Jasper answered.
“But that’s basic,” Bremen said. “You’re the most ‘straight-edged’ of our projects. Unlike the others, you don’t have any vices other than wrath, which we thought might be helpful. You don’t drink, smoke, or suffer women. Thus, we used your genetic code as the basis for all of our Men in Black clones. Unfortunately, you’re not quite as strong as the other programs. And you don’t have any supernatural/cybertronic augments.”
“Where is my father?” was Johnson’s second question.
The two men simultaneously answered, “MIA.” No further explanation was answered.
Johnson didn’t push it. “How did you arrive at this location?”
“We pursued Bremen’s brother, a rogue scientist, into the woods,” Jasper answered, “Once he was eliminated, we relocated to a safer position. We don’t want to be above ground when the MJ 12 levels this place.”
Mark asked another question while processing the information. “Who were the strike troopers up there?”
Jasper replied, “You know all the marines we claim to have fighting in the war? Well, there are about half of that number actually fighting there. We use the rest as our personal army.”
Johnson then asked a logical question. “Why are you giving me this classified information?”
“Simple,” Bremen began, “you are one of our most loyal programs. You would never betray us. It’s not in you to do so. And I mean that literally.”
Jasper, who seemed to be the cynic, added, “Not only that, but chances are that you won’t survive tonight.”
Mark moved on unemotionally to perhaps the most important question. “How large is the Majestic Twelve?”
Before Jasper or Bremen could answer, the metal door flew open. A brilliant white light poured in, covering everything. The Men in Black in the room raised their weapons until they saw white-clad hazard-containment men walk in. The bio-hazard troops carried tubes spraying disinfectant and electronic measuring tools. The white-clad men were completely covered and sported gas masks and goggles. One of them was spraying something directly at Johnson. Something that made the world go black.
***
“. . . entire town is now up in flames. Minnesota state authorities are saying that the quarantine and following destruction of the town was caused by a rare strain of the ‘Vitruvian Virus.’ The strain, according to the CDC, causes madness in victims. Authorities say that the crazed townsfolk probably started the fire themselves . . .”
Johnson woke to the news report in the hospital room. He raised his aching head and saw that he was still in his suit and tie. A few bandages and tubes were spread across his exposed areas, and his neck had a cast on it.
Then Agent Bionic walked into the room, seemingly unhurt. All he said was, “That was the fastest black helicopter we’ve ever been on.” Then he sat down and changed the channel to sports.
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