Operation Romero

No one asked why their police station was chosen for federal upgrades. The new security systems, biometric locks, and armored doors felt like a win- for the department, and for the town.   But then came the protocols. The classified documentation. The black SUVs that never parked for long.   Now the police chief can’t access half his own building without federal clearance, and half his officers don’t know who’s in charge anymore.   They thought too much government was the problem.   They realized they were wrong when the agents silently evacuated overnight and the phone lines went dead.

The door to the holding cells was unlocked. Just like the last two she’d passed. Agent Lydia Sixsmith let out a quiet sigh, already preparing a firm speech for the officer inside. But when she stepped into the room, the desk was empty.   A cold feeling settled in her gut while Tad Ewing rambled on in his cuffs.   “Listen, officer—ma’am—I’m serious! I know how it sounds, but I can prove it! Their server is right below us- they’re making you bring me here to kill me!”   She waved him quiet, more annoyed than alarmed. Did he really think that line would work?   She was tuning him out when another man came sprinting up the hallway.   “Got my hands up, balls tucked, and I ain’t giving you no trouble! Names Goose- Dexter Goose! I told y’all that guy I shot was sick with something! My cellmate’s got it too- he’s in there eating people, man!”   Lydia didn’t speak. She just cuffed him, left both men behind, and drew her weapon. Her voice echoed down the corridor.   “Officer? You back there?”   No answer.   She rounded the corner, weapon raised—and froze. Blood pooled across the floor. A familiar body slumped against the wall, face torn open. Something hunched over him… chewing.   Lydia turned on her heel and ran.   “You’re both still in my custody,” she said, unlocking the cuffs. “You run, it’s just another charge. We’re going out to my car to radio for backup- got it?”   But even as she spoke, a shape emerged from the far end of the hall. A silhouette. Shambling. Wet.   Other prisoners screamed behind their bars.   Then the sirens wailed. Emergency lights flickered red. Steel shutters slammed down over the exit.   Mr. Ewing dropped into a chair by the desk, fingers dancing across the keys.   “I—I might be able to fix this!” he cried out, desperate.   Goose grabbed a folding chair and held it like a pro wrestler.   “Don’t worry,” he grinned nervously. “I saw this on TV once.”   Agent Sixsmith raised her sidearm and took a steady stance.   “First and final warning. Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head! I -will- shoot!”