Engineer Benson - 1. Chapter 1 - July 9-11, 1993

July 09, 1993 Friday, 11 PM)
So much has happened. I'm still shaking hours later. God. I'm trying to calm down, but it's hard.

We were nearly killed. I'm sure of it. If it'd not been for Mark, I'd be dead.

After Martha attacked the dog, we watched her stagger off down the street. She was smeared with blood and had bite marks all over her arms. She didn't seem to feel any pain at all.

Mark's expression during the attack shifted from shock to … I don't know. Assessment? He watched her, then moved to another window to keep her in sight as she disappeared down the street. Then gunfire echoed in the neighborhood, somewhere out of view.

"They're not registering pain," he said in this sure, quiet tone. He walked over to the table and grabbed his knife - the big black one he had been issued in the military. He strapped it to his leg.

"They?" I waved my hand at the street. "It's just Martha."

"No. That 12-gauge went off over by the gas station." Mark looked at me, his eyes flat and cold. "There are more like her, and we're in trouble. We're all in trouble."

That's when we heard them. Maybe two dozen more like Martha, people I knew, even if it was mostly in passing or by sight, shuffling toward the sound of gunfire. More shots went off, and I watched one take a hit to the chest. He just … kept going.

I glanced at Mark. His eyes flicked from one shambling person to the next. "They're not stopped by what should be fatal wounds." He cocked his head, frowning in concentration. "Screams." More gunfire echoed, then it picked up in other parts of town. Sharp, loud sounds all over town.

"Where's your gun?" I spied the shotgun on the table. "Ah." I took a step toward it.

"Here." Mark strapped the shotgun to my back using a leather holster. "Don't use it unless you have no choice. It's loaded with double ought buckshot. Minimal spread, lots of damage to a small area."

Right after he strapped it onto my back, we heard it.

A face pressed against the glass of my big plate window on the south side of the house. I can't remember his name, but he was one of the Pennington kids. Seventeen, maybe. He still wore his letterman jacket from the school and was a big kid. A footballer, I think. Immediately, I went to draw the gun.

"No.," Mark said and sidled toward the door. "Sound seems to draw them."

The abomination that used to be a highschooler thumped on the window with a closed fist. He gnawed at the glass like an animal, saliva dripping down the pane. His eyes were the worst. They were lifeless but had this insane spark in them. This wasn't a person anymore. I knew it instantly - this kid was gone, replaced by whatever was making people sick.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as Mark opened the door. "Are you crazy?!"

Ignoring me, Mark leaned out. "Hey." He had the knife in his hand and whispered at the thing in the window. It turned as if it were in cold syrup - slow to react. But react it did.

While I stood frozen in place, it came for him. Mark backed up, his knife out, goading it into my living room. It sped up, arms out, and lunged for him.

I'm still trying to believe what happened next. Mark threw up his free hand to knock the arms of the thing to the side; then he stepped in - close. That knife blurred up through the soft underside of the jaw, buried to the hilt - all six inches. The thing instantly went limp, and Mark let it fall to the floor.

He bent and wiped the knife on the flannel PJ bottoms the kid … no. No, it's not a kid anymore. It's a monster. They're all monsters.

"The head," Mark said, almost to himself. "That's the only way." He sheathed the knife. ""Help me get it outside."

Mark's command jarred me back to reality. We carried the body out to the front yard, both of us watchful for more. We lay it in the grass, then Mark wordlessly grabbed my shoulder and pulled me down behind the hedge.

Shuffling sounds and a horrible grunting came from the other side. Something stopped, casting a shadow over us. It lingered as if drawn to us, or maybe it had heard the fight. Mark's grip tightened on his knife, and he mouthed, "Stay Here." Just as he was about to straighten, another gunshot echoed down the street. The thing moved away, moaning in what I swear was eagerness.

We waited until it had gone, then quietly entered the house.

"Movement and sound." Mark cast his gaze around my little home. "Do you have more blinds? One for the big window?"

"No." I started for the hall closet. "But a sheet will do."

"Good. Get a dark one or something thick so they can't see movement through it." Mark flipped off the lights while I hung the sheet in the window. I closed all the remaining blinds while he stood in the middle of the living room, listening.

After a few minutes, he relaxed just slightly. "I think we're all right - for now."

We spent the rest of the day peeking out of windows and listening. I turned on the news too, both TV and radio, and there's no mention of THIS level of craziness. There are a few broadcasts about the fever and how seriously ill people are from it. They're still saying sick people are "confused." That's such horseshit. People are not ready for this, and the news is doing nothing to prepare them.

Mark's right; this town is in trouble.

He just told me I needed to sleep. That he'd take first watch, and I needed to sleep.

I don't think I can. I'm freaking out, and I don't think I can. Okay, shit. Mark just handed me the NyQuil and a beer chaser. I'm dosing up to take the edge off; then I'm going to sleep in the little bedroom. The window in there has the old shutters, and I'd not gotten to removing them yet. I'll close it up and keep the blinds closed. It'll at least give me time if something tries to get in.

Okay. I'm going to bed now. I hope I wake up, and this is a horrible dream.

July 10, 1993 Saturday, 9 AM)
Well, this crazy world is still here, and so are we.

Mark let me sleep until six this morning. I was a bit groggy, but I made some strong coffee, and that did the trick. I don't know how the hell he did it, but he dropped to sleep almost instantly. He's out here on the couch, his knife within arms-reach on the coffee-table.

Now that I've got time to think, I have come to the realization that I have no idea who the hell my best friend even is. The way he fought was crazy. His movements were so crisp and practiced.

I don't think that's the first person he's ever stabbed.

Mark was in the navy, but he was always dodgy about what he did for them. There were times he was on communication blackout, and now it's starting to make sense. I think he was special forces or something. Does the navy have the rangers? No. No, they're seals. Navy seals.

I guess it doesn't matter. The only thing that does is he can use a knife and is collected as hell when I nearly shit myself.

I thought I was ready for anything. I'm not ready for this. I hope it all ends soon because I'm not ready for this.

July 11, 1993 Sunday, 840 PM

I had hoped that whatever is going on would have been under control by now, but that’s not what’s happening.

After Mark got up yesterday, we took stock of our supplies. The water and power are still on, so we don’t have to worry about that, at least. Well, for now. I did tell Mark that power stations and water treatment take maintenance and work to run. So if this thing is much bigger than Knox county, we might lose both. That’d suck.

We each had two full glasses of milk for breakfast and emptied the carton. Then I rinsed and filled it with water and did the same to my two pots. I'll grab the five-gallon bucket out back too. We’ll have about eight gallons if the water goes out.

We’ve got my emergency stash of jerky and granola bars, lots of canned food, dry beans, a few boxes of cereal, and a couple of sacks of taters. Mark is an expert bow-hunter too. It comes down to it that man could probably survive out in these hills forever.

He snuck over to his and Elizabeth’s place next door around one PM. A nail-biting half-hour later, I heard the signal we’d worked out at the door - two rapid knocks and two slow ones. Relieved as hell, I let him in.

He carried a duffel stuffed with canned food and more. But the first thing I noticed was the spray of blood across his shirt and the way he gripped that black knife so hard in his fist.

“I’m fine,” he’d said before I could ask. “Where do you want the canned stuff?”

We spent the next hour organizing. I began portioning daily rations of 1,500 calories for me and 2,000 for Mark. He’s got more muscle, and he needs to keep it. My beanpole figure is good for something, at least - I just don’t need as much food. We’ve got about two weeks of calories if we’re disciplined about things. I was just about to say so when Mark grabbed my shoulder.

“I can’t do it if she’s one of them.”

Confused, I turned to him. “What? What are-“

“Elizabeth.” His eyes held pure desolation, and his grip tightened on me. “I can’t.”

Morbid realization washed over me. My mouth opened, and words spilled out. “You won’t have to - she’s fine.” I wet my lips. “And if she’s not, I'll do it.”

I couldn’t believe what I was saying. Even more, I couldn’t believe that I meant it. We stared at one another for what felt like hours. He finally stepped back and nodded. “Ok. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mark peeked through the back window. “Your wood axe is against the shed in the backyard.” His voice had gone thoughtful. “You split wood the old-fashioned way.”

“Well, yeah.” I stepped over beside him. “It’s free heat and a good workout.”

“More important, I've watched you split. You don't miss.” Mark turned with a sly look, “You’re good with an axe.”

That’s how I ended up giving him the 12 gauge and with an axe on my back instead. I only hope I don't have to use it.