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Events and characters recognized from Project Zomboid belong to The Indie Stone <br>
Engineer Benson - 2. Engineer Benson - Chapter 2 - July 12, 1993
July 12, 1993 Monday, 345 AM
Sorry about looking in your book, Wayne. Guess I was curious about what you were writing in here. Yeah, you told me, but still - sometimes, a man has to see for himself.
Since we're keeping track of the world and what's happening in it, I reckon I should do my part, eh?
Right now, you're asleep. I had you go to bed - because you were nodding off, sitting beside the radio, listening for news of what's going on. And I'm thinking we need to get rest when we can.
I already know what I need to. We've seen it. We've killed it. We're surviving it. We'll keep surviving it. There might be clues but we sure as hell won't hear the whole story on the radio or the TV.
I guess we should understand why, but if I know you, you'll figure it out. To me, it just is. We're alive, we're here, and we just have to keep going.
I'll keep us alive. You do the figuring. The world deserves to know what the hell is going on. Maybe the rest of those out there can get ready if we can get the word out. Maybe we can help Liz if we know enough.
You were right, Wayne. Things were wrong, and if you'd not yelled it in our faces, I might be dead right now. You put me on edge. Made me alert and made us prepare. We have batteries, fuel, ammo, water, beans, and Spam because of you. So. Thanks.
Now it's my turn.
July 12, 1993 Monday, 1130 AM
Well … guess I'm glad I didn't write about how Mark's B.O. is off the charts. Hah. Actually, I don't smell too great either. Feels weird taking a shower when we might run out of water any second, but I guess we should take advantage of it. Besides … these things might be able to smell us.
Mark is currently watching Life and Living and writing notes. There's some survival dork named Dean on there now, and Mark seems real interested. That's his thing, and I'll leave him to it.
It feels so strange to me. There are still advertisements to see that movie, PAWS between the survivalist showing you how to set a bird snare and where to dig for worms. All the while, we're huddled inside, peeking out at the ever-growing number of monsters on the street. It's surreal. The news should be absolutely blasting what is happening on every channel, but it's not. We check here and there, and mostly people seem a little concerned about the "flu" in Knox county Kentucky, but there's nowhere near the amount of coverage this deserves.
People are dying. People are dying from fever, then rising again as these things and advertisements are still blaring on the TV. It's crazy. Who decided that this needs to be kept quiet? I asked Mark that very question, and he replied, "Military and government. They think people will panic if they knew the truth." Well, yeah! Panic because they're being lied to!
I'm still trying to work out what the hell would possess the Army to DO this to us. Unfortunately, there are precedents. There are spots of history that are ugly as hell. Testing diseases on black folks and sterilizing Indians are just a couple of examples that don't get taught. So I know what the government is capable of doing. The thing is, we've seen soldiers out there - staggering around, dead and gone, but on their feet all the same. Why would the Army do this to their own men? That rotten smell made for a convincing argument, but it makes no damn sense. And what's crazy is when the CDC was there, it got WORSE. But now, for the first time in weeks, that smell is gone.
I admit, it's not direct evidence, but it sure makes a fella wonder.
Wait. Mark is looking at something out of the window. I'll be back later on.
July 12, 1993 Monday, 210PM
Jesus. This poor kid. What a messed up world.
Mark had seen another of the Pennington kids - Pamela. She was crouched down, hiding behind my hedge, terrified, barefoot, and dressed only in her pajamas. She's fifteen. God.
We let her in. She'd seen what used to be her brother, Trevor lying in the grass. Her relief at his fate confused me at first, but not after she explained.
I'm going to put down here our conversation, as best as I can remember it. I don't want to ask Pamela to repeat it - she has been through a lot and is understandably feeling sick to her stomach over it all.
"Tell us what happened, Pamela." Mark pulled up a kitchen chair to face her on the couch. "It might help us understand what is going on here."
She held the mug of steaming chicken broth I'd made for her - it was the only thing she'd wanted to drink. After a moment, she began.
"Mom and Trevor were sick. Dad didn't trust the Army, so he decided we'd take care of them at home." She stared down into the mug. "They were really sick. Their fevers just wouldn't come down, no matter what we did. Dad even tried some antibiotics a neighbor gave us, but it didn't help."
"Trevor started having trouble breathing. Dad got scared he'd die, so he called the Army. He told them about Mom and Trevor, and he got really mad on the phone at whatever it was they said. But I knew they weren't coming to help us."
She swallowed loudly in the stillness of the darkened living room.
"We went to check on them." Her voice had flattened to a monotone. "We had put them both in the big bedroom, so we could check them easier." She frowned. "That was my idea." She shivered, then continued. "At first, when Dad opened the door, we were so happy. Trevor was up! After two days of laying in bed, he was up." She shook her head. "But no. No." Putting her hand over her mouth, she squeezed her eyes shut.
After a couple of minutes, she straightened and took a sip of her broth. "It wasn't him anymore. He was standing beside Mom lying in bed, and he had bitten off her arm. He turned to us with it in his hand, still eating it." She cocked her head. "The blood; it was everywhere. But his eyes. His eyes were the worst. Hollow but mad. Like Betty when she got rabies from that fox, and we had to put her down."
My stomach was flopping around like mad just listening to her. No kid should go through that. Hell, nobody at all should. She continued.
"Dad rushed in to stop him. I followed. Mom was moving around on the bed, so we knew - no, we thought she was still alive. Dad grabbed Trevor, yelling for him to snap out of it. Trevor kept lunging at him with his teeth, snapping them together with this horrible, sharp sound. I tried to help. I stood beside the bed and grabbed one of Trevor's arms." She paled. "That's when mom sat up. She had those same eyes that Trevor did. And … she grabbed me." Pamela rubbed the bandage on her arm we'd put on her when she'd arrived. "She bit me really hard. I screamed, and Dad let go of Trevor to push me away."
She stared at remembered horrors and took a shaky breath. "He screamed for me to run. They both grabbed him, and Trevor latched onto his neck." She shook her head. "The last thing I saw was them pull him down. And I did what he said; I ran. I ended up here after hiding in the neighborhood. This was one of the only houses with the curtains drawn and no broken windows or doors. I just hoped someone was alive here and could help me."
That was a sobering thing. I think Mark and I both had to take a minute to think about it. I mean, she'd been out there in the streets. The Pennington place is four blocks from us, and mine was the first house she saw that didn't look destroyed or broken into. This is horrible. I think the whole town is overrun.
The poor girl is exhausted, so we made sure she drank her broth, and then we sent her to bed in my spare room. She doesn't look great, and neither did that bite on her arm. We cleaned it up with iodine, but it's nasty, with broken skin and a big bruise around it. Still, she should recover okay. Physically, at least.
Mark left a bit ago to scout around armed with his knife and my baseball bat. He took a pistol too, but I don't think he plans to use it unless he has to. The shotgun is here. We've not heard a gunshot in hours, so if Mark hears the gun, he'll come back fast. But so will all of these poor bastards trying to eat us. I won't use the gun - not even if things are lost, I won't use it. I won't put him in danger like that.
Pamela is still asleep, poor thing. She had a good family. What a loss.
I'm going to check the windows and stay watchful. Then I'm going to spend some time sharpening my axe.
July 12, 1993 Monday, 750PM
This is horrible. I feel so horrible for doing this, but I don't see another way.
Mark returned from his trip around the neighborhood with fresh blood on his boots and blade. He handed over a jug of gas and a backpack filled with more canned food too. I'd not even thought about it, but with Pamela, we have another mouth to feed.
Well. Maybe. God.
She spiked a fever, and the wound on her arm looks positively awful. I've never seen anything like it. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she'd dipped it in sewage; it looks so infected. She's awake, off and on. When she is, she's terrified. She keeps saying that something is wrong.
Mark stood inside the doorway the last time I tended to her. After she went back to sleep, he pulled me into the living room.
"She's got it," he said.
"What? But she's immune, like us. Otherwise, she'd already be dead and out with the rest."
Mark wrinkled his nose. "Maybe. Maybe it just took a bigger dose of whatever is doin' this to infect her. A bigger dose from a bite. Maybe any of us would get infected from a bite."
"No. That can't be." I didn't want to believe it.
"I went to the Pennington's, Wayne." Her mom and dad are both there, wandering around their backyard together. From what she said, her dad was immune too. That is until he got bit."
I felt so cold just then. But I forced myself to ask the question.
"What do we do with her? We can't just throw her out."
"I've been thinking about that." Mark looked toward his house next door. "We take her over to my place. I'll put her in the end bedroom with the window. Leave a bit of water and some food, and draw the curtains. She'll be okay in there.."
"Mark, no. We can't. They might find her."
"She is going to turn, Wayne." His voice hardened. "She's going to die from the fever, and she's going to turn. It's just a matter of time."
My brain buzzed a mile a minute, trying to find a solution. "Ah! What … what if we made it so even if she did, she can't hurt us?"
He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "How?"
Ten minutes later, I'd put my old hockey mask on her and taped the thick mittens from my winter drawer onto her hands. She slept through the whole thing. She can still drink broth with a straw through the mask, though it means I'll have to help her with things.
"There." I showed Mark my handiwork. "She can't hurt anybody this way. If she turns, we do what we have to do, but I can't sentence her to death by throwing her out."
Mark checked my work. Finally, he nodded. "Okay." He turned to me with a softening expression. "You've got a good heart."
"Thank-"
"I just hope it doesn't get us killed."
Mark spun on his heel and left me standing in Pamela's doorway.
Yeah. Yeah, I hope it doesn't get us killed too. But I do know I don't want to live in a world where we aren't willing to help a terrified teenager. I just don't.
I'm gonna go check on her again. I'll write more later.
Maybe they'll be able to stay ahead of it.
For a while.
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Authors are responsible for properly crediting Original Content creator for their creative works.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Events and characters recognized from Project Zomboid belong to The Indie Stone <br>
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