Wednesday, December 5, 2012
What's going on?
I...I'm in complete shock right now. I...Jesus Christ, I can't even type, I'm just...shaking all over. Hold on, I need a drink.
Okay. Okay, that's better. Thank God I keep plenty of liquor around. It only took half a bottle of Jack, but my hands are finally steady enough to type. But my nerves are still on end. Just a few hours ago, I watched my friend and coworker Ben Reynolds bleed to death.
In my last post, I discarded the rumor circling around about flu victims awakening, rising from the dead, but I saw one myself and...oh Jesus, my mind is racing. I need another drink.
The room is spinning now, but I've got a good buzz going and I am a lot calmer now. Here goes.
Ben and I had ducked out for a quick lunch. We've both been worked stupid over the past few days, trying to keep up with almost an entire department's work. We had both put in vacation for the next two days, planning on an impromptu trip somewhere, Vegas probably, or even just Louisiana to gamble and relax some. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but we got it out of Linda (our boss for those not keeping score).
I'm getting off track, though. As those of you in the area know, it was a nice day today, lower 60s, clear, although there was a decent breeze. Living here my entire life, anything below 70 is painful, so I was wrapped up in a jacket over my usual polo, which probably saved my life. Ben, of course, is a Yankee, so he was in short sleeves, enjoying the weather.
We were walking to a small deli down the street from our building, a local joint owned by an irritable Italian named Gino, who knew us by name and still treated us like crap, although in a seemingly affectionate way.
Agh, getting off topic again. The sidewalks were unusually empty, maybe a person or two on the other side of the street, but the flu has really depleted the pedestrian population, people just want to stay indoors, I guess. Ahead of us was someone in a hospital gown. St. Mark's isn't far from our building and every once in a while, someone manages to escape, but this one was different, he seemed really sick, and was wandering aimlessly, his head twitching and his right foot dragging along the ground, chaffed from the concrete against his bare skin and leaving a trail of blood with each step.
I don't remember what we were talking about, but Ben stopped me in mid sentence.
"What's that guy doing?" he asked.
"Huh?" I hadn't noticed him until Ben said something. "Oh, just a runaway, don't worry, the police will probably pick him up soon."
"I don't know, he looks pretty sick. We might want to call and stay with him."
"I'd rather not get sick right now," I said, really wanting nothing to do with the guy.
"I thought you Southerners were supposed to be nice," he said with a smirk, as we approached the patient.
"We are," I muttered, then without him hearing, said, "Just not me."
We approached the patient, who was looking down at the ground. Ben put his hand on the patient's left shoulder and leaned in slightly, saying, "Hey, you okay? Anything we can help you with?"
The patient continued looking down and Ben looked at me. "Call the police, Chase, we need to get him back."
As he said this, I noticed the man looking up, his eyes empty and his teeth stained with blood. I tried to speak, to warn Ben, but my throat closed and no noise escaped.
Ben must have seen my face change because he looked up and tried to fight the man off with his free hand. But the man was too fast or too strong or too something because in a flash, his teeth were wrapped around Ben's neck, tearing through the skin and his jugular. With a disgusting rip, a chunk of Ben's neck was gone and blood was leaking down, staining his clean, neatly pressed white shirt.
The man then turned to me, his empty gaze focused on my eyes, freezing me in horror. Ben lay bleeding to death on the ground, a rabid man was about to attack me, and I couldn't move to save my
Chris Michaels, Reema Farra