Mark – 108
Michael – 60
Martin – 13
Mario – 13
The church had become our sanctuary—a battered stone relic, but a sturdy one. After days of scavenging, patching holes, and securing the doors, the time had finally come for me to try something new: crafting weapons.
I told Mark I'd take first watch and that we could swap at midnight. Thankfully, I'd brought back a working clock on one of my recent runs—nothing fancy, just an old analog piece with brass hands and faded numbers—but it would do the job. I only hoped the time was accurate.
While Mark and the kids headed to the back the church to sleep, I stayed busy. The front of the church became my workspace. I dragged one of the long wooden tables into a corner near the windows and began organizing what I had. I placed the corpse of the apex baby beside me, laid out planks scavenged from the broken choir benches, and neatly arranged the tools we'd managed to salvage: a hammer, some nails, a chisel, and an old paintbrush. I didn't want to waste precious morning time with setup, so I handled it now, under the moon's glow pouring through stained glass.
By the time Mark limped over to relieve me, I'd already mapped out the general layout for what I wanted to build. "Nothing happened," he said with a tired smile, then clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Get some rest, man."
I slept like a baby, safe in the knowledge that we had enough food to last three, maybe four days if we rationed right. There was no urgent need to scavenge, and with the church clean and secure, it was finally time to test a theory I'd been thinking about for days.
My first project: a shield.
I envisioned something simple but strong—rough, yes, but functional. I took five flat planks and aligned them side by side, using my forearm to measure a size that would give me chest-to-knee coverage without blocking too much visibility. Then I cut another set of planks and placed them perpendicular over the first, like a lattice. This would prevent the shield from splintering in a single direction if struck.
Now came the experimental part. I dissected the apex baby corpse carefully, using the chisel and a steady hand to extract the core. It glowed faintly, still pulsing with residual energy. I placed it at the center of the shield's base layer, right where my forearm would sit when holding it. I used the paintbrush to smear its blood—thick, dark, and warm—across the planks. The blood acted as a medium, I hoped, to draw and trap residual RME (raw mutated energy) from the environment, similar to how the bodies of corrupted creatures functioned. No machines, no runes—just instinct and desperation.
I pressed the second layer of planks down over the core, hammering thick nails into each intersection. When I was done, I painted a honeycomb pattern across the face using more blood. It wasn't just for decoration. Bees used honeycombs to store life. Energy. Food. I hoped the shape would encourage some kind of metaphysical resonance. Maybe it was silly. Maybe it was smart. I had no way to tell—yet.
I looked up to find Martin and Mario watching me with wide eyes, their faces full of awe and mischief.
"Is it magic?" Martin asked, stepping closer, his small fingers twitching like he wanted to touch it.
"Not quite," I said, kneeling to their level. "But maybe one day. For now, it's just wood, blood, and hope."
Mario lunged forward, grabbing a spare plank and swinging it like a sword. "Look, I'm Sir Mario the Brave!" he shouted, running in circles.
Martin quickly joined, jabbing at imaginary foes. "You can't defeat me! I have the shield of power!" he yelled, lifting the half-finished shield above his head.
Their laughter echoed through the church, lifting the heavy fog that always hung around our group. Even Mark cracked a smile when he saw them.
Later, when the kids had worn themselves out and were lying on a blanket pretending to be fallen warriors, Mark joined me beside the table.
"You could've just absorbed the core," he said quietly, eyeing the shield. "It might've helped you more."
"I know," I replied. "But we don't know what's possible yet. If blood and cores can pull in RME, maybe we can build tools that do the same."
He gave me a long look, then sighed. "I don't want you to stop. Honestly, I think it's a good thing. You're trying. That matters."
I smiled and gestured toward the kids. "Next corrupted I hunt, I'll give the cores to you and them. I promise."
Mark hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
Then I asked, more to myself than anyone else, "How the hell am I going to make a spear?"
Mark raised an eyebrow. "I can give you some tips."
I looked at him, surprised. "You know how to make one?"
He shrugged. "Enough to help. A spear's a good weapon. Simple. Reach. Stab and move. And since I can't help much in a fight anymore…" he trailed off, tapping his bad leg, "...I can still help you prepare."
His voice cracked slightly, but I didn't mention it. Instead, I nodded. "Alright. Let's do it."
We brainstormed for an hour. I wanted the spear to be unique—to channel energy, maybe even react in some way to corruption. He wanted something sturdy, something reliable. We compromised.
The head would be made of four knives with their hilts removed. I hammered them into a square formation at the end of a thick chair leg, slightly bending each blade inward so their tips met in a jagged, cross-like point. Between the blades, I embedded a small core, dripped blood into the tiny cavity it sat in, and sealed it with a plug of wood.
The shaft was more difficult. We didn't have any proper long poles, so I took the legs of two broken chairs, hollowed them out, and carefully joined them using wooden dowels and leather straps from an old satchel. I carved spiral patterns along the shaft—like veins or rivers—and painted them with more blood. A small core was placed in the middle of the shaft where my hands would grip, giving the illusion that I was holding the weapon by its heart.
When it was done, I held it up and rotated it slowly. The head caught the light, four deadly edges glinting. The blood-streaked spirals gave it a primal, arcane look. I had no idea if it would work the way I imagined—but it was the best weapon I had ever made.
Mark leaned against a pillar and gave a low whistle. "I'll admit. That looks dangerous."
"I'm gonna test it," I said, stepping toward the door.
"No," he said, pushing off the pillar. "You made that to defend yourself, not to go hunting. We're not desperate. Not yet."
I paused, breathing in slowly. He was right. "Okay. Tomorrow then. If the corrupted dogs we saw two days ago are still nearby, it's better we strike first."
Mark nodded grimly. "Then tomorrow, you hunt. But tonight, you rest. You earned it."
I placed the spear next to the shield, both leaning against the table like sentinels. The boys were asleep now, curled beside each other on an old mattress. Mark sat in silence, keeping watch while I finally let myself drift off.
Tomorrow, I'd test what I'd made. Tomorrow, I'd see if hope and instinct could hold back the darkness.