Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story.

A special thanks to my long-term beta Dee Troit; even though she wasn't familiar with the Left 4 Dead universe, she still agreed to beta for me. 'Cause she's awesome like that.

Bayou Bloodbath

1: Nick

I remember hearing about this thing once that studied these two guys over the course of a year; one guy had won the lottery, the other had been paralyzed from the waist down. Needless to say, the guy who'd won the money was ecstatic, and the guy who'd been paralyzed was nothing less than miserable. By the time a year had passed, both of them claimed equal levels of happiness. The conclusion: Happiness is relative. It's only been three or so weeks for me, but I feel like I can kick back and have myself some whiskey sours on a lawn chair overlooking the shore right before sunset, just as content as I was before all this zombie shit started happening.

Let me tell you a bit about myself first. I'd come to Savannah about a month ago looking to con a few people, win a few games. For the past—oh, I dunno, ten or so years, I'd been jumping from city to city, right from the moment I got my divorce, stealing money from under people's noses. I didn't have a home, let alone a house; just a car—a reliable old Buick '68 Skylark. Refurbished, obviously—red paint job, brand new carburetor, bitchin' engine—all that good stuff. I always found it comforting to know the car was older than me. Kind of like a big brother sometimes, if a man can find a love like that in cars (I named it Big Steve).

The kind of con I tended to pull had to do with a credit card. When I was a kid, it started with taking credit card slips from work and ripping off the information. I worked in a dingy, run-down corner store, and the management was so fuckin' flimsy that my supervisor would just reprint the slips that went "missing" at day end, no questions asked. When I graduated, I moved on to the Minor Leagues, pickpocketing from ladies' purses and business men's wallets in restaurants and malls. Malls were good for the pickings, but I've grown to hate the fucking places. But as my morale was wearing thin, I later discovered the wonderful world of gambling.

So, I wasn't a total virgin to the concept of gambling. I used to sneak out to the teacher's parking lot with a bunch of other guys in school and play cards in between the cars. When I hit legal, though, I was reborn. Baptized by the Black Jack dealer himself. I started to learn the trade of just about every gig in a casino and in the underground. Craps, roulette, baccarat, hold'em, and then bets on bare knuckle boxing, horse races, and everything in between that guaranteed my money.

So anyway, while I was skipping from Armpit Town to Armpit Town in the Midwest, I'd caught wind of this festival and a riverside gambling tour in Savannah, just my joy in life. Now, the problem with Georgia for me was that I didn't know exactly if I had a warrant floating over my head in that place or not. Last I'd been there... well, things got a little hairy, I'll just leave it at that. But I knew that there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity for big bucks in Wichita, I'd might as well head over there. I thought I'd never go back to that goddamn hell hole, being that that was where the shit started hitting the fan in little Nicky's life. The entire way there, I kept telling myself to turn the car around, but by the time I'd convinced myself to leave, I was already checking in.

I found some cheap hotel—three stars, probably: gym, swimming pool, continental breakfast, but no chocolate on your pillow. I had nothing to do but try to make a few bucks, so while avoiding the mall, I went out to undermine a few naïve folks. Most of Savannah was filled with tourists and newlyweds—I knew first hand, as I'd been there once as both myself (the shame)—so I went out to trick them into a few bucks. I mostly posed as a tour guide or insurance salesman, which isn't hard to do in a three-thousand dollar suit, apparently. Anyway, I signed myself up for that gambling tour that was supposed to happen the next night, and I was already anticipating the moment when I had some sorry sap's money in my hands.

After the sun was starting to go down, so was business. I decided to take a well deserved break—get back into another familiar element. So I found a bar near my hotel in the downtown district called Sleazy Joe's.

The name implied everything you needed to know about the place. Five to ten patrons, all between the ages of forty and already dead; an old jukebox in the corner that was stuck on 60's and 70's tunes; little appetizer menus sticking up from condiments baskets on every table, never read but somehow still smeared by ketchup; and a bartender who looked like he'd failed to meet the requirements to join a biker gang. I took a quick look around and decided, yup, this was my element. The first thing I went for was some pool hustling. 'Cause, if it's not blackjack, it's pool for me.

So I chat up this guy with a trucker hat and a windbreaker at least twenty years too old for anyone's liking, and get him into a game of pool. I might've picked him based on the fact that he smelled like he'd taken a shower in a couple of two-sixes of bourbon, and that would probably make it easy to persuade into playing for money. It also probably meant that he'd have shitty aim.

I caught this brunette looking at me from the bar while I played Toothless Tim. Once I caught her staring at us, namely me, I decided to pull some trick shots. So I started with the cue behind my back, then went to jumping the ball over another, and I even had the chance to pull a cut shot from the way the balls lined up. A couple of people in the bar clapped at that one, her included.

Three minutes later, I was fifty bucks richer. "Damn," he slurred, his Georgian accent so thick I could cut it with a steak knife, "you sure do know how to play pool game, son."

"Thanks, pops," I said, taking the money. He held on to his cue and looked at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, thinking I'd go for another game, but I thought better of it. One: he probably couldn't afford it; and two: if he could afford it, he'd have some wife at home with a name like Anna May bitchin' at him for eating up their month's welfare check on two games of pool. And, just out of principle, I liked to space my games as a safety net, just so I didn't start anything that I had to finish.

"Maybe later," I told him, and he smiled. One of his bottom front teeth was missing.

"All right, stranger, I'll hold you tew that."

I started wander over to the bar, and slipped onto a stool about three seats away from the cougar. Okay, so it's not fair to call her a cougar, I guess, but I could tell she was older than me. Maybe her early forties or something. But she was dressed for the business; she had a leopard-print v-neck shirt on, a black skirt with mesh stockings and mean knee-high leather boots with heels you could kill with. She was smoking over a dish of roasted almonds, nursing a beer in her other hand. A Keystone Light. I've had better.

She glanced over at me as I checked her out. I thumbed out a five from the pool game and laid it on the table for the bartender when he got close, still watching her. "I'll have what she's having," I said, almost having to choke out the words. I wasn't one for sweet beers. But I thought, hey, the first trail to a lady's tail has to be the same beer she's suckin' on. I figured I might as well try to pick her up; I'd been a lonely boy for the past few weeks, and any sort of glance I got, I was gonna bank on it.

"Make that two," she said, holding up her beer. I glanced over again, and laid down another five. She kept watching me, sipping her beer. I could see globs of her mascara from where I sat.

"Why don't you come have a seat by me." She patted at the stool next to her (fake hot-pink nails, the clicking type) giving me that "I'm gonna eat you up" look. So I sidled over next to her, and the bartender brought us our two beers, popping off the caps on the bar before putting them down. I wanted to gag—I could already taste that foul Georgia beer. "Keep the change," I said as he swiped up my bills. Since it's actually Bucky Bill's over there.

"I'm Raleigh," she said, holding out one of her hands. She had a deep, silky voice, and a seductive grin on her face. As a guy making his career off of reading other people, I already knew I was getting laid by that grin.

"Nick," I said, taking her hand and shaking it gently. She finished her first beer then picked up the second, while I started on mine. God, that beer was shit.

"You don't look familiar. Are you just passing through?"

"Sort of. I'm here for the Oktoberfest."

"Mm. Lots of tourists are. But you don't look like a tourist."

"No. Salesman, more like."

She laughed. It was airy, somewhere in between careless and fake. "Well, I'm still surprised you'd come out of your way to visit Georgia, what with the flu scare going 'round an' all."

I scoffed. "Buncha bullshit."

"I think so, too," Raleigh said. "Haven't seen a trace of it myself."

We were halfway through our beers and almost out of another thin, meaningless conversation when she finally dropped the bomb. "So... where are you staying?"

"At the Pomegranate," I said, motioning over my shoulder. "By the river front. Five or so blocks from here."

"Oh," she said, dragging on her cigarette. She let the smoke billow out her mouth. "That sounds pretty far."

The next thing I knew, we were in a less than sanitary bathroom stall in the mens room with my pants pooled around my shoes and her skirt hitched up. I didn't mind screamers, but we were in a fucking public washroom for Chrissakes. Then again, me working her against the stall wall made more than enough ruckus for the both of us, so it didn't matter so much. I'm pretty sure I could've knocked over both stalls. Maybe the entire fucking bar.

She faked it with a shriek (if this were a porno I was watching, I would've shut it off long ago) just as I was finishing up. I buried my head in the dip of her neck, taking in a big whiff of her hair. It smelled like cigarette smoke and too much perfume.

"Oh... God," she sighed, sliding down the wall and unwrapping her legs from around my waist. "What a knockout."

I didn't say anything. She straightened herself out and I bent over to pick up my pants. We stayed cramped right up next to each other, considering the stall wasn't big enough for two people to begin with, and we both panted and shot each other sly grins as we straightened everything out.

"Thanks, Nick," Raleigh said. "I needed that one."

"Likewise."

We went back out into the bar, and I noticed the volume on the jukebox had been cranked up a notch or two with Achy Breaky Heart playing. Everyone was avoiding looking at us with grins on their faces. All but the bartender, that is. I caught him glaring us down, and noticed he was leaning against the bar with a twelve gauge under his fists.

Raleigh slipped her arm through mine. "I think I'll be able to make it back to your hotel room now, if you're willin'."

"Yeah, that might be a good idea."

I winked at the bartender, and he ground his jaws together. As we got to the door, someone started to clap, and then everyone gave us a round of applause.

"Let's stop by the pharmacy," she said, a sly grin on her face. I knew my luck that night was gonna fly high like the firecrackers going off at the waterfront that night.

We were walking arm in arm down the sidewalk from the pharmacy to the hotel. She held the bag of condoms in her free hand, and it rustled every time she stumbled. Most of the time she'd bump into me, shoving her rack into my arm while giggling over being so apparently wasted. I grinned a couple of times as she set herself walking again, but I was starting to get pretty annoyed. Acting more drunk than you are just means you're more ashamed to be doing what you're doing. At least I knew how much of a scumbag I was to be sleeping around with some woman I'd just met who I could care less about and had enough balls to live with it. Then again, she had pretty good boobs for being over the hill, so it wasn't so bad.

When we got closer to the hotel, we saw this guy stumbling down the street like he had one or five too many beers. Being the obnoxious ass that I am, I felt it was my personal duty to make some sort of snide remark.

"Hey," I called, "you should lay off the sauce, pal."

All of the sudden his head snaps up, and he changes from stumbling drunk to crazy mugger. It was dark out, but I could see a gleam in his eyes, like he was some sort of wild dog. Then he charged us.

Raleigh shrieked, and I braced myself, a little caught off guard. "The hell?" I yelled, just as he collided with me. I turned and pushed him to the side, accidentally throwing him into my date.

It looked like he was mauling the lady; he was snarling or something, and as he stumbled back with her, he puked down her front. So I grabbed him by the back of his jacket, and threw him to the ground. He tumbled a bit, then fell on his back. He stayed like that, breathing heavy, struggling weakly with himself to get back up.

"What's your goddamn problem, pal?" I snapped, then I kicked him in the ribs. He barely moved or made a noise. I went to do it again, but then I stopped myself.

"Nick, let's just go," Raleigh said, tugging at my arm. I stared down at the guy, suddenly just a little creeped out. His skin was ashy, and even though I didn't get his face or anything, he was bleeding from his mouth and nose, his eyes—even his fucking ears were letting out. Every time he took in air it was wheezy, and his eyes were rolling around in his head like shaken-up eight balls. "Please," she whined, and then I let her drag me away.

"God, I think he scratched me or somethin'," she mumbled as we crossed the street, rubbing at her neck. The puke was gleaming in the lamplight, and I was surprised she wasn't worried about that. The entire way back, though, she was rubbing at her neck like it was a mosquito bite.

If I knew what I knew now, I would've took her straight to a hospital and left her there. But being that I was a meandering, self-involved douche bag, I didn't ever bank any time into settling down and actually getting to know a place or anyone in it, or about the important current events, like an epidemic. I'd heard bits and pieces of this virus that had been spreading like wildfire from New York southwards, but I didn't give more than a rat's ass because I was cruising around Texas at the time. You heard yuppies complaining about some illness or other all the time in the goddamn States—Anthrax, mad cow, swine flu—AIDS, even—I could care less about any of it. I never got bothered by that shit. I figured this was just another scare, this "flu" or whatever the fuck they wanted to call it. I caught a glimpse or two of the infamous CEDA trucks and all these people huddled together like sheep around it, but that's as far as it went for me. When I actually crossed the border into Georgia, I'd forgotten all about the scare, even though I'd entered Bad Territory, and there had to be at least one sick person on every street corner.

Back on track: Raleigh didn't want to go to a hospital or anything—she just wanted a shower. I didn't blame her; she kind of reeked all the way back to the hotel. The strange thing is, girls like her would bitch and moan to the ends of the earth about how disgusting that drunk guy was, but she was all quiet about it. She didn't say a peep about that asshole on the street. If anything, I'd say she was shitting her pants. After I got a close-up of that guy, I was, too.

I lounged out across the bed while Raleigh stripped off her clothes and started a shower. "God, I liked those clothes. Now I'm gonna hafta throw them out."

"I'll get room service to clean them up," I said.

"Don't bother. Puke never really comes outta clothes."

"Nor does jizz," I whispered to myself, smiling and plunking down on the bed.

I kicked my shoes off and put my hands behind my head, waiting for her to finish up. Just as I was getting excited, I passed out.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower running; the door to the bathroom was open, and the air was pretty thick with steam. The blinds were closed, but they were the vertical slanty-type, and beams of daylight cracked out onto my face. I groaned a little, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Then I was consciously aware of the shower running, and knew something was off.

I looked at the sheets; they hadn't been slept in at all. Either she spent the entire night in the shower, or she just up and left without turning anything off. I sat up in bed, stretching and trying to collect myself.

From where I was sitting, I could still see her clothes piled on the floor. "Hey, you there?" I finally asked, unable to actually remember her name. No answer.

I got up out of the bed, then walked into the bathroom. The curtain was drawn halfway, and I could see a bit of blood smeared against the wall.

"What the hell?" I groaned, getting closer. "Hey, do you need an ambulance or something?"

The steam was like a goddamn fog in there. I got the feeling I was in a horror film, like Psycho or something. Except I got the distinct impression the bad guy was behind the shower curtain in my situation.

"I don't feel so good," she whispered when I got close to the curtain. Instead of drawing it back, I peeked around the corner. I could see her sitting in the bathtub, bent over herself. Her skin was super pale, and the water flowing down the drain was a constant stream of pale red.

"Fuck," I muttered, and she looked over her shoulder at me. Her face was slack and dark blood streaked from her ears, her eyes, her nose, her mouth...

"I think I'm sick."

I stared at her dumbly, paralyzed. I was fucking scared shitless. "Want me to call someone?"

Then her head wrenched forward and she puked into her lap. It came out as a spray of thick, black blood.

I nearly tripped over my own feet scrambling back from the tub. I don't know why it scared me so much, but when she puked, I got the sudden feeling of just being fucked. I fell back against the bathroom door, slamming it hard against the wall, then cussed my way over to the phone. I picked up the receiver, waiting for the front desk to answer.

"Good morning, Pomegranate Front Desk, how may I help you?"

"Someone's sick—in my room," I said, stumbling over my own words. "I think she's got that virus."

There was a hesitation. A huge hesitation. "Which room are you staying in, sir?"

"Fuck if I kn—408, it's 408."

I could hear her typing. "Mr. Gerald Banks?"

That was the name on the credit card I'd stolen the day before. "Yeah, that's me."

"Someone will be up shortly." Then she hung up. What the fuck, huh? "Someone" will be up "shortly." Like that fuckin' tells me anything. What was I supposed to do? I slammed the phone down, swearing some more. I could still hear her puking her guts out. She was hacking and sobbing at the same time, and I got this increasing sense of dread, like I didn't want to be in that room anymore.

So I pulled on my shoes and grabbed my wallet (or Gerald's wallet, more like) and left the room. I was walking quickly down the hallway, shoving my hands in my pockets, making sure I had everything on me as I ditched her in the room. At least I'd called for help, right? I wasn't a complete heartless fucker. At least, that's what I want to keep telling myself.

Just as I punched the call button to the elevator and stepped in, the door to the stairs burst open, and four or five guys in these huge CEDA suits came running up the hall towards my room.

I pressed the button to the lobby, my hands shaking, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on and why it had Nick shaking in his shoes.