Rated: M
I do not own Left 4 Dead—Valve does.
Chapter 1: A Hick's Heart
No one tells you how bad it is, how horrible, it really is. No one tells you how many sleepless nights this sort of scenario offers a man, how many skipped heartbeats a person has huddled in the corner of some abandoned swamp shack. No one says a goddamn thing. That is—unless you have the free time to chat it up with the Infected. Personally, I haven't had that luxury, but I hear they're generally not that social. Who knew? Aside from the midnight snarling of underbrush right beside my feet, the only thing keeping me alive is my high school knowledge of American Geography. Granted the random, yet oddly informative, graffiti littering the safehouses I happen to wonder into—I haven't got a damn clue on how to survive down here in this god forsaken pile of shit. I wasn't built for pontoon boats and fucking farmland, for miles of swamps and huge-ass snakes—this man was built for the concrete jungle.
Initially, the plan was simple—stay alive, keep moving, trust no one. But of course that was…initially. Planning on the unexpected in an apocalypse sounds like Rule #1 to the sane and healthy, but it's not all black and white down here in the swamps. Trudging through waist high muck, while scanning left, right, up, and sideways for any sign of something trying to eat my goddamn limbs isn't exactly a stroll in the park. To suddenly meet three other able-bodied Survivors with a shotgun pointed between my eyes is my interpretation of "good morning". Sure they seemed like normal, down-to-Earth country folk—but I never expected one of them to cause such a problem for me. Ellis. Ellis—was definitely not in the plan.
"Hey Mr. Big-shot—mind moving those city slicker legs a little faster? This rate, even the leeches'll be faster than you!" half-shouts the woman, supposedly in charge, due to her being at least thirty feet ahead of the others.
"L-leeches?" I whisper to myself taking more delicate stomps through the murky chocolate swamp water. "There're leeches in this swamp?"
She chuckles. "Don't worry—with those toned legs of yours, them leeches will just bounce right off," she continues to rant as she stops for a second and surveys the area ahead of her before proceeding.
"Salt."
Half swiveling around to see who's talking to me I see a boy, probably no older than 24, walking besides me at an even pace, like walking through waist high water was a daily happening.
"Excuse me?" I ask sternly.
"Salt," The young boy hesitantly says again, almost mentally cursing himself for opening his mouth to the conman a second time, "my buddy Keith had this 'ole remedy, sprinkle a 'lil salt on them critter, and he'll slide right off nice and clean like,"
"Thanks…"
Rolling my eyes more dramatically than necessary, I turn my body around to continue walking on the path. The blazing star in the sky has finally descended over the tallest tree, shining less and less of it's brilliant light. Half expecting fog to roll in through the gaps in the tree trunks and a pack of hungry alligators to come swimming towards their legs, I quickly erase my past movie adventures about the Deep South and my mind begins to drift.
"So…I know this is a little late in the game, but what are you guys' names?" My mouth produces this latest question that my mind conjured up in the least harsh way.
Look, I know what you're thinking, "Why the hell don't you know their names?" Answer? There really isn't any time to go through roll call when you have packs of bloodthirsty whatcha-muhcallits tailing your ass. You're kind of busy.
"The name's Rochelle," the dark woman says finally taking the time to turn her face towards the rest of the group, "and this here is Coach."
"Coach?" I quizzically ask the hefty guy.
"Yeah—Coach, what 'bout it?" he roughly answers back filling the void between the two of them faster than I can even blink.
I scour my mind for the least…provoking answer; "N-nothing…I like it—easy to remember."
Quickly sensing a lack of introduction for the young…kid—to say the least, I turn around to eye him up. Stopping his heavy footsteps in their path, I glare down the young kid's icy blue eyes, "and what might your name be?"
"Uh…the name's Ellis, but you cun call me 'Ellie' fur short if yuh like," the young kid practically stutters out as his face begins to beam a crimson shade. "But I reckon Ellie kinda sounds lika girl's name, so maybe yuh shuld call me—"
I try to imagine the biggest piece of duct tape over this kids mouth to try to mentally shut him up, but my brain tells my mouth to spit out another rash sentence
"I'm just gonna stick with Ellis," my voice hurls out covered in sternness.
"F-fine by me, sir-r!" quivers Ellis, and if my eyes weren't betraying me, I could've sworn I saw that boy do an army salute to me.
This place. Is fucking weird.
"On your left!" Rochelle barks pointing past my head to a pack of snarling zombies dashing from behind the closest tree trunk. Turning my entire body a full ninety degrees, my shotgun's shell makes sweet contact with rotting flesh and the corpse falls to the swamp floor. Taking aim at anything that moves towards me, my brain sets into a pattern of reloading and shooting—until not one growling corpse is left limping.
"Boy Nick—you sure know your way around a pump-action shotgun," she quips resting her rifle on her shoulder while kicking a bleeding zombie—checking if it has any second thoughts. "Remind me never to piss you off."
All I do is laugh, chuckling like an idiot as I wade through the muck to where Ellis is standing. The mechanic is checking—more like triple checking—his gun.
Sensitivity takes up its rare slot in my mind as it summons up another embarrassing sentence, "did it jam up?"
Hesitating to detach his glare from the barrel of his gun, he slowly raises his eyes to meet my emerald ones. Something swirls around in my stomach—something I've never felt in all my years of traveling. For a second, all my focus is directed on his eyes, his icy blue eyes—a captivating shade of winter that envelops my thoughts.
What the hell, why is this kid so goddamn important? Why does my stomach feel like I just ate a brick…?
"Yeah, damn thing's always jammin' up at the wrong tymes," he says to himself while lowering his head back down to examine his gun for the fourth time.
Eyeing up the disgruntled boy, they somehow draw themselves to his arms that are swelling with muscles as he tries to pry open his gun. A tattoo occupies his right bicep, making the rest of his arm look bigger in comparison. Muscles that are tightly filling out his small shirt, making it look like merely a child's. His pecs bulge underneath his shirt, sending my eyes downward towards his waist and—
Stop it Nick, what the fuck are you doing, he's a man—a kid. This damn apocalypse has done some strange stuff to you—but it hasn't made you a fucking queer.
"Maybe it's the trigger, it's always cummin' loose," Ellis talks to himself again before taking off his hat for a brief second to scratch the top of his head in confusion, revealing a head of dark brown hair.
"Here," my body moves closer to his, "let me have a look-see." Prying his surprisingly strong hands off the barrel of his gun, I take the firearm in my own palms and run it over with my eyes. Before long I find the source of the malfunction and run it over quickly to make sure it's up to speed.
Moments before returning the weapon back its rightful owner, out of the corner of my bloodshot eye I spot a shadow perched above a tree limb—staring over in our direction. Without a chance to react, a lone tongue flies out from the darkness of the marshland encasing Ellis's legs in a fleshy bind. Falling backwards on his heels, his entire body begins getting dragged against his will into the dimly lit abyss.
"Fuckin-shit," the mechanic manages to choke out before his small frame disappears in the darkness.
"Ellis!" my throat screams out as my legs kick into overdrive, propelling me into the same direction the hick was dragged off into. "Goddammit Ellis, where are you buddy!"
Rochelle and Coach, suddenly noticing the loss of two other men—rush after my screaming voice. "Nick!" Rochelle screams first, trudging as fast as she can after me, "Nick where are you going! What's going on!"
Blocking the desperate sounds of Rochelle and heavy panting of Coach trying to keep pace with her, my mind envelops in tunnel vision—my only need right now is to find Ellis.
Making my way to an open clearing, I scream his name one final time hoping to God he answers me, "Ellis!" Silence. With no more luck than a minute ago, my head darts upward to the canopying trees in hopes of spotting a glimpse of the boy.
Just as the two straggling members reach me, my eyes can barely make out a figure jostling around above me—with frantic legs kicking in open air. Semi-organic roping wrapped harshly around his throat, cutting off any dialogue but the faint slip of groaning and choking.
"Ellis, hold on!" taking aim above his writhing position, I pull the trigger on his gun in hopes of killing whatever is keeping him hostage. In an explosion of smoke and crimson blood, a lone screech escapes the snarling zombie as his tongue falls heavily to the swamp floor with a helpless Ellis following suit.
I outstretch my arms like I've seen a thousand times in those god-awful movies, and brace myself as he lands in my arms. My knees buckle under the sudden weight and my body drops into the murky water, completely submerging my clothes and Ellis's.
Realizing no witty remarks, or any sort of story about his happy-go-lucky life—I notice something's off. Rochelle kneels beside me and moves his body up on her propped up knee as she puts two fingers to his throat to check for his heartbeat. With an emotionless face, she looks back up at me—no words escape her mouth, mainly because I know what she would say otherwise.
"No…" I whisper to myself as tears swell up in my eyes, brimming on the edge of my ducts. "Goddammit Ellis!" my body tenses up as my ball my hands into fists and pound them on his bloody chest.
Searching my mind for anything useful, my mind spins in circles trying to think of something rational. I scan the scene for anyplace, anything to use. A lone house lingers in the distance, just close enough for us to run to. Unfolding my fists onto his chest I movemy arms under his back and neck, cradling him in my arms.
"Over there, there's a house we can use," I pant out as I readjust the boy in my arms—as I was totally unaware of how jacked he really was.
Coach and Rochelle both nod in agreement and they take the initiative to lead the pack towards the house. Running as fast I could through waist-high water, I pass by tree after tree—hoping to God this little detour isn't costing Ellis of his chance at rebirth. The retired gym teacher makes it first onto the porch and peers in the dirty window to the right of the door.
"No one's home," he says nonchalantly just before he busts open the door.
Damn…
Quickly rushing inside, Rochelle clears away an open spot on the nearby table, and I take the hint to set him down gently. His chest refuses to rise or fall, his eyes reject its will to open and show off their shade of wintry—his body declines to live. Panic sets into my own chest, as awful thoughts crowd into my brain. She checks his neck again in search of any sort of pulse, and again she comes up negative.
Turning towards me with eyes stricken with despair she slowly says, "Nick, baby—I don't think…" She stops mid sentence and attempts to console me, placing her open palm on the ridges of my back—I shrug her off.
Leaning over his body, tears overflow their dam and rush down my cheeks landing on his shirt below. I place both hand on his chest, grabbing the fabric between my fingers—taking it all in for my hand to feel. My mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute but one of them, out of all the chaos, proves to be rational. Overlapping my hands on top of his faded yellow t-shirt, my palms push down in his chest and lift back up again. Repeating the motion again and again, I work my hands into a makeshift pattern.
"Nick, whattya doing…it's over," she tries again.
"Shut up," I sneer out through clenched teeth, unwilling to accept what she's just spoken.
Pumping harder and harder, I bring my head down to his lips to check if he's breathing—if life-giving air is entering his lungs. Nothing. His lips have a lifeless tint to them, a glow that should never be there. The presence of his eager icy blue pupils is hidden behind sunken in eyelids. Something inside of my brain is yelling for me to do it, screaming inside my eardrums to save him—to bring him home. Bringing my own head closer to his lips, I make contact with his and try sharing some of my life with him—a chance for him again. Ellis's small but toned chest rises with the sudden existence of air within his lungs, but quickly escapes. I release my lips from his surprisingly salty ones; reeling back to gaze over his person as my golden green eyes dart from head to toe.
Coach's arms wrap round Rochelle's tiny frame as she buries her face in his stomach, muffling her sobbing.
Attempting again, I start pumping down on his chest—with force I had no idea was inside of. This sudden adrenaline rush of power drives my hand up and down on the mechanic's chest until I feel something. Faint and weak, but something other than my own palms…beating. A flicker of hopes dodges in and out of my own heart as the corner of my moth curves up into a smirk. Lowering my ear down his to his lips one more, I sense no air escaping his small, delicate lips. Encasing his boyish ones in my own, I quickly push air desperately into his lungs, sending his chest rising. Sometime between the whole ordeal, my own thoughts blend together in a sensation—hinting at the fact that this is no longer CPR, but lust. I block them out for the time being.
Lifting my lips no more than an inch above his own, a cough ripples through his throat. Then another, then another until finally his eyes flutter open.
"Rochelle," Coach whispers to her as she lifts her head to look him in the eyes, "turn around." With that, the woman wipes her eyes semi-clear of moisture and gazes them on the weak boy lying on the wood table. A toothy grin pops onto her face and she rushes to his side putting her hand inside his right one.
Glacial eyes timidly shift from one side of the room to the other—taking in a new change of scenery and a new life. Finally, they land directly in front to catch a glimpse of myself. Something I never thought I'd see again, were his cheeks—burning red as ever, as he realizes my lips are literally on top of his own. Placing my hand on his reddest cheek, my thumb rubs off a droplet of blood just underneath his eyes.
"Welcome back," my own emerald eyes land on his face, his cute—yet utterly stupid face. The face that for some reason I couldn't even fathom living without; the face that makes me almost want to kiss him again.
A/N: Well...that was Chapter 1. I was originally going to make this into a one-shot but it just got so long, I sort lost track of it. Then I was deciding on making it a two-shot...let's hope that works out well. Reviews are always nice!