A/N: So. Its been awhile. To my Bleach fans, I thoroughly apologize for the delays. Much has been going on with me and my schedule is next to non-existence, plus the recent bleach timeline completely messes up the skew of my story. Anyway, expect a chapter within the next two weeks or so. (And as for why Im making another story when my other is unfinished, I started writing this on and off throughout the other. Im just posting the finished project now.)

Now, L4D is one of the other things in my perpetually growing favorites list. (I like many things. Except Twilight.) I am a long time gamer, since my days as a youngster equipped with her gameboy and a Pokemon silver. The zombie genre has always had a special place in my heart and L4D realized much of that love. (Killing zombies with guitars is fun, especially with friends.) And getting to play as the infected themselves is definitely a bonus.

It was actually this feature of the games that got us thinking. Before we knew it, (we being me and my good friend who's as much a game enthusiast as myself,) a fanfiction was born.

Without further ado, enjoy.

oOo

First it was just brief moments.

It was kind of like bubbles that slowly work their way up through poured maple syrup, hesitating, then breaking out upon the surface with a faint pop. It started like that. Lightning flashes of faces, places, things I used to know that had names that no longer had names. And a face, a face I knew but did not remember-

Below me, my cohort broke into a fit of raspy coughing, snapping me from my musings. He glanced up at me through the single eye left him, the other taken by the tumor-like growths that covered all the way across the left-side of his face and receding down to the decayed looking skin of his exposed arms. Greenish-black smoke billowed out from his very pores it seemed, forever surrounding his tall thin body in a acrid smelling cloud; so unlike the lighter grey smoke of the cigarette perched carefully between the long trademark tongue and the corner of his upper lip as it rose soft and formless into the evening air. He wore a dirty, green hooded-jacket speckled with grime, blood and God only knew what else. Around his right arm, was tied a strip of what was formerly white cloth, matching the one around my own. He took a final drag; exhaled, filling the air with even denser smog, before spitting the cancer-stick out and grinding it beneath his foot. I grimaced at him, though he probably couldn't see it beneath the shadow my hood or my elevated position. With that, he stalked back into the watchtower whose roof I happened to be sitting on, to take his position nearer the water's edge as planned. I watched him go for a moment, then turned my attention to the racket far off in the distance, the familiar cracking booms of gunfire echoing off the metal siding of the old warehouses all around me. The survivors were headed this way. They had no way of knowing of the at least three Strong-Ones in the area I had scouted out, nor the massive population of our former brethren weaving their aimless patrols around here. Leftovers really, those who weren't saved when the overloaded rescue boats left, leaving them to succumb to the infection or death. Only a month or so ago. It seemed impossible that the world could go to hell that fast.

We'd been following them for nearly two days; three men of varying age, a middle-age woman, and a small girl. The woman and the girl seemed the least likely to make it to their goal; the first having twisted her ankle and the latter for obvious reasons. They had already lost two people in their battle to where they were now; namely, the dockyard just south of the city. I could easily guess their thoughts; maybe, just maybe by the grace of God, there'd be a boat they could use to cruise down to the sea and hopefully, to the military rescue areas. I didn't have to be a mathematician to know their chances were slim to none.

The ruckus drew closer; even now, knowing what I was now and what I used to be, instincts surged up in me; I hated the Sound, the noise nearly rending my eardrums painfully and excitedly. I wanted to annihilate its source, to tear and rip it apart until everything remained still and quiet as it should be. These blasphemers, these strange creatures that didn't belong, that trespassed on MY grounds. It was taking every shred of willpower not to join the scattered wave of infected converging on the spot. The thrill of the hunt I suppressed inside me, something beyond my infection, deeper, into the primordial ooze of mankind. Its call nearly irresistible as a siren's song was to a sailor. I clutched at the grimy sheet metal with a growl.

As if on cue, I saw in the distance closer to the din an all too familiar shape clamber atop a rooftop, like some hairless mutant gorilla on steroids. The Strong-one gave a triumphant, raging bellow. He had found his prey.

Just perfect...I grumbled. At this rate, they were all going to end up dead. I coiled my legs like springs beneath me and launched through the air for the next rooftop; a fierce screech ripping unbidden from my mouth as I did so.

Some habits are hard to break.

oOo

Prowled the rooftops, grotesque hands padding before its vision as it crept silently on all fours. Sniffing the air uncertainly, grumbling, growling. The air tense, electric; some event lies poised-

A deafening, maddening shriek pulsated through the air, ripping through the silent environment and its eardrums. Head snapping to attention; already, answering howls from the throats of the Others like it, answering, enraged at this Sound that dared break the quiet. Already moving, leaping till the Sound grew louder, a familiar incessant wail far louder then any voice. Hated it, hated it, and hated the things it knew had created this terrible racket searing its very being.

Getting close. Below, racing through the brick alleyways, the Others raced, screeching in rage toward the Sound; its ears caught the guttural roar of one of the Strong ones in the distance, the hacking cough of the Smoking one. Close now, close.

One last rooftop and below, the hated object, light pouring from its two eyes as it shrieked incessantly, and five of Those Who Were Not The Others. Snarling, watching for the opportune moment as They struggled to pierce through the mass of Others. One, a balding One Who Was Not Us, fell behind as his comrades fled, too old, too unfit for the gauntlet. It was time.

Flying through the air, wind whipping through its ears, see the man's eyes widen and scream tear triumphantly from its throat as it landed feet first into his chest; felt something crunch beneath its heels; snarling with triumph as it began to claw out the man's chest; the man screaming piteously, his noisy-weapon-stick far from reach, Blood coming now, surrounded by Others in triumph, they stamped and hit, determined to eliminate this frail light in their comfortable darkness.

Close now, so close, and the man struggled feebly, a puddle of red and-

"Hey Dad, how are you feeling today?" The hospital smells like sickeningly sweet chemicals, too white, too bright and whitewashed.

"A little better." He gives an awkward smile, trying to hide the wince as he shuffles to sit upright. "They've got me on a new medication, to help with...you know." Got up to fluff his pillows and suddenly feeling very small again, kissed him delicately on the forehead. He smiles, looking up pleasantly surprised gray eyes with dark bags beneath them through the thin wire frame of his glasses. Up close, notice the few strands of white hair amongst the brown...

Who?

Whose hand fluffed the pillow, whose eyes saw the hint of age?

Who?

WHO?

-Shrieking, staggering away. Wrong, all wrong. Like a heavy weight dragging at its chest. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Falling, smells of blood over-powering, hands warm, too warm. Stumbling away from the Others and the man; they took no notice of its departure, continuing their work grimly. An eternity passing as it lay trembling in a side alley, watching with numb gaze from beneath its hood. The man screamed no more and lay still. The screeching object that had caused the man's death lay a ways away, crushed and battered by the Strong one, its wail dying away in strange uneven tones. The Others gone, gone to chase down Those That Were Not Them, the people that had escaped.

People.

It suddenly vomited, sides heaving as it struggled to stand. Not even taking a blow from one of the Loud-Noise-Sticks was this bad. Head on fire, head ablaze, but there was no flames. Torment, pain, torment. Not understanding, this pain, this heaviness, feet like lead as it dragged itself along on all fours. Need water. Need water to put out the flames that were not there, that roared inside its head, inside its brain-

Feverish, sick, the world was blurred and strangely contrasted. Dark, save for the glow of the lamp in the far corner of the bedroom, casting shadows over the flowery wallpaper. A soothing feminine voice and gentle cool hand dabbed the sweat and heat away with a soaked cloth, a gentle song murmured to her right, like a lullaby. The sheets were scratchy and hot but felt good; too cold, body was too cold. Shivering eyes closed. The comforting, loved voice was humming now, gentle and soft. Something cold and delicious being poured through parched lips, seizing the cup thankfully, drinking deep-

-Whimpering now, it crawled further into the dark alley, its hands sticky with blood picking up grime and unidentifiable sludge as it felts its way along. Soon, a trembling hand splashed down into a grimy puddle; wearily it bent its hooded head to drink. The water tasted foul and warm, against its pebbly dry tongue. Calmed, the pain was fading, but the strange weight in its chest and the ache between its temples remained though lessened. Growling, it gave a sudden leap to the rooftops, up into the cooler night air.

oOo

It was getting ugly. Unfamiliar with their surroundings, the bewildered survivors had managed in their wandering through the maze of abandoned warehouses stumble directly into a large group of the relentless horde, whose attention immediately snapped to these unwanted trespassers. In the confusion, one of the men, a young law-school looking kid with tousled blond hair and a what may have been an arrogant face had been dragged further away from his group by one of the back-humper types. Already torn up from the trip to this point and favoring his right leg, he had slowed too much behind, easy pickings for any special infected. Screaming for help with no chance for any, he tried to tear the long eager fingers from his head as the creature on his back trembled and cackled with glee like a super caffeinated asylum patient. Away from the support of his fellow infected and behind the ongoing crowd, the back-humper proceeded to try to down its prize.

The momentum of my jump and dear old gravity effectively knocked the air out of my target; without losing my stride, I grabbed it by the throat and dragged it into an alcove sheltered with fragments of rubble. Long grimy fingernails scratched at my grasping arm, amid choked giggles; I slashed the jugular with my hard claw-like fingernails, avoiding the sudden gush of sickly blood and exiting the shelter of the rubble. The little rider-infected was finished. Ignoring the sickening gurgling and giggling sounds behind me, I peered about to see what had become of the lone survivor.

Not too far from me, I saw a crowd of common infected leave a spot not far from me and continue the chase. In their stead, the blond college kid lay facedown in a puddle of red and did not rise. He had managed to get a good fifteen feet away from where I had intervened and toward the docks before he fell. I crept closer but in my gut, I already knew. I could "see" no signs of life. Besides, They never left their targets until they were sure that they were dead anyway.

There was nothing more I could do for him. Swallowing the grim, sick feeling in my stomach, I sprang for the wall, rebounded, and landed lightly atop the roof, headed for the docks.

They were much closer to the dock, but in bad shape. The woman was shrieking hysterically as the Strong One closed in; suddenly, the street erupted into flames; one of the remaining men, a grim looking man with a plaid shirt and bulky arms had thrown a Molotov directly on top of the monster. My nostrils were suddenly overwhelmed with the smell of burning flesh and acrid smoke. It roared in pain, swinging its massive forearms to clear a path through the crowds of the infected around him. The survivors had no place left to run; the river behind them, the horde crushing in on either side, the flaming beast before them. The air was alive with gunshots and inhuman screams.

Suddenly, an uproar. A random boomer, no, one of my cohorts for I saw the ragged white strip around his fat arm edged behind and vomited all over the burning monster, inadvertently putting out some of the flames. Like ravenous sharks, the horde's attention immediately snapped to this new "enemy"; and with gibberish shrieks of rage and triumph they fell upon the Strong One- now if only the survivors were smart enough to- Yes, they took advantage of the confusion and broke through one side of the trap, straining to reach the landing zone further down where a weathered motorboat still was tied. The second man gave a joyful if not tearful whoop of joy. I sprang to perch inside a withered tree overhanging the water to watch, a strangely lifting feeling flooding through me; they were going to make it, they-

ROOOOOOAR!

A second tank exploded from a ruined alleyway, scattering bricks and sheet metal like twigs. It came without warning and with a roar charged; slammed its massive fist directly into the woman with the yellow dress. I heard the fatal crack and a fresh red stain appear across the yellow, watched as she flew through the air, seemed to hover for a moment like some strange giant canary over the water, before a splash and her body disappeared forever beneath the muddy currents.

It had happened so fast.

The two men stood gaping, the little girl with reddish hair wide eyed in shock, cowered between them. So close, only to die here.

No!

All rationality, all instinct for self-preservation left my mind, replaced with cold, white-hot fury that seared my every nerve. I pushed off the old gnarled trunk, straight for the muscled back; sank my claws as deep as my fingers could pierce into the flesh. Bit with my fangs and ripped; it roared in pain, tried to reach back to grab me, but its muscle-bound arms were helpless to do so; I clung like an infuriated cat and continued to slash at any flesh I could reach as it tried to slam me with objects it had grabbed, flailed its body around to rid it of this stinging pest. I felt nothing, a wild glee surging through my veins ignited by my bloodlust, the smell, the taste of coppery red. Intoxicated, my mind sank away and- why was I fighting one of my own when the prey was so near?- Suddenly, something that felt like a thick, damp rope wrapped around my waist with an iron grip, secured its hold and tightened, trying to pull me off the giant berserk freak; I clung on instinctively, resisting the slimy tentacle. Suddenly my grip slipped and I found myself being dragged along the ground with startling speed. I hit a wall with a thud that left me seeing stars, felt myself hastily being pulled upward and then onto the safety of a ledge. The Strong-One's infuriated roars buzzed up after me through my ears which seemed to suddenly be stuffed with bees judging by that strange buzz.

Still locked in my enraged feral mentality, I leapt to my feet and prepared to attack this new threat only to come face to face with my partner. His green jacket had a new bullet hole in the sleeve that I could see straight through, and new singe marks across his chest. The single, greenish bloodshot eye peered concernedly at me; he gripped my arms to my side to keep them from scratching him to pieces. I growled, felt the thrill and adrenaline fade and myself emerge again from the maelstrom. Seeing me calmed, he quickly snapped his tongue with a quick jerk of his head and the slimy coil dropped loosely from my waist. We were standing atop one of the many unfinished cement buildings beside the river where he had taken position and then had hoisted me to safety. I wrenched myself from his hands with a slight growl then turned back toward the commotion. Like silent bystanders we watched the remaining drama unfold below us.

I had done very little damage to the Strong-one, but my few seconds of blind rage had distracted it long enough to buy the three survivors left precious time to get into the boat and start the stubborn outboard motor. Already they were churning out towards midstream, the plaid shirt man scoped the bank with his sniper rifle covering their retreat lest some miserable Long-tongue tried to drag one of them to a watery grave; out of habit, my companion and I took shelter behind the stone columns of our post. The horde raved along the rotten dock, screaming in rage; a few were shoved into the water, some of the more eager ones jumped in after the boat, all of them only to flounder for a few seconds before disappearing from sight and to where the yellow-dress lady now lay. The Strong One tore up a chunk of pavement with a great cracking sound and hurled it after the fragile craft, beating its chest savagely in its fury; it barely missed them. The water exploded with the impact, nearly capsizing the puny boat, but finally after a few tense minutes they were just a mere speck further downstream. With the threat no longer there, the enraged horde calmed, forgot, and slowly broke apart to continue their endless wandering. The Strong One growled and lumbered back into the maze of buildings to recover from its wounds.

The two of us stood watching for a long time watching the boat disappear into the distance.

By the time it was gone from sight, night had fallen in full force. He gave a sighing cough and gave me a long studying look with that eye of greenish film, then suddenly he gave a sharp raspy inhale and his gaze fell to my shoulder with surprised concern. He pointed. I followed his gesture and found a bullet-hole of my own about mid-bicep. As if suddenly reminding me, I became aware of a dull ache. I quickly clawed up my sleeve to investigate; luckily it had only hit the outside edge of my arm and gone straight through the skin without touching bone or anything vital. In the excitement and adrenaline rush of my battle (if you could call it that,) with the gorilla-freak, I had probably taken one of the stray bullets intended for my bulky target. It was just a glance, but it was starting to leak; I heard a rip and looked up in time for my cohort to tear a grimy strip of cloth from his undershirt. He knelt down and paused for a moment, his face grimacing as he tried to "remember" how to make his hands move to apply the makeshift bandage. After a long moment, he sort of flung the strip of cloth at the wound, draped it over and with halting, uncertain movements as if he was tying his first shoelace, tied a rather loose, sloppy knot. It wasn't really tight enough but I appreciated the effort nonetheless and gave him what I hoped looked like a hesitant, thankful glare and snarl. He seemed to understand, nodded and stood up again with a cough.

He proceeded towards the stairs, stopped, looked back at me as if wondering why I didn't follow. I shook my head and stepped toward the edge of the roof; he glanced at me then, turned and went. Heading off towards where we usually met up, I suppose. I watched him go for a second, and then leaped for a nearby drainpipe, using my momentum, swung up onto the next rooftop ignoring the slight pain in my arm. I still had something to do.

Leaping through the air, my mind began to wander again. I didn't even know his name. It's not like I didn't want to know. I just had no way of asking. It was the first thing we realized when we became "aware" again. Our voices lost to be replaced with an assortment of animalistic growls and grunts, our thoughts, our memories painted over and blurred by a out-of-control virus that was turning the world into a living hell. Nor could I write down the question.

Gone too, were the simple human skills and behaviors that I had taken for granted. Opening a door or even just turning a doorknob went from being a thing I never gave a second thought about to a near monumental feat. Even if the memory of doing so was so vivid in my mind I could almost feel the knob turning in my palm, actually doing it proved impossible. Somehow, the thought process between my brain and hand would get disconnected, which found me more then once trying to tear through the wooden barrier instead of the taking the simpler way.

Same thing went for operating a weapon like a gun (I had nearly shot myself in the face on my first attempt at it,) or anything complex like driving a car (there is a truck somewhere inside a drugstore as tribute to my first attempt at driving) or operating machinery, or even holding anything, for that matter. For me, even the simple act of walking upright was something I couldn't quite do anymore; automatically I would crouch and creep on all fours like some slinking predator, ready to pounce. We also could not stop making our sounds, the sounds of our mutations. Even as I flew though the air, the harsh screams tore free from my throat, unbidden.

Yet some residual impulses remains, old habits leftover from our previous lives like forgotten reflexes. A prime example was my smokey-partner's ability to still light and smoke a cigarette. Perhaps that's why he did it so often; it was one of the few things left him after the virus had taken so much of what made us human.

In place of what it had taken, the virus had "gifted" us with certain…abilities. This small wound I had I knew would disappear completely within a matter of days; our ability to regenerate is definitely much faster. Our sense of touch has faded a bit, and pain feels more like just a reminder of an injury then it did while I was human. But even more then these more subtle differences, are the more noticeable ones. Like some sort of overgrown grasshopper, I can easily leap thirty feet into the air, forty if I make an effort. My senses of smell and hearing seem to be much sharper now, as well as my eyesight to a degree. My fingernails were also subject to mutation, growing over the tips of my fingers and hardening into sharp claws. My smokey-cohort has a sort of regenerating "tongue" he can shoot long distances and ensnare…things with. He's also the best among us at using formerly human skills. Our rather fat, balloon-like friend I felt the worst for; we had to be extremely careful around him as he was literally a bomb waiting to explode. We had already has seen what happened to similar infected like him if they were handled roughly. His rather putrid way of defense was literally vomiting on an enemy, which is irresistible to the common. Despite the grossness, it was extremely useful in tight situations. But to put it simply, we were mutated into excellent killing machines, "zombies" with talents. Special, if you could call it that.

Perfect for murdering members of our former race.

From the little I can tell through our constant life of charades, my cohorts and I can understand human speech to an extent still. For me at least, I'm still able to read, albeit for some more difficult words which I have to drag from the dark haze of my mind into meaning. Writing however, is impossible since we are unable to muster the coordination. I can also press buttons or levers on "accident", by sort of falling into them. Simple as this action might seem, it had saved our lives multiple times. And perhaps, a few survivors long gone by now on their respective journeys towards safety.

Finally, I reached my destination, focusing my thoughts onto the task at hand. Funny, how deserted and quiet it was now, save for one or two of the regular-types staggering around. Hard to believe it had been a battle zone only a few hours ago.

I landed on all fours with a slight thud, absorbing the impact through my legs. In the eerie blackness it would have been difficult for any human to see but just a tiny hint of moonlight was all my sharp eyes needed to make out the corpse. Here, where the poor college kid had at last met death.

I crept over, paused, then turned him onto his back with some difficulty. His head flopped loosely at an odd angle with a slight sickening crunch and I realized his neck was broken. He had probably tripped and done it as he fell in his hurry to get away; a small part of me was at least grateful he had died quick. God knew I've seen others meet worse fates. With the dim light, I made a quick observation of the unfortunate young man.

It wasn't pretty; his eyes were still wide open in terror and agony, though glazed over and dull by now. The parched lips were parted in one last silent cry of fear. His body was stiff as a board and I could feel the broken shoulder bone shift under my hands beneath the cold flesh. Scratches, bruises and blood both new and old covered his skin. I could smell the blood stagnating in his dead veins. He looked like shit.

I passed my palm gently over his eyelids and closed them for the last time, like curtains over a pair of windows. My own gnarled, grey-green, dead-looking skin sharply contrasted against the pale smooth skin of his face. I felt sick and even more then that, I felt tired.

A quick rummaging in a nearby alley found me an old ragged tarp; I quickly tore a large wide strip with my teeth since my hands refused to obey the unfamiliar action. After a moments thought, I tore another. Clutching my finds in a fist, I crept back. If there was one thing I was used to seeing by now it was dead bodies. But the chill, the illness that went beyond my stomach and sunk into the very core of my shredded soul came anyway. With his eyes and mouth now relaxed and closed, one might almost believe he was just sleeping but I knew better. Corpses always look…empty, like snail shells without the snail. Almost fragile. I laid the cloth across the face, weighted the ends done with small chunks of broken concrete and finally, laid his arms parallel to his sides.

There was no way I could bury him, of course. Too time-consuming, a waste of energy, and no way I could move the body or even think about picking up a shovel with hands that didn't obey me anyway. Plus in this apocalyptic world, who cared?

Finished with my meaningless work, I had a silent moment, like a prayer to a God that wouldn't answer. I still had one strip of fabric in hand.

I crawled on all fours towards the little alcove where only a little while ago (but seemed like ages), I had slain the back-humper infected. The ground still felt damp with his…its blood, though whether that was truth or the product of an over-active imagination I couldn't determine. It was even darker here under the shelter of the rubble to the point where even my keen eyes could barely see, and the foul smell of expired blood overwhelmed my nostrils.

Its corpse was frozen in the final writhe of agony and I caught a glint of a tiny, glassy deranged eye now cloudy. Its oversized red-lined hands were clenched, its hideous face still contorted in a maniacal grin. There was no way I could possible contort that hideously twisted form into a straight posture, nor did I have any desire to. I shuddered inwardly and hurriedly placed my last cloth strip over that formerly human face and got the hell out of there.

It was just an infected, just another zombie, a voice in my brain called. Hundreds, thousands die every single day anyway. Its not like they matter.

Yeah, so I'm one too. Maybe still am. I retorted silently.

True, there was no point in doing my little impromptu funerals, one part of me argued. There wasn't any real point, life (at least the sorry excuse we had for one now,) went on, surviving was for those still alive. A pointless action that took time and energy and for what? It wasn't like they could care what happened to their bodies anymore.

But they were people, the other part of me argued. They had had loved ones, and memories, and a life- Even the infected. Even us. We used to be human beings. I think I did it mostly though, because I felt responsible as a witness to the kid's demise and the infected's death. His comrades couldn't come back for him. Nor could his loved ones grieve for him, themselves being infected, or dead, or simply not knowing his fate.

I didn't regret killing the back-humper, nor did I hate the back-humper for what it had helped contribute. It couldn't have physically done anything else; I of people knew that better then anyone. Even that pitiful twisted freak used to be a regular person just trying to live a normal life, with their own history, their own stories-

Stop. I ordered myself. Just stop thinking.

There was no point in letting my mind drift to those dangerous, sad thoughts. I had to focus on the world I lived in now, and in this world, the infected were brainless homicidal machines, attracted by noise and the desire that was stronger then pain or death, to destroy anything that didn't belong in this world. A war between a virus and the last few shreds of mankind.

So, my brain asked drily. What part do you play in this drama?

I took a last glance back at the still form lying forlornly in the rubble strewn street then launched on to the roof with a harsh screech.

I couldn't quite answer that question.

At least not yet.

oOo