A/N - So, I definitely wrote this for punkyt0ast3r, because she and I are total bros when it comes to L4D2, which that games is amazing. Go ahead and flame, dudes. Flaaame.
Disclaimer - I don't own the characters or the game or whatever. They belong to Valve.
The carnival was, well, dark. Light came only from their flashlights which, in itself, was a pretty meagre amount and from the search lights in the distance as they waved slowly, methodically back and forth, sabres of light slicing through the cloudy twilight. In the abandoned amusement park, not only was the light needed to pick out the infected waiting to snack on them in the shadows, but for the debris and garbage as well. Pizza boxes and cups once containing soft drinks rested in the dirt, discarded when the infection ran rampant through the area, changing their appetite from that for sugary, fatty foods to one for that of human flesh.
Every creak of the rides' mechanical workings made the group of four survivors cast wary glances around themselves, especially the southerner with them. He always bet that it was one of those vicious looking clowns that ran around, squeaking its nose and driving the other common infected insane, bringing the horde along with. It bothered the hick Ellis, El, Overalls, whatever the group wanted to call him that it didn't draw in the special infected. Not that he wanted them to show up more often or anything, but to him, their resistance to follow and destroy the source of the noises just proved they were just that more advanced, that much smarter than the commons.
As he picked his way through the fairgrounds, he couldn't help but feel like the group was always out of reach, like he was always running ahead or lagging behind. Worse than that was that it felt like they didn't notice, let alone care if they did. It didn't stop him from pushing on through the swarms of zombies that showed up every so often, didn't stop him from plucking off the few stragglers that felt the need to sit on the dusty ground, or lean against the wall as if they were counting for a game of hide-and-seek.
It wasn't until he got caught up in searching the restrooms for useful resources that he noticed that the group was no longer with him. No Rochelle being like a mother to him. No Coach screaming orders in the way only high school football coaches could. No Nick complaining about everyone else's 'incompetence', or the fact that his expensive white suit was now soiled. Just Ellis, with his coveralls halfway down and tied around his waist by the arms; Bullshifters T-shirt covered in blood, dirt, and bile from those bloated bastards; and his cap with the tow-truck on it slightly askew atop his messy locks. Even worse was that the search for valuables was a fruitless one. All he found were dead bodies, loose leafs of toilet paper plastered to the ground where the toilet in the last stall began to leak, and the mess someone never had the chance to flush before they were killed. Despite everything he'd seen so far in the apocalypse, he couldn't help but gag at that sight.
Making his way out of the restroom - the men's room, not that it mattered when just about everyone was an undead cannibal - Ellis began a new search, now for the members of their little group, rather than items to use on their journey. No point in having items if there's no one to share them with, or help you out so you can even use them in the first place. He hurried off in the direction they had been headed, towards Kiddie Land. Surely they couldn't have gotten too far. Ellis had been searching for only a few minutes. The commotion of a Tank never reached his ears, so he doubted they all were wiped out in the last few moments when he was in the lavatory. Something, though, just now reached his ears. A cough.
"Hey, uh, Ro'? That you? Where'd y'all gone off ta?" Ellis' accented voice met the dead air of the night, receiving no reply. The only thing that responded was the soft breeze that rustled through one of the few trees in the area. His work boot-clad feet took him a few metres forward, eyes beneath the brim of his hat looking every which way, checking both for his team mates and for zombies. At the sound of another cough, he froze. "Naw, really, guys. Where you at? It ain't funny any more."
The middle of a zombie apocalypse really wasn't the time for fun and games like this, hiding from him. What if he was getting beat down by a horde, and they were all too far ahead to come back and get him? Bet they wouldn't find it too funny any more, Ellis thought to himself, lower jaw jutting out in the slightest of a pout. Regardless of his irritation, the southern male kept on moving, making his way across the only sensible path, assuming that the others went this way as well. But when he began to cover distance again, the coughing came back. What if it was one of those clown guys, just with asthma or something? With that thought, Ellis picked up the pace, eager to find the group and its protection.
Just as he thought he was getting somewhere, he tripped, landing face-first on the dirty pavement, a chorus of 'shit' and other profanities slipping past his lips. Someone joined him in his racket, though not with words. Coughs. More of that ubiquitous coughing, and hell if Ellis was going to stay vulnerable on the ground like that. He made a move to push off of the ground, get back on his feet and make a run for it, but it was only then that he noticed the restraint around his ankle. He didn't see any rope or anything when he was running along, or any cords for that matter. Turning to get a better look at what had caused his fall, he wished he still had his axe.
Around his ankle was the slimy, elongated muscle that could only be the tongue of a Smoker. The greenish smog that surrounded the creature made its way towards Ellis, causing him to cough as well. Fuck, Ellis thought - perhaps he said it? - He couldn't tell any more as he squirmed, should'a known it was one'a these bastards. The tongue simply wrapped more tightly around his ankle, and the Smoker let out one of its wheezy sounds. Its boils that tended to congregate on its left side seemed to shudder as the special infected moved closer to the survivor, blood- and dirt-begrimed hands outstretched, nails sharp, seeming to have bits of human flesh packed beneath them.
Ellis shied away from the undulating tendrils that sprouted from the once-human's body, hoping that the Smoker didn't have actual conscious movement of them. Everything would just be about a thousand times worse if the zombie did, because if his arms and legs were held down, Ellis knew he was pretty much fucked. For a moment, the tongue slipped off of his ankle, flopping wetly against the Smoker's faded, purplish shirt, and Ellis took the opportunity to try to run. The hick didn't get all too far before the tongue was around him again, though now circling strongly around his waist.
With the tight, sturdy grip, the Smoker tugged the writhing survivor closer, cloud of suffocating gas intensifying the closer Ellis was to him, making the human choke as he tried to catch his breath. Eyes squinted and watered in the dirty air, and limbs flailed in an attempt to escape the grip. Curiously, the Smoker's scraggly nails trailed over the other's cheek, the kind of supple flesh that calmed his grumbling stomach. At that gesture, Ellis froze, stopped mid-struggle, just staring at the creature that held him close enough to scrutinise him, observe him through the fog.
When the tendrils, which Ellis by now realised the Smoker had conscious control over, began ruining his clothing untying his coveralls and letting them drop, tearing at his shirt until it was a tattered heap on the ground, popping the button and yanking open the zipper of his jeans before tugging them down the southern man began to once more squirm, fighting the actions. To accommodate that, other tendrils held his arms tightly to his side. As Ellis opened his mouth to scream for help on the off-chance that his team mates would hear him, a tendril made its way down his throat as well, enough to silence and gag, but not enough to choke.
The tumorous growths on the Smoker moved with more zeal as it invaded the human's personal space, animal instinct kicking in as the tendrils molested and prodded. Nails raked down toned flesh, making little rivulets of blood taint his claws and the other's abdomen. The Smoker's tentacle-like limbs tore off any remaining clothing, save for the hick's work boots, and the one that resided in Ellis' mouth twisted and turned, moved in and out, fond of the feeling of the much shorter tongue of the human. Cold, frightened sweat from the naked figure mingled with blood as the monstrous creature continued to appease its want to search and toy with his body, to get a taste for his flesh.
Burning pain seared through Ellis as the sharp, filthy claws of the Smoker tore into his neck, just barely missing his jugular. That pain, though, couldn't distract from the sudden, blinding pain below, tendrils ravaging places they didn't belong. He could feel his insides, just like his outsides, being torn. All the while, the Smoker just looked at him, left eye barely even visible in the mess of growths, unnerving him and making everything worse. It was as if he could feel everything more that way, what with the monstrosity staring at him, taking in his appearance, his flavour. The feel of long nails catching on his tendons in his neck, the feel of tendrils that have been who knows where exploring and defiling his intestines, the feel of part of this creature inside of his throat, the feel of all of this was simply intensified by the unwavering, malicious gaze.
Was it even seeing? Did it see that its prey was ready to be a meal? Being eaten by a zombie was higher on the list of things Ellis wanted than to be sodomised by one. The torturous rips of skin, shredding of internal organs wasn't worth it. There was no way he could make it out of this one alive regardless, so now all he wished for was to be dead, for this to be ended already. Even as his vision faded to black and the pain of being flat-out raped by this inhuman thing became numb, it seemed like a never-ending experience, an eternal hell.
By the time he heard his team mates yelling for him, voices faint in the distance, or perhaps just falling on dying ears, it was too late.