Had the idea while listening to 'Last Man Standing' by People in Planes. Main inspiration from 28 Days Later: Aftermath (that's the first comic book based on the franchise).

Disclaimer: I don't own Left 4 Dead or Left 4 Dead 2, all credit to Valve for making such an awesome co-op game in which you can enact your zombie-killing fantasies blah, blah, blah.

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Last Man Standing: Prologue

I lie here inside a barn, some one hundred and fifty miles from what was my home, I almost chortle at the irony of it, but even trying brings excruciating pain. Two weeks ago, if someone told me this is the way I was going to die, I'd have laughed in their face, though I suppose I'd have done the same if someone told me that all of a sudden people would start suddenly start randomly turning into zombies, but here I am, listening to the fading noise of a plane propeller, hoping that those three other people, Alana, Sam, and that old bastard Tom have enough fuel to land themselves somewhere safe.

I on the other hand, have an appointment with an angry mob, a good portion of the roof of the barn's missing, like something blew it away, scorch marks make me think it was an explosion, and with all the chaos I saw this last month, it's not hard to believe. The doors shake, there's a lot of 'em out there, too many, sound of that propeller starting up drew a bunch of em, then a mutie, which brought even more with its fucking scream, bastard was wrapped up in a straight jacket, gray skin, sunken eyes, almost completely wasted away, maybe one of the first? Who knows, regardless, by the time I did that thing in, there were too many and the plane hadn't refuelled yet, and to make matters worse, that fucker Andy showed up with his lackey.

Well the joke's on him now, he's dead, don't know about his bitch, maybe he scarpered when he realised his glorious lord wasn't looking so hot with a fucking machete implanted in his face, maybe he got away, maybe he didn't, doesn't matter either way. I just wish I hadn't taken that bullet for Alana, maybe I'd be up in the sky if I'd just let her die... Then again, maybe we'd all be dead; plane wasn't halfway fuelled up yet as I mentioned, so I managed to lead most of those zombies my way during my fire fight with Andy, bullet wound and all, must've been the adrenaline. Anyway, I nailed Andy, and managed to get myself into this barn, which had definitely seen much better days, now I had the whole horde's eyes on me, and not the plane which took off not two minutes ago. I'm probably going to be called a hero for this, in whatever corner humanity's cowering, maybe they'll name a hospital after me, or a barracks, probably more suitable like that, makes me sick to think that they'd do something like that for me. I was an animal, driven solely by thoughts of revenge against the zombies who'd taken everything from me, my home, my dog, my friends, my own family... Torn apart right in front of my eyes... Let me tell you that no mind stays stable for too long after seeing that kind of slaughter.

Still though, there are occasions where I wonder, like now, whether retribution was what shaped me into the survivalist I became, and in turn helped me to get those three people to what I can now only pray is safety, and if God denies them that... Well, he'd better bring a legion of goddamn angels armed with the heaviest shit they can find because that is what it's gonna take to stop me clawing my way up to his throne from Hell and tearing his head off for cheating me of this chance to go out knowing that somehow, I did something that mattered in this crazy, fucked up shit-hole. I hack and cough, accidentally angle my face the wrong way while clutching my wound and a gobbet of blood winds up on my face. I wipe it off with the arm that isn't numb and clutch my assault rifle, a bump in my side holster tells me that the service revolver my Grandfather passed on is still there, and I let go of my rifle and lay the revolver to my side in the haystack, so that once my last rounds are spent, I can just reach down and –

BAM!

The barnyard door bursts open, despite the fact that I was expecting this, I almost gawp, there seem to be hundreds of them, all glaring at me with the same rage/hunger expression that they seem to wear these days, all of 'em in different attire, or no attire in one or two cases. They don't stay still very long, they charge, I manage to pull up my rifle and sight, I'm taking as many of these fuckers down with me before I go, that much I promise myself. First target: mid-thirties, lacking a shirt, big gouges in his torso just below his neck, missing a few teeth, I squeeze the trigger, ignoring the pain coming from my chest as it absorbs the recoil, he falls over, a chunk of his cranium missing, that was for Toby, the only company I had in my lonely apartment. Next target: God help me this one's only a child, my nephew Ryan's age, a girl, probably a sweet-looking thing if it weren't for the ugly bruises indicating that she'd been beaten to a goddamn pulp before turning, squeeze, she drops, I don't bother to look at the damage, they're getting closer. Next target: bloody great big man, seven feet tall at least, wounds all over his hands, maybe he tried going hand to hand with them, I site and the bullet goes straight through the middle of his forehead, he drops with a thump, brain matter and blood caking the zombie behind him, that was for Ben, my brother and my conscience throughout my adolescent years. Next target: good lord did that tubbo even know what shaving was? Site. Squeeze. Thump, that was for my dear old mum. Next target: businessman, maybe, looked damn silly with his slicked-back hair and the partially torn suit he wore. Site. Squeeze. Thump, that one was for Dad, always supporting, always interested. Next target: Do my eyes deceive me? It's Andy's crony, whatshisname. Infection doesn't seem to have done him any favours, not that he was much to look at to begin with. Site. Squeeze. Squeeze. Thump. I shot him twice, once in the crotch and once in the face, more than necessary but satisfying nonetheless, see you in hell lackey, and give my regards to Andy, he's going to have a lot more to worry about than just the Devil before long. Next target: the closest one to me at only two metres, looked like a young woman, early twenties maybe? Doesn't matter, that fancy hair of hers isn't going to cheer anyone up if they saw you now Stacy – she had a nametag reading Stacy, or I think it was Stacy, my eyesight wasn't faring so well by that point – I lined her head up in my sight either way and squeezed the trigger –Clack!

Oh dear...

Dropping the assault rifle, I grabbed the service revolver and brought it up just as the bitch leaned in to munch on my throat. The force of the bullet threw the thing back into its friends, who just pushed the corpse aside in their desire to tear little old me into scraps of meat. I raised the revolver and, not caring if I hit any or not, fired with abandon, three shots, two of which hit, but only one put its target down, the other almost tore an arm off, it stumbled the bastard, but didn't down it, the arm hanging, disgustingly, by the unbroken flesh around the joint. The horde was now all but upon me, and I realised that I could save myself a lot of suffering if I turned the thing on myself, I quashed the thought as soon as it appeared. Royal Commandos don't get the easy work – I reminded myself – We walk into the fire laughing and whether it burns or not, we goddamn well stay there until our work there is done. Almost furious that the fear of pain had nearly driven me to suicide, I turned the pistol back on the mass of bodies above me, and in the split-second I thought I had to live, I heard a roar, not an animal roar, like a lion or some predatory beast would make, but one of barely contained power and rage. All of a sudden, bodies started flying everywhere, I was vaguely aware of a small dust cloud forming behind a press of bodies, and that the ground was shaking, like something large was coming, though that may have just been blood loss. Some of the zombies turned around, and something smashed into them, knocking all of those hit metres away, hitting the walls or ground with such force that their bones pulped or their heads caved, I looked up into the face of death. Grotesquely mutated, the thing stood at a towering eight and a half feet at a guess, its arms and upper torso swollen with muscle, and its lower jaw missing entirely, either shot off or melded into the mass of flesh. It held its arms up and smashed them back onto the ground almost as if challenging me, well, even in as bad a condition as I was, I certainly wasn't going to take that lying on my back in a haystack. Trying my best to block out the screaming agony incinerating my body, I raised myself and looked at my pistol, four shots, I'd fired four shots, I looked back at big ugly, who was now charging.

"Another mutie eh? Well Brucie, I got two shots, seems like that'll be enough for you." I managed to spit, I then raised my revolver and fired one round right into its shoulder, the big fella almost lost its balance, but kept coming, swinging a meaty paw at my head, I managed to duck below it, and quickly manoeuvred myself in front of it, so close that all I had to do was push the barrel of the revolver against its head and fire. That would have worked a treat, had it not enveloped me in its arms as I pulled the trigger, the round went off, taking off its left eye, but not touching the brain at all. I'd failed to kill it, it would now surely kill me, I could almost hear my bones creaking in protest as the creature sought to crush me in its meaty embrace, I could smell its rancid breath on my face, and hear its bellows of fury that one such as I had dared wound it in the company of its kin. I felt a few blows on my exposed legs and head, and the searing lance of pain that could only have come from a bite as the zombie horde, temporarily scattered by the arrival of this juggernaut, had rejoined the rather one-sided fight. Still, even as I felt cracked, dirty, rotten teeth dig into my shin, and another set of smaller, but slightly better kept chompers tear into my calf muscle, I couldn't help but feel a little better even as I began to think how it had all come to this:

I was going to die a lot less painfully than I thought I would...

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I'm dog tired so I'm not going to bother typing anything here apart from: Constructive Criticism only, I can't get better if you're just shouting at me now can I?