Disclaimer: I do not own Left 4 Dead. At all. Seriously, I don't. XD

It's quiet.

Such an odd word to use to describe a city. I've only been to such a place one other time in my life, and 'quiet' was the last word I would have used to describe it. My ears always rang with the great cacophony of city life. It was so much to take in. I remember not getting much sleep; my usual lullaby of crickets and tree frogs having been replaced by the dissonance of far-off car alarms and sirens. My only comfort had been the gentle coo of the pigeons that had taken roost outside my hotel window. Funny, considering many urban residents see them as pests.

Buildings, bridges and billboards had all been lined with unsettling strips of spikes placed to discourage the feathered creatures from making these locations their home. I couldn't help but smile whenever I spotted a nest wedged between the warped wires, a testament to the tenacity of those quirky little birds.

Tenacity…I suppose that is why I'm still here. Why I'm around to see this city in such an alien state.

I close my eyes, playing the imaginary soundtrack of this once bustling concrete jungle in my mind. I can hear the never ending cycle of honking horns, the sirens occasionally echoing through the gaps in the buildings, the steady pace of thousands of footsteps, the mingling of voices into incoherent babble, and the rapping of wings as a flock of birds soars overhead.

It is that which is the heartbeat of this city.

I open my eyes and step to the edge of the rooftop while surveying my surroundings. The streets are dotted with abandoned cars, some overturned and ablaze, others locked up tight. Like anyone was around to steal them, much less care. I fixate my gaze on one, becoming lost in the steady blink of the red light indicating an active alarm. I shudder, remembering what would descend should a stray bullet find its way to that vehicle.

A buzzing sound draws my attention to a billboard behind me. The steady hum comes from the lights illuminating a faded advertisement, which flicker eerily until one finally goes out. I study the faces plastered on the board: a mother, a father, a few kids, all enjoying some new kind of beverage. I knew more than likely they weren't a real family, just actors paid to promote a product, but that fact is not enough to stop that sharp pain in my heart. A part of my brain dully wonders if those people are still alive, if they were evacuated.

If they became one of them.

The once happy grins morph into bloody snarls; the eyes take on an unnatural glow. I quickly look away and shake my head as an inhuman shriek sounds in my mind. I silently scold myself for allowing my imagination to get the better of me. There was enough real danger out there to bother with creating fictitious ones.

I close my eyes again and inhale deeply. In an attempt to calm myself, I begin to smother my swirling thoughts by taking in the sounds around me. It's a coping mechanism; something I've done for as long as I can remember. Whenever I'm anxious or upset, I pool all my focus into my most powerful sense: hearing. Perhaps my hearing may not be as keen as a visually impaired individual, but I still pride myself with its impressive range. In just a short amount of time I will have developed a "map" of what is going on around me. Who or what's nearby, how many, and so on. It has always intrigued me how much information you can get just by quieting your mind and listening to your surroundings. I remember testing my hearing outside times of stress, as a sort of entertainment. During long walks, I would pick up on the purr of an approaching car and try to determine what type of vehicle it was before it came into view. In large crowds, I found myself tuning in and out of a variety of conversations to see just how clearly I could pick up the words. It wasn't that I was nosy, in fact I could care less about the potential gossip I acquired, it was simply a way to hone my abilities.

I never would have guessed it would become the key to my survival.

My heart rate is just starting to slow down when a sudden nudge jolts me back into high alert. I quickly turn to face whatever disturbed me, ready to defend myself. Instead of striking, the offender rears back in surprise.

"Whoa sis! It's just me," one arm reaches out cautiously, the other remains raised in defense, "I just wanted to see if you're alright. You seem kind of out of it today."

I blink dumbly for a moment before letting out a ragged sigh, slumping my shoulders in the process. "Jesus Russel, you scared the shit out of me! What were you thinking sneaking around like that? What if I had been armed?" I gesture to the M1911 pistol safely tucked away in its holster on my hip. "I could have shot you! I could have-"

The look on my brother's face brings an abrupt end to my rant. His deep blue eyes house such genuine concern, it would be impossible to yell at him over something so insignificant. Especially when my anger was drawn more from the fact I didn't hear him coming than the actual offense. Damaged pride is no reason to create conflict. I straighten up and gently brush his hand aside. "I'm sorry Russ; I didn't mean to worry you. I just got a little lost in my head is all."

Russel drops his guard, relieved at both my answer and my attempt to control my temper. My brother's lax posture then quickly builds itself back up into what I can only call his default 'Cocky Bastard' stance.

"Ah-ha! So, even the mighty bat can get lost in its cave." he chides playfully.

Why didn't I yell at him again?

I frown, not amused by the comment. My brother knows all about my exceptional hearing and how I use it. As such, he has found it appropriate to create a variety of nicknames for me, most of which involve a certain nocturnal mammal. (There were a few about Dumbo, but they never stuck, as my ears are quite proportional to my body.)

I yawn, feigning boredom. "Really Russ, you need to get some new material. Your bat jokes have lost their charm."

My brother cups his mouth and widens his eyes in exaggerated surprise. "Damn I've gone stale! No matter, nothing like a little critique to get me back in the game." He pulls out an imaginary notepad and pen, ready to take notes. "Tell me Erin, where do I begin mending my comedic act?"

I turn to him, trying to wear the most believable mask of professionalism the situation would allow. "Well, for one you need to better understand the subject of your jokes."

Russel mock scribbles onto the non-existent paper. "Of course! Educate me, my dear sister. What is it like to have super human hearing?"

I roll my blue-green eyes and take a step towards the 'struggling comedian'. "Super human? Not even close. It's slightly above average at best." I reach out and flick my brother's ear. "You would be able to hear the way I do if you didn't listen to music at max volume. Seriously, were you trying to go deaf?"

It goes quiet for a few seconds. His eyes never leave mine. Then slowly, he tilts his head toward me all while cupping his ear, his eyebrows drawn together in faux confusion.

"What?"

Wow, who hadn't seen that coming?

I swiftly sweep a foot behind one of his ankles, hook it, and tug as hard as I can. My brother cries out in alarm before landing flat on his ass.

And guess who didn't see that one coming?

"Son of a- was that really necessary?"

"Was your poor attempt at humor necessary?" I retort.

"…touché."

I can't help but smile. My brother always seemed to find a way to brighten my mood. Even if this time it was at his expense. I extend a hand, offering to help him to his feet. He gratefully accepts the gesture. Upon standing, Russel winces and dramatically leans on me for support.

"Ah shit!" He hisses. "I think I broke my…ass. I-I don't think I can walk on my own. You'll have to carry me."

Russel searches my face for a reaction. All he is met with is a blank stare.

"Too much?"

"An understatement, I assure you." I deadpan, literally shrugging him off. A few strands of my chestnut colored hair fall in front of my face, having been freed from my ponytail. I quickly sweep them back into their restraints before addressing my brother. "Enough with the jokes, how long until our little 'tour group' is ready to move on? I feel like we've been here far too long."

Russel's expression immediately hardens at my question. The once calm blue of his eyes now contain an icy bite. It's sometimes frightening just how quickly my brother adjusts to serious topics, especially when it involves those people.

"It shouldn't be much longer. Most of the infected have wandered somewhere else for whatever reason, so they'll be wrapping up pretty soon." He doesn't comment on my time observation, but I can tell by the way he's scanning the streets below that he shares my concern. No good comes from remaining in one place.

"Thank God. It's bad enough we're forced into this hell on a daily basis, but it's even worse when we have to deal with Shelters."

Now when I say Shelter, I'm not referring to some man made construction. It's a name we veterans of this apocalypse have given to those who had not experienced the hellish nightmare that was the outbreak. A select few were considered "important" enough (or were just plain lucky) to be evacuated before shit really hit the fan. If it isn't obvious by my bitter tone, I'm holding a pretty impressive grudge. Not that I'm alone in this mindset. Many survivors feel the same way. (Seriously, how could we not?)

My brother nods, absent mindedly scratching his head, ruffling his already messy dark brown hair. "I just don't know what's worse, the Blisters or the Callouses," he groans.

These nicknames are less known. Only the survivors in my brother and I's line of 'work' are familiar with these terms.

Blisters are what we call the Shelters that go out into this post-apocalyptic world for the first time. At the beginning of our 'tour', they are elated for the opportunity to study the infection outside their protective walls. They're like kids at some fucked up zoo, pointing excitedly at the creatures that we watched kill our friends and family.

That were our friends and family.

It's sickening, seeing these people take so lightly the very thing that ruined our lives. I barely keep myself from snapping anytime I'm assigned to guard these groups. The only consolation, I suppose, is by the end of our screwed up safari most of them will have had first-hand experience of just what the infected are capable of, quickly wiping away those infuriating grins. Not that I have anything to do with that. I mean, no one can prove that I intentionally neglect to alert the group of the occasional Hunter or Smoker that just wants to offer a greeting to the eager Blisters. Besides, they wanted to see how the Infected act in their 'natural habitat'. What better way to get this information than by being on the business end of a pounce?

I slowly take a seat and prop myself up against the short brick wall bordering the rooftops' edge. "Tough call. They're both pretty high on my shit list." I ponder this for a moment before giving my answer. "As annoying as they are, I tend to tolerate the Blisters a bit more seeing as I can use the Infected as tools for sweet revenge."

My brother chuckles as he plops down next to me. "Amen to that. There isn't much that brings me more joy than getting front row seats to those freak outs. I'd high five those zombie bastards as long as I was sure I'd be able to get my hand back."

I snort at the mental image of Russel emphatically smacking the clawed hand of a confused Hunter. I practically choke when my mind conjures up the idea of my brother trying to fist bump a Charger. Russel appears pleased with my reaction to his comment at first, but then looks thoroughly confused when I begin laughing a little too hard. I quickly explain the cause of my outburst, if only to assure him it wasn't an overdone sympathy laugh. Apparently I do a decent job painting a mental picture, because he loses it almost immediately, causing me to go into another fit.

Admittedly, the subject of our amusement wasn't really all that funny. Though to be fair, not much could be these days. Survivors quickly learned to find humor and peace in the small things. At least, that is what I attributed to our lots remaining sanity. Often times I found myself concerned about the distinct lack of antidepressants and anxiety medications to go around, because it meant we had to cope. If you couldn't, you were dead. I realized that I used my focus of sounds as a way to relax and distress, but worried over my brothers.

Too often lately he had been using others humor as a means to make himself feel secure in his livelihood; to remind himself of his own worth. I wanted to help him realize that he means more than a smile on my face, but for now I would settle for making him laugh.

Our bizarre cachinnating slowly dies down until it is nothing more than quiet snickering and, eventually, ceases entirely. We sit in silence, enjoying the brief light-hearted moment we shared, each wishing it could last a little longer.

Times like these are so hard to come by. In truth, it has become more of a chore to attempt to savor them than to simply let them pass through. In the short-lived contented moment we've had, my mind has already scrambled to our original topic.

"If only…it were so easy to get under the Callouses' skin." I utter just above a whisper.

Russel says nothing, only tilts his head back and sighs in what I can only assume to be begrudging agreement.

It goes quiet once more, leaving me to my thoughts of the people I so greatly despised.

The little 'accidents' my brother and I arrange don't break everyone. These people continue to venture into the apocalyptic world, unphased by what lurks in the shadows. They observe the Infected, methodically breaking down their behavior with their cold eyes. The Infected weren't seen as human, but valuable subjects of an experiment. Now don't get me wrong, if you wanted to survive, you had to quickly stop looking at the Infected as people. Thinking of who the Infected once were, what they lost, would only cause you to hesitate when the time came to pull the trigger. But these people, the Callouses as we came to call them, didn't obtain this mindset as a way to keep their sanity. They viewed the Infected as what they were: Predators driven by instinct. As for us?

We were the prey.

I remember watching animal documentaries as a child; how upset they made me. I couldn't believe that the experts describing the scene before them could just sit back and watch as a Lion took down a Gazelle. I would cry to my mother, asking why they wouldn't save the poor Gazelle. She did her best to calm me down, explaining that it was nature, that it wouldn't be right to interfere. It took a while, but I finally understood what she was trying to tell me. But this…this is different. This virus, the inappropriately dubbed Green Flu, is anything but natural.

That's what bothers me the most. The Callouses don't care that it isn't natural. They still treat this like it's one of those documentaries. The Infected are the Lion and the survivors are the Gazelle. The Callouses sit back and watch the bloody massacre, labeling their soulless act as 'research'. What the fuck do you learn by watching diseased abominations rip apart other people? The logic doesn't matter to them. All that matters is that they do their job: observe the Infected, to hell with the cost, in order to determine better methods of defense and, most importantly, discover a cure. My job? My brother's job? The job of all those unfortunate enough to be called Carrier?

To put it simply, we are the meat shields.

You would think being immune to the virus would make you valuable. It does, that is, if you are truly immune. Yes, there is such a thing. To be called 'Immune', your body must not contain any trace of the virus. Those people, however, are few and far between. Not that there is an overabundance of 'my kind' or anything. 'My kind' being the Carriers. Carriers do not show any symptoms of the infection, but house the virus in their body and are still very capable of spreading it. (No biting or scratching necessary.)

For lack of a better description, we're walking used tissues. Not the best way to phrase it mind you, but based on how Carriers are treated I'd say it's pretty damn accurate. Those that are not immune (which greatly outnumber us by the way) are disgusted by Carriers. They fear our existence. No…hate it. Sometimes, I feel they despise us more than the Infected. At least when you're Infected, it's easy to tell. I mean, it's kind of hard to miss a pale, growth covered nightmare trying to eat your damn face. A Carrier, on the other hand, could be anybody. Without a proper test, there's no knowing until it's too late. People aren't patient enough for that. Bullets, more often than not, seem to be the best answer.

Better safe than sorry.

This was almost the fate of my brother and I, along with many other Carriers. It was believed that there was no place in this world for 'my kind', that we were a threat to the future of humanity. The only reasonable solution in these people's minds was to line us all up against a wall in front of a firing squad.

Better safe than sorry.

Fortunately, not everyone allowed fear to cloud their rationality. A decent amount actually fought for our lives. In the end, it was agreed that we would be spared. Of course, this came with a condition. In exchange for their 'kindness', Carriers would be required to assist in dealing with the Infection in any way possible. This ranges from defending safe zones to handling Infected specimens brought to the laboratories. Then there's my shitty position, guarding the Shelters as they research Infected in the field.

Sometimes, the firing squad sounds pretty inviting.

I'm unaware of my brother's eyes trained on me, observing me, concerned by my distant look. I don't even realize he has moved until I feel something small and slightly jagged smack into my temple. It doesn't really hurt, sting a little yes, but the minor annoyance is enough to break me free from my trance. My head snaps in the direction the strike came from, expecting to see my brother still by my side. I'm surprised to find that he is a good five yards away.

"Not bad, not bad. Pretty good practice shot anyway." Russel says to no one in particular before striding over to me. I quirk an eyebrow as he leans down beside me to retrieve…

"Is…is that a piece of a brick?"

That's when it clicks. "Did you just throw a fucking chunk of a brick at me?" I shriek. "At my head?"

"A chunk?" he parrots, "This is a chip at best."

"Like it matters!" I snap, "You could have put one of my eyes out or something!"

"But I didn't did I? Besides, your head was turned to the side. Kind of an awkward angle to pull something like that off."

I open my mouth, about to start into a rant about how he was missing the point when a question surfaces in my mind. "Wait, what did you mean when you said 'Practice shot'?"

My younger sibling smirks, pleased that I abandoned my irritation in favor of curiosity. "Ah, you caught that now did you? Well I'm glad you asked." He gestures to the brick 'chip'. "Gather a few more of these and I'll tell you."

"Does it have to be brick?" I sigh, unable to believe I actually wanted to know what Russel was up to.

"Brick, concrete, rock, I don't care as longs as it's hard and small."

I glare at him for a moment before rolling my eyes. "Fine, I'll get what you want if you agree to stop throwing shit at me." He nods as I rise to my feet and turn to search for his supplies. I can't help but notice his face twist up in amusement when he over hears me mutter my less than pleasant opinion of the situation.

"Eavesdropping is my thing damn it!" I shout internally as I scoop up a handful of debris lying at the base of a slightly damaged wall. I quickly return to my brother with my findings and drop them unceremoniously into his hand. "There, is that enough for…whatever the hell it is you're doing?"

He briefly looks over the rubble, checking to see if it met his requirements before nodding his approval. "This will do nicely."

"Awesome, you have a fine collection of crap. What exactly do you plan do with it?" I press, growing impatient.

"Easy now," my brother teases while wagging a finger, "it's best if I show you. It wouldn't do my idea justice if I tried explaining it."

Russel takes the brick and concrete debris over to the wall bordering the rooftops' edge and piles it on top. Curious, I quickly join his side, if only to observe his next action. My brother begins sorting the rubble by size, type, and weight, apparently, judging by the way he keeps comparing different pieces in his hands like makeshift scales. This continues for a bit longer that it should, and I'm beginning to think this is all just an elaborate scheme to piss me off when he finally selects a chunk roughly the size of a ping pong ball. Russel leans over the ledge slightly, scanning the streets below.

"Wait…is he?"

For a split terrifying second, I believe my brother intends to locate a car with an active alarm and set it off. Before I can object to such an idiotic idea, he tosses the brick chunk in the air, watching as it arcs toward its target. I shut my eyes tight, waiting for the inevitable wail of an alarm and, eventually, the howl of Infected hell bent on punishing those that disturbed the silence. Instead, I hear the faint echo of the brick hitting the concrete followed by Russel swearing under his breath.

"Ah! So close!" He cries in frustration. "If that little bastard hadn't moved I so would have got him!"

I follow my brother's gaze to the other side of the street. Instead of finding a deathtrap of security armed vehicles like I feared, I spot three common Infected shambling out of a narrow alleyway. I turn to Russel, scrunching up my face in disbelief.

"You were trying to hit one of them?"

The sheepish grin that creeps across my brother's face is all the answer I need.

"How the hell is 'chucking rocks at zombies' a difficult idea to explain?"

Russel picks up another piece of rubble and inspects it, as if it was the material that caused him to miss in the first place. "It isn't. I just knew if I told you my idea you never would have let me do it."

"Well no shit!" I snap. "Our job is to keep the Infected at bay, not try and piss them off!"

My brother waves his hand in dismissal. "Oh calm down, there's only three of them. They're not any threat. Besides, I am doing a part of our job."

I narrow my eyes and take a cement chunk from my brother's pile, holding it out to him for emphasis. "Just what does pelting Commons with debris have to do with our job?"

"Simple my dear Erin: It's an opportunity for study!" Russel adjusts his imaginary glass before continuing. "Though our top priority is protecting the Shelters, we are also to document anything we learn about the Infected. Or did you forget that?"

I subconsciously pat at the note pad tucked away in one of the many pockets of my protective vest. "No I…wait you still haven't explained what you expect to gain from all this! What could you possibly learn from this stupid game?"

"Game? I never thought of it that way. Great idea Erin! We can gather data and have fun!"

I glare at my brother, dumbfounded that he found a way to turn this around on me. I don't even get the chance to protest when he makes another attempt to use the Infected as target practice. Surprisingly enough, the chunk actually hits its mark this time, striking the shoulder of a stout Infected man. The Common whips around at the sudden contact, teeth bared at the possibility of prey. I can almost see the look of confusion through the grime coating his face when he finds nothing there.

The man turns slightly, spotting one of his Infected brothers leaning against a light post as he expels bile from his tall lanky body. The stout Infected takes a step forward and hisses a warning to what his diseased mind believes to be the offender. The lanky Infected's head jerks up at the sound, puzzled by his brother's sudden outburst. He issues his own warning, though this one is in the form of a growl, before plopping down on the filthy sidewalk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my brother's form is shuddering with suppressed laughter. I look at him in bewilderment. Did he actually find this funny? I feel like I should dive into some lecture about how screwed up this whole thing was when I realize something: I'm smiling.

Holy shit, we share the same fucked up sense of humor.

"Did you see that?" he chokes. "That was freaking awesome!"

"The fact you hit one or his reaction to it?"

"Both. That shot has to be worth at least fifty points. The reaction is a bonus." Russel answers proudly.

"Oh so there's a point system now?" I arc an eyebrow. "Since when did we start keeping score?"

In an instant that 'Cocky Bastard' look resurfaces. "We started the moment you showed interest in playing."

I want to try and defend myself. To deny the truth in his words, but I know it's no use. There's not a doubt in my mind he caught my smile before I could hide it. "Fine, I'll play." I sigh, admitting defeat. "But if I win I get to hit you in the head with a brick."

"A chip of a brick…right?" My brother questions warily, wanting clarification.

"…Sure."

"Alright, let's do this!" He cries enthusiastically, ignoring my shaky answer. "You're up sis. Try not to fuck up too bad."

I roll my eyes, not dignifying his comment with a response. Clenching the cement chunk I still had from before, I step closer to the wall bordering the edge of the roof. I roll it around in my fingers for a moment, trying to get a feel for the object as I selected my target. A second later, I launch the rubble into the air and watch as it sails toward the Infected. I had hoped to maybe hit one in the back, or at least clip an arm, but I never thought I'd actually nail one in the head. Especially when it struck the Infected I wasn't even aiming for.

The unlucky (and unintended) target was the lanky Infected that had taken a seat after being falsely accused of our idiotic crime. He lets out a yelp of surprise and doubles over. After recovering from the initial shock, the lanky Common leaps to his feet and begins angrily swatting at empty space. Upon realizing the attacker wasn't there, he pauses and rotates until his eyes settle on the stout Infected that hissed at him earlier.

The lanky man draws back his lips, revealing crooked bloody teeth before letting out a vicious snarl. The stout Common whirls around with arms spread wide, meeting the challenge, though unsure of its cause, with a deep threatening growl. Both Infected exchange several more audible threats, not unlike that of territorial felines, but never actually attempt a strike. Eventually, their bickering dies down and they return to milling about aimlessly, occasionally glancing at each other in anticipation of another attack.

I had not noticed it, but at some point during the Common's spat I covered my mouth with a hand. Whether it was to stifle a laugh, a cry of alarm, or both, I can't say for sure. I quickly compose myself and, slapping on that God awful "cocky bastard" mask Russel always made sure to wear for me, turn to my brother.

"One-hundred points." I state calmly, "Plus bonus."

Russel's face appears to be at war with itself. His jaw can't seem to decide if it wants to clench or go slack. The muscles at the edge of his lips have a similar dilemma, relaxing only to twitch back into an involuntary grin. It's as if my brother doesn't know if he should be gawking at my apparent skill or snickering at the Infected's expense. In the end, Russel decides to shrug it off as 'beginner's luck'.

"Not bad Erin." He reaches for our pile and retrieves two cement chunks, offering one to me. "Though it doesn't really mean much since the guy you hit wasn't even moving."

"Oh bullshit!" I roughly grab the rubble from his outstretched hand. "As if you can call the guy you hit a moving target! The Infected take like, what, one shambling footstep every three minutes? That's hardly a challenge."

"They're a lot faster than that sis." He counters.

"Yeah, when someone rings a fucking dinner bell." I retort.

Russel holds up a hand. "Look, we're not gonna get anywhere by arguing. There's only one way to settle this. We each take a chunk," he gestures to the debris we are holding, "and throw it at the same time. Whoever hits the Infected first wins."

"That seems like it won't be fair to one of us." I point out, "Whoever does the countdown will have the advantage."

"True…" He concedes. "Okay, whoever gets closest to a head shot wins the game."

"Isn't that what we've been trying to do this whole time?"

"Just shut up and throw a rock at the goddamn zombie."

My brother doesn't wait for further argument, and I don't attempt to start one. He silently signals for me to get ready and holds up three fingers, beginning a countdown. When Russel reaches his last finger we both take aim and hurl the small chunks at our intended targets. My brother's cement chip nails the lanky Infected in the lower back. My projectile hits the pavement and, surprisingly, bounces up and makes contact with the stout Infected's scapula. Another lucky shot, as my sibling would put it. He doesn't get the opportunity to call bullshit or make up some reason my throw didn't count, because the Infected's reaction is immediate. There's no hissing or spitting or threatening growls, just pure pissed off shrieks of rage. The Commons lunge at each other, creating an ungodly commotion as they try to punish the other for not heeding their warning. The two Infected roll around for quite a while, swatting and biting, piercing the once calm air with their cries. Then, there's an unexpected twist.

The third Common, a young petite woman whom had been fortunate enough to not become a target, begins to visibly show signs of agitation. She sways slightly, clutching her head in attempt to block out the sound of her brother's quarrel. The petite Infect bats a hand in the direction of the two Commons, baring her teeth and issuing a verbal warning via growl. The threat, which I barely heard myself, is lost, unnoticed by the preoccupied Infected. Eventually, the petite Common can take it no longer and, with a bloodcurdling shriek that rivals that of a Witch, leaps into the fray. The only thing more frightening than the woman's cry was her strength. I can't help but find it humorous that she quickly has the other two squabbling infected on the run.

Apparently, my brother found the whole situation humorous as well. Though, I don't think the word 'humorous' properly describes his feelings. When I turn to Russel, he appears to be having difficulty standing, greatly relying on the roof's border for support. Tears are streaming down his face, which is beginning to turn a deep shade of red from the strength of his laughter. Well, his silent laughter anyway. Though my brother displayed every other sign of amusement, he failed to produce any sound except the occasional gasp to catch his breath. Very rarely have I seen my brother so overwhelmed by something that he was incapable of audibly expressing his joy.

Note to self: If I want Russel to shut up, I need to piss off some zombies.

I'm about to commit that little observation to memory when my brother's laugh finally surfaces after a short choking fit. So much for peace and quiet. I mentally scrap the note before attempting to calm my younger sibling.

"Jesus Russ take a breath! It wasn't that funny."

My brother nods, mouthing an accompanied agreement as he attempts to regain composure. "I…I know." He chokes. "It just…It hit me just right!" He wheezes the last part before starting back into another fit. I shake my head and utter a sigh as I turn my attention back to the enraged Infected, doing my best to resist joining my brother in his nonsensical state.

"Let him enjoy this moment a little longer." The kinder half of my mind offers. "If nothing else, it will be all the sweeter when you remind him of your arrangement." I smirk at my own deviousness, casting a glance at Russel as I absent mindedly fiddle with the remaining brick debris in our pile.

A quiet snicker slips out before I can stop it. Thankfully, my brother is so lost in his own chuckle fest that he doesn't hear it, or at least chooses to ignore it. I sigh in relief, not wanting Russel to get suspicious before I can exact my revenge. I squeeze the brick chunk firmly in my hand as I try to decide the perfect moment to make my move. Before I get the opportunity, a new sound stops me in my tracks.

"Is that…giggling?"

In retrospect, that seems like a dumb question. My brother is currently bringing a whole new meaning to the acronym 'LOL', so of course I should be hearing some form of laughter. But this giggling doesn't sound like his at all. I can pick it out when Russel takes a breath, indicating a second source. I slow my breathing and close my eyes, trying my best to lock onto the odd noise. It appears to be coming from our right…no, it's behind us now. Wait…

It's getting closer.

Author's Note:

We learned some very important things this chapter. For example, if you see Common Infected fighting, it's probably because some assholes were throwing rocks at them. BD *Bricked*

Anywho, I suffered another case of "Made a chapter too damn long...itis". Yeah, this bugger was turning into a whopping twenty-six pages in Microsoft Word. 0_o I love it when I start a chapter, have a general idea what it will consist of, and then as I am typing I keep coming up with more crap. D: It was really hard to pick out place to end chapter one and start chapter two, which is technically completed by the way. (Still editing it...'cause it's poop! D: )

Oh well, I hope Chapter One of Watch, Never Waver has piqued your interest. :) Remember! Reviews are always welcome, whether you want to tell me what you like/dislike about the story or critique me as a writer.