Disclaimer: I don't own the ever wonderful Left 4 Dead series or its characters. Those are Valve's creations. I simply own this fanfiction.
A little background information before the story actually begins:
The story itself is set in an anonymous city about 40 miles outside Los Angeles. There are four people in the group: Sergeant Marcus Voyavich (the group's leader), Private "Mac" Johnson (the group's "all-around" guy with no specialty), Private "Falcon" Engle (the group's medic and sniper), and Corporal Amy Zayne (the group's gunner and weapon's specialist).
The infected in this fanfiction will be the same as in Left 4 Dead and Left 4 Dead 2. The special infected will also be the same (they'll just have different names, since this IS the military), and I will not be adding any more infected. The survivors from the original game and the sequel may or may not appear in the story. I'm not making any promises, though. Sorry.
Anyway, on to the fanfic!
Four people huddled around the oil barrel, which had a warm fire burning on top of it. They were angry people. They were scared people. More importantly, they were trained people. They were trained to shoot - trained to kill. One of them, a medium-built man with blue eyes and matted, brown hair picked up the radio.
"This is Sergeant Marcus Voyavich of Fire Team Zulu, can anyone hear me?" he listened to the radio's quiet crackles and static for a sound. Any sound of the human voice. When more static filled his ears, he threw it on the ground.
"Piece of complete shit," he muttered under his breath. He walked over and picked it up. Whether it was damaged or not, he didn't care. For all he knew, everyone in the world was dead, except for him and his three other comrades. He looked around, flexing his muscles (not too big, more like swimmer's muscles) as he did so.
The first one who met his tanned face was a tall, slim man. His skin was pale, although not to the extent of the infected, and he had long hands. His face was gaunt and he had black hair and brown eyes. Falcon, as he was affectionately called by his fellow soldiers, was cleaning his SCAR-L Assault Rifle.
The next one was a shorter, darker man with a chubbier (although still skinny) body. He was charcoal black and had black, wirey hair. What got Marcus to ask for him to be transferred to his unit, though, were the man's dark brown, almost black eyes. They were eyes that peered into your soul. "Mac" (he requested to be called that, though no one knew why) was lighting a cigarette and leaned back casually against a trash bag.
The final soldier who caught his gaze was a young woman. She had barely joined the Army one, maybe two years ago. She was the fattest of the group, although that wasn't saying much (again, she was still skinny). Her face was tanned and she had dark red hair and emerald eyes. Amy (her actual name was Amanda, but she hated that name) was busy eating what was left of her assigned K-Ration for today.
Falcon was quiet for a while as he cleaned his rifle, and then he looked up at Marcus.
"You know," he said, "I don't think the army's coming. We leave and we might have a better chance of survival."
"That's against army protocol, isn't it?" Amy stopped eating from her K-Ration and looked up, "Well, isn't it?"
"Of course," Marcus responded, "But what other choice do we have? Damn shitty radio. I bet you they're probably waiting for us to radio them, but this fucking thing can't signal to them!"
"Calm down," Mac put out his cigarette, "Falcon's right. We can die here waiting on an army that's probably pushing daisies, or we can act. I say we act."
Mac walked over to the weapon's cache and grabbed his SPAS-12 Shotgun. He donned his Army-issue jacket and began assembling his pack. He paused.
"You guys coming?" he asked before resuming. He packed ammunition, his backup pistols, a healthpack, and two adrenaline shots. Satisfied, he slung his pack, set his Desert-camouflage helmet on his head.
Marcus looked on with disdain. How dare they override Army protocol! But, he knew they had to go or die. He got up and pulled out his M16A2 rifle, reloading it. As he packed his pack, the others got up and followed suit. Soon they were all ready to move. Falcon began dismantling the army canvas tent they had set up, but Amy stopped him.
"Maybe others will use it," she said. Falcon nodded. He threw what was left of their gasoline supply on the fire to keep it going in case any survivors came over. Some weapons and ammo were left also. They took a look at the camp, which had been their home for the last 5 days, one last time. Then they set off. It was time to make their stand.
Marcus walked out of the alley where their camp had been. Several infected men and women greeted him.
"It's showtime!" he grinned and put his finger on the trigger.
