He. . . he used to be somebody. He isn't anybody now, he's practically identical to the others around him. But he used to be someone, right? He used to be like the Others; like the ones who come through his territory and shoot his brothers. He used to walk on two legs like they do. He doesn't now. He pounces better when he has all his fours on the ground.
He remembers, sometimes. Life before he became this. Only fragments, really. Once there was a boy, and that time at the circus, and the flowers. Girl with red braids, suits, ties, and briefcases, a band around the finger. . .
He looks at his hands. No ring. Did he make that fact up, or simply lose the band? For a while he's mad at himself for not knowing, but he quickly forgets. There are more important things than silly fragments of a life that might as well not have existed. Like the smell of Others that comes wafting up to the buildings he's on.
As the scent of the Others starts becomes more clear, he starts to growl. He used to talk once, or did he? Like the Others talk. He can growl now, but no one seems to understand him. Not even the ones like him. He can't understand what their growling means, either. It just. . . is. It's hunger and expectation in a long, drawn out cry.
He did have a name once. Only syllables are with him now. A sound like steam hissing, a sound like a cough, a sound like a yawn. He can't make any sense of the sounds now. They're all scrambled up in his head. Sounds mean nothing to him. Not when the smell of Others is getting even stronger.
Breathe in, and out, and in, and get ready. They're coming closer. He can now hear them, talking in that language he once knew. His growl is rising. He's blocked out everything except the smell of Others. Something that's the faintest shadow of happiness passes over his face. He is going to eat soon. Eating makes him happy. At least, as happy as he can be now.
And perhaps it is his eagerness which causes him to jump too early, perhaps his excitement which causes him to leap off the building he's on before he's fully ready, perhaps his complete joy of the thought of being able to sink his claws into flesh is what causes him to mess it up horribly. So he jumps too soon, and he jumps too far to the side. In one quick motion, he's shoved off his feet and faced with a shotgun. The only thing nice about his death is that it is quick. One moment you have a life, albeit an Infected one, and the next you don't have anything. His final tribute are the words, "Hunter!" followed by, "Got him!" and "Nice shot!" And that's the end of him.
His life. . . his life was a puzzle with the pieces missing. He was born, and when he was his dad cried because he was the first boy out of three girls. He had a childhood, where he was bullied and sometimes bullied others, but tried hard to be nice. He went to college, where he experimented with drugs but decided that business wasn't for him, and got a degree in journalism. He got married and tried his best to be faithful, and he slacked off at work sometimes but worked hard when he needed to. In the end it doesn't matter, though. In the end, there is no difference. In the end, he is just nothing but another Hunter killed in one second, and forgotten about in the next.
So he's killed as a Hunter. The fact that they had murdered a man who had an actual life with ups and downs, the fact they had murdered a man who used to be like them- this thought does not enter our Survivor's minds. They've done this before, and they'll do it again. They've killed hundreds of Hunters, who all had lives, but in the end they're nothing but beasts. And beasts must be killed.
He did have a name once, though.
Names, however, are meaningless titles and pointless sounds. They don't matter in a fragmented mind or a fragmented world.
A/N- Well, I found this in my documents folder and I don't remember when I wrote it or why I didn't upload it (although I'm glad I didn't, as it needed a lot of work). I decided to edit it a bit and upload it to fanfiction now, maybe half a year after I originally wrote it, because it's a pretty good little oneshot. Not my most original though; I've seen many like this on the L4D fanfic pages. Anyway, please review so I can see if it was worth the effort of editing it!
Psychotype
(Also, when I wrote "Our Survivors" that means the L4D1 survivors because I wrote this before L4D2 came. Doesn't much matter, though.)