Full moon eyes with cracks of crimson veins looked daggers at what was once a human being, a son, a brother, a father. Tautened lips chapped via dehydration parted to produce a sputter, a noise of unadulterated fear. Instincts buzzed within his psyche akin to a confused swarm of hornets, a runty constituent of the S.O.U. demolitionist's brain refused to concede that there was no hope left. Outstretched arms were pinned to the concrete floor outside of the cell by bony knees and raunchy hands, applied pressure a refusal for circulation to reach his arms. Fingers crafted for crafting charges no longer had feeling, completely numb. Unknowingly shaking his cranium, as if the universal sign for disapproval would sway the primal instincts of the undead. Rigid fingers as pallid as the brittle snow graying from the melt scraped across the side of the standard-issued combat boot. Cracked flesh of contorted knuckles shaped fingers as if the bony branches of dead trees, a fingernail snapping backwards as it scraped further up to the uniform pants. Dense fabric remained stalwart against the prying digits of the undead. Finn wrangled his ankle free of the creature's groping hooks, lifting his knee high just before the sole of his boot collided against the temple of the unrecognizable face. It had no lips, just a grisly grin baring rotten teeth with grayed flesh stuck between them. Receding flesh surrounding eyes were stygian as the night without light, sunken in as with any corpse. Cadaverous eyes themselves bore without a soul, faint color within the pupils now peered only for the next victim. An ill-lighted trail of coagulated gore left behind the zombie, who was devoured to the point that the lower-frame was torn asunder, wormy guts painting its trail. It wore remnants of a prison uniform, bloodstained letters of its serial number still stamped upon its back. Lacking any conceivable way of escape, the B.S.A.A. agent kicked his legs and stomped his boot as hard against the creature as humanly possible. Amidst the skirmish, dismal moans resonated through the cell block. Psychologically discouraged by the heartless moans surrounding him, the growling of the undead beneath him. Despite valiant efforts, cold fingers caught him by the knee, clamping down. Quivering tiers formed the shape to say 'please', yet instead a bellowing sound of disgust and fright came out as howling wind carrying in autumn. He could not beg, he could not do so while in view of his commanding officer, it would be an embarrassment to the team he cared deeply for. Attempting to stow a sob, it failed. They had not yet accepted him, but he would work, as hard as he could until he was part of the team, one of the guys. It could be worse..., he could be his helpless A.T.L. forced to watch this miserable sight while they tormented Finn. If anything could be said however, the man kept his calm, bravery in the face of death. "Keep your eyes open, Macauley. Don't look away." His tenor tone was so placid, it made it easier to convince himself he wasn't going to die. He wouldn't, not in this miserable place. He hadn't even had a chance to prove himself yet.
"That's right biter bait, don't look away. We want to see the look on your face when you crack!"
"Just focus on the task at hand, don't panic."
Calling out in attempted bravery, it came out as desperation which quivered in his voice. Teary eyes flickered as one of his eyelids twitched from stress, gawking at the undead creature with absolute determination to feed, brown chipped teeth snapping hungrily. Discolored saliva dripped from its mouth and hung like a teardrop just about to fall, before it hit his inner thigh. Movement. His focus solely upon the creature clawing at his legs, through his peripheral vision he suddenly saw a moving shadow. Panning his gaze sharply, another undead thing, once a youthful woman in a red dress, the convict had caught a visitor to one of the inmates. She was fed to this thing. Her body fresh, unlike the creature at his legs, there was still tone to her skin, yet her eye was just as empty as they looked upon him, her mouth opening as she moaned shakily. One of her saucer eyes hung from the socket round as a globe, her ear chewed off. One of her breasts has been mostly devoured, ragged flesh and gore remaining, the dress hanging loose upon her as she stumbled sideways. Sour rot of human flesh filled his nostrils with every breath causing his chest to heave beneath his gear. Nausea crept within his senses even as his legs furiously kicked at the undead clawing at his knees. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on one thing when a sadistic convict snickered merrily behind him, croaking moans from every which way, as if he were the main course of a Thanksgiving meal with starved strangers all around. This couldn't be happening, there had to be some way of escape, it had always been that way. Whenever a member of the S.O.U. was taken as prisoner or pinned down by the enemy, the captain always came to the rescue with the rest of the guys. It would just be a matter of time before that familiar gunfire rang out, and both he and Piers would be saved. Nodding his head to his own hopeful thoughts, while the stern orders of the adonis not far off in a cage beside his own.
Despite his valiant struggle, the further he pushed against the corpse with it's grisly guts hanging out like a limp octopus on land, the further his pants slid up his calves and ankles, exposing vulnerable flesh. Shuffling towards him from the side like a gangly toddler was the fresh cadaver of the woman who had been unfortunate enough to find herself caught in the web of the convict, her guest tag still pinned upon her dress. Her eyes no longer belonged to the woman she once was, they were feral, wide and bloodshot as they fixated upon him, drool glistening the corner of her mouth, her jaw twitching. Approaching Finn with erratic movements, he yelped as the half-man gurgled out a moan and scraped the exposed ankle with its fingernails, catching the very edges of his sock, down to the tough leather of the combat boots he crushed downward towards its skull. Frantically bucking his knees upward, it was too little too late. Just prepared for the female zombie who hurtled forward; her knees making a knocking sound similar to a bowling ball knocking out a pin, bone against concrete without give twined with the powerful command of his fellow specialist officer. His warning was one of despairing tenor, blotted out as a pair of jaws snapped down against muscled calf. Blood welled, a volcano of lava gushing iron and warm into the mouth of his assailant. Bubbling and gulping up the tangy heat, along with sinewy and muscle. In that moment, all he could think of was Penny, the day she was born; he had waited respectfully until his mother had given birth, but it would have been an understatement to say he couldn't wait to see his baby sibling. She had been so full of life, and although his father arched a brow in regards to him having insisted that she smiled when he held her, he knew it was true. Penny had been the one person in this world that looked up to him, rather than down at him, she had encouraged him in his aspirations and came to him for advice, she was in her own way, perfect. He was going to never see her again, never see her grow up to be a good woman, never hear the sound of her cheerful laughter. Clenching his eyes shut tightly, tears squeezed from closed lids as he opened his mouth to let out the fiercest scream he had ever felt in his life, rising above the moans of the undead, the words of his higher-ranking agent.
"Macauley, keep your head!" A sentiment easier said than done. Piers could feel bile rise in the back of this throat merely spewing those cruel words. The hardest thing a man can endure was being eaten alive, by his own kind. The idea of knowing that that single bite would be his eventual downfall. Not a brave valiant death, where the man across from you pulled the trigger a hair faster than you. Or had instincts that were a fair amount faster. It was the fast that avoid that single bite, and you wouldn't get to look up to the skies and know there was the end in sight, but rather. You would become this thing, chewing and drinking your vital fluids. You would eventually share its thoughts and leave the world behind of all you had destined to accomplished; for a more gruesome lifestyle of feasting on your comrades. "Damn it, Finn, don't stop fighting." It would been all too easy to stop fighting and let yourself succumb to shock, rather than fend off your body parts from becoming an ill suited meal. But Piers wouldn't have it. Locked in a cell parallel to the fellow specialist. Piers was as helpless to aid Finn as had been planned. They'd been separated and rather than going after Piers, they had gone for Finn. Of course. The younger soldier, the less experienced. The one more likely to make a sport out of feeding soldiers to zombies. Gloved fingers gripped the iron wrought bars, watching as blood smeared across concrete, painting a picture of Finn Macauley's life. It was cold. Ruining a man this way, leaving Piers to do nothing but watch as his leg was stripped to the bone, white stained red from the running fountain of blood. Wringing the bars, sharp hazel eyes took in the sight, the scent of blood and rotten stink. Golden orbs darting from side to side, taking in what he had to give without weapon, leaving him nothing but to demand that his explosive's expert never stop. You never resign, even now.
Violently writhing, as if it would somehow help his situation, the zombies were not interested in Finn's valor or stubbornness, just as the high-pitched laughing of the convict behind him could not have cared less if he would ever see his sister again. He could feel the flesh being ripped away from his leg, an agonizing sound escaping his lips as the woman who clawed at his stomach, protected by the gear. It was hard to take in, that grinning maw sans lips chewing noisily against his leg, the shock of the sight itself nearly as bad as the pain. This is what he fought for, he went into battle so that no one would ever fall victim to this sort of fate, yet even as muscle were pulled like strings, his own flesh was caught in the monster's teeth and jaws. It was continuous, the clamping and yanking against the open wound against his calf, gorging itself upon his leg as if he were a piece of prime steak. Blood covered the pale face of the creature while his sanguine dribbled to the floor, muffled moans against his leg as the damned thing sounded happy that it was able to feed, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to break it's jaw, it's neck, and then it's skull. Torn flesh screamed in pain as the insanity continued, his calf trembling and attempting to move away as the zombie clutched it as if a child with a favorite toy. A squirt of blood came from a small vein as it shot directly into the monster's eye, yet it gave absolutely no flinch or any sort of sign that it was disturbed by it. How many times had any given person seen a predator feast upon prey on a wildlife program, and made a noise at how disgusting it was? There was no explaining living the experience of being the prey, the level of disgust that it once had just been a man washing over him as he heaved his chest up against the woman, causing her to tumble back a little. Lifting his free leg, he grunted loudly as the heel of his boot slammed into the face of the creature swallowing his flesh, collapsing an eye socket as it fell back, yet already began to flail it's arms to get back to it's chest. Curling his wounded leg beneath the other, threads of crimson flesh hanging outside of the wound like spaghetti, beneath that was black and red, mostly red. He was being eaten alive, and he was beginning to think that there was no hope left.
Piers stared at the lump of meat on the ground, grimacing internally at the visible pools of crimson that were beginning to spread. Wiped in chaos of hand prints and the body that had been dragged through its dark inky stains. A wad of stringy, chewed flesh, gnashed and spewed on the ground; peachy dermis flayed from its owner and regurgitated upon the floor. Blobs of flesh, that was what they'd been resorted to. Sacks of muscle. At least that's what the man lording over this damned facility thought of the man he came in with. Bitten, pieces of flesh torn from him and swallowed; the flaps of flesh that once covered his calf. Wincing at his ward's cries of despair, agonizing pain the sniper swallowed tight watching his shirk from the undead, even as the living pinned down his arms, heavily weighted by the knees of his captors. Their knees ground into the soft fleshy sockets, one in the crook of Finn's elbow, and the other grinding the joint of his wrist; prepared to snap under the pressure. Heavy weight, pinning those joints dared face to the side, admiring Piers with small pale eyes, licking his lips as blood spattered. His crass display had hazel oculars narrowed at him, watching as the bodily thrust of his partner, tossed the female creature nearest his captor, forcing him to give a solid shove of the beast away. An irksome burbling groan spewed forth from cracked teeth, rolling to its bloodied front and headed back in a faster manner than its squid legged counterpart. Spotting its lurch, arms outstretched for Finn, the sniper growled, dropping down as quick as possible, hand jut forth from the bars, to reach forward and snatch the ankle of Finn's attacker, giving it a hearty yank backward on the joint to slide its corpse toward him. The least he could do, as those holding down Finn's body watched in frustration. Quick hands; the calloused pads of his glove covered mitts wound around the struggling limb, gathering its full attention as snatching jaws sped forward in search of the meat of diligent fingers, Piers snapped a hand about its throat, smashing its face first into the bars with a clang that clearly resonated, breaking bone and distorting features. A second leveraged act stunned it long enough to lurch to his own feet, a forearm pushed out between bars to choke the throat, immovable to the bars. Using the bars to keep the monster at bay, Piers free hand snaked free of the creatures neck, gripping one side of its mutilated skull, the other coming free to snatch the parallel side, a sickening crack joined the air, and a sack of dead flesh hit puddled to the ground. One zombie down, one to go.
This was only supposed to be a two hour mission that turned into two days of being captured. Nothing had been heard from Chris. His radio gone, in sight within the office that their captor took for his own. Every now and then it would come to life, spouting off more information than the sniper cared to share with their retainer; Chris' voice though not soothing in the manner it should have been, hearing if their captain had found a trail to follow. Nothing that made it clear there would be any kind of rescue for either of them, if they didn't make one for themselves. It wasn't easy watching your soldier being turned into carrion, but Finn needed to fight back. Had to. A grunt of exertion fled pouted lips, hearing the frail complaints of the cohorts of the man keeping them; they weren't use to having a man who fought back. These men weren't the problem however, it was the one toying with Piers' rifle in the boarded up office, and setting up Macauley's bomb kits where he saw fit; unbeknown to either of them, watching while his cons played puppet with their captives. The Puppet master liked seeing it all, watching to see what lame attempts were made as his own personal show. The zombies were the pets. They were simply food for entertainments sake, but he wasn't playing that man's game. "Listen to me now! Lock your ankles Macauley, and twist. NOW!" Simple orders, for a man who's calf had been stripped of flesh, but Finn fought hard and brave. No one would fault him the tears since they had made a toy of him. Pinned him down for Piers to watch and told him exactly what would happen, and how. One even bending down to lick the tears from his face before promptly getting his skull battered by the kid's very own. He took them though, the orders, out of a haze; letting his fear of the monster shed as he bent knees slightly, slapped a boot on either side of the creatures skull, and twist as best as could be provided. A sharp quick snap.
It wasn't long after the execution of their favorite legless flesh eater, that fists started to rain down on Finn, endless like hail. They'd let go of his arms to straddle the younger man's waist; pounding bloody pulp out of his face whilst the other; his admirer with the pale eyes hurtled himself toward the bars where Piers had killed their womanly undead. Keys jangled as he reached for the means of opening the sniper's cell, eagerly fumbling through them, Piers' fingers worked in fists as he licked blood from his previously broken lip. Keys jammed into the lock, an ambitious smile coddling wormy lips as the convict set loose on him, salivated openly. He wasn't Finn. After Piers choked the last guy on his own vomit, they'd taken to picking on Finn, prodding the buttons that made the commanding officer work, hoping to antagonize him into giving more of a show. What show they would get was his heel taking this man's head for a vacation from his shoulders. Urgently, grimy hands worked the keys, chuckling maniacally as he licked his fat lips. Victorious with the key, ready to insert it; fists were halted by the screech of media overhead, heavy baritone breathing transmit over the speakers of the prison floors. Just the bated... heavy breathing, over broken circuit boards, but oh what it meant... Fascinating, this one. Piers' responses to fear, adrenaline, death; the impending doom of a team mate. They had failed to gain control over his thoughts and turn him into the coward that they had these other corpses in the cells. Such psychological prowess, it beckoned for study. He had risen to the challenge, slain the undead from a cage not his own, and coached a dying piece of meat toward protecting itself, albeit a tad too late. Uncommon. Even in the face of his inmates. No, not just bait for his cell mates, not just yet. These would provide the most interesting forms of entertainment. Not often did a brave soul stumble into his domain. This one was his. Released from their grip, Finn curled in on himself, twitching and fighting not to be racked with the sobs that made his form shudder, hiding from further blows as a single vengeful leg twitched forward and slammed boot first into his downed comrade's spine. And on the verge of having freed Piers, the other snarled, growling at him as he backed away, contempt twisting on his features to something more akin to malice.
They left the corpses, presents for Finn as a man gave his farewell to the beaten soldier by spitting on his cranium. The breathing still continued, haunting above them, but Piers had learned to ignore it, squatting down and extending an arm, holding out his hand. Like that they were gone, all but the breathing. "Come on, Macauley. I've got you, soldier." Continued huffing, stark eyes flecked with gold cast toward the boarded up office, only a set of gray orbs visible through the slates, held on his own and never blinking; the owner of the raspy gasping. Narrowing, that heavy labored breathing continued, getting more husky as they stared deadlocked. Never a word, but the sounds from that room made it clear what this man thought of watching their torment; he enjoyed seeing what responses were elicit from them. It wasn't long before the younger man started to move however, and Piers attention was split. Quickly jerking his line of sight away as bloodied fingers wrapped into his own, easing him closer to the barred walls until his torso leaned on the cold iron; cautious but to only slide along the floor to the wall. Finn lifted his tattered body to sit into the corner for support. With his eyes jerked away from the slats in turn for attending to his downed soldier, Piers noted the breathing suddenly stopped, the squeal of the microphone turning off.
"How long? How long before I become one of those... things?" Finn voice croaked over the lack of silence. Certainly there was no longer a threat within his own cell, but this was an old prison, made for holding massive cell blocks, all of them in this case, filled to the brim with hungry, starving mouths. Clanking his craw against the iron, Finn turned his face at the feeling of his senior officer's fingers, squeezing tight against his shoulder, reassuring despite their circumstances. It came out as a croak, an alarming wheeze of despair. Pulling his good limbs toward his body, Finn turned in on himself, turning away his face to avoid seeing the gushing smear of blood. He felt like such a disappointment. Here in this place, he'd meant to prove himself to his alpha team; to Piers, and instead, he'd ruined everything. Salty tears clung to his dirtied face, smudges on his irish visage and snot clinging to the corner of his nostrils. Wiping his face a thousand times back and forth on the sleeve with which he hid his face, Finn tried to stop the flow of unbidden sorrow, but then his eyes would wander, and he'd see the huge hole of meat in his calf, and the ruined muscle; and again the tears would flow.
"Don't think about it, Macauley. Not yet."
"When the time com-
"I'll do what needs to be done. Not a second before. You put your mind on the now, soldier." There was no saying it, but he wouldn't lie and tell Finn it wasn't going to happen. Without the vaccine, there was no saying how quickly it would be before Finn turned. And though his faith in their captain was unwavering, knew Chris would never stop looking for them, it didn't matter so long as he could hear the radio echo time and time again with failed operations to find a trail. Psychological warfare, they were using the rookie's humanity against him, using his tears as a form of entertainment. They would get no such thing from his specialist leader. Fingers squeezed, Piers voice stoic as always, as solid a thing to hold on to as any. The fear that Piers saw in his eyes was expected of the man. In truth, the virus differed in all people. "For now, you need to take care of that wound, Macauley. Strip off the material, tie a tourniquet." Nodding, the rip of fabric greeted the sniper's ears, not allowing a second for the situation to overcome training. The boy was just a rookie, only three years younger than himself, and yet Piers looked on him like soldier now. The things they'd seen, Finn was only a child in comparison to most the team, but you could never turn a blind eye to his bravery in the face of what had happened. Not a scream from him as that monster torn into his flesh. A good kid. It didn't matter what happened, he'd always be Alpha in Piers' mind; they'd stick together. Pressing themselves back to back through the bars, Piers sighed, eying the corpses over his shoulder, blinking back any emotion, shifting the blood stained fabric about his throat at the sound of stifled sobs. "Get some rest, kid, just... get some rest."