A/N: So this is my first story in a long time, and it just so happens to be my very first Left 4 Dead story! Congratulations me! But, anyway, I've been tossing the idea about in my head for quite some time. I'm also in the middle of writing a Draco/Hermione one-shot, but that's something entirely different. What I'd like to do with this story, however, is make it Francis/Zoey, ultimately. That means that they will probably have some problems along the way, but hey, what couple doesn't? This story will be very gory, thus the M rating, but don't worry—we'll have some nice, juicy bits in there, as well. :] Well, without further ado, onto the disclaimer and the first chapter.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own ANYTHING related to Left 4 Dead. That would all belong to Valve: the characters, the zombies, and the weapon selection— that's all them. I do, however, on this story. This plotline is mine.
The soft, mournful cries of a Witch made Zoey sit up, coming out of her sleep. The brunette cursed under her breath, urging her heart to stop pounding. Sometimes she had no clue why that crying bothered her so much. She rolled her neck, feeling the pops and twitches of pain that followed. She sighed, scooting back closer to the corner she had set herself up in. Zoey remembered the first time she had heard the Witch's cry; she had been at college. There was a girl down the hall from her that had become a Witch, though her bedroom door was locked the night she had turned. For three days, Zoey was held up in her own room—room number 406 on the fourth floor of the Beckett Dorms—and listened to that sad crying. She had wondered what Megan was crying about, though couldn't bring herself to actually leave to find out. Though now, she believes the Witch's crying to be a sort of evolutionary gain that came with the Infection. She had even once put her entire group at risk, believing the crying to be another Survivor in need. That was in the beginning, though, when she was naïve enough to want to risk her life to save someone not in her group of four. Even back at school, all Zoey wanted to do was help the people she could during this confusing time. She would occasionally peak outside of her door and could see nothing but corpses and blood. She chuckled to herself, thinking back on how terrified she had been and how she kept repeating, "I knew it! I fucking knew this would happen! Z Day is real!" How long had it had been since that time, she wondered? It couldn't have been anything less than seven months. It felt like years away in her memories, though she knew that time had been exaggerated since that first day. Day One of Z Day was the longest day on the planet. That was a day that seemed to have lasted forty hours, though was a normal twenty-four hour day. As the Witch's cry hushed—she assumed the bitch was walking around—she noticed the raindrops pattering on the safe house. Zoey sighed, and brought her knees to her chin, resting it gently as she listened to the men breathing evenly. It had rained a lot New Haven, too, where she went to school. Her parents were so excited that their little girl was going to Yale—ha! Yale seemed like a waste of money, now. If they had only known that Z Day would happen before she could even finish her first year, they would have let her just go to Cornell University in Mount Vernon, Iowa, near their home in Cedar Rapids. Instead, they had to shell out the nearly $50,000 for her to go for almost one semester.
The eighteen-year-old girl grabbed her pistol from underneath her pillow and stood from her make-shift mattress. She and Bill were always given the softest things to sleep on, at the insistence of Francis and Louis. They had their own little pairs in their group of four: Louis and Bill, and Zoey and Francis. She carefully stepped over the sleeping form of Louis. She smiled at him as she passed overhead. Louis looked to Bill as the father he never had, coming from a home with a single mother and a check from a man he never knew. He had been a Junior Systems Analyst at some company—Zoey kept forgetting where—that he hated. He was twenty-eight, and he has never been married. Zoey knew, from the moment she had met him in Philly, that she liked him. He was a good-natured man, and very optimistic. She appreciated his optimism most of the time and was always one to help him, should he need it. Zoey watched her feet, careful not to disturb Bill. Bill was her father-figure, as well. He was her friend Jessica's grandfather, after having met him several times. He lived in New Haven and Jessica would drag her over to his house so they could listen to his stories and just hang out. Though, when Jessica became an Infected, Bill had to do her in, and thus had taken to Zoey as a surrogate granddaughter, of sorts. Zoey didn't mind, as he was the closest thing to a family she had. She walked to the door and stood at its bars, watching them mull around and groan. Her eyes may have been focusing on the world outside, but her mind was focused on the man sitting in the corner closest to the door, his head tilted forward in sleep. Francis—she had a terrible crush on him the moment she saw him. She and Bill had been travelling towards Philadelphia for a few days when they ran into Francis. He had run into Bill before, the two of them arguing at a bar in New Haven a few days before the Infection spread. Francis looked Zoey up and down before smirking with the comment, "Who's the kid, old-timer?" At this, Bill was furious, though Zoey couldn't remember what all was said. She could only remember his stony gray eyes never leaving hers the entire argument. She knew it had something to do with, "You stay away from her!" and "She's got a mind of her own, I'm sure." Now she watched him sleep, his broad shoulders moving in time with his deep breathing. A blush fell over her cheeks as she turned away, watching for any zombies—or Survivors—that may get too close.
Zoey huffed in frustration, remembering the few times they had actually trusted other people. It never ended well, that was for sure. The random person would try to do everything to convince them that they were not infected; however that was never the truth. They would soon turn a few hours, once it was just a few minutes into talking to them, and attack them. She had lost all trust in others; her three guys were all that mattered now. A common Infected seemed to notice her, probably smelling the sweat beading on her forehead, and called out, running towards the door. Zoey smirked and popped the dead asshole in the head. A few more Infected, who had heard his cries and the gunshot, ran over and they met their similar fates. Zoey breathed out, kicking the shells on the ground out of her way, as she would hate to slip on them by accident. Her eyes returning to the door, a hand on her shoulder caused her to jump, her finger flying off the trigger as she pulled away. That gruff laughter only gave away who it could be. Zoey smiled as the orange and yellow end of Bill's lit cigar met her eyes before Bill's did. She put a hand on her chest and willed her heart to slow down, again.
"Bill, Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!" Zoey laughed a little as Bill smiled at her, the flaming end of his cigar growing brighter for a few seconds, followed by the familiar smoke that bellowed around him. Bill shrugged and took off his hat, fanning himself. "Sorry Zo, I really didn't mean it. I just wanted to know if you'd like me to take over for a few? I'd hate to have you standing at the door all night. You need your rest, kid," Bill picked up his assault rifle from the table beside him, always at the ready. Zoey smiled at the Vietnam veteran, knowing he thoroughly enjoyed picking off his newest enemy. Bill hadn't seen a war in decades, so this war against the Infected was appreciated by him, at least.
"Sure, Bill, if you'd like. In all honesty, though, I haven't been standing here for long. I just woke up about ten minutes ago." Zoey spoke between gunshots as Bill did his best fighting off the Infected. This was what Bill was born to do, defend those who needed it. The elderly man spun around and faced a crooked grin at his younger companion. "It's fine, Zoey, go sleep—or at least rest. You might not get a lot of sleeping done with Helen working her magic."
Zoey had to stifle a laugh at Bill's comment. She loved it when he gave his new guns a name. Every gun he picked up had a name, an old Army tradition is what she credited it to; Helen, Diana, Katie, Susie, and Laura had all been memorable weapons in his arsenal at one time or another. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Thank you, Bill." The young girl smiled at her pseudo-grandfather and walked back to her thin mattress, collapsing onto it like it was a California King with a pillow-top. Gently placing her pistol back under her pillow, slightly jumping at the firing of more assault rifle rounds, Zoey heaved a sigh and lay back, resting her head on her jacket. Closing her eyes, Zoey smiled at nothing, just enjoying the relaxation of lying down.
"Sleep tight, Zoey," called Louis from a few feet away. "Yeah, go to sleep, kiddo."
Zoey's eyes opened at that voice as her heart swelled into her throat. She felt her face blush in the dark, and was thankful that he couldn't see across the room with the lack of light. "Thanks Louis, you too, Francis."
She cursed herself under her breath, again. She sounded desperate again, saying his name. She knew how she had been in the beginning and felt shameful of it. She would follow him around like a new puppy, tight at his heels. She would laugh at nearly everything he said, and would defend him when Louis and Bill became fed up with his smart-ass mouth. Francis would often make jokes about her far-too-obvious crush on him, and she would usually meet his comments with seething, defensive comments of her own. She didn't want him to know—hell, she would be mortified if he ever acted any differently toward her. However, it was never quite a secret that the eighteen-year-old girl had such an intense infatuation over the man ten years her senior. The day that Louis joined him, he had asked Francis if Zoey was his little sister or something, to which he replied with a flat, "No." Following his answer, Louis asked Francis if Zoey was his girlfriend, judging by how close she followed him and her obvious preference of his company. Francis had laughed at Louis' question, causing him to ask why he was laughing. Zoey jumped all over Louis for asking Francis if she was his girlfriend, getting quite frustrated at even the very thought of it. After the teenager's mini-rant, Francis quietly responded to Louis' previous question, "That, sir, would be why I laughed."
Shaking her head, Zoey rolled over on her right side, facing the cool stone wall. She hated having a weakness, and Francis was definitely a weakness. Something she had learned from watching all those horror movies was that weakness quickly leads to death. Like fuck she would let Francis kill her.