illegible note ;; No information! Only to say Left 4 Dead is awesome, therefore I do not own it. Read! Enjoy! Review! Frolic in fields of poppies!
Empty buildings stretch as far as he can see into the night, their fading lights twinkling like man-made stars. The city is beautiful at night, in the silence, and he thinks for a moment, Why have I never noticed? He knows the answer is because he never cared, and still doesn't give two shits about what happens to the world. He moves forward quickly, stepping confidently as he surveys the city below him. Tattooed arms carrying a hunting rifle, he looks back quickly at his strange assortment of partners in this crazy world. A woman, a black man, and an army veteran with a chip on his shoulder. What a bunch. Silence fills the air, surrounding the group as they move down the open hallways of the unfinished building in tight formation, each facing out towards a different direction. Their eyes continuously move, scan the surroundings for any sort of disturbance, any sort of danger.
Standing at the rear, the oldest man keeps his weapon drawn, teeth clamping firmly around what can possibly be the last cigar of his life. The flashlight attached to his gun jumps across walls, prying into corners, sliding up door frames to penetrate the darkness beyond. His ears perk at a sound, as do his companions', and he turns towards it. A shadow casts across a stack of pallets in front of them, slipping down the wooden platforms and disappearing. On high alert, he holds out his hand, motioning the group back. They retreat cautiously, moving closer to the elevator shaft they have just come from.
"Careful," he warns quietly. "Watch our backs, Francis."
"I hate watching the rear," the tattooed man grumbles, turning around to face the empty elevator, eyes peering up at the open hole in the ceiling.
A gurgling cry answers him, and he steadies his weapon. A figure lurches around the corner of the pallets, spots them, and heads their way. Fast. He sends two bullets straight into the creature's chest, sending it down. A moment of silence passes, holding their collective breaths, until more sickening groans answer the shots. A group of the disfigured creatures rushes around the corner, screaming and flailing in primitive blood lust as they are mowed down by the group's fire.
"Reloading!"
Francis turns his head to see the oldest of the group tossing aside a used ammo chamber, shoving another in its place. A solid thud makes him whip back to the elevator, spotting the tall zombie standing on top of the elevator, staring at him with hungry eyes.
"Smoker!" he shouts, unloading his hunting rifle into the horrifying creature. It screams, its mouth opening to shoot its tongue out at him. The slimy, rotting muscle wraps around him, pulling him forward. He tries to grab the door of the elevator, but the zombie is too strong. "Ahh, shit!" he shouts.
Gunfire grazes over the top of his head, the tongue slackens around his body as smoke fills the small compartment. Wiggling out of it, he accepts the dark hand offered to him. "Jesus, thanks, Louis," he says, pulling himself to his feet and coughing. The stench of a smoker is worse than ten real smokers, plus a ten-day dead cat, three spoiled roasts, and moldy cheese. It gets stuck in his clothes and he can smell nothing but the disgusting stench.
"No problem," Louis responds over the gunfire, looking over his companion for a moment before determining the man is in fit health despite his ordeal.
"Zoey! Boomer!"
A sick gurgling, bubbling belch catches their attention, and they aim at the bloated zombie as it tilts crazily towards them, reminding Francis distinctively of a rogue tilt-a-whirl. Zoey places a bullet straight into its stomach, and it explodes in red mist.
"Nice shot," the older man says, nodding in approval as he brings down the last two zombies on the roof.
"Thanks, Bill."
Their conversations are short. Anything they need to say is better said through body language, in silence. They've come to understand each other over the time they've spent, and its all the better. As one, they begin to walk forward. A deep rumbling stops them dead, staring at each other in horror. It moves closer, shaking the very cement beneath their feet. Pressing their backs together, they watch each side for the cause of the rumbling, heartbeats racing. The movement stops suddenly, and Louis relaxes slightly.
"I think its gone," he whispers.
"Don't think so," Bill grunts, eyes watching the space beside the elevator.
"I frikin' hate hoards," Francis growls under his breath, sweeping the area with his rifle, an uneasy feeling settling over his stomach.
The floor shakes violently beneath their feet, and Zoey screams. "Tank!"
As one, the group turns on the monstrous, deformed creature. The thing crashes up from the floor of the elevator, sending metal scraps flying through the air. The group stands their ground, unloading clip after clip into it. It screams in rage, grabbing the stack of pallets with ease, hurling them towards the group. They scatter, and Francis rolls to the side as his leg is grazed by the sharp corner of the wooden platform. He grunts, getting to his feet quickly, fixing the jam in his rifle. He aims at the Tank, firing rapidly and praying to a god he doesn't believe in to keep the hoards at bay for the time being. He is dimly aware of the other survivors, and keeps their positions in mind. No sense dying in friendly fire.
"Thank god for automatics!" he shouts happily, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He feels like he can take on the world every time he pulls the trigger. After living life so long by the rules, he's more than willing to throw them all away for some good, old-fashioned anarchy.
"Pay attention to what you're doing!" Bill calls back, semi-automatic kicking into his shoulder as he sprays bullets across the Tank's broad chest. The beast moves in on him, smashing pillars and crates as it thunders in his direction.
"I'm kickin' ass, old man," Francis replies jovially, dropping his empty clip as he follows the Tank at a safe distance. He reloads, fires once, hitting the Tank square in the back.
Roaring, the Tank whirls on him, unusually fast for its size. He tries to move, but the creatures huge hands grip him, lifting him into the air as he yells out a war cry. He flails in the creatures grasp, pulling the trigger, watching the blood splatter around the creature's muscular shoulders. It screeches in pain, hurling him away as a child might throw a bug. He watches the building fly by, then sees nothing but darkened skies, stars twinkling in the darkness. Empty space surrounds him, he feels the lack of substance below him. Welcoming, inviting.
"Francis!" Zoey cries desperately.
He's falling so fast, the building whizzing by quickly. Somewhere, he once read its not the landing that kills you, it's the fall. Francis isn't about to go out that way. The Tank is standing on the edge of the building, growing smaller by the second. Fumbling with the clip of his rifle he still hasn't let go of, he jams it in, bringing the gun to his eye, aiming along the sight.
"Fuck you," he says, pulling the trigger.
The bullet rips through the Tank's chest, and it falls to its knees. Francis doesn't see the defeat of the Tank. He is already closing his eyes, the rifle falling out of his grips for the first time in what seems like months. They call his name in the distance, their voices full of hurt and disappointment. He should like to say he's sorry, but he thinks the fall might take a while longer, and walking back up those stairs will be an awful burden on his already tired legs.
He lets the fall take him, a smile on his face.
Everything is white in Heaven. The skies, the ground, the space all around. White. The gates are golden, not pearly, and he finds himself wondering if this is all a dream as he's falling. He doesn't remember hitting the ground, and he's sure his mind is making up more fairy tales for him to run through. A woman appears from the whiteness, her face slender, her body wispy, blonde hair beautifully falling around her face. For a moment, they stare at each other, both seemingly confused by the other's presence. Then she smiles.
"Hello, Francis. We've been expecting you. Your vests are in your room, hanging neatly in the closet. Can I help you hate anything today?"
Francis grins widely.