Preludes

Left 4 Dead 2, fanfiction

Summary: Nick had always guessed that it wasn't just a lump of fresh flesh underneath the cheap T-shirt.

Setting: Stage 3 (Swamp Fever), chapter 1 safe room.

Disclaimer: L4D2 belongs to Valve

Preludes

Part One: Insomnia

If it wasn't for the white spots of stars seen through a crack in the wooden roof, Ellis wouldn't have believed that his reality was the same with the one he was born in. Six months ago he was going through humdrum routines: waking up, fixing cars, hanging out with friends, dating random girls, learning how to play bass after midnight, jerking off if work hadn't worn him out bad enough. He always went home worn out, as if his bones were about to either cave in or explode through his flesh. Nowadays, it stopped seeming like a joke anymore, since his bones could cave in just about any time, because of endless running and muscular spasms.

The night was almost still and the air smelled of swamp, grass, gunpowder and dead zombies rotting away in the cold. Somewhere in the far-off distance, a witch was singing in high-pitch. Ellis rolled around under the rough blanket, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. His skin itched as if a thousand tiny needles were piercing through every pore. With every wave of itching that went through his damp T-shirt and pants, the witch's voice made it even more obvious. A few more twists and turns, he decided to get up then walked to the balcony, knowing that sleep wouldn't come anytime soon.

He thought of how the scenery of the swamp used to soothe him in a strange way. The greenish water with occasional presence of fog made him thought of a secret land. The witch was still singing. Without any wall surrounding him, it sounded even louder, like a broken sound system. He took a deep breath then stretched his arms while looking at the fog floating above the swamps. A while later he could hear footsteps behind him.

"What's up, Nick? Couldn't sleep?"

"Not that it's your problem," said Nick, leaning his back against the railing then looked up to the sky.

Ellis turned to look at the man in white suit. No matter how long he looked at it, he couldn't tell if the suit was actually $ 3,000; all he could see was a seemingly stiff material that prevented sweat from going out and the wearer from moving too much. Zombies don't care about the price, he thought, all they wanted was a taste of fresh flesh, the thought relieved him.

"Should you stare like that?"

Ellis didn't even realize that he was even staring. Even so, it was actually the suit he was staring at.

"Why a pair of eyes bother you that much?" Ellis asked with a smile. "Anyway, I was looking at your suit."

Nick said nothing in reply.

"For something with a price three times my family car it surely looks uncomfortable."

"Probably you just don't get it," Nick said.

"Yeah, my low-class redneck brain doesn't get it," Ellis said with a mocking smile. His dry lips felt painful as he widened them. "Thought I'll say it first before you do."

"That's a conscience, Ellis."

"I have another joke for you: the only things I ever smoked are Marlboros and five-cent cigars," Ellis said with a smile. "Thought you'd need something else to mock me with other than my southern accent."

Nick clacked his tongue then smiled. He didn't even know why he should be smiling, when all he felt was the most sincere form of pity. The guy was twenty-three and had never tasted good cigarettes; worse still, he had to embarrass himself for saying it. If there was something to be pitied, that was just about the size of it.

"A smile does you good, like that," Ellis said. "Don't need to look so stern since there's probably no tomorrow. I don't want to die with my face looking all contorted."

Nick frowned then looked at Ellis, whose gaze had moved from his suit to the sky. There was another point to be pitied, he thought then looked at how dirty Ellis looked, like a swamp man that had just resurfaced. The lid of his baseball cap was bent out of shape, and strands of dark brown hair that clung to his forehead made him looked like an used-up worker. Nick knew well enough that his suit was well pass dirty, but Ellis's T-shirt looked worse. If he was in his place, he'd rather go topless than having on a miserable fabric clinging to his skin.

"Once you're infected you'll say an entirely different thing."

"I wonder," Ellis said. This time he placed his arms on the railing then leaned forward. The bad-smelling air didn't smell so bad anymore, now that he was used to it. "But as for me, I'd like to think that I'll make it out alive. That's the only thing I can think of."

Nick said nothing in reply. The witch was still singing. Her voice cut through the fog and the air. Strange enough, Ellis even started thinking that it sounded good, her keep singing like that. Nick, on the other hand, felt like taking a shotgun then shot the thing in her head.

"Whether you're alive or dead, Ellis, it wouldn't change a thing. You'll still be a common person, nothing more," Nick said with a mocking tone. He didn't mean any of them, of course, he only wanted to see a change in Ellis's expression that always happed so fast.

"Very funny, Nick," he said with a chuckle. Then, after a while: "Come to think of it, doesn't a world where we once was seems a like a world far-off because of the Flu?"

Nick clacked his tongue then moved his gaze from the mud and swamp to Ellis. Just then he realized that the mechanic could've been a very handsome man if it wasn't for the dirt all over his face. He had tall jawbones and childish lips that seemed to stutter like a flower bud's mouth every time he spoke.

"Say, Ellis, have you, even once, think of something useful to say?"

"Honestly speaking, I don't understand ninety-nine per cent of whatever you talked about sometimes: your books, your favorite brands, your kind of music…" When he finished speaking, he looked at the stars again. It made him realize that he was still a part of the bigger thing. "But those are what you call important things, I guess."

A silence followed.

"Anyway, what you were saying about the world far-off," Nick said. Then after a while added: "Thought I'd ask…"

"Sometimes I see the faces of people I once knew as zombies. Everything changed. After twenty-three years, it just happens, as if a lever had been pulled. And I see an entirely different world, as if I'm not from here. Kicked out completely. I guess that's an explanation to it. Not that you'd care, though."

Nick moved his lips, only to realize that he actually had nothing to say. Instead, he stared at his fingers that were tense because of holding guns. Even his nails had turned bluish. Then it suddenly dawned on him that he was aching for cigarettes and prints. He groped the right pocket of his suit, searching for an imaginary pack of Benson & Hedges.

"This is the first time you got a point," he finally told Ellis.

Ellis smiled in reply. Nick was looking at those childish lips again. The longer he looked at that face, though, the more he realized that almost everything about Ellis's face retained a certain childishness.

"When everything you used to think you can get is lost," Ellis finally said. "Self-improvement doesn't mean so much anymore, don't you think?"

"Is that supposed to be spoken for me or for yourself?"

"Whoever it works for," he said. "I mean, my goals used to be big. When I was a child, I used to dream that I'd make it as a rock star. After that I'll take down Hollywood because Scorsese has, by some strange sense, picked me as a lead star for his newest spy movie." Ellis paused to take a deep breath. Nick was right about those childish lips that looked like a flower bud. Now that Ellis bit the lower one, those lips resembled it even more. "The next thing I knew I'm well pass twenty, a high-school dropout who's also a church regular and still there's no Hollywood. Scorsese still doesn't know about my existence either."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Nick said. For the first time he felt like comforting Ellis. "He's probably infected, just like that poor racer of yours."

"Come on now, stop insulting poor Jimmy."

Three zombies could be seen walking near a tree about three meters away, like three confused orphans. They were holding their heads, puking out blood. Nick extracted his handgun from his holster and was about to shoot them down when Ellis grabbed his hand.

"Mr. Johnson, his wife and his son Dustin."

"What are you talking about?"

"People from my hometown that looked just like them," Ellis said. "They used to live around the swamp, breeding crocodiles. People thought they were bad guys, but they never knew that Mrs. Johnson's chocolate cookies were great. They even mocked me for even eating them. They said that 'swamp fingers' made them."

Nick put the gun back in the holster then searched his pocket again for an imaginary pack of Benson & Hedges. To shake off the disappointment, he looked at Ellis's lips again. The guy was probably lying, having said that he was a smoker, Nick thought, those lips were too pink and moist.

He looked at the three again then, after a while, examined the overweight apron-wearing woman. Blood was dripping from her mouth to her neck and collarbones. Even her apron was stained. Her fingers were dirty with mud. How if she, too, happened to make great chocolate cookies? Nick had a very hard time trying to picture it.

"You were friends with the son?" Nick asked after some time.

Ellis nodded.

"He was a good guy, a quiet type, although heavy on the strange side," he said. "I thought it was because he got really lonely sometimes."

After a short pause, Ellis added: "Say, Nick, how does it feel to be so rich, popular and smart?"

"Not much," Nick said. "The time I looked back, I realized it was just me, standing on a muddy ground that slowly ate away my identity."

Another silence followed. The three zombies retreated further into the background until they got completely swallowed up by the fog. Ellis moved his body from the railing. He reached overhead then stretched his arms. He turned to look at Nick's white suit again. He still didn't know how the thing could be so expensive. It was then he realized that there was a red lipstick stain on the blue collar of his shirt. It was almost badly smeared although it was enough to make Ellis imagine its continuation on Nick's neck. In fact, the bite marks were already there. They were so obvious he wondered how Nick would deal with them later on.

"If you make it alive through the Apocalypse, what will you do?" Ellis asked, uneasy with the silence.

"I'll open a classical bar in L.A.," he said assuredly. It was the first time Ellis had seen a sense of determination in Nick's usual dead eyes and a clear hint of smile on the thin lips. "I can't keep gambling and escaping police for ever. I guess it'll be a good timing to make use of my Strasbourg Conservatory diploma."

"Very romantic," Ellis said with a smile. "If the place gets really famous, will you invite Scorsese and introduce him to me? If he hasn't been infected, of course."

A short while later, Ellis added: "No, I was joking." The echo of his light chuckle, at time, seemed to rhyme with the witch's high-pitch singing. Strange, he didn't feel so cut off from his new reality anymore.

"Thought of a name already?"

"Via Purifico," Nick said. "It's Latin for 'purification route'."

"Via Purifico," Ellis mimed, chewing the foreign words one syllable at a time.

The witch continued her singing, her voice cutting through the dense fog. The sky had, since long, turned a shade lighter around the horizon. Ellis thought of birds he used to heard every morning, the rustling sound of leaves but there was neither. The air hung heavy, misty, like a damp layer over the skin. It surely wasn't the right air for birds.

The fog was no longer thick because of the warmer air. There was an obvious maroon line at the horizon, breaking the darker shade into warm gradations several shades lighter.

"Undead birds," Ellis mumbled to himself. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn't think of sleeping. His T-shirt felt like a second skin that was about to fall off, yet it was forcedly glued to his skin. Back then he could always shower in hot water after long days of work. The thought faded away as fast as the thought about birds.

He turned to see the space on the railing where Nick was. A faint hint of wind smelling of swamp water blew towards his body then passed the empty spot.

"Trouble sleeping?" Nick thought of what Ellis would ask him if he showed up at the balcony.

He closed the eyes then thought of the swamp. There were cries of zombies, but they were still too far-off for them to worry about, just like the witch's singing. "Trouble sleeping, Nick?" Ellis's voice asked again. It was as sharply-cut as the crack in the wooden roof.

He sighed then kicked the rough blanket away. It seemed like only yesterday he was sleeping next to the most remarkable burlesque dancer in a Le Meridien suite. In the morning he'd hear another bottle of champagne popping and had another kiss from the lips that smeared of lipstick. Her bite still stung his neck, but he had trouble recalling her name and her face. Then in the darkness, the voice said again: "You're a damn insomniac, Nick."

Nick looked at the crack in the wooden roof again. It was the only source of light. He raised his hands, lined the ten fingers before his eyes then started tapping on an imaginary piano. Even so, his mind kept dashing back and forth between the rusted iron door of the safe room, the foul-smelling air, Coach's loud snores, Rochelle's mumbles, and Ellis. The mental image about the mechanic zoomed larger, until he saw the flower bud lips, which soon replaced the imaginary piano.

"Via Purifico," Ellis had repeated. The words sounded different because of the funny southern accent.

He knew that staying here any longer wouldn't help anything. The witch's singing soon became the only song for him, although admitting it felt like stuffing something in his throat.

"You miss me already?"

"Cut that bullshit, Ellis."

"The witch actually sings pretty well," Ellis said, completely unperturbed by the cold response.

"Another bullshit, still."

"Turn off the flashlights so that she'll keep singing," Ellis added then chuckled. When he turned to Nick, his eyes were filled with an unlikely glow, like a child's. It could've been a Carousel he was looking at.

Nick sighed then averted his gaze towards the swamp and the trees. The fog had lost even more density.

"It's because of lack of sleep," Ellis said jokingly, bordering on mockery. "Mom always told me that lacking of sleep makes someone irritable, that's normal."

You're a damn insomniac, Nick repeated the voice in his mind.

"You're a damn insomniac, Nick," Ellis said, as if reading his mind. A while later, he hissed to himself: "Shit, this thing gets on my nerves." Then took off the damp T-shirt then threw it to the ground. It landed there with a soft thud. "I don't even know why I keep sweating, despite the cold air and all…"

"You're scared to the bones, Ellis, you know it."

"Yeah, I am," Ellis said in low tone. "Besides, the Apocalypse feels like the worst, longest for ever to be passed."

Nick moved his gaze from the flower bud lips to the chiseled torso next to him. He had always guessed that it wasn't just a lump of fresh flesh underneath the cheap T-shirt. He looked at the muscles glistening with sweat. The arms, chest, and stomach were like a group of different breeds detached from the hands with jutting veins and the fingers with dirty, sunken nails. His favorite women had always said: "A man's body is just a body, but a woman's has a language." This time he knew that it was the most useless phrase of all.

"I've stopped caring whether I'll actually make it alive," Nick said, averting his gaze back towards the swamp.

"What will happen to Via Purifico?" Ellis asked.

"Forget it."

"Too bad," Ellis said, leaning his back against the railing then looked at the trees towering above him. The thought of undead birds resurfaced.

"You really think so?" Nick asked.

Ellis nodded.

"Although I always think that classical music sounds pretty much alike and high notes on piano are like someone shooting on glass, a classical bar's a cool thing," he said a while later. The discarded T-shirt looked like a carcass around his boots. "There are plenty of rock bars and jazz bars, but classical bars aren't likely. I once knew a guy, a fellow mechanic, who lost two fingers and dreamed of the same thing. He'd be jamming on his cheap piano every break he got. He lived across my shop."

"What happened to him then?"

A soft breeze sent a ripple through the leaves. Ellis heard what seemed to him like wings flapping and faint chirps. They could've came from inside his head.

Nick bent his neck left and right. The right one popped. Ellis squatted to take T-shirt then wore it back.

"He got infected," Ellis said, looking at the trees covered with fog. "He asked me to shoot him before the CEDA guys did. He was in the process of turning completely so he was still conscious, mind you. I was even looking at his eyes when I pulled the trigger. He was down for a while until he got up a short while later, so I shot him for the second time. That one killed him."

After a pause, Ellis added: "What I want to say is that you got ten fingers and you're a survivor, Nick."

The witch had stopped singing. The sound of her sobbing remained audible for a while until it completely faded away into an even further distance.