I've started a new story less than a month after my first story. Not the brightest of ideas, I know. Truth be told, a plot bunny hopped up my nose into my brain and I got the urge to write a well... ZoeyxHunter fic (which is also partially an AU, since I'm taking artistic liberties such as extending the 2 weeks the survivors are supposed to survive before The Sacrifice). I suppose you could call it a ZoeyxOC fic because the Hunter is not on the top of Valve's list for character development, and I'm well... giving him a character. It's a warning for all who dislike such a pairing - ye who tread further, go with caution. I don't know how many people this fanfic may offend, but flames will be used to heat my chilly home. :) Another note: updates will be sporadic because although it is my last year of high school and I have finally completed college apps, I find myself up to my neck with work.
P.S. - I decided to wrestle with the present tense with this fanfiction. Please forgive my horrendous grammatical errors. In fact, I'd probably have horrendous grammatical errors no matter how I wrote the story. And also while you're at it, would you forgive my terrible characterization?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Left 4 Dead series. Yup.
5 Days to Die: Prologue
It's a typical day in Fairfield; as typical as a day in the zombie apocalypse can be. She unloads a round of bullets into another zombie's face and watches it crumple in a bloody heap.
"You would think by now that Francis would learn by now to not shoot the cars." She mutters irately under her breath. The man in question throws his hands up defensively.
"Was aimin' for the vampire. So I missed, my mistake."
Zoey frowns at him. She doesn't enjoy starting her day by fighting the horde. The other two survivors have the same thought, but after an exchange of sharp words, they're moving again.
"Reloading!" Louis yells, and she moves in to cover him like clockwork. By now they've all gotten the patterns down; life or death situations always did bring people together.
They're covering a lot of ground today, she notices, yet all she cares about is finding the next safe house. She's tired and even though she knows Francis is like family to her, right now she's still angry at him and wants nothing more to do with his inappropriate attitude.
She supposes she's lying to herself. It isn't Francis that's troubling her - well, not entirely, and she's used to him being an idiot by this point - it's a dream she keeps having.
...More like a recurring nightmare. It didn't have zombies, surprisingly; she faced enough of those on a daily basis (five and a half days).
It starts out in college; she's talking about a horror film animatedly with a fellow student and couldn't feel happier about being there, when suddenly, as if they were in a movie themselves, a film reel starts spinning and the scene turns to a peaceful family dinner. Correction: a war zone. Her mom and dad are at each others' throats, quiet yet deadly in their discussion about Zoey's decision to drop out of college. She's picking at her peas - she hates the nasty green vegetables almost as much as the tension at the table.
"Guys, it's my decision. Want to listen to me?" She tries to cut in. In the dim light of the dining room, she feels as if she's grown into a plant because nobody answers. That's when all hell breaks loose.
"Fatty at the rear!" Bill calls out and she snaps out of her increasingly depressing reverie. A Boomer had somehow snuck up behind them, though how when the rotund, puss filled zombie was more conspicuous than a survivor in the middle of Fairfield, Zoey couldn't answer. It's too close to shoot which means too close for comfort. She switches to her pistol, kicks the Boomer back with a grunt of exertion (the damn things were fat), and plans to pop the sucker like a balloon... when it barfs on her.
"Ugh!" She shoots it then and it explodes, but she can't help but yelp in disgust as her pink track jacket is drenched in bile. What's worse is knowing what she'll attract wearing perfume de Boomer. "We may want to find cover." She suggests as she attempts to shake off the liquid, shuddering as globs drip down her cheek. Louis looks her way wryly, with an expression saying: "You think?" He gestures at Francis, who is beginning to develop the crazy sort of grin on his face that tells her he'd like nothing more than to stay here and punch some zombies. She shoves Francis lightly and follows Bill, who's already looking for a barricade to make fighting off another horde easier. There are shrill cries in the distance that would set her hair on end if it wasn't matted down with vomit.
They find a pile of cars that must have crashed when the shit hit the fan - or rather, the Green Flu epidemic. She doubts the Infected were good drivers. The four of them prepare behind the mass of twisted metal, waiting for the zombies to crawl over or run through the narrow opening so they could shoot them. Their backs are against a tall gray building with boarded up windows, while they are surrounded by cars, leaving only one way for the Infected to come.
"It's like an old fashioned shooting gallery." Francis nods appreciatively. "Now if only we had some music. And booze."
"If only you had a brain." Louis shakes his head.
"Shut your yaks and shoot." Bill cuts in as the first sickly, Infected face pops up over the pile of cars. Zoey trades her shotgun for a hunting rifle and takes aim. At the pull of the trigger, the Common Infected's head explodes. Adrenaline filled minutes and a pipe bomb later, the crowd thins and blood literally paints the ground like a macabre Pollock.
"I think it's clear." Zoey wipes her forehead of sweat and Infected blood, adrenaline flowing out of her like the blood out of the Infected corpses littering the area. "I'm low on ammo; we're going to have to find some more. Preferably in a safe room." She emphasizes, tired. The sun's in the middle of the sky and they've been killing zombies till noon.
"Whew! You smell like shit. Let's hope that safe room has a bathroom." Francis waves a hand in front of his nose, reminding her that she could really use a bath. Although she agrees, Francis has broken an unwritten rule of women and she glares at him, asking Louis politely if she can have her shotgun back for just a moment...
They find the safe house two hours later. It's the most beautiful thing Zoey has seen all day and she instantly cheers up, even cracking a happy smile. She's running ahead, the others fall behind but she doesn't care as she rounds the corner, safe house less than fifty feet away.
She smells the Smoker before she sees the tongue. It wraps itself around her neck, like a boa constrictor, tightening until she's having trouble breathing. She's on her back being pulled into an alley, thrashing about and trying to call out for someone to shoot the damn tongue. She almost laughs and cries at the same time, except it's hard when you're being asphyxiated. This can't be the way she's going to die, halfway between a safe house and her friends after surviving five and a half days in the zombie apocalypse, choked by a freakishly long tongue. She was going to be licked to death.
Then suddenly the pressure lifts and she's simply lying there, staring at the overcast sky. She breathes deeply, coughs, then breathes some more, stunned. Turning around she spots the Smoker hanging off a fire escape, dead. Deader than zombie dead, with his tongue and head cut off, a typical dark colored smoke escaping the body. It isn't a weird sight - not as weird as the company she finds herself in.
There's a Hunter perched beside the body, far enough to avoid the smoke. She almost mistakes him for a gargoyle because he doesn't seem to be moving - not even breathing (though she isn't sure if zombies need to breath). His hood is over his face, so she doesn't know how she knows he's staring at her, except that most of the zombies stare at her because they think she's their next meal.
And now she just might be lunch if she doesn't get up before the Hunter decides to pounce. Experience tells her that being alone with these Special Infected leads to lots of pain. She struggles to sit and pulls the hunting rifle from the strap on her back. The Hunter remains as still as a statue. Hesitation. She wonders if the Hunter is waiting for something as she shakily takes aim through her scope - and then he's gone, leaping off the side of the building onto a roof and disappearing.
"You okay there? What are you doing taking a break in an alleyway?" Louis asks as the three catch up. She shrugs and glances where the Hunter had been, in a daze. Bill helps her to her feet and she thanks him quietly.
"Don't go running ahead. We have to stick together out here." He practically scolds her as if she were an eight-year-old.
"Sorry." She sighs and forgets about the strange Hunter as soon as they reach the safe room. Early evening begins as they double check the red door's bolts and locks before settling down. There's a couch and a loveseat inside but no bathroom, and she claims the couch quickly with faint disappointment. Although tired, she finds she doesn't want to sleep and busies herself with cleaning her guns.
That's when Francis discovers an abandoned pile of Playboy and other more questionable men's magazines. "Shit. Who the hell leaves behind a treasure like this?" He whistles and flips through a tattered copy with undivided attention. Louis slowly inches beside the biker, inconspicuously peering into the box full of magazines of tantalizing and scantily dressed women. Even Bill takes a peek over Francis's shoulder.
Zoey rolls her eyes. Men. An ammunition magazine would have been a much better find. But she hides a smile and turns to their bag of supplies. There's no such thing as privacy while trying to survive the zombie apocalypse, let alone in a safe room less than ten feet long, but she might as well try and give them their male bonding time. Not the best dinner, but a few granola bars quiet her growling stomach. She washes it down with a bottle of water and notes with some dread that they need to take a trip to a grocery store soon.
She nods off sometime later when Francis is adamantly discussing a plan to bring the mags with them. Bill calls him an idiot before sleep overtakes her.
"Whatever happens, you'll always be my little girl." Her dad ruffles her hair like he did when she was an actual little girl.
"Dad, I'm going to college. I haven't killed anyone."
"Damn right you're going to college; on a scholarship too." Wade nods with pride. "Now just remember our family's three Holy Creeds when you're there. One: you gotta shoot zombies in the head, two: keep in touch with your parents, and three: boys need the seal of approval before any dates."
She laughs. "Okay, I understand. But please, no mistaking any possible suitors for zombies."
"Can't make any promises." Her dad grins back. "You'll always be my little girl... who's one hell of a shot."
It's half a year later. She's in her dining room and her mother's dead on the floor, a bullet through the head. Her dad is leaning against the wall, blood running down his face from long, jagged cuts. He smiles, as if it's Zoey's first day in grade school and he's encouraging her to go make friends.
"I love you, dad." She chokes and pulls the trigger.
She jerks awake, notices the walls of the safe room, covered in the graffiti of past occupants, and realizes she's been dreaming. "Damn it." Whispering, she lets her head flop back on the couch. What a bad time for her to have nightmares. Sleep had been her escape, but now she couldn't even doze off without the dread of dreaming. She hopes they make it out of the city soon; maybe a change of scenery would calm her nerves.
It's early morning - dim light is seeping through the bars of the door. She closes her eyes and allows her body to relax, listening to the slow breathing of the other three survivors as she waits. Bill gets up soon after, already making sure his gun is reloaded and ammo resupplied and all the necessary preparations are done because he sure as hell isn't going to trust Francis to do it.
Zoey pretends to sleep until Bill kicks the two others awake. They're all up and outside after some grumbling. She's feeling better after a night's rest, albeit a troubled one, and knows nothing they encounter today can be as bad as fighting two hordes. Reassuring herself was a habit she formed to keep from becoming a pessimist like Francis, but the anxiety weighs in the pit of her stomach as she follows the three men to the road, killing any Common Infected they meet.
The anxiety transforms into alarm as a loud and familiar roar splits the silence like thunder. "Fucking damn it." Francis groans, voicing her thoughts. "I hate Tanks."
"Yeah, yeah." Bill mutters, raising his submachine gun cautiously. "Hey Louis, we have any Molotovs?"
"A few." The former Junior Systems Analyst searched through his pack. "Would have more if Francis here hadn't insisted on bringing the magazines." The biker shrugs dismissively and reaches for a Molotov.
"Only the good ones. Get ready to set shit on fire."
Zoey would be amazed at Francis' bravado if she weren't so focused on the impending death match with a zombie on 'roids.
The Tank roars again, the sound close enough to send vibrations through her skin. She swallows and clutches her rifle tightly. A car is tossed to the side as the Tank barrels through the street. They're all shooting at it as soon as the thing appears within their sight, but the thing doesn't even react to a bullet between the eyes. She wonders briefly if the Tank can even feels pain, since it doesn't slow down in its pace as a Molotov sets it alight. In fact, it only becomes more enraged, rushing even faster towards them.
They scatter as the Tank charges past them, unable to stop its momentum. She takes the chance to unload some more shots into the large Infected, backing away as she does so. The situation looked to be under control, any second now the Tank should drop dead - Tanks never lived long when on fire.
- That's when the second Tank arrives. No one expects it, especially not her. She screams as it nears, forgoing all thoughts of fighting and began running the hell away as Tank number two jumps out of nowhere and charges straight at her. The others are shouting too, but the sound of blood pounding in her ears drowns out any hope of deciphering their words. She doesn't want to lead the second Tank towards the others who still have their hands full with the first one, and in a moment of either incredible stupidity or noble sacrifice - though the word idiot is on repeat in her head - she runs in the opposite direction of the three men.
Well, this is it. She thinks, the scene almost surreal. Time slows, she thinks that it's a shame she won't be able to eat a nice meal before she dies.
With an enormous arm, bulging grotesquely with throbbing muscles, the Tank swings downward, intent on crushing her into paste.
Everything goes black.