Disclaimer: I do not claim Left 4 Dead as my own, nor do I claim it's characters, ideas, places, and all that other stuff too.

A/N: Okay, so I'm being emo for a change of pace. I love that guy out in the Death Toll church, and there are so many things that kinda-sorta hint to a story behind him. The writings upstairs...The woman's corpse on the floor...His apparent insanity...Yeah. So I was trying to get some sleep one night and I started thinking about him and his insanity and that corpse on the floor and I started writing a story in my head.

A couple quick notes:

-The names of the three characters in this story (Don, Sherry, Terrence) have absolutely no significance. Honestly, I don't even know anyone by those names. They just popped into my head as I was writing it up.

-This is like my first ever totally serious fanfiction, so if it is a complete and utter failure, give me some constructive criticism.

-I typed this up at school on Word and then at home in a different thing, and some of the punctuation changed from the transfer. I think I got them all, but if anything looks a bit weird, it might be from the shifting from word processor to word processor.

So go on ahead and read if you want, drop me some advice if you feel like it, and hopefully enjoy my craptacular emo-fic.

The voice was weak and soft, so quiet that I wouldn't have heard it had I not been listening carefully for any of those demons outside. "D-Don?" it asked fearfully.

"Sherry!" I gasped, instantly recognizing the voice. I shifted my shotgun to one hand and threw the door open with so much enthusiasm that I'm surprised I didn't break her nose with it.

Sherry (my wife) looked worse for wear. Her hair was caked with Boomer vomit, and there were bruises and cuts covering her face and arms. Her shirt was missing the left sleeve, and her once blue jeans were turning brown and had become covered in dirt, grime, and blood.

But that didn't matter. Those were all minor things. What mattered was that she was alive, and hadn't turned into one of them. After Terrence and I had been forced to leave her behind when she'd been brutally attacked by an unusually large Boomer horde, I'd thought I would never see her again. I hadn't wanted to leave her, but Terrence had said there was nothing we could do, that she was down and gone. I would hate him for it, if he weren't already dead.

"S-Sherry..." I managed to choke out as she walked (more like limped, actually) inside and I shut the door behind her. Tears raced town my cheeks, tears that I thought I'd run out of a long time ago, back when this whole hellish mess had begun. I sniffled a bit, and pulled her into a warm embrace, burying my face in her shoulder and letting my tears fall. "S-Sherry...I-I thought I'd never see you again...I'm so sorry that we–"

"It's fine, Don," she interrupted. "I...didn't think I was going to make it either."

We stayed like that for a few minutes, though it felt like an eternity and I still wish it could have gone on longer. Both of us were content just to be in each other's arms. I was happier than I'd ever felt before, simply by knowing she was still alive. It was a miracle all on its own that she'd lived, and another that she'd managed to get here. I cried into her shoulder, thanking the heavens that my wonderful Sherry had come back.

But the moment couldn't last forever, and Sherry took a small step away as we both began to calm down. "Where's Terrence?" she asked. "Did he..."

I nodded sadly, pulling her closer once more. "He got killed by one of those hooded maniacs, the Hunters. I was tied up by one of those Smokers, and he got a lucky shot off on it and killed it, but..." I trailed off, and buried my face even further into her shoulder. It was awful just thinking about it. The pooling blood, the deep gashes all around his chest and throat, his blank eyes, his face frozen in a combination of fear and pain...It was just too much. I wanted to throw up, but held it back for fear of reminding both Sherry and myself of the thing that got her--No, that almost got her. I was mad at Terrence for making me leave Sherry behind, but no one deserves to die like that. Especially not poor Terrence.

Now that I think about it...How many other people had to die horrible, painful deaths out there like Terrence? And how many people had lost their loved ones in this hellhole, just like I had almost lost Sherry?

Every zombie out there had once been just a normal person. Each and every one of those mindless, drooling flesh-eaters had at one time been a completely normal human being. Even those weird ones had all probably once walked among us as average people. Every hoodied-gangster, every cancerous smoker, every obese blob...All of those killers out there. Sherry and I could easily have been one of the unlucky ones, the ones that still wandered out there aimlessly with their only hope being for another kill...Another innocent person to devour...

That finally did it. I broke down and started crying. Sherry, my wife and my angel, held me coser as I wailed into her shoulder.

"It's alright," she murmured into my ear. I heard her voice crack, though. She was just as upset as I was. Soon, she had started crying with me, joining my sorrow even though she might be crying about something completely different. It was so great to have someone there for me, to have Sherry at my side with me. 'I'm...I'm so happy I didn't lose her...'

I didn't notice it at first, but her crying sounded...Well, off. Different, somehow. I forced myself to calm down and lift my head to look at her.

The moment I moved from my spot, she dropped to her knees and sobbed on the floor. At first, I thought she was just horribly, horribly upset. I had leaned down to comfort her when I noticed her nails growing longer and sharper. That's when it really hit me.

Sherry, my beloved Sherry, was turning into one of them.

By now I could recognize which kind. Terrence had showed one to us once. Called it (her?) a Witch. He said that they were harmless as long as we didn't bother them. They didn't like bright lights and being shot at, and they strongly defended their personal space.

I glanced around the small safe room, the room that was suddenly becoming less and less safe as Sherry continued to transform. There was no room. I would be too close. If I let her change, she would surely kill me. If I wanted to live, I only had one option left

I had to kill her.

I bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood. No, no there had to be another way. I didn't want to have to kill Sherry. Let someone else do that job, please. Half of me said that I could just escape upstairs. I could run away, leave her here. Let whoever came by next take care of her. But the other part of my mind reasoned that no, even though I didn't want to, I had to kill Sherry. Otherwise she would only move on to kill the next person who came in. I had a chance to save someone's life, even if it meant ending that of what used to be Sherry.

I made my descision quickly. I retrieved my shotgun from the floor, where I'd dropped it earlier to wrap Sherry in a warm embrace, and leveled it at her head. If I did it right, it would only take one shot. Quick and painless. I took a deep breath, steadied my hands, and fired.

The blast was powerful enough to blow her face to pieces, and it sent her blood flying. Some of it splattered so far as to reach my face. Her cries went silent. She fell into a slump, and tilted backwards before ending up lying on her back, her unrecognizable face watching the ceiling.

I remained standing for a few seconds, probably still in shock from having to kill my own wife, before my legs grew wobbly and couldn't hold me up anymore. I fell forward onto my knees, and let my arms drop along with the shotgun. It was over. Sherry was gone. ('Down and gone', as Terrence would have said.)

I licked my dry lips, and strained my ears to hear anything. Moans from outside, any people coming by, any screaming, anything. It took a moment for me to pick up on some zombies that were groaning outside. The world still continued on. I was alive. I was stuck in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and all alone, but alive.

I slowly moved my eyes over to stare at the bloody mess that used to be my wife. I couldn't even find a single feature on her face. My heart ached just looking at the gorey scene, so I reached out my arms and picked her shoulders up, pushing them forward and up so that she fell forward and lay face down on the floor. That was...better. I hate to say it, but it helped to not have to look at that.

I needed a way to calm down. Already, I was feeling a bit hysterical. Just a little bit off course. I pushed myself to my feet and took a few shakey steps forward, stepping over Sherry's body and moving towards the ladder that lead to the upstairs area. It was difficult trying to keep my grip on the rungs, but I made it to the top without falling.

Once up there, I stayed on the ground. I didn't feel like getting up again. It took too much out of me. I felt like I really needed something to just calm me down, and I was suddenly reminded of the cigarettes I had in my pocket. I'd mentioned to Terrence that I'd once smoked, and he'd given me one box of cigarettes and a lighter, saying that I might need them if I ever got a bad case of the jitters. I'd say this was pretty bad. Just one cigarette wouldn't hurt. Then I could stop, and be done, and just move on my way again...

With trembling hands, I retrieved the box and lighter from my pocket. I put one cig in my mouth and lit it, being extra cautious with the flame held that close to my face. Once it was lit, I replaced both the box and the lighter in my pocket, and took a deep puff.

I coughed like mad right after starting, but after just a little bit I was feeling much calmer. I sighed contently to myself, then glanced around. I hadn't been upstairs yet. Maybe there was something interesting up here.

Strangely enough, the empty wall to my left was what caught my attention. I remembered all the other walls I'd seen, and how people had written about their dead loved ones and about the evacuation sites.

It gave me an idea. I could do that, too! There was a marker and a bottle of spray paint on the table next to the wall that I could use. I could tell people about what happened, and warn them about it so that the same wouldn't happen to them!

With a new determination, I crawled forward on the ground, and quickly reached the table. I got to my feet, now without much difficulty, and snatched the marker up, staring at it as though it were the Holy Grail. My marker, now. My way to spread the word.

I popped the cap off with a satisfying noise, and shot my hand forward to the wall. But I hesitated just inches away. What was I going to write? 'RIP, Sheryl Retnuh'? 'Don't let anyone in, they might be infected'? 'We're not all immune?'

That last one sounded good. I would go with that. But as I touched the marker to the wall to begin writing, my mind wandered off. For some reason, For some reason, I started thinking back to when Terrence had made me leave Sherry behind.

"We have to go!!" He growled at me, holding me back by the arms so I wouldn't rush off to my death. "She's a goner! Down and gone! If we try to help her, we'll all end up dead! Better safe than sorry, Don! BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY!"

"Better safe than sorry," I echoed wistfully. I blinked, coming back to reality. My hand had moved on it's own, apparently, because on that wall in my very own hand writing were the words 'Better safe than sorry.'

I moved to scribble it out, but paused once more. It didn't look too bad. And it could entail to a lot of situations. It was a good message. Yes, it was. Instead of scribbling it out, I moved to the space below it and wrote it again.

Just writing that message...It had a good feeling to it. Like I was helping the world. That was the only way to live in this apocalypse. You had to be safe, and never sorry.

I wrote it again, smiling through every line and curve of my handwriting. I started humming too, after a bit. And before I realized it, the entire wall was filled with just that phrase. Over and over again. Better safe than sorry.

I don't know how long I'd been writing there. It felt like just thirty seconds, but it was probably longer. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.

For a moment or two, I felt bad. After all, now there was no more room there for anyone else to write their own messages. Then I remembered some of the things that other people had written, the people who weren't writing about the evacuation sites and their dead friends and family. Arguments over who had killed the most zombies, declaration that WE are the monsters, expressions of a longing for the internet, and one person had even proclaimed that there was a man named 'Chicago Ted' from whom no zombie was safe.

They didn't deserve to be allowed to write here. I had a real message, an important one!

In fact, maybe I didn't write my message big enough. What if people don't see it? I can't let them not see my message! They need to be safe! Safe, and not sorry!

I glanced around for anything else to write with, something that would really stand out. My eyes came to rest upon the can of spray paint. Fortune was smiling upon me (for that part of my day, at least) because it was a bright and noticeable red color.

I'd just managed to spray a nice big 'Better Safe than Sorry' on the wall (I'd had to go over my previous letters, due to lack of space) when there was a noise from outside. Gunshots. More people.

I would have jumped for joy, but the only thing I could feel towards them was suspicion. What if they were infected, like Sherry had been? What if they were going to try and get in and make me infected too? No, no, no, I can't have that happen. I don't want to be a zombie. I don't want that to happen.

I dropped my paint can and scrambled back down the ladder to see who was there.

"Who is it?" I yelled at the door, my voice sounding far more nervous than I'd hoped it would sound. "Is anyone there? Don't try anything, I've got a bell here!"

"Well, I'm Francis, there's Zoey, Louis is there, and there's Grampa Bill--"

"Damn it, Francis!"

"And there's zombies out here so LET US IN ALREADY!"

I reached down for the latch, but stopped. No. I couldn't let them in. They could be infected and not transformed yet. Like Sherry. They could be covered in that virus. Like Sherry. They could make me have to kill another person. Like Sherry.

"No," I whispered, then smirked upon seeing a small button to the right of the door, nearly hidden by the ladder. I had the bell. Zombies liked loud noises. Like car alarms, gunshots...

Church bells...

"I'm gonna ring this bell," I said hysterically. I could tell that I sounded insane, and it scared a part of me, but most of my mind was on living by my own new mantra. I would be 'better safe', and not 'than sorry'. "And when I ring it, they'll come running. THEY'LL finish the job."

I pressed the button with force, and the church bells rang out loudly, as though announcing their death sentence. It was such a beautiful noise. So beautiful, I couldn't help but sing along.

"Ding-dong!" I practically screamed, laughing like a madman and imitating more of a doorbell sound than a church bell sound. "Ding-dong!"

Opening my mouth so much to yell out those words caused my cigarette to fall to the floor. No matter. It was already practically burnt out. I quickly dove back into my pockets and got out another one, lighting it up quickly and taking a deep breath.

I went into another coughing fit, but didn't think twice about it. It would be over in only a minute or two. Just like that last one.

It didn't stop. After five minutes, I was still coughing like mad. I didn't think the people outside could hear me, what with all the gunshots and moaning and their occasional cries to be saved from a Hunter or Smoker. Wait...Smoker...

Oh hell no...

Right as I realized what might be happening, I felt the left side of my face start to swell. It literally felt as though my skin were boiling and bubbling into those disgusting tumors that cover one side of every Smoker's face. My coughing became even more horse, and I could see small green-colored particles swirling around in an extremely thin cloud of smoke, right before my eyes. Well, eye. I couldn't see out of my left eye anymore.

I stumbled over to Sherry and reached into her pocket for her compact mirror. My hands were shaking so badly as I lifted it up to see myself that I almost couldn't make out my own face. But I could see enough. Enough to tell that I was doomed. I was a Smoker. The very thing that would have killed me if not for Terrence.

I wasn't safe anymore. I wasn't safe. And because I'm not safe...

"I'm sorry," I sobbed, staring down at Sherry. "I-I'm so sorry we left you behind." My words were almost incomprehensible though my constant coughing, but wherever Sherry went to, I hope she heard me.

I could tell that my tongue was growing. It felt limp, and seemed to inflate in my mouth. I let my jaw hang open, and my tongue dangled a bit. It didn't seem too long yet, but I supposed that was why that had to really spit it out to grab anyone.

Placing the mirror in my own pocket, I staggered back a bit and faced the door. There were no more noises from outside. Already, I could hear them, the survivors, coming towards the door. They would see me, recognize me as an infected, and...

And they would kill me.

I would get to die in the same way as Sherry. I suppose that was appropriate. I deserved it for letting Terrence talk me into leaving her there. Terrence had gotten his payback, and here was mine.

I hoped for a few things. Just a few simple things before, during, and after my death.

I hoped it would be quick...

(Footsteps, now, clomping loudly towards the door...)

I hoped I would go to the same place as Sherry...

(Closer now...Closer...My imminent and inescapable doom came closer and closer...)

But most of all...

(The door swung upon, the biker man standing there with his shotgun in hand...The same thing that killed Sherry...)

I hoped they would get my message.

"SMOKER!"

A/N: I always liked that church guy. R.I.P. Crazy-Church-Dude.

Did anyone notice my unoriginality with Sherry's last name? It's 'Hunter' backwards. Retnuh. I am so stupid. It doesn't even look like anything.

And yes, I understand that he doesn't always become a smoker. But there isn't much of a reason for him to suddenly turn obese or gangsta, so Smoker it is. I'm lazy.

Constructive criticism would be very nice. If I ever get smacked by inspiration for another serious story, I'd like to make sure it's not a complete fail-train or anything.