I sniff at the air and freeze when I hear the tell-tale sounds of the non-infected padding loudly down the road, my road, my territory. My lips peel away from my sharp teeth as I snarl, growling under my breath while I wait for them to come into view. When I see them I feel my foul blood boils in excitement and anger. How dare they intrude, still, I muse silently, they've arrived right on time. I'm hungry, hungry for them, something with fresh blood not stale blood that tastes disgusting and rotten. I want warm flesh to eat, and that's what I'll get tonight.

I watch with narrowed eyes, staying statue still on the rooftop, posed like some ancient gargoyle on a large cathedral church. I know the rules of the hunt, always go for the lagging, weak or old. And I stay true to those rules when the non-infected come into my view. Instantly I single one out, a tall-ish looking male trailing near the back of the group of four. His clothing, overalls and yellow t-shirt are stained with blood and he's limping badly. I take a deep breath of air and suck in his musky scent of human sweat, fatigue, blood and the rotten smell of a long-since-deceased Charger. I assume that's why he's in such poor shape.

Whatever his shape is I could really care less but he's the weakest and falling behind the others. I eye the other living humans, snorting when I find they're all in good health, minus the big coloured guy who smells of obesity and is hosting the first stages of the virus hidden somewhere underneath the sleeve of his shirt in a long deep scratch across his forearm. As they continue on I shiver in anticipation, eager to attack, to feed.

They haven't noticed me yet so I'm grateful, or as grateful as a hungry Hunter can be. I continue to wait in silence, maintaining my stillness. The first three of the group pass me by without any notice, leaving the one in the back open for attack. My mouth waters and thick, sticky saliva drips onto the rooftop before me. I lick my lips and shift my weight, leaning back and recoiling like a spring before- I pounce!

I fly off the rooftop screeching like a banshee, landing on my prey and successfully pinning the weakened being to the ground, strandling his hips with my legs as I hurriedly lean down to savagely bite at his shoulder, my clawed hands swiping at his chest, drawing blood as I rip skin. During the assault I faintly hear gunfire and luckily the shots just graze by me as I grab by prey with an iron like grip and flee, clutching my wailing prize triumphantly.

If I could manage a laugh I would but I can't so instead I snarl and growl, baring my teeth when I find a suitable place to feed. The human struggles but there is an alarming amount of blood draining from him and I know he'll soon be too weak to even attempt escape or a fight. I shudder as I lean forward, once against straddling the non-infected and allow my tongue to slide fourth from my gaping jaws. I attentively lick some of the blood that has splattered onto his neck and face, finding it to be sweet and delicious I lap up the rest of the blood dirtying his face and sigh loudly, snapping my teeth together a few times just to see the look of fear and agony erupt onto his... oddly handsome face.

I hiss at him and he whimpers, trying to shrink away from me but I won't allow it. I want to see his fear as I kill him, I want to hear his screams when my teeth rip his throat open and I want to bathe in and drink his warm, sweet and fresh blood as it gushes out of his torn skin... But the fantasy dies on my mind when I look at him again. For some reason I can't do it, I want to kill him and feed so badly but there's something about him that I just can't hurt or fatally harm in the ways I'm thinking of.

Sure I've already hurt him but he isn't dead yet. I wonder why I feel like this and growl to myself, angered by this sudden alien feeling of attachment. I want him but I don't really want to hurt him. I sit there, straddling him my rooftop even as I hear his team mates running down the street searching for him.

"Ellis!" I hear over and over again in a chorus of human voices but I ignore it, huffing in annoyance. Why can't they just get lost? Yet despite my thoughts they continue to yell and scream, searching and searching but never finding. By now I know each of their individual voices and so when I hear a softer voice, laboured and scratchy speak my ears perk up and my head snaps to the broken form lying beneath me.

"N-nick.. Ro', Co-Coach-" I stare in wonder, alarm and fascination. It scares me that he can still somewhat talk even if his voice was just a whisper but damn if his voice wasn't the finest thing I've heard in a long time. It was laced with a thick accent and a bit on the higher side compared to the other males in the group of four. Something about his voice just makes me feel all mellow and calm, which is rather odd for a high energy infected like myself.

I scowl beneath the my hood, glaring at him, watching his chest go up and down with much difficulty and when he coughs and chokes on some of his own bloodied saliva I actually jump forwards and inspect his chest area where I clawed to shit, sniffing at the wounds. Actually worrying.

I snort, worry. How could something like me ever do that? I turn away and stare off at the sunset, listening to moans and cries of normal infected roaming the grounds. That and the sounds of a few rare birds laced in with the hushed wind and his- no Ellis' - harsh breathing is weirdly eerie to me. When the sun disappears I return to his side, my hunger vanished I grasp him and pounce across the road, crawling into a broken window dragging Ellis within the confined walls of the dilapidated building.

I set him on the floor nearest the rooms' door and retreat to the corner. I curl up; chin resting on my arms, eyes never leaving my former prey. Tomorrow I'll have to feed, and it's still so confusing why I can't will myself to eat my warm fleshed catch. I guess until I figure out why I'm unable regular infected are back on the menu.