**Hello all. This is not my first FanFic, although this is the first one I've published. Please review, I'm open to any and all criticism. Be warned though, the more offensive you are, the more amused I'll be.

Anyway, this story follows an OC as he encounters the original L4D survivors shortly after Bill's death in Rayford, Georgia. I will continue this as long as possible, but please be aware that I've got some serious ADD when it comes to fiction, and I could completely lose interest in a month, only to pick it up again 4 months from now. I may however stretch it if there's enough call for it out there, so make your voices heard.

"Rafe, you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Rafe simply grumbled in reply. "I thought so."

John 'BlackJack' Aubrey peered through the scope of his M110 sniper rifle, settling the crosshairs on his target. He checked the wind one last time, and slowly reached up to make a minute adjustment to the knob on the side of the scope. The pale teenage girl on the unfriendly end of his rifle continued to cry, curled up on the ground. As he and his companion had agreed, as soon as Aubrey made the shot, they'd proceed into the farm to eliminate the remaining inhabitants at close range. There was no mercy in his heart, though somewhere at the back there was perhaps a little bit of pity.

He let out a slow breath, and at the moment his lungs were empty, between heartbeats, he twitched his finger. The custom 7.62 millimeter, fin-stabilized, Saboted Light Armor Piercing explosive round left the barrel at 4000 feet per second, passing through the suppressor on the tip and losing most of its sound. It exited the end of the suppressor, discarded the plastic sabot, deployed its tail fins and emitted a small sonic boom as it hurtled towards its target.

In the doorway of a sizeable farmhouse 1300 meters away, the sobbing witch was literally hurtled backwards into the house by the force of the impact. A fraction of a second later, in midair, her head exploded. The corpse slid across the floor, leaving a massive trail of congealed blood behind her. A few of her more mundane companions stared blankly at her body as it slid past, finally coming to a stop in a heap against the wall. The heavy rounds were the only ones he trusted to reliably take out the creatures in one shot.

"Zeke on the ground." Aubrey muttered. He then settled in for a wait. Even suppressed, the gunshot did make a sound, and he had to make sure that the rest of the zombies settled down before exposing himself. So he remained under his ghillie blanket, watching. While he waited, he made a few notations in his notebook, recording the bullet's performance. Since he had to mold and load his own ammunition, he had to keep careful track of how well he was doing. With assault rifle or pistol bullets, it wasn't a big deal; he was an experienced gunsmith. But his sniper bullets were match grade, and he worked hard to keep them that way.

He pressed a button on his collar. "Continuing log, oh-seven thirty-two hours. Eliminated a Gatekeeper-class hostile at range, single shot to the head. No apparent response to my presence, again confirming that Zeke is reliant on its human senses." Aubrey also kept detailed records of his travels, for three reasons. One, if-when he made it to the safe zone, he'd probably get a commendation on the intelligence benefits alone. Two, he wanted a record of his travels for his own use. Despite the grim nature of the situation, this was an adventure, and he wanted to have details. And three, if he was killed (or worse), someone else might benefit from his collected knowledge. And that was his ultimate goal: to be as much benefit to as many people as possible. "I spot no other Myrmidons in the area, but that's no guarantee. The fuckers like to hide. I'll give 'em a couple more minutes to settle down before I make my final assault."

There were 30 or 40 zombies wandering aimlessly through the fog around the farmhouse. From what he could see through the windows, there were maybe another 10 in the house. Throw in a couple of special surprises, and he could expect to use only two magazines of ammunition. He carried 12 for his assault rifle, so that was okay. He double checked his motion tracker, which didn't register anything within 20 meters.

Aubrey raised one arm, drawing the blanket off him. "Alright boy, let's get cocked, locked and ready to rock."

The three year old German Shepherd barked happily in response and shook himself free. Aubrey picked up his sniper rifle, collapsing the bipod and slipping the sling over his head. He rolled up the mat they'd been laying on inside the blanket and tied it to his pack. He then buried the pack under a pile of dead sticks and leaves. Rafe sat patiently waiting, constantly sniffing the air for approaching zombies.

When their supplies were hidden, they set off together at a fast trot. Aubrey slung his sniper behind his back, swapping it for his compact assault rifle, which he strapped across his chest for an easy fast-grab. Besides that, he carried two primary sidearms and a holdout pistol. And on an outing like this, pretty much all he carried was ammo, so he could easily shoot and kill 600 zombies. And when he finally ran out, he had a spring-loaded folding Katana on his back, and blades don't need reloading. Plus it was really fun to use.

The first zombie didn't even notice Aubrey's quiet steps through the dewy grass. He raised his arms and smashed the butt of his rifle into its head, dropping it without even slowing down. Rafe barreled into the next one, knocking it to the ground. John drew his Glock and put a round into its head. That made them take notice. He'd started upwind, so they couldn't smell the pair, but the gunshot was a dead giveaway. The shambling walkers perked up, searching around with hungry grunting sounds as they tried to find out what was making the noise. Then they zeroed in on him.

Seemingly all at once, 30 sets of eyes snapped to Aubrey with an almost gleeful gleam. Rather than fear however, Aubrey returned it. He was known by his comrades as being unusually philosophical, but even he loved killing zombies. As the lot of them often said: "We're in the business of kicking ass, and business is good."

Aubrey shot the nearest four in quick succession with his Glock, before the last one could do more than turn fully to face him. Then they started sprinting to him. He holstered the pistol and raised his rifle. He focused his sight picture on the nearest one again. Time seemed to slow down as training and instinct took over, and despite how erratic the zombie was being, he subconsciously swayed his rifle to match its movements and keep its rotted face in his sights.

He pulled the trigger and felt the rifle kick back into his shoulder. An explosion of blood filled the sights for a moment, then the head disappeared. He tracked to the left and continued. All of this happened in less than a second. One after another, figures dropped as Aubrey sent carefully guided bullets into their heads. He'd seen dozens of soldiers lose all semblance of fire discipline as the hordes approached. As far as he was concerned though, he had all the time in the world. If he was smart.

"Rafe, take 'em for a walk!" he shouted. Rafe barked once to confirm, then started barking wildly at the zombies, leading them off to the left. Roughly half of them began to follow the dog, hoping to catch a small meal. He was far faster than any zombie could ever hope to be, and he led them around the side of the house. The rest continued to fall to Aubrey's rifle.

*Cough*Cough*

He dropped instantly onto his back. His rifle landed between his legs and he continued firing at the approaching undead. A long reddish-black object shot over him, grasping at the space he'd just occupied. Instead it stuck to the ground to his right. Aubrey reached up and grabbed it with his gloved hands and yanked. On top of the farmhouse, the Smoker yelped as it lurched forward headfirst, falling off the roof. Aubrey smirked.

The undead numbers after him were down to less than 10. He rolled backwards and returned to his feet, weapon at the ready. The rifle bucked slightly as he let off two more rounds, dropping the closest pair. With a little breathing room, he redirected his aim to the Smoker, who was struggling to get up. He let off a five-round burst, putting the ex-human out of its misery.

Two zombies smashed into the doorframe, both struggling to get out of the farmhouse at the same time. They were too stupid to fight each other, just struggling to get at him with twisted arms outstretched. A third from the upper floor jumped out the window and followed the shards to the ground. Aubrey heard both its legs snap. That didn't stop it from getting up and trying to sprint at him anyway. He put paid to that theory with a 5.56 millimeter hollow point bullet.

Aubrey looked at the remaining zombies and calmly inserted a new magazine into his rifle. The mostly empty one he placed back into his vest. "Necrotic cockbites." he muttered.

A few shots later, the last of his group of zombies was down. "Rafe, bring 'em here!" he shouted. He heard a faint bark in reply. When Rafe led his share of the horde around the corner again, Aubrey proceeded to put them down just as efficiently.

The field was strangely quiet then, the early morning fog lending an eerie air to the sight of bodies lying in the grass. He shook his head sadly. He hated dealing with hordes. It reminded him too much of the chaotic days of the Great Panic. He'd been lucky to live through it, but that was the first time in his adult life he'd been truly scared. He'd always known that fighting aboard ships was crazy, but…

Rafe trotted up to Aubrey, tongue lolling out, tail wagging happily, clearly expecting praise. Aubrey knelt down and began rubbing his head, delivering as expected. He murmured a few praising words.

"Think it's time to get in there?" he asked, nodding his head at the house. Rafe growled in response. "Yeah, I really don't want to either. But it's gotta be done."

Aubrey knelt in the doorway and peered down the hall with his weapon. The broad streak of blood across the floor was starting to congeal. The Witch was still laying slumped against the back wall. Cutting the hall in half, the stairs led up and around to the left. Doors to either side led to the rest of the house. A third led directly to the kitchen at the back, and a closed door under the stairs led to the basement. Aubrey definitely didn't want to go down there. Farmhouses always had creepy basements, and the streaks of blood on the white walls leading to the door in question wasn't encouraging.

He swept his rifle left and right slowly, every sense listening for the infected. Up above, he heard creaking footsteps. Main floor, upstairs, then seal and basement, he decided after a moment's consideration. Rafe perked his ears up and made a whining sound.

"Yeah, I hear it too." Aubrey muttered. "Porker."

He proceeded to clear the house, one room at a time, the main floor first. His silent steps offered no warning to any of the infected. What he assumed to be the farmer, an elderly fellow, was sitting in a large armchair in the living room. It was still seated, but was moaning more loudly than usual. It was agitated from the fight outside. Aubrey managed to walk right up next to it without making a sound. It looked up as he pressed the suppressor of his rifle right against its forehead. Only a small spit, and a wet splatter was heard as he pulled the trigger.

Rafe emitted a small whining sound; not enough to carry, but enough to let Aubrey know that something was up. Aubrey crouched low and aimed at the door he'd just come through. To his left, the door to the back kitchen was open about an inch. He'd see it move before anything came through. In the hall, he heard a low growling noise. Hunter. They were dangerous fuckers, especially if they got you from behind. He'd seen it happen to more than one man. But if you managed to keep them in front of you, they were no real problem, as long as you knew what you were doing.

The Hunter leapt through the hall into the doorway, turned on a dime, and, with a shriek, executed a jump that would have landed it right on Aubrey. Most people fell back in fear when a Hunter jumped them. Aubrey leapt forward to meet the Hunter. As they contacted, he sidestepped to the right and thrust out his right hand holding the grip of his rifle, smashing the stock into the side of its head. It flew past the dead farmer and hit the dining room table. Rafe pounced instantly, his titanium-tipped teeth on the creatures throat, digging in and tearing.

The noise drew the rest of the zombies in the house. He could hear them, the noise coming from both doors. The low growling of their semi-agitated state was gone. In its place was the sniffing, snarling, and teeth-snapping sound of Zeke with the scent of blood on the air, and the sounds of food in their ears. The moment they'd heard the noise of the Hunter's death, all their sense perked up and they suddenly registered the presence of something new. Something tasty.

Rafe looked up from his kill, blood dripping from his teeth. This time he uttered a low growl of his own. Footsteps could be heard from above, quickening as the scent of the visitors solidified into an olfactory dinner bell. Aubrey smirked.

"Let's play a game."

**Okay, so first chapter introduces the OC, and gives some hints as to his past. Question though: When writing, many authors tend to use their character's last names as an identifier to the reader, whatever the other characters call them. I plan to stick with this, but should in-book characters refer to the OC as John or Jack? I'm okay with either, just want an opinion. Please review.