Rating: Currently rated for mild language and some descriptive scenes because it's better safe than sorry.

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Left 4 Dead or any of its related themes, ideas, concepts, or canon characters.

Prologue

Bitten

"…as reports pour in from around the country of similar symptoms associated with this new and devastating illness, showcasing a larger and more rapid spread than experts…"

"Oi, Stephen, shouldn't you be in bed, mate?"

The joking group of college students looked around interestedly, almost immediately narrowing in on the hunched over, stumbling form approaching them, some in surprise and a few in worry. The young man's face was a pale, sickly gray. He looked worse than last they had seen him, when he had left in the middle of his early morning class complaining to his friends of headaches, a sudden onslaught of fatigue, and an abnormally high fever. Despite their suggestions for him to see a doctor, he had simply opted to return to his dormitory and load up on cold and flu medication to try to wait it out. He had been sick like this before. Most likely just another flu, since it was getting on to be the season for it. It was nothing to worry about.

"Felt restless," rasped Stephen weakly, pausing to lean against the wall to catch his breath.

The man who had spoken earlier came up behind him and pounded him on the back in a sign of greeting and worry, nearly sending the poor sick man face first into the concrete.

"Easy Antoine, he's sick, not choking," said a tall, lithely built young man who was leaning against the parked car they had been standing around. Behind him through the open window, the news alert that had been sounding for the past few minutes continued on, annoyingly interrupting the regular music broadcast they had been listening to.

"…authorities have shut down all access to several major cities in the eastern states, stating the need to quarantine due to the highly infectious nature of…"

Several of the other men around the car chuckled, the tense, anxious mood broken, and continued their discussion about the possible outcomes of the next night's game.

"You look like hell, dude, you should go back to bed," said Antoine uncertainly, ignoring the rest. "I don't even know how you made it all the way over here, looking like you do."

Stephen waved a hand jerkily, shaking his head as if dislodging water from his shaggy brown hair. "M'fine. Jus' need t'work it off is all."

The tall man broke away from the others and came up to them, sending a stream of gray cigarette smoke from his mouth up into the air before he bent down slightly to take a look at the shorter sick man, resting a hand on his shoulder. Despite his earlier laid back attitude, his eyes shone with concern.

"Toni's right, man, you should get back to the dorm. Get some sleep."

Again, Stephen shook his head, although he did look up to smile wanly at the other. The look was almost enough to make the two friends around him simultaneously back off and attempt to drag him to the hospital. "Could use a smoke."

Antoine frowned, sharing a look with the other healthy man. "I don't think that's smart, dude…Fletcher, don't give him—"

But the tall man, Fletcher, had pulled out another cigarette, taking a long contemplative drag on his own as he handed the new one to the pale, shaking man.

"Hey! He's sick, he shouldn't be smoking…"

"When a man needs a smoke, he needs a smoke," said Fletcher grudgingly, shrugging his shoulders apologetically as he flipped out his lighter to light Stephen's cigarette. After a few moments and puffs, the shorter man took a long drag and sighed, a small, wavering smile still gracing his features as he stared up at them blearily, his eyes glassy. "Nature of the beast, man, trust me on this. You wouldn't understand unless you've felt the same. Now c'mon, you grab one arm and I'll grab the other. We'll drag him back to the dormitory and strap him in bed if we have to."

Still looking sourly put off, Antoine nodded and firmly gripped one of the sick man's arms, swinging it up over his shoulder. Fletcher turned back to the rest of the group, stating their hasty good byes for them before grasping the upper arm of Stephen's other side and the trio started off down the gradually darkening street. The sick man between them merely puffed dazedly on his cigarette, apparently either enjoying it too much or just too sick to want to talk, let alone walk straight.

"…to please remember to avoid contact with any suspected infected individual, and to immediately report the incident to their local…"

"Hey," said Antoine certainly after they had been walking for a few minutes. The sounds of their friends were far behind them now, obscured by the sounds of passing cars and other chattering groups of college students enjoying the start of the weekend. It was busy on the sidewalk, especially the closer they got to the dormitories and the university, and they received many strange looks. Once or twice, Fletcher thought he heard the words "drunk" and "typical" from several older adults. "You don't think that it's serious, what they're saying on the news…"

Fletcher blew out some smoke from his nose and took another long, thoughtful drag on his almost spent cigarette before answering. "Certainly sounds so, eh?"

"Well…you don't think…that maybe…" The other man paused and glanced at his friend over Stephen's head, waiting until they made eye contact. He looked pointedly down at the man they supported, and when he spoke his voice was nearly indiscernible over the typical city din around them. "Maybe it's reached here? I know the latest quarantined city is miles away, but they said it spread fast, and this guy wasn't the only one to be missing from classes today…"

This thought had already occurred to Fletcher, but he had not wanted to mention it in the presence of Stephen. The last thing his friend needed after being dumped by his girlfriend a week ago was to be told he might very well be one of the city's first victims of this strangely contagious and dangerous illness plastered all over the news. However, after checking to see that his friend was obviously too stoned to hear a single word of the conversation going on overhead, he moodily shrugged and flicked his dying cigarette ahead of him onto the sidewalk, crushing it beneath his feet as he walked past. "Maybe. Though I don't know, might be nice to get sick and get an excuse from attending classes for a few weeks, eh?"

Antoine merely shook his head, the expression on his face anxious and upset to the point of looking sick. Feeling guilty for trying to make light of the situation when his best friend was obviously in such distress, Fletcher reached his free hand over and punched him in the shoulder.

"Lighten up, Toni. It's just like the Swine Flu they had a little while ago, remember? Now look, it's done and over with now. No big deal."

"Yeah, I guess…"

The man between them suddenly stopped, so abruptly that they had dragged him a few feet before they realized it. It was as if his legs had suddenly lost the ability to support the rest of his body, and with nervous glances at each other, the two healthy men slowly lowered him to the ground on his hands and knees, crouching next to him with reassuring hands on his shuddering back.

"Stephen, you all right man?" asked Antoine apprehensively, leaning down and tilting his head to he could try to look into his friend's face. As if in answer, Stephen's body suddenly heaved and a torrent of red liquid spilled from his mouth onto the concrete.

Antoine looked up at Fletcher, his face as white as a sheet and his eyes wide, a matching expression to the one on Fletcher's face. "Fletch, this is bad man. Bad. We need to get him to—"
He never finished that sentence. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Stephen lunged up, an abnormal burst of power and strength launching up at his college friend, sending the two of them flying against the concrete wall of a bank they had been passing. With a startled yell, Antoine tried to push him off, only to cry out in horror as his sick friend easily shoved the defending arms aside and dove forward, bloodied mouth open, to sink his teeth into the open flesh of the flailing man's neck.

"Stephen, what the hell are you doing!" shouted Fletcher, scrambling to his feet and throwing himself at the struggling pair. He was shoved back almost immediately, stunned by the strength and viciousness at which his friend had pushed him aside.

Several pedestrians around them had stopped to try to see what was going on. Still trying to recover from his horror and shock, he watched as one man stepped forward and tried to bodily shove Stephen off of Antoine's twitching, weakening form. Blood was filling the street now, pouring from the ripped artery, pumping in a crimson fountain over everything in its path. The stranger managed to make Stephen stumble back a foot, only to be responded to with a snarl as Fletcher's friend dropped into a crouch before pouncing forward, sending himself and his new victim to the ground where his limbs shot out and his teeth gnashed and bit down on a frantic, swinging limb.

The street was filled with screaming people now. Fletcher shook his head, trying to see through the haze of confusion and terror at this unexpected and disturbing scene. A part of him was screaming at him to run away, to try to escape from this maddened situation and save himself. It was a feeling that was only strengthened as he saw another concerned citizen fall to Stephen's insane, animalistic attack. Fletcher felt the bile rise into his throat as his suddenly heightened hearing heard teeth rip through flesh, as his wide eyes took in the sight of his best friend lying slumped up against the side of a building, weakly clutching at the wound on his neck as he sobbed while around him the gradually mounting victims of the horrendous attack were suffering through the same reactions.

There were sirens now, blaring in the distance, growing ever closer. Fletcher pushed himself to his feet, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably, only to be shoved back down again by people who were trying to run away, to escape from the chaos on the street as they screamed and cried and spoke frantically into cellphones. He had to reach his sick friend, had to try to speak sense into him. He was sick, he just needed care and some bed rest, and Antoine needed to go to the hospital. That was all. Everything was fixable. Everything was…

By the time he had managed to regain his footing and press blindly through the crowd towards the last place he had seen Stephen, a black and white police cruiser roared up, skidding to a stop as two policemen jumped out, guns drawn and faces grim as they rushed into the scene.

Fletcher suddenly had a bad feeling about this. A terrible feeling that he could not quite think of the reason for. His brain had not quite caught up with what his body already knew.

"He's just sick!" he heard himself calling towards them, shoving bodily past a woman who was standing there, staring in horror while she jabbered rapidly into a cellphone clutched to her ear. "No, he's sick, that's all, I'm his friend, I—"

Several sharp, deafening bangs ripped through the air. The screaming and commotion reached a new, terrifying peak, and suddenly there seemed to be people everywhere, more than before shoving past him, yelling to each other and to the empty air. Fletcher's senses were barraged with snippets of screamed conversations answering the terrified questions of those who had just barely arrived on the scene.

"…gone crazy! Just started attacking people! Biting…"

"They shot a kid back there! Shot right in the head!"

Shot?

Oh God.

Fletcher tried to push through at a more frantic pace, but it was no use. It was like trying to fight his way up a powerful current. Everyone else was moving in an opposite direction. Frustrated, he turned at a ninety-degree angle and forced his way onto the street, jumping up onto the hood of car parked parallel and scrambling up on top, standing as tall as he could to try to see over the chaos.

The sight would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Stephen lay dead on the side of the street, most of his head blasted away from the policemen's expertly fired bullets. Around him, the two police were hastily tending to the wounded, many cradling bitten arms and necks as they sat in stunned disbelief or paced back and forth in anger and incredulity, waiting and watching as an ambulance and several more police cruisers pulled up onto the scene. Through the crowd, Fletcher could see Antoine being cared for by a concerned passerby who obviously had more self-control than the others still attempting to run away from the scene. The bitten, bleeding man raised a shaking, blood-covered arm as if to point, and then suddenly it fell to his side, as if a puppet with its strings cut. His head lolled almost comically onto his shoulder, the hand clutching his wound losing slack and allowing the blood to spill serenely down his front, no longer pumping with the strength or fury as it had before.

Fletcher reeled back, slipping and losing his balance so that he fell backwards several feet to land jarringly onto the asphalt of the road. Luckily, traffic had stopped all together in the area, so he was not in the risk of getting run over, but his mind had no space in it to register that fact. All it could do was replay the horrible past few minutes over and over in his mind's theater, blurring together the screams and the yells and the scenes and smells into one horrendous, swirling world of madness.

The man picked himself off the ground and stumbled blindly for several feet before breaking into a flat out run, his shoes pounding furiously against the concrete, his smoker's lungs heaving and screaming for breath. But he ignored his pain, his mind overriding all other senses and driving on his body from sheer will until the screeches of sirens and the bustle of emergency workers and screaming pedestrians faded into the background. He ran and ran until the only thing left of the scene was his frantic, shattered mind and the beginning of the end of his world was swallowed up in the pounding of his heart in his ears and the natural, busied commotion of a city on the brink of hell.