Disclaimer: Valve-owned characters are Louis, Zoey, Francis, and Bill; all basic infected types (Hunter, Smoker, Boomer, Tank, Witch) are Valve-owned as well. I suppose the concept of the Director is Valve's, as well, but I like to think I took it to interesting places. Everything else is mine.
Chapter One—First night
After the survivors' horrifyingly close escape from the grotesquely-muscled tank, everyone was too tired to make small talk, sprawling out on the cold concrete roof and letting the darkness claim them. Bill, however, dragged himself laboriously into a sitting position. He couldn't let himself wind down quite yet-- he knew that his dreams would be laced with cars flying through the air like kites, smashing his bones. His bladder just wasn't prepared for these kinds of shocks any more, so he lit up a cigarette and leaned out over the edge of the roof. Softly, he began the external monologue that had seen him through two hot wars and a cold one. "Zombies. Real. Flesh-and-very-bloody zombies. Strange zombies, as well. Something new. Something changed."
He gave a small, helpless laugh, but choked it off before it turned to sobs. He'd killed his wife and children today as they ravened for his blood. "No, focus. Here, now. Sights seen include one helicopter, civilian make, possibly a news helo. 'Copter was last seen heading west before Louis set off the car alarm. That... thing made him do it. What was it? Whatever it was, it leaped like a gazelle, or a hunting panther. Other items of interest include the creature with a grapnel for a tongue. That one appeared to be surrounded by a cloud of smoke."
His bladder was really demanding his attention now, so he wandered over behind the air conditioning unit and unzipped his pants. "Ahhhhh..." The cigarette dangled from his lower lip, forgotten in the momentary bliss of emptiness. He felt the bone-weariness settling in on him then, so he trudged back to the tarp that the rest of his companions slumbered under.
"God damn it. What'd we do to deserve this?" He grumbled as he lowered his aching body to the roof. He could just faintly hear the tank stomping off into the distance, its frustrated growls and jabbers echoing off the walls surrounding them. On the next breath, the cigarette finally detached from his lip and fell unnoticed into his lap as he began to fall asleep. He started, suppressing a gasp that might wake the others, and swatted the burning ember out of his crotch. "Nothing's gone right today," he mumbled as he finally sank into oblivion.
As the survivors slumbered, a hazy figure coalesced out of the smoke and mist surrounding the roof, seeming to hover effortlessly in midair. I'll take these, it seemed to project, and it deftly picked the weapons from the survivors' bodies, leaving them a single holstered 9mm pistol between them. It unslung a cylindrical shape from 'behind' itself, and bundled the powerful firearms inside, stopping to scatter a handful of ammunition clips on the table beside the sleeping figures. Wouldn't want you to be getting relaxed. Its eyes shone a fierce white as the moon peeked in through the clouds, but when the shadows crept in once more, the figure had gone.
High over the city, several of the figures met in conference. None had any sort of distinguishing features, and really, the only indication of their presence was a haze occluding the stars behind them. If they had spoken, it might have gone like this: Greetings/salutations to you/all. We/I are still/currently in accord/agreement/harmony as to my/our plan/campaign of action/adventure/horror? Excellent.
The figures entwined in a mysterious fashion, then each gave updates to the overall plan. Item one: The population in several locales/areas/cities has been successfully converted/changed/bent to mindless/ceaseless hunger/need for flesh/organs, most specifically the brain/matrix. Indeed. Individuals? A standard mix of males/protrusions and females/receptors, contained in a random/algorithmic/set pattern across the desired areas. These acts were deliberate/purposeful, to intrigue/deceive/perplex the hated/despised/needed Watchers/Spectators. Item Two: Every nineteen seconds, plus/minus two raised to the third power, an empowered/special individual/creature will be created/spawned/ghosted with the power of thought and corresponding/random ability/power/talent. A hubbub broke out between the figures, swiftly curtailed.
Be mindful. We/I knew well my/our purpose in this venture/operation in/from the start/beginning. If caught by the Watchers/Spectators, Judgment/Condemnation/Sentencing will be issued for the crime/heresy of creating intelligent life/beings/persons without their consent. With that last thought, the figures disengaged and streaked in different directions.