It's been a long time since I posted anything, so it seems fitting that my first return to FanFiction will be a small series of short stories based off of Left 4 Dead. Although the first story was written last year (and has been edited from the original posting, as it was the 'story' description for a piece of art I drew for several people), these are relatively up-to-date with my current writing abilities - both from expanding my skills a little bit, and also from having a little bit of spare time.
These stories aren't in any particular order, and don't involve any particular characters (hence the use of simple pronouns and other identifiers). In the true spirit of FanFiction, these are essentially my own 'characters' flung into a world with which they aren't familiar.
Constructive criticism is welcome, but rude comments may be ignored.
His breath came in ragged gasps. He had been pushing his lungs, his body, beyond their limits, and was now paying the price. Blisters were developing on his feet; he could feel them rubbing up against his worn-out sneakers. Thankfully, though, while the rest of his body bore small scratches and bruises, his shooting hand had developed tough calluses to make it easier.
Still, he needed a break.
With no safe room in sight, his best bet was to just lean against the nearest alley wall - after quickly and quietly killing off any stragglers from the horde - and pray that no wandering groups of Infected would find him. He needed just five minutes to rest up and start again, but he knew he wouldn't be truly safe until he found the safe room.
There was only one Infected in the alley, which he easily dispatched with his katana (found discarded in the street, its last owner long gone). It had been leaning up against the wall, retching, although no amount of purging could clear this disease up. The survivor shuddered. He and his group had been immune, for sure. After all, he and the other guys had been splattered and sprayed with gore and organs; surely he would have been infected if this disease was so contagious?
As he leaned up against the wall (careful to avoid the smeared vomit), his mind began to wander. He were the last one left of his team. They had all died on the other side of the city, in an area swamped with the victims of the Green Flu. Uneasily, he realized that they would have still been with him, at least for protection purposes, if he hadn't suggested going through that area. He could still hear their screams of pain as the monsters ripped into them, spilling their blood, until the far-off call of one of the more dangerous ones had sent him scurrying away. His eyes had locked with a female member of the party; he felt sick with fear remembering her hate-filled gaze, defiant to him even as her breath left her body. She couldn't blame him; he reasoned. It wasn't his fault that a group of eight Survivors had taken in a jumpy straggler like him.
Five minutes were up.
Groaning at the effort, he managed to push himself off of the wall, again avoiding the puddles and the decapitated "zombie", and got ready to get back on the main road. There was only one safe room left between him and the evacuation point, and the room was only a few blocks away. A chance to restock, rest, and regain lost energy.
A low growl made him stop, steps away from the road.
Turning away from the graffiti-stained walls, he peered cautiously down the main road. Empty. There was no living - or Infected - soul present, nothing at all that could have made that noise. He let out a nervous, but still mostly quiet, chuckle. Surely he was being paranoid?
Another call from the distance, but getting closer. In fact, this one, a high-pitched gurgling wail, was much different than the guttural growl. And, listening closely, the sounds of insane laughter, gurgling, bull-like grunting, and coughing could be heard. A loud sobbing and then thunderous roars broke out, chilling his blood to ice.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Not only was this road not empty, a Horde was approaching.
Not a normal horde.
"Shit, shit, shit..." he muttered, reaching for the gun strapped to his back.
Too late.
As he watched, a horde of the most dangerous Infected appeared through a mist, covering the area for the next few blocks.
In front, a twitching and giggling creature - a Jockey, he vaguely thought - barely stayed on its feet as the mini-Horde approached. Its high-pitched cackling and wheezing gave the impression that it was insane; the darting movements showed that also. Its eyes never seemed to focus on one thing, and it looked relatively torn up, even for an Infected.
Standing behind it was a huge, heavily mutated… thing - how else could it be described? It bore the unmistakable marks of a creature who had charged too far, smashing in its face and skull, with bruises and callouses covering its body. While one arm bulged, calloused and powerful, the other hung limp and useless from the shoulder.
The one that had first alerted him stalked at the front. Although he couldn't make out facial features, an aggressively snarling jaw, dripping with blood, jutted out from beneath a dirty hood. It crawled like an animal, and acted like one too, constantly snapping when the others got too close. Although the hind legs were bunched and full of muscle, it had made no effort to jump yet.
Just behind him stood a wheezing woman with a distorted neck and jaw. Acid bubbled between its lips, and huge open wounds on the chest proved that this creature's skin was not immune to its own poison. The sagging skin made his stomach roll, especially the sight of this creature's own distended belly.
Next to it stomped a creature straight out of anyone's nightmares. Its tongue was the least horrifying part of this mutated beast, hanging past a swollen jaw, but it became much less humorous once he remembered what was attached to it. Bigger than an average Tank, this Infected of solid muscle grunted angrily as the rest of the Infected blocked its way to the survivor. Surprisingly, despite its rage, it made no effort to rip through the others like rag dolls to get to him.
Another chilling sob broke out, directing his attention to the front again. Generally, these things stayed seated on the ground, covering their ugly faces with even uglier claws - at least at night, to his knowledge. Now, even in the heavy darkness, she stalked with the rest of them, her claws glinting. Even though the distressed cries urged the survivor to help her, he knew there would be no point. There was no reasoning with an Infected.
Bloating and groaning next to her stood a Boomer. It walked forward ungracefully, hindered by the massive, bloated gut sticking out in front of it. The survivor could practically hear the huge organ spewing out more bile into its system; if he weren't careful, that same stuff would end up on him. Although huge boils covered parts of his arms and face, obscuring his identity, the survivor could tell he had once been an employee of a fast food chain by the remnants of his uniform.
Finally, but not least, at the end of the line limped a strange creature. A long, blood-colored tongue hung out of its mouth - as well as its neck. A total of five tongues, actually, writhed like a grisly halo around the monster's head, making his head spin with the image. The side of the Smoker's body leaning awkwardly up into the air was covered in unsightly boils, which occasionally burst. A noxious billow of smoke would puff out each time.
He ducked his head away, but it was too late. They had seen him.
And a sneaking suspicion was beginning to enter his mind. They all looked so familiar...
"Fuck..."
His former team, the one he had watched get ripped to shreds, hadn't died. Nor had they been truthful when they said they were immune.
As the first excited screeches of the Hunter began to fill the air, he wished he hadn't left his team for dead.