L4D – A Christmas Carol

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story (except the ones I've made up). All game characters are property of Valve. Also, while this plot is partially my idea, it is one story of many that has its roots from the plot of, "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens. While no one technically owns rights to that story (that I'm aware of), I'm certainly not claiming this entire story to be completely original. Plagiarism is naughty, like pissing in your neighbor's vegetable garden.

A/N: The idea for this story struck me while watching a cartoon based off of A Christmas Carol (God knows there's so darn many knockoffs now). The idea of combining this with the original Left 4 Dead characters seems like a fresh idea to me. Unfortunately this story probably won't be finished 'till sometime in January (if at all, please review if you want more, anonymous reviews are enabled), but I figured I could at least get the first chapter published before Christmas. This story is rated M for language and potential adult situations (just covering my ass, I don't know where I'll go from here). If you're underage, close-minded, deeply religious, overly nostalgic, etc. go read something else. If you're a flamer, "Hah, Bumhug!" to you, and may you find sugar-coated reindeer poop in your raisin bran. Everyone else, enjoy!

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Chapter 1 – The Fallen

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Francis hated snow.

He sniffled bitterly, breathing in the cold winter air as he and his group made their way down the desolate streets. The late December snow was falling steadily, sticking to the cracked asphalt as well as the numerous destroyed cars and dead bodies littered about, reinforcing the urgency to press onward. It was crucial to find a safe area to rest in soon, as night was falling faster than the snow. The harsh conditions were becoming less favorable by the minute to the four gun-toting survivors.

Despite the winter weather, the apocalyptic zombie wasteland the city had become was a chaotic dream to the anarchistic biker. No law, no order, and the freedom to put a bullet or shotgun shell into anyone that didn't appear human. It was like the worlds biggest bar fight, but at the end of the night no one had to clean up the mess.

Or so he thought...

It turned out karma had a "personal bar tab" lined up for him that he was constantly paying in the way of the other three people he was essentially forced to run with; he hated "personal bar tabs."

More accurately, Francis hated teamwork.

The crude, tough biker hated a lot of things: hospitals, doctors, lawyers, cops, stairs, elevators, vans… so many that it was simpler to list what he didn't hate, and among those the list was hardly lengthy enough to even be called such. He never seemed to have a valid reason for the things he hated, but in his own mind, there were many things to hate about teamwork. The first was simply being close to other people. He was a loner by nature; it went with the territory. Most bikers in general ran with their own pack, and even in their group they weren't exactly the "chummy" types, but Francis was different. The couple friends he once had called him "the lone wolf," a nickname he took pride in. Although it was only three other people in this new group, he felt like he was constantly bumping shoulders, literally and figuratively. He always had to keep his attitude in check, lest he bare the scolding and scrutiny of his comrades; another thing he hated. Sure he tried to joke around, but it nearly always came off as him being brash or arrogant to the others. It wasn't that, so much as it was just his personality. That was something else that bothered him, the pansy attitude the group seemed to have. It seemed like no one could take a joke or lighten up, and while the circumstances might've been an excuse for some people to be all pissy and on edge, to Francis it was just plain weak. And only the weak needed to stick together in groups.

Teamwork meant sharing as well, a notion that was largely foreign to the 30 year old bar-brawling tough guy. When a teammate found supplies, they would always shout what they found so others could take part. Francis had found a spare room the others missed, and he was quietly stuffing his pockets, hoarding whatever he could since it would increase his chances of surviving when he would ultimately be alone. He honestly didn't believe his teammates would survive this ordeal.

First, there was Louis, a young "white-collar" African American systems analyst, the type who'd probably never been in a scrap in his entire life. His constantly positive attitude was very irritating, and more than once Francis had to resist slugging him whenever he wore that shit-eating grin.

Then there was Zoey, a younger freshman college girl who was all about horror movies but damn sure couldn't act the part now that she was "starring in one." Then again, most women in those movies were helpless and afraid… Zoey was just afraid; but at least she was a crack shot when she was able to keep her cool.

Lastly, the group's unofficial leader Bill, an older-than-dirt war veteran who smoked more than a chimney burning newspaper, and although he had combat experience, his age was working against him. The biker thought of himself as the only ideal person to handle the situation: Tough, cynical, realistic, old enough to have experience, and young enough to put it to use. Essentially, everything his teammates lacked, all wrapped up in one tight, tattooed, muscle-bound, leather-wearing, zombie ass-whipping package.

Teamwork also meant helping and being helped by others, a double-edged sword that both bolstered and hindered his macho exterior. It was all well and good when he covered someone else's back, whether it was shooting down a charging common zombie who'd gone unnoticed or sniping a ferocious cat-like zombie hunter off a pounced teammate, either way it gave him bragging rights and the chance to goad the shaken member about their carelessness. Even then, he didn't get to thoroughly enjoy it, as the other members would typically criticize him for being too harsh, especially when it came to the young college girl. When the tables were turned, however, it brought him down to the level of his comrades and was a painful reminder that the biker was neither invulnerable or infallible, and certainly not as brave as he put forth.

Unbeknownst to him, the worst of these moments would be brought to bear as he finished looting the now ransacked room. Walking outside, he noticed his comrades were nowhere in sight; he must've taken longer than he thought. Just as he was about to call out, a slimy droplet fell aside his cheek. Looking upward, he saw the tumor-covered face of a smoker, glaring at him from atop the building. True to his name, he had an aura of green smoke surrounding him. He coughed and hacked, twitching his long, serpentine tongue which dangled a good three feet from his mouth, dripping with slimy saliva. Francis raised his shotgun, but not fast enough. The coughing infected "sniper" got the drop on him, grappling him with that super-long fleshy noose of a tongue that shot from his mouth like a cobra's strike. It wrapped around the biker's body and neck, choking him as it lifted him a good 15 feet off the ground. He tried to call out for help, but his breath was cut short as he was constricted like prey in a python's coils. The incapacitated biker dropped his shotgun, which discharged harmlessly.

Luckily his three partners noticed he wasn't close by, and upon hearing the single shot fired followed by no bragging, they knew he was in danger. Zoey spotted him from a distance with her sniper scope, dangling like a fish on a hook. The young college girl took aim with her hunting rifle, freeing her charge with a well placed shot to the smoker's brain pan. The smoker collapsed on the roof, his tongue slack and lifeless.

Francis fell to the ground, his frantic gasping for air attracting the attention of a horde of common infected. Just as he removed the slimy dead tongue from his torso, he was overwhelmed by the horde, pinned to the ground as the raged mob began pummeling him. He remembered screaming like a frightened child as his weapons flew out of his hands, the mob kicking and beating on him mercilessly. Zoey, Louis, and Bill took off running towards their fallen comrade, hoping they wouldn't be too late.

Despite his very life hanging in the balance, Francis' already wounded pride hoped the others didn't hear him cry like a helpless lamb at the mercy of the wolves. One of his attackers was an old man, probably in his 70's, but his age didn't make his frantic kicking hurt any less as he repeatedly lodged his feet into the downed biker's abdomen. Next to him was a young blond woman, who was probably quite beautiful at one point, though she was missing most of her teeth now. Her mouth was stained red, and her white Christmas sweater covered in blood. She was babbling incoherently as she ground her heel into his groin. Francis had a painful flashback of one of the many "one night stands" that ended similarly, with broken promises, a broken heart, and sometimes broken furniture. At least those easy broads didn't have a hundred others helping them. He didn't have a chance to see the numerous others who had joined in, some kneeling down to pummel him directly with their fists. One of them kicked him in the eyes, blinding him with pain. His cries for help had ceased, the only noise the cacophonous screams of the mob beating the life from him. Amidst the chaos, Francis heard a faint voice as he began slipping into unconsciousness.

"Get away from him, you bastards!" Someone shouted in the distance. It sounded like Louis, but he couldn't be sure. He'd been whacked in the head several times and could barely hear. It would've surprised him if he was right, he picked on Louis the most. He figured of the three, the junior systems analyst would mourn him the least, if at all. He felt a warm, coppery liquid fill his mouth and it took a moment for him to realize it was his own blood. Funny how he didn't seem to feel any pain, in fact he didn't think he could feel his entire body anymore. He'd remembered hearing that when a person is about to die, their brain releases these "happy drugs"… what were they called? Endorphins. And these 'Endorphins' helped the victim feel comfortable, like falling asleep in a soft bed. Sleep didn't seem like a bad idea, except he probably had a concussion.

The hail of blows suddenly stopped as the mob broke to chase after a faint beeping sound somewhere in the distance. Someone must've thrown a pipe bomb to lure the mob away from him. The crazed infected were drawn to loud noise, like car alarms, machinery, or the beep of a trusty home-made black powder explosive. It was a waste, in his mind, he knew he was finished. His allies would never reach him in time, he was bleeding out fast. He wondered if the three would be able to survive without him. He doubted their chances, but then again they were in better shape than him at the moment. Funny how even now with his life ebbing away he could still be a cynical bastard.

Francis laid there lifeless, patches of the snow stained crimson from the biker's fresh blood. Zoey had reached him first, running in a mad sprint after throwing her pipe bomb. Bill and Louis were barely able to keep up with her. "For Christ's sake Zoey wait up!" Louis yelled, huffing after her. "We have to stay together!" The college girl didn't care. All that she cared about right now was lying motionless in the snow just ahead.

"Oh no, not Francis!" Zoey cried as she slid to her knees in front of the fallen man. "Wake up! Please, Francis wake up!" Her cries sounded like they were miles away. She sounded scared like she often did, but this time it also sounded like she was… sad? The downed biker felt a hot droplet strike his cheek. Was she crying? He wasn't worth tears. She needed to be strong if she were to survive, all of them did. Zoey especially, since the world was in short supply of tough, hot women at the moment.

He heard footsteps as Bill and Louis joined her side. He couldn't move, couldn't even open his eyes, but he could picture the grim expressions they wore. If he looked half as bad as he felt, they'd probably do best to just throw a tarp over him and keep moving. He smelled the stench of cigarette smoke near his face for a moment, but he lacked the strength to even scrunch up his nose.

"He's in shock," Bill said, having placed his hand near Francis' face to see if he was still breathing. "We have to get him inside now!"

Inside where? There were no safe houses nearby. He felt hands moving under his body as he went weightless. What were they doing? It'd be a death sentence for all of them if they tried to help him now. There wasn't time for them to fall apart over one person… over him. Why did he suddenly care if they made it? Was it because he knew he was about to die? He wasn't sure of anything now except he was about to lose consciousness…

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Francis awoke with a startled yell, bolting upright as his heart pounded in his throat. He immediately reached for his sidearm, but found nothing. In fact, there was no one around at all. No survivors, no weapons, no infected, nothing. His panic fading, he tried to orient himself. He was sitting in a small gray room, no larger than a standard studio apartment, with no windows or furniture, save a battered sectional couch, a small table and a dim lamp. The floor was concrete and cold to the touch and the ceiling a dismal gray with water stains of where it tried to hold back the more rainy days. The walls were a flat gray color like the ceiling, dotted with bullet holes, burn marks, and stains caused by lord knew what. There was debris scattered about, empty fast food containers, adult magazines, beer bottles, and condom wrappers. It reminded him of his old buddy's "party shack," Mike. The man drank to live and lived for drinking… well that and fucking… and stealing, and scamming, and looting, and drinking, and fucking. Yeah he liked his booze and his bitches, Mike did.

Mike and Francis were partners in crime, so to speak. The two of them made their way through life hustling, stealing, conning, drinking, screwing, and essentially living every day as though it were the last. The two bikers found an abandoned apartment building with a room that was just decent enough to pass for having sex with drunken sluts they picked up at the bar. They could bring them here for a quick screw and not have to worry about retribution the next day. It was also a great place to hide from the cops after a robbery gone bad. Although they were thick as thieves, Francis and Mike never did trust each other completely. It was just enough to do business together to meet each other's selfish ends.

Yes, there were a lot of memories in this old room. He went for the beer fridge that should've been by the couch, hoping for a cold, inebriating refreshment, but found only a less faded outline of gray paint where the three-foot high fridge should have been. The fridge wasn't the only thing amiss; the biker could smell it. Francis slowly realized this couldn't have been their old room. It was missing something very important: a door. Where the door should have been was a scorch mark in its outline, as though a fire had occurred just outside and the wall had been built over it. No doors, no windows? How the hell did he get in here? The last thing he remembered was being beaten to death by an angry mob of vampires... strike that, zombies. He touched his face and cheek, surprised to find no pain, no broken jaw, no bruises, nothing. The realization dawned on him…

"So it's true, I've died and gone to hell." Francis said calmly. "And apparently my hell is to be stuck in my old buddy's 'drunk 'n fuck room' without a soul around to keep me company." He shrugged. "I've been through worse," he said, casually picking up a dirty magazine and flipping to the centerfold. Holding the magazine sideways in front of his face, the centerfold fell open, revealing a four page model spread of a naked woman standing by a bed. She was a hot blonde with porcelain skin, huge knockers, and legs for days. Francis smiled, thinking of all the dirty things he'd like to do to her. The magazine slipped from his hands and he dropped it. He cursed quietly, picking it up again. The hot soft porn centerfold staring back at him looked a little different this time. Perhaps it was the amber glow in her eyes, or her blonde hair turned a bleach white, or the row of razor sharp teeth that jutted out of her mouth, or the porcelain skin now a dark gray, or the claws on her hands that were covered in blood. The centerfold winked at him from the magazine, licking her lips, and Francis threw the magazine down like he'd just burned his hands.

"Ok… that was freaky but not too bad." He muttered to himself.

"Oh that's not even the appetizer," a voice hissed from nowhere and everywhere. Francis scrambled to his feet, looking for the source of the mysterious voice but finding nothing. "They like to break in new arrivals by slowly eating away their sanity. Once your mind has been turned to complete shit slag, then they start you on physical pain."

The room began to fill with an acrid green smoke, which seemed to coalesce into a mass in front of the panicked biker. He coughed as a silhouette of a burly man formed out of the smoke in front of him. He was about six feet tall, with a shaven head that matched his shaven face. His eyes were a glowing crimson with strange black archaic symbols where his eyebrows should have been. He had a sharp nose with thin lips and a square jaw. His thick neck had a strange tattoo down one side, curling around in arcs and swirls towards his exposed chest, the artwork tracing lines along the man's upper pectorals. His entire body was covered in scars, what appeared to be whip marks, knife slices, cuts, and other possibly self-inflicted wounds. He wore a black vest similar to Francis that was open at the front. Black cotton jeans covered him from the waist down, ending at a pair of black, blood-stained, biker boots.

"Mike," Francis said with a half nervous smile. "I figured you wouldn't survive when all hell broke loose. Looks like I'll finally have some company around here."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you." Mike hissed in an off-sounding, demonic voice as he approached the stunned biker. Francis noticed his friend seemed partially ethereal, like a ghost, and wavered unstably as though a gust of wind would blow him away. Francis chalked it up as a hallucination. However, when Mike picked Francis up by his collar and threw him across the room, slamming him hard into a corner, he realized his dead specter friend was as real and as tough as he was in life, if not more so. Francis coughed and gasped for breath, staggering to his feet. Apparently his mind was a bigger pile of shit than he thought if the beatings were starting already.

"Always knew how to make a great first 'impression' Mike," Francis sputtered. Mike growled from across the room, his eyes glowing brighter. Though he'd thrown Francis a good 20 feet, he closed the distance in the blink of an eye like a damn hunter. Picking Francis up again, this time by his throat, Mike lifted him a good couple feet off the ground moving him out of the corner and pinning him to the wall. "Ok, this shit is getting old." Francis choked out, trying only half-heartedly to stop his "friend" from strangling the life out of him… after all, he was dead.

"Always trying to play the tough guy, even in hell," Mike spat, looking at his old buddy with contempt. He kneed Francis in the gut, knocking the wind out of him then casually dropping him like a bag of flour. Mike walked away a few steps and turned his back, pouting like a child.

"'The hell's your problem Mike?" Francis said with a hoarse voice, picking himself up once more as he tried to catch his breath. "You act as though you didn't really think you were coming he-"

"I DIDN'T!" Mike roared as he turned around, so loud Francis thought his eardrums had burst. "Just like YOU didn't, you ignorant pile of pig shit!" Mike glared at him with a look of death, and Francis swallowed hard. He'd never seen Mike so… pissed off.

"Compliments will get you nowhere," Francis half-shouted, unsure of how loud he was talking, since he could barely hear himself after that inhuman roar. The next blow came hard, connecting with his jaw. His face felt like it had exploded, the force spinning him around twice before he fell unceremoniously to the floor.

"You're one helluva piece of work, Fran. Then again, you always were the weaker of the two of us. Always leaving me to do the dirty work you couldn't stomach." Mike said with a sadistic grin. Francis hated that nickname, almost as much as he hated being called weak. Picking himself up yet again, he glared at the demon that was once his friend. Realizing he'd finally pierced the biker's tough exterior, Mike continued. "My problem is that you've done things nearly as bad as me, yet your lucky ass gets a 'get out of fire-whipping, mind-bending, spiked-dildo-ass-fucking, jail free' card!"

Francis shuddered at that last one, though he was still confused. "Wait, so I'm not dead?"

"Not yet. Your 'friends' were able to find some shelter and they're keeping you alive… though just barely." Mike sneered at Francis' scowl. They were NOT his friends, and yet… why was he so concerned about them when he was the one lying in a pool of his own blood? Francis blew it off; no time to question himself if he was getting soft.

"So… let me get this straight. I'm not dead, but you say I'm in hell and I have a chance to get away?" Francis said, one eyebrow arched and bleeding still from the shot to the face he'd taken a moment ago.

Mike sighed. Francis never was one to catch on quickly… it always annoyed him. And as much as he'd like to leave his old "chum" in limbo to figure it out for himself, Mike made a deal with the devil and was bound to keep it. "Not escape, Francis. You can't escape your fate, however you can change it. That's why I'm here, or rather why you're here and I'm... visiting."

Francis scratched his head, slowly grasping the situation. "So you beat the stuffing out of me just now to show me what might be waiting for me in hell?"

Mike laughed, it sounding more like a sick old devil's cackle than the hearty laugh Francis remembered. "No, I did that because I'm pissed that you're getting a chance I never got. I'm here to warn you about your fate. The things waiting for you in hell make my beating seem like a pat on the back. They'll mind fuck you raw till your brains dribble out of your ears, then serve it up over ice."

"If you hate me so much for all this, then why are you warning me?" Francis asked, skeptical.

"Because I'll take whatever breaks I can get from the torture I endure for all eternity, plus I made a wager with the big-horned bastard that despite such an obvious warning, you'll still join our ranks. If I win, I'll become an overseer and be the torturer, instead of the victim." Mike said, the sound of delight in his voice.

Francis still couldn't believe all this was happening. He must've really had his head-bell rung by those crazed bastards when they kicked the living shit out of him. 'Surreal,' didn't even begin to describe this. Although Francis may have been slow at times, he didn't buy any of this crap. Still, he knew when it was smart to play along. "So what happens now?" He asked, feigning interest.

Mike chuckled, eyeing Francis the way a lion eyes a sick gazelle. He could smell the false interest off Francis as much as he could smell his fear. This would be easier than he thought. "You will be visited by three spirits like me, the spirits of time to be exact." Mike said, almost as though he'd rehearsed the line.

"Why?" Francis asked dryly. "I don't need to hear from any ghost clock-watchers what I've heard from you, that I'm in trouble if I don't change my ways… pretty hard to do now even if I wanted to, seeing as how the world has gone to hell in this zombie apocalypse. It'd be kinda hard to make a list and go apologize to every poor sucker I've ever wronged when they're all just crazed vampires now!"

Mike said nothing, instead removing his vest to reveal his muscle-bound chest and arms. Francis noticed the marks, slits, and gashes that adorned his body by the hundreds. Scars at one time perhaps, though now they seemed to be seeping with a glowing crimson blood, as though they were fresh. Some were tiny, like a mark from a scalpel, while others looked huge, as though his buddy had a chainsaw taken to his skin. He peered at them curiously, suddenly feeling a strange painful sensation on his own chest. Looking beneath his vest and under his t-shirt, he screamed as he saw the very same cuts and gashes appearing all over his chest, then his arms, his hands, and his face. They lit up as though they were on fire, and Francis shrieked in agony, falling to his knees. The pain was unbearable.

"The cuts you feel are the ones you've marked on yourself." Mike said, grave seriousness in his voice as he approached Francis who was writhing in agony on the now unusually warm concrete floor. "My transgressions cover me even more than all the tattoos you ever got to cover your own insecurities, Fran. All that you see upon me are tick marks on the score card I've tallied up for myself in life. For every person I wronged, everything I've stolen, every woman I've scorned, every life I've destroyed, I bear these wounds which never heal! Oh they do scab over, but rest assured they're ripped open again… and again… and again!"

Francis screamed as the burning pain lit up like a thrown Molotov. As Mike approached, each footstep seemed to make the pain intensify ten-fold. The room was hot, the concrete floor now felt like a frying pan over the flames. He could see Mike's blood-dried boot land near his face as he towered over him. Francis felt like he was on fire, when suddenly he realized he was. Flames were licking at his jeans, consuming his arms, his hands. In fact the entire room was suddenly ablaze, as though a Molotov had actually exploded around him. Mike looked down on him with a sadistic smile as Francis writhed in agony like a burning bug, his fangs glistening in the fire-lit room with no entry and no escape. Mike seemed to be ablaze too, though he didn't show any discomfort. Francis could smell his own hair and skin burning, and he nearly vomited whatever was left in his stomach.

"We all have free will, Franny boy. If you wish to change your ways, change your outlook on this miserable life, change how you are towards your fellow man, what little fellow man there is left in this forsaken world, you will do well to listen to the three harbingers of time. They will come soon, upon the final hours of the night, should you last that long." Mike finished with a laugh.

Francis could care less at this point, the pain was so terrible. Noticing Francis wasn't entirely getting the message Mike scowled and rephrased his statement to a question, "Do you want the pain to stop?"

"Yes!" Francis cried out, feeling his vision beginning to fade again. He thought he might lose control of his bowels, it hurt so badly.

"Then get ready for some 'house guests,' and for Lucifer's sake don't soil yourself," Mike said with contempt as though he could read Francis' mind. "See you soon…" he finished, with a demonic laugh, disappearing into a noxious cloud of black-green smoke that seemed to evaporate into the now towering flames that had all but engulfed the room. Francis only caught part of the dramatic exit, his mind mercifully knocking him back into unconsciousness.

A/N: Again, please review. Is it good, is it bad? Click the green button, you don't need an account to leave a review. Silence indicates a lack of interest, so if you want me to continue, please say so.