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 wrong.

A/N: Ok, a few people seemed to have shown their interest in this story, though it didn't get very much traffic. Then again stories get pushed back so quickly because of all the new ones being published, so perhaps it got buried and unnoticed. That aside, I've decided to post the next chapter for the few folks who are interested and hopefully to spark some new interest by bring the story to the front of the list. Again, if you want more, post a review, it only takes a minute. A lot of us on fanfiction don't just write for ourselves, we do it for the readers. Anonymous reviews are enabled so you don't need an account on fanfiction to leave a review, however I can only respond to reviewers that have an account. A special thanks to the friends of mine on here who have reviewed this, and my other works. You guys are the best.

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Chapter 2 – The First Visitor

"God damn it, he's a wriggly bastard," Zoey swore as she attempted to treat more of the biker's wounds with antiseptic/anesthetic liquid as he struggled. She held her flashlight under her cheek to keep both hands free as she worked, but it wasn't easy. Night had fallen and with the power out, this nightmare was becoming more real by the minute. Although the liquid first aid was designed to heal and dull the pain, it still burned like hell when first applied, and although Francis was semi-unconscious, he was still squirming quite a bit. It took both Louis and Bill to pin him down on the floor so Zoey could treat his injuries. She had to bandage the major gashes fast or he'd bleed to death. Fortunately the frozen snow was an excellent means of constricting the blood vessels, helping to slow the bleed out of what little blood he had left in his body. Being a pre-med student, Zoey had rudimentary medical knowledge, though she never thought she'd be putting it to practical use so soon.

"I think he's hallucinating," Bill said gruffly while struggling to hold Francis' legs down as he tried to kick. Francis was moaning and mumbling incoherently as he fought against nothing. Louis tried talking to him to calm him down, but to no avail.

"Take it easy buddy, you're gonna be ok." Louis said calmly while trying to hold the biker down.

"Mmmm.. rrgh… mii.. miike! Sss… sttopp!" Francis mumbled as he struggled. Louis and Bill exchanged curious glances, their grip beginning to relax, until Zoey snapped her fingers, refocusing their attention.

"Guys he's obviously in a lot of pain and hallucinating. We'll have plenty of time to ask him about this when he survives, so focus! Louis, get some more snow, stat!" Zoey commanded. Louis quickly ran to the door, checking for any infected before scooping up more snow for the fallen comrade. Zoey would be damned if she was going to let anyone die and turn this nightmare into a real horror flick. This wasn't some damn horror film, this was real life, and unlike the movies, all of them were going to get out of here, even the prick no one cared for.

"Bull-frickin horseshit," she thought to herself as she'd often heard Bill say. She cared for him. She didn't know why, though she hoped it was more than just some Florence Nightingale Effect crush. While it was in everyone's best interest to keep their teammate alive for the sake of the survival odds, Zoey felt like she had a little more invested in the hard-headed biker. He reminded her of someone she'd lost, someone who meant well even though they did their best to hide it, believing it to be a sign of weakness. She'd seen this before, someone who likely only needed a little more time to realize... She shook her head, clearing the memory that tried to surface. Regardless of "why," she needed to save Francis, for the sake of the entire group.

Louis returned, packing the snow around his wounds to slow the blood flow, saving a little for his forehead which was on fire with a fever. Francis was finally calming down, his body no longer thrashing about, though his breathing was still very rough and irregular, another sign of the shock. The systems analyst used some spare med kit bandages to soak up the snow as it melted; the last thing they wanted was any dirt within the frozen water to infect Francis' wounds.

"Stay with us, big guy," Zoey whispered to Francis' unresponsive form. His erratic breathing was starting to worry her.

Bill sighed, wondering what he could do. He'd already searched the room, finding a few helpful items: some cups and a little stored water, but none of this would help Francis right now. Remembering the painkillers he'd found in that private practice office, he reached into his cargo pants pocket, "Zoey, if we half sit him up, we can get him to swallow one of these pills. It may help him relax more-"

"No!" Zoey said firmly. "He's lost too much blood, no telling what effects those drugs will have on him in this state, it could put him into a coma or kill him." She looked down at her charge, wiping away some of the blood from his light brown-goatee. "He's a tough guy, he can handle the pain." She said, fighting back her emotions.

"Anything I can do?" Bill asked.

"Yes, keep your flashlight on him so I have more light to work with," she said, calming down. Francis groaned, his body shuddering a little as it dealt with the lack of blood. After Zoey finished dressing the major wounds, she did a pulse check. Placing her fingers by his neck, she counted his pulse for the minute. When the minute was up, she looked white as a sheet.

"What?" Bill and Louis asked together.

Zoey trembled, "His pulse is under 30; he's approaching a comatose state. If it continues to drop…" she trailed off.

Bill and Louis looked at each other with grim expressions. Unless one of them could pull a rabbit out of their asses, Francis' life may well be in the hands of the fates.
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Francis felt cold all over. He awoke with a shudder, feeling goose bumps shoot up his body like a lightning bolt. God, what he wouldn't give for a strong shot of whiskey right now to take the chill off, and to stop him from shaking like a leaf. Looking around, the entire room was as it was before, gray, messy, and miserable. The concrete floor was like ice once again, and there was no evidence of the "hellfire" that Mike rained down on him earlier. Groaning, he stood to his feet, trying to remember what Mike said during those last moments of brutal pain.

"Oh yeah, I will be visited by three spirits of time," Francis said, mock-waiving his fingers about like he was some cheesy ghost under a white sheet. "And they will somehow manage to turn my fucked up life around even though I'm probably going to die in the next few hours anyway." He continued in his mocking tone. He flinched reflexively, half expecting Mike's demonic voice to answer. Instead, a sudden eerie ticking sound made its presence known.

He spotted the source, an old, stained, cherry wood grandfather clock against the opposite wall. Francis never remembered anything like that in his and Mike's old room, it just wasn't their style, also neither of them were very good at telling time on an old fashion face, both of them spoiled by digital read-outs. Not to mention the heavy looking time-piece was huge and even if they both felt crazy enough to haul it up to their "apartment" it likely would've been trashed during one of their drunken fights. Then again, he supposed anything was possible, given all the shit he'd just been through. He slowly walked over to the large time-keeping monstrosity, the ticking turning to a pounding as he drew nearer. By the time he was standing in front of it, the ominous clock sounded more like the steady bang of a colt python right next to his ears. Straining to concentrate against the noise, he tried to read the time on the old faceplate. Although Francis normally couldn't tell time without a digital readout, it was almost as though the time jumped out at him.

"9:59 pm," Francis half shouted to himself over the din, noticing the second hand about to finish its final trip around the face, "About to strike…" Francis froze, he remembered what happened when these old clocks hit the hour mark. He went to turn on his heels, but it was too late.

The clock struck 10, and its chimes resounded like the church bells of the Vatican. It was so loud Francis felt his teeth rattle from the vibration. He screamed, putting his hands to his ears and staggering back as the monstrous clock rang out ten times to announce the hour. When the clock finished its thunderous toll and the ringing ceased in Francis' ears, he swore a blue streak, ending off something like this:

"… table top whore licking motherfucking son of a witch-bitch frick a frack prick with a cherry on top! That shit aint funny Mike!" Francis punctuated, swearing he could hear Mike's inhuman cackle somewhere in the back of his mind. The old clock continued ticking, quietly once more, as though it were counting down every second left to the room's only occupant. Francis looked around, still seeing nothing. No smoke cloud or ghosts or anything.

Except an open window.

Francis looked over at the simple faux four pane window, seeing a starlit sky through the glass. He walked over cautiously, not about to fall for another dirty trick, and peered over the sill. He nearly lost whatever food was left in his stomach. No street could be seen below, not even grass, just the stars. He looked to the left and to the right, everything absent except the night sky. It was as though his little room was floating adrift in space, and it was very disconcerting.

Francis spotted a star that appeared much brighter than the rest. It even seemed to be… moving? Squinting out into the night, the disoriented survivor noticed the star was indeed moving closer, and was rapidly picking up speed. Francis quickly pulled his head back in and shut the window, the star that was once an immeasurable distance away now nearly on top of him. He backed away from the window as the bright light came through with a crash, knocking him off his feet and momentarily blinding him. The light filled the entire room, save for a shapely silhouette that seemed to appear from the center, in front of the window. Francis scrambled to his feet, squinting in the light trying to make out the new visitor.

As the brightness faded and his eyes adjusted, Francis could make out the form of a young woman, probably no older than twenty. She was short, about 5'5" with slightly-longer-than-shoulder length hair that cascaded aside her cheeks and over her bare white shoulders like an auburn waterfall. Atop her crowning glory was a small wreath, dotted with baby's breath and little white flowers. Her eyes were a bright blue, and they seemed to sparkle with the joys of life, excitement, hopes, dreams, ambitions; pretty much everything that Francis couldn't stand in a person, and yet for some reason he was drawn to that ocean blue gaze like a pirate to the open waters. She had a fair complexion, a small pert nose with just a hint of freckling near her cheeks, and a pair of light pink lips pulled into a delicate smile that showed off her pearly whites.

Francis gulped, seeing her shoulders completely bare save for her auburn locks, and for a moment he thought her to be naked. As the light faded away completely, he saw instead she was wearing an elegant white gown with a V-cut lace top that just covered her small yet ample chest, showing a hint of cleavage and exposing her neck and shoulders in a sexy yet classy fashion. She wore a pair of translucent white gloves that traveled the length of her arms, starting at her fingertips and ending below her shoulders, matching the cut off point of her dress. The dress was form fitting over her slender curves, until it reached past her waist where it blossomed out like a white carnation in the spring. At the bottom of this splendor was a pair of dainty white heels to cover her tiny feet.

Francis took in everything within a few heartbeats, and while he ordinarily would ogle such a beauty and attempt some sort of smart pickup line, he found his voice garbled in his throat.

"Uhh… zzahhmm… zzmmh... zzahh," he stammered, his cheeks feeling hot. The woman in white giggled at his obvious shock and embarrassment.

"A pleasure to meet you too, Francis," she said in an all too familiar sounding voice, smiling demurely. "I am the spirit of the past."

Francis finally found his voice, blurting out the single word his lips had fumbled on. "Zoey!? You… you're the first of the three spirits?" Indeed this 'spirit' looked and sounded just like Zoey, except her hair was down and she was done up like some kind of fairy tale princess.

'Zoey' giggled prettily at Francis' darkening blush. "Actually the spirits of time don't have a physical form to speak of. We were never mortal to begin with, unlike your friend Mike. However, to make my visit as pleasant as possible, I searched your mind and took the form of someone you find the most… enjoyable." The spirit finished, smiling coyly and offering Francis her gloved hand.

Francis felt his cheeks flush. He stared at 'Zoey' wondering when he'd ever pictured her looking so dressed up and beautiful. Come to think of it, Zoey was the only attractive woman he'd ever met that he didn't mentally undress, but he'd never 'overdressed' her either. It was creepy that he possibly harbored an image of her like this in the recesses of his own mind and didn't realize it.

'Zoey' cleared her throat, glaring at him with her hand still outstretched. Francis looked at her, scratching his head. She was a spirit, yet she didn't appear ethereal like Mike. Then again, he was just some lost soul, and this was a spirit of time. Scowling, he challenged her annoyed stare.

"What? Yeah you're hot, no doubt about it, but that's not going to change how I treat complete strangers, even if they are ghosts! Or is taking your hand supposed to be some crazy symbolic psycho-analysis of me accepting my inner feelings and acknowledging my tough exterior is just a defense mechanism?" Francis finished nearly babbling, remembering some of the bull-shit theories he'd had crammed down his gullet by the head-shrinks he had to visit every time he got parole after paying one of his many debts to society.

"You're a lot more intelligent than you give yourself credit for, Francis… except this time you were completely off," 'Zoey' said smiling, causing Francis to grit his teeth in frustration for making an ass out of himself. Wait, when did he ever care about that, and why now?

"Actually I was just waiting for my kiss, I am under the mistletoe after all," she said with a sly grin, shifting her eyes to a piece of mistletoe that mysteriously appeared out of nothing, floating in midair just above both their heads. "It's customary for a gentleman to take a lady by the hand then draw her in for a kiss."

Francis scowled, a gentleman he was not. Though she was incredibly beautiful, something didn't feel right. It was strange; he couldn't put his finger on what was causing the odd hollow to form in his stomach. "Why would I want to kiss a ghost?" He said almost defensively, hoping to strike a nerve. The spirit smiled, her composure unbroken. Francis protested again, "Besides, you…"

His retort was cut off. As though drawn by some invisible force, he found himself gently pulling her by the hand, bringing her only inches away in spite of his verbal denial. He could smell her sweet scent, that of jasmine and natural pheromones. He drank in the beauty on her pale face, those soft, freckled cheeks, the sweet, innocent smile, the sparkle in those baby blues. There never was a person who seemed more… alive. His hands went to brush the soft, errant locks away from her face. Her smooth skin felt wonderful on his rough, calloused hands. She murmured pleasantly at his tender touch. He gazed deep into her eyes, awestruck. Everything about her was 'Zoey' in all her delicate form, yet Francis still felt a lingering doubt. She stared back at him with those sparkling blue eyes, her soft pink lips slightly parted in anticipation, the moisture glistening off them. He'd never seen a pair of beautiful lips begging to be kissed as much as the ones only inches away from him. Her eyes fluttered shut as she titled her mouth upwards towards his. He felt her chest press against him, the steady thud of her heart beating fast against his own. He tilted his own head downward, the two of them not even an inch apart. He could smell her sweet breath as it puffed over his rough lips. 'Zoey' was so close he could almost taste her… but…

"…you're not Zoey." He said quietly, gently stepping back. And why did that matter to him so much anyway? This must've been that mental mind fuck Mike told him about, because what he almost did made him feel queasy… but he couldn't understand why.

The spirit looked overjoyed, as though he'd just paid her the biggest compliment in the world. "There's hope for you after all Francis." She said, smiling at him proudly. With a snap of her fingers, the mistletoe burst into a small puff of red and green smoke that seemed to drift down like errant snow. "Come, let's see what happened so long ago to turn you into such a jackass," she said, grabbing his hand and running towards the open window. Francis panicked, realizing she was about to pull him out into oblivion.

"Wait wait! Aaaaggghhh!" Francis screamed as he seemed to fly out the window, his hand locked in a death grip. As they burst into the night air, Francis felt like he was flying yet falling at the same time. He gasped, realizing he was squeezing her hand harder than she had his. Realizing he wasn't going to fall into nothingness, he felt his temper flaring once more.

"I hate flying!" Francis yelled at they soared into the night sky.

"Oh relax, you big cute baby," 'Zoey' said with a giggle, holding his hand as she seemed to glide alongside him. Francis kept his fear in check, feeling he was safe for now. The two flew over the desolated ruins of Philadelphia. Everywhere buildings were crumbling or destroyed, cars overturned or smashed, and decimated bodies littered the streets and alleyways by the thousands. Suddenly, as though he were looking through a magic spyglass, Francis saw everything change before his very eyes. Gone were the destroyed buildings and wrecked cars, gone were the mindless bloodthirsty freaks. The city looked just as it did in the 1980's. 'Philly' wasn't always in the greatest shape, but people were walking around like they would any other day, casually going about their business. It was night time, and the cars that lined the street had their headlights on, illuminating the still falling snow that was slowly covering the streets and sidewalks. Storefronts were decorated with garland, wreaths, Christmas lights, and beautiful red bows. He could make out the glowing lights of a few Christmas trees in some of the brownstone houses that lined 15th street. Wait…15th street? That was where…

"…you used to live," the spirit finished quietly, interrupting Francis' internal monologue and pointing to a brownstone row home. "We're in the year 1984…Christmas Eve. You were just five years old at this time."

"Yeah," Francis said absently as he took in everything. They were descending now, coming to land in front of the biker's old home.

"I… this is where I grew up!" Francis said, astonished.

"How about grew older? I don't think you ever 'grew up'," the spirit said coyly, earning a momentary glare from her charge. She seemed to have adopted some of Zoey's personality too. Francis looked around at all the busy people who didn't seem to pay the gruff looking biker or the elegantly dressed woman any mind. Even for a city, he figured the two of them would get a few curious glances as an odd pair.

"No one can see us," the spirit said, reading his thoughts again. "In fact, you cannot interact with anything here. No one can see, hear, or feel you. The past has been written, and so it shall remain." She said solemnly. "Come, let's look inside." The two ascended the stairs, the spirit leading Francis right through the front door as though he were a ghost himself.

They stood in the foyer, staring into the small living room. A picture window was to their immediate left with an electric candle lighting up the small patch of nighttime trying to make its way in. A set of stairs off to the right framed the living room, leading to the upstairs bedrooms. Near the back was a wall with a door to the left that likely lead into the kitchen. In the corner by the stairs was a beautiful yet simple Christmas tree, adorned with lights and ornaments. Beneath its branches were a few presents, and to the right of the tree near the stairs was the television. Across from that was a small three-seat couch. Francis noticed the scent of pine and apple pie in the air, no doubt the delicious combination of the fresh tree and a Christmas treat baking in the oven.

"Francis, you get back here this instant!" A stern, yet feminine voice bellowed. The adult biker stepped back reflexively as a young five year old with tousled light brown hair slid down the banister, a partially wrapped present under his arm. Just on his heels was a girl about the age of ten, chasing after him with a bit of ribbon wrapping and tape in her hand. The spirit of the past, grinned, putting a hand to her lips to stifle a giggle as she watch the chase. The girl finally caught up with the boy, scolding him with a wag of her finger. The boy drooped his head in guilt and resignation, reluctantly handing the partially wrapped present back. The girl kissed him on the cheek, thanking him and shooed him into the kitchen as she ascended the stairs with her package.

"You loved your sister very much, didn't you Francis?" The spirit asked. Francis felt a touch of guilt at her question, especially the way she said "loved" rather than "love." He remembered what happened that night. He peeked in on his sister in the middle of wrapping a gift with his name on it. He overheard her asking their mother for an advance on her allowance a few days earlier so she could buy him something for Christmas. He simply couldn't wait to find out what it was, so when her back was turned he snatched it up like a thief in the night.

"Yeah… yeah I did." Francis said, a slight waiver in his voice. "I still do."

"Then why did you suddenly stop talking to her?" 'Zoey' asked politely.

"It's… complicated," Francis lied, hoping the spirit of the past didn't know the truth. His gut told him, however, that she knew everything about his past, and the only reason she asked was to see if he really knew everything too.

A woman in her early thirties came from the kitchen, she had dark brown hair that reached her shoulders, combed back into a lose ponytail. Her dark brown eyes and slightly olive-colored skin was perfectly complimented by her full pink lips, all of which surrounded an almost Italian-looking nose. She was slightly chubby, looking as though she'd just finished losing most of her pregnancy weight since her last child. She wore a simple white cotton apron over her casual clothes. She kneeled down to tousle the young boy's hair, faux scolding him about bothering his sister and asking him not to start trouble for his father when he got home.

"Mom…" Francis said in a whisper. Damn it, why were his eyes starting to sting?

Suddenly his vision was obscured by black. Shaking his head, he noticed the obstruction cleared as it moved towards the center of the living room. Apparently someone in a black leather jacket had walked through the front door, right through him. He was a very large man, at least 6'4" and tough as a brick chicken-house. He wore a red bandanna, and had a pair of sunglasses tucked into his black leather jacket. As the man approached the pair, the boy nearly squealed in delight, rushing over to the man and being picked up like a small treasure, hoisted over the man's shoulder. The man leaned in close to the woman, kissing her tenderly. She giggled, his large beard tickling her chin. He called out once, and the girl ran down the stairs, crying in excitement to take her place in his other arm.

"Dad…" Francis mouthed, turning his head away, trying not to lose his composure. His father was a trucker, one who never would have taken the job because he missed his family so much. Unfortunately, it was all he was good at and it paid well enough to support a family. He was away a lot, and that year they didn't expect him to be home in time for Christmas. He worked himself raw to put food on the table for his family, despite the exhausting number of extra hours he spent behind the wheel. Francis remembered his father's one true passion was to own a Harley and go riding on the weekends; a dream he never got to fulfill, his family always taking precedence.

"Mike was right about the mental torture, though I wasn't expecting this," Francis said coldly to the spirit.

"And why would this torture you Francis? Surely these are happier times, and what's wrong with remembering those?" She asked, like a school teacher asking her students a question they should know the answer to.

"Because they're the only happy times I remember!" He yelled, turning to face to the spirit, not caring if she saw an errant tear or two on his cheeks. He half expected the family to turn at his outburst, but they continued their happy moment unabated.

As though the spirit had read his mind, the scene suddenly began to blow away like a sand sculpture in the middle of a tornado. The bright cheer was gone, replaced by the same living room but now appeared rundown and rather dilapidated. There were hardly any Christmas decorations up, and those that were looked to be only half hung. The Christmas tree looked neglected as well, the water pan long dry and the tree losing needles left and right. The smell of pine and apple was gone, replaced with the lingering smell of booze. The woman Francis called his mother was now ten years older, though she looked more like twenty years had passed. Her hair was streaked with lines of premature silver, and her face adorned with many wrinkles, both classic signs of stress. Her hands were trembling as she cleaned up errant beer cans around the living room. Francis saw his sister descend the stairs again, now a young woman, a suitcase in her hand.

"Honey what are you doing?" His mother asked, addressing his sister.

"Mom, I'm leaving. I can't take this anymore! Ever since dad died five years ago in that accident, you've thrown yourself at nearly every guy who'd give you a second thought, and the only one you kept was the one who routinely neglects and abuses us!" She replied, exhausted and exasperated.

"You can't just leave me... or leave your brother, alone!" She pleaded. "Your father's passing wasn't an easy thing for me to overcome, and your step-dad helped me… helped us, through a difficult time in our lives. I've been out of the workforce for so long, and the job market's been terrible. Your step-father pays the bills, and he keeps this family fed."

"That's about all he does, that or smack Francis around when he comes home plastered and needs to feel like an alpha male." His sister spat. Francis frowned, remembering many of those nights his step-father seemed to pick a fight for no reason. If there was one thing Francis could thank his step-dad for, it was learning to take a punch.

"And if he wants "other" attention…" His sister looked away, trembling, her mother not quite understanding her daughter's sudden shift of mood. Francis arched an eyebrow, a sudden sickness forming in the pit of his stomach.

Regaining her composure, she continued, "If I could take Francis with me I would… God knows he deserves better than this!" She almost regretted saying that, her mother looked as though she'd been stabbed in the heart. Francis didn't remember this conversation, though he'd been told his sister ran away to "find herself" by their mother.

"What did you mean by 'other' attention?" Her mother asked curious.

"Forget it mom, it's not worth it." His sister said dismissively.

"No, I want to know what you implied by that! A real mother cares about her daug-"

"A real mother who wasn't in denial would know an abusive man when she met one!" His sister abruptly turned away as though greatly ashamed, shivering and trembling. Her mother looked at her in curiosity. Suddenly her face twisted into an ugly mask of sobering comprehension. Francis too felt his face twisting as rage began to boil within him.

"Did he..?" Francis whispered to no one, asking the question he already seemed to know the answer to.

"…touch you?" His mother finished as his sister began to cry, trembling as she nodded her head. Francis expected a number of things, his mother to cry with her, the two of them to unite against his step-father, his mother to pack a bag as well and flee with her daughter, anything except what happened next.

She slapped her daughter hard, so hard she nearly knocked her over.

It sounded like a gunshot in the middle of a library. His sister placed her hand to her cheek, dumbstruck as to what had just happened. Mother and daughter locked eyes for a few silent heartbeats that seemed to last a lifetime. After the moment passed, Francis watched his sister pick up her bags and walk out the front door for the last time.

His mother sobbed hard, but she continued cleaning up the mess in preparation for his step-dad. Francis was absolutely furious, though he wasn't entirely sure with whom. He always suspected his step-father of doing things to his sister, the way she acted around him, the way he never seemed interested in his mother after they were married. One night he thought he saw his step-father being a little too close with his sister. He never knew for sure, but something inside always nagged at him. Now that all the answers were known, Francis felt he was happier being blissfully ignorant.

The argument between his mother and sister raised new questions for the biker. Why did his sister run away? Why didn't she fight back? Was she afraid? Did she feel she deserved it? He didn't know. He'd always blamed himself for her running away. He could have stood up to his step-father for the way he treated his mother, his sister, and himself, but he was scared. He was a scared little boy who let his older sister down. For so many years Francis was convinced, between his mother being stepped on and his sister for running away, that all women were weak, and thus did not deserve any more respect than the promise of a few drinks and a night of sex built upon empty promises for the next morning. Only now he realized, he was the one running, but he'd be damned if he'd admit that weakness!

Francis turned to the spirit trying very hard not to lose his temper. "Why are you showing me all this? These things I didn't know… damn well didn't need to know! Is this the start of my torture for penance? To relive not only the painful moments I remember, but the ones I don't?"

The spirit placed a hand on his shoulder, "Your mother told you your sister ran away, and in a way that's the truth, but deep down you believed there was more to it and you were right. Like I said earlier Francis, you're much smarter than you give yourself credit. Unfortunately, you were too afraid… too… weak?" She asked, "to face the truth that it wasn't anyone's fault except your step-father. Instead you focused your anger on women in general, treating them like garbage because the two women who meant the most to you were treated the exact same way."

Francis shrugged the spirit's hand away while his mother seemed to clean an endless mess, "And who says its any different now? For every woman who rolled over to me, or Mike, or any other man, including my step-father. Why would I show them any respect? My pride is worth more to me than any respect I'd ever show them!"

'Zoey' looked hurt. She had a very sad, yet very angry look on her face. Her eyes seemed to flash like a lightning strike, and her face turned as dark as a tempest out at sea as she spoke. "Pride goeth before destruction, Francis." She said in a dark and frightening tone. "Your pride nearly cost you your life when that horde overwhelmed you; hoping your teammates wouldn't hear your screams for help just to save face. How could you do that to yourself? Or to Zoey?" She said, her lips trembling and her eyes beginning to water. "Look me in the eye and tell me, given the chance, you would treat Zoey the same way you've treated any other woman."

Francis went silent and turned his head, unable to look at 'Zoey.' She had him there. The Zoey he fought alongside was the only woman he'd met who deserved any respect in his eyes. Not in a million years could he imagine using or hurting her in any way. She was everything he always thought women could not be: strong and independent, yet caring and compassionate. It was a conundrum to the biker, but one he wasn't willing to admit. He glared at the ground, refusing to speak what he felt, putting his pride first.

The spirit looked crestfallen. Her beautiful smile turned to a melancholy frown, her blue eyes watered over with tears, and her hands trembled with anger. She turned her back to the biker and began sobbing. Francis looked around, seeing the house where he spent most of his formative years melt away into a destroyed foundation. The cars and Christmas-decorated storefronts were gone, as were the happy people. It was the streets of Philly as he was most recently acquainted, an aftermath of destruction caused by the mutated rabies virus. The spirit of the past was bawling hard, sitting on the ground like a child who'd lost her parents, her beautiful white dress stained with dirt and smoke. The wind howled like an angry hunter, causing her dress to flutter rapidly about her. Francis felt his vest flap hard against his chest as he crept towards the spirit of the past.

"I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Francis said, touching the spirit on the shoulder. She turned around quickly and Francis screamed, stumbling back and falling on his ass. 'Zoey's tear-streaked cheeks were a dark gray, her eyes a glowing crimson, and her auburn hair now white as fallen Christmas snow. She growled and cried as she stood up, slowly approaching him. Her beautiful hands were now deadly claws, which she drummed against her sides as she approached him. Francis panicked, backing away on his hands and babbling in terror.

"No! No no no! Please don't!" He begged through the raging winds. Though one might've thought Francis was pleading for her to spare him, he was actually praying for the spirit to drop her 'appearance.' He couldn't stand the image of Zoey turning into just another mindless monster. The thought tore his cold heart apart.

"I would never hurt Zoey, ever! She deserves better than this nightmare! She deserves better than me! That's why I hoped they didn't save me!" The 'witch' ignored his pitiful sounding excuses, slowly closing the distance and flexing her claws in anticipation. He backed into a wall he didn't know was there, and as death approached him, she raised her claw high like the grim reaper raising his scythe. Her white hair flailed to the side of her head like windsock in a hurricane.

"The weight of your pride will drag your soul down into hell!" The spirit proclaimed with her left claw high above her head and her right extended towards Francis with one finger pointed in accusation, a horrifying mixture of Zoey's voice and the inhuman growl of a witch. "Make your choice Francis: your pride or your soul!" Francis trembled, his lips moving but no sound coming out. Francis screamed as the spirit shrieked, swinging her claw downward, effectively bringing an end to Francis' nightmare.

A/N: What'd you think? Predictable? Unexpected? Do you care what happens next? Review and let me know.