Chapter 2: Rifles and claws

Ellis ran a hand through his sweaty hair before putting his cap back on. His Bull-Shifters shirt was soaked with zombie gore and entrails, and his trusty rifle was clenched in his hand.

Rochelle was brushing back her dark hair; Coach was rubbing a hand over his boiling head, brushing the sweat droplets off; and Nick was muttered silently, loosening his shirt collar, the lipstick smudge still just visible.

"Reckon there're anymore zombies?" Rochelle was saying, the group oblivious to the two Special Infected sat a few metres away.

"Don't worry about it, Ro, you fire a mean shot," Coach smiled grimly. "Though I daresay even Nick would come to your aid."

The pessimist muttered something about explosives and problems.

"What's that?" Coach asked delicately.

"The plan will never work! Blasting a bridge apart to kill zombies won't work, will it? So-"

"Oh, but it's worked before," Ellis interrupted, knocking the pessimist in the chin with the rifle butt. "Now be quiet unless you want the trigger pulled next time I do that."

Nick frowned and rubbed his throat, before freezing. He heard a voice.

"I'm Smoker," it shrieked. He heard a loud slap, then a shushing sound, and another - lower - voice.

"Survivors!"

Ellis crept over to a nearby wall, peering round it silently. He saw a Smoker and a little Hunter.

"SURVIVORS!" the Smoker screamed as he saw Ellis pull back his head, too late. The young Hunter leapt up.

"Play like it's the game! Kill them!" the Smoker yelled. The Hunter nodded, and suddenly it's fresh face was twisted into a fierce snarl of a wild animal. With a terrifying screech he crouched and leapt at Ellis.

His small legs hit the man's belly and the sharp claws built for exenteration began to carve strips of flesh from Ellis' midriff.

Being small and agile, the little Hunter could dodge the bullets Coach and the dithering Nick shot, and be back ripping at Ellis in just seconds.

The Smoker got up slower. Rochelle was shocked; normal Smokers would jump up and lash out with their tongue on sight.

This Smoker was hacking phlegm, wheezing as he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm ... gonna ... kill you!" he rasped. But even then, as he stood swaying, he tried to totter towards Rochelle. He collapsed, a cigarette falling from his mouth. Rochelle raised a shaking gun and pointed it at the Smoker's head.

And put the gun in her pocket. She lifted the limp Special Infected. Coach saw her.

"Damn it, Rochelle, kill it now!" he roared. "And help us save Ellis!"

But at the sight of the fallen Smoker, the young Hunter's eyes had grown large and round in fear.

"Smoker!" he wailed, rushing over and grabbing the unconscious Special Infected's head. It lolled in his hands, the mouth hanging loosely open, revealing the pointy teeth and massive tongue within.

"Smoker!" the little Hunter sobbed, and in Rochelle's eyes he was just like a lost little boy, abandoned and alone.

But as her hand touched his boil-covered, shaking arm the Hunter whipped round and hissed viciously. Like a stung animal, she yanked her arm back. Growling deep in his throat, the Hunter turned back to face the Smoker, and began to cry again, cradling his only friend's now unresponsive head.

"Bloody hell," Nick swore. "I ain't ever seen anything like that!"