For the record, consider the first chapter non-canon. There are a few things I would like to change without trying to retcon everything I established with the first one shot, so let's all just pretend the first chapter doesn't exist. :D
The Hunter was paying more attention to the last fruit snack in the package than the human with a shotgun.
Boston was obviously disinclined to turn his back on an infected, especially one as cunning and deadly as a Hunter, but aside from the blood soaking his white hoodie, the thing looked no more harmless than a pet dog. He had seen that the beast was just as capable in a fight as his brethren, and almost as primal. But almost was the key word. Boston had saved the thing's life minutes prior. How could he shoot the thing in cold blood now? Boston could rationalize killing the infected as necessary to his survival, because he was acting in self defense; but killing something that had shown no sign of wanting to attack him was nothing short of murder.
Boston sighed and wiped the sweat off his face with his shirt. He guessed that it was around 3 P.M, and the temperature wasn't going down any time soon. He needed water, shelter, and a bath wouldn't hurt; two weeks of dirt, sweat and blood had accumulated in a highly unpleasant fashion. He needed to find a working car to avoid dying of heat stroke, he needed supplies to avoid dying of dehydration, and he needed to decide what to do with this Hunter.
Boston was never very good at making decisions that were foisted upon him.
"Alright, look," he said, looking down into the Hunter's face. It was still cast into shadow, showing nothing but a pair of striking grey eyes. "I'm not going to shoot you. I'm going to search these cars for one with the keys in, and you're going to go on your merry way. We're going to pretend this little chance meeting never happened. I'm pretty sure whatever you two were fighting over-" He nodded at the headless corpse a few feet away. "-is up for grabs now. Happy trails."
He turned to go, fully expecting to hear a warning cry, or a growl. But when he turned, the hunter remained seated, apparently unfazed by the unbearably hot asphalt. He cocked his head, while Boston shook his and walked away.
He checked car after car after car, swearing impatiently after each one yielded nothing. He found several shells compatible with his shotgun in the glove compartment of a Hummer, and pocketed them, but he found no working car. He considered searching the corpses lined up against the traffic barriers, as surely one must have the key; but he was not quite so desperate as to resort to looting decaying corpses.
After what felt like hours of looking up and down the highway, Boston found a Mazda Miata on the edge of the road with the key still in the ignition. The car was in pristine condition, aside from a very violent blood smear on the driver's side door, but that only served to make it look more badass. Boston grinned to himself as he lay the shotgun on the console and hopped in, twisting the key and sighing in relief as the engine roared to life, and the air conditioning system kicked in. He considered just sitting there and cooling off, but the car only had half a tank of fuel left. He reached over to buckle the seatbelt, and came face to face with the white hoodied Hunter in the passenger's seat.
Boston yelped in surprise, instinctively reaching for the gun, but the Hunter was too fast. He snatched it up and grinned toothily. "Mine," he said in a low, gravelly voice, causing Boston to flinch again.
"You can...talk?" Boston inquired, shocked, and the Hunter shrugged. "Little," he growled out with a bit of difficulty.
Boston wanted to force him out, to just get on the road and make it to Kansas City before the evacuation deadline, but the Hunter had his gun, and he was outmatched in a contest of brute strength. He tore his eyes away from the Hunter's piercing gray gaze, white knuckling the steering wheel. He shifted the car into gear and hit the accelerator. Boston knew he should have kept driving north on the I-49, but there was a very deadly and very mischievous beast in the front seat. He had decided to find a motel before he had even started driving.
Somewhere along the way, Boston allowed his inhibitions and fear to dissipate a little. If the beast wanted to kill him, he had had ample opportunities to do so. Maybe the infected were more human than CEDA let on, he thought. He attempted to make small talk with the Hunter, who answered as best he could with his limited vocabulary.
"Well, if we're going to be together for a bit longer at least," Boston asked, as they flew past a ransacked Burger King. "I should know your name. Can you say it?"
The Hunter frowned, scrunching up his face as if trying to remember. "Cal." He replied, the words rolling out of his throat in a partial growl.
"I like that," Boston said, half smiling. "It fits you well." He could have sworn Cal blushed, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light.
It was nearing 6 P.M when Boston pulled into a Motel 6 about an hour from the Kansas City city limits. He hadn't slept in a few days, and the combination of his stench and Cal's putrid odor of dried blood and other filth was enough to make Boston gag. He used the butt of his shotgun to smash the door of the first room he found, throwing silent prayers to the sky that the motel had running water. It did, he discovered, and in a display of divine mercy, both hot and cold water were flowing. Cal, who had slunk in at Boston's heels, clearly unused to being indoors, sank down on the pristine, white-blanketed bed as Boston emerged from the bathroom.
"Alright, we both smell like death. I think you need a bath more than I do, so you'll have to go first. Can you take the hoodie off for me?"
The Hunter shook his head vehemently, clutching his blood-stained hood with both clawed hands. "Like dark," he croaked. "Light hurt."
Boston rolled his eyes. He imagined this was how parents felt when attempting to coax small children into bathing. He drew the blinds anyway, throwing the room into darkness. "There. Now we need to take the jacket off." He pried the Hunter's hands off his head gently, and slowly pulled the hood down. The Hunter looked up, the eyes that had been so bright and interested on the highway now filled with anxiety. Boston was reminded again of a small child. Cal patted the top of his head of black hair, mewling.
Gently and awkwardly muttering reassurances, Boston unzipped the jacket and allowed the Hunter to reluctantly remove his blood-covered undershirt, and Boston tossed both onto the bed. He would clean them later. He took Cal gingerly by the wrist and led him into the bathroom, where the bath had already been drawn. For a Motel 6, the bathroom was surprisingly luxurious. The polished ceramic of the bathtub, and the counter opposite it, slightly reflected the light filtering in from the window over the tub.
Boston turned to look at the Hunter, who had made no attempt to flee, but had his head turned so that the light couldn't blind him. He could see the Hunter clearly for the first time, and although Boston hated to say it, Cal looked...good. His complexion wasn't quite as full as it would have been if he had been human, but he was far from pale. He was fit, as Boston assumed most Hunters were, with clearly framed abdominal muscles and toned biceps. His raven hair framed his round face quite nicely, but he had a long cut from his ear to the middle of his cheek, and there were four puncture wounds on his right side where the other Hunter had stabbed him, but those were already in the process of healing; the infected had a much faster regenerative ability.
Cal reluctantly sat on the edge of the tub, per Boston's request, and sat silently as his Vans and (filthy) socks were pulled off his feet. He wriggled his clawed toes nervously as Boston stood. He cocked his head as the human blushed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Alright," Boston said. "I'm just going to come out with it. Your pants have to come off."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow and gave a tiny smile. Boston blushed furiously and quickly turned around, turning back once he heard the sound of jeans rustling and the sound of water being disturbed. Cal was pouting with his arms crossed. The corner of Boston's mouth turned up as he was reminded once again of an angry child.
The next thirty minutes were spent with a mixture of whining by Cal and exasperated curses by Boston, and much splashing of water over the edges of the bathtub, but when the door to the bathroom opened, a very raw and fresh-smelling Hunter waddled across the room, sinking onto the bed gingerly. A very wet and exhausted Boston emerged a minute later, having pulled the plug and sent the now cold and dark brown water down the drain.
He tossed Cal his underwear and old, faded jeans. Boston turned while the Hunter dropped his towel and dressed. The blood-stained shirt and hoodie would have to go, that much Boston knew. The washing machine in the laundry room didn't work, and he had neither the time nor patience to wash the clothes by hand. If his counting was correct, the evacuation was in two days, and he wanted to make it to Kansas City at least a day in advance in case anything went wrong. Of course, there was now the matter of the Hunter he was travelling with. He had only known the beast for a few hours, but riding with him in a convertible during a zombie apocalypse, not to mention bathing him, had caused Boston to form somewhat of an attachment to Cal - or at least, the desire to not have him shot by the military.
"We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it," He said aloud, sighing as the Hunter shot him a hurt look. He was still angry about being forced to bathe. At least he no longer smelled like an abandoned slaughterhouse, Boston thought, returning to the bathroom and refilling the tub to clean himself as well.
As he wrapped a towel around his waist afterward, Boston saw himself in the mirror for the first time since Atlanta. His normally short and spiky blond hair had grown shaggy. There were dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he looked generally unkempt, but he had been lucky enough to have limited contact with the infected during his trip across the country. His plan of taking the least populated route possible had paid off in more ways than one, allowing him to conserve ammunition and medical supplies, as well as keeping him relatively unscathed aside from a few cuts or bruises.
He dressed and returned to the bedroom, where Cal was still shirtless and brooding.
"I know, you want your jacket. I'm going to find you a new one, I swear. Maybe this motel has a gift shop or something-"
There was a bang on the door, followed by two more, and what sounded like scratching. A throaty growl came from behind the door, almost like a question. Cal fired another growl back, his face contorted into a feral expression. There was a pause, and the Hunter behind the door seemed to chuckle. Then there was silence. Boston crossed the room quickly, grabbing the Remington off of the dresser in the corner and giving it a pump. "What was that? Did it say something?" He asked quietly.
"Brother," Cal snarled. He looked frightening. The muscles in his back rippled as he moved, and the curtain of dark hair that hung over his face made his grey eyes look even more threatening. "Want eat. He wait."
Boston should have been scared. He should have been nervous, he should have been looking for a way to get out of there, to get to the car and to floor it. But he was holding a weapon he could have never imagined using two months ago. He was travelling to a strange city in a stolen car, currently with one of the very creatures he was trying to escape. The time for fear had passed. It was time to act.
"He's waiting for me, then?" Boston steeled himself but found he needed no further steeling. "Let's give him what he wants."
I finally wrote a chapter that was longer than two thousand words! Thanks for staying with me this far, reviews are appreciated and loved!