The first hint of trouble came when I heard a choked, salivated noise. It sounded like someone had a nasty cough. I perked my head up, immediately recognizing that all too familiar noise. "Shit!" I exclaimed, dread washing over me as I tried to make a grab for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle on the ground next to me. My hand slapped the gun, inadvertently causing it to slide just out of my reach. I swore loudly when I felt a long, thick object wrap itself around my torso, restraining me and preventing me from moving. "Fuck!" I exclaimed, trying my best to free myself from the Smoker's tongued grip. All of my struggling was to no avail. The Smoker had caught me and I was now slowly being reeled in by the lanky SI. I had been caught and now I was screwed. Considering that I may never get another chance to do so, I guess this is a good time to tell you about my deadly captor.
Okay, the Smoker is one of the more dangerous types of Infected, simply because you usually did not notice it until it had caught you in its slimy grasp. The Smoker likes to lurk in the shadows, silently stalking its prey, and grabbing you with its tongue when you are most vulnerable. The skinny bastard then reels you in and kills you with a clumsy, but swift blow to the back of your head. Yeah, it sucks right? Well, on the plus side, at least the last thing you would see wouldn't be that ugly slag's face. The strain had caused the unfortunate being to mutate terribly. The creature's tongue has become long and whip-like, a bit protruding from its face. Its skin is now dark and boil ridden. These boils expel smoke whenever the Smoker is killed, giving off a foul, but non-lethal stench.
Man, speaking of foul, the Smoker's tongue smelled terrible. It literally smelled like the Smoker had been eating shit. Under normal circumstances, a smell like that would have caused me to vomit uncontrollably, but my airway had been almost completely cut off by that stupid lingua. Man, this is the way to go, killed and eaten by this filthy slag. Haha, slag, what a fun word. I know it basically means slut, but I do so enjoy calling people, object, and zombies that. I suppose I had a good run. I mean, I did survive in this horrible reality for three years. It's too bad that I will never see Brenin and Sam again.
My morbid thoughts were interrupted by the familiar grinding sound of a chainsaw. I managed to crane my neck towards the source of the noise, relief washing over me as I recognized an old face. There stood Sam, chainsaw in hand, her gaze darting from me, to the tongue, and to the Smoker. She ran forward and brought down the piece of lumberjacking equipment down on the mouth muscle, slicing it clean in two. I fell onto my back, pulling the remnants of the glossa from my torso, coughing like a motherfucker in the process. I breathed in deeply and looked up through watered eyes as Sam gave chase to the now fleeing Smoker. The Smoker is a cowardly Infected, running at the first sign of trouble. Its meal had been interrupted and half of its prized tongue lay motionless on the concreted roof. I watched in awe as Sam caught up with the Smoker, running the saw through the SI's gut. She then used the momentum of the stab and brought the power tool up, cleaving the bastard in two.
I know many of you may be skeptical as to how a teenaged female could run a chainsaw through what is basically a human carcass and chop said walking cadaver clean in half. One word: adrenaline. Adrenaline, or Epinephrine as it is also known, is a hormone produced by the human body. This hormone is capable of increasing your physical performance for a short time, often giving a person temporary super human-like strength. This, my dear readers, is how Sam managed to basically end the life of the Smoker who had been attempting to tongue me to death. Not as erotic as it sounds.
A large cloud of putrid smoke burst from the now dead creature's body. I was still coughing when Sam walked up to me, offering me a smile and a helping hand. I smiled back and graciously took my companion's extended palm. "You okay?" she asked as I stood up, dusting my shirt off when I managed to get up. She set the chainsaw down on the ground next to her and eyed me curiously. "Yeah, I think so," I said, pulling up my shirt. Minor bruising had been a result of the attack. I sighed; wincing as I gingerly touched the purplish black ring on my chest. I allowed my shirt to drop back down, turning my gaze to the one whom I owed my salvation to. "What took you so long?" I demanded, dusting my pants off. A look of shock and mock anger washed over her face. "Uh, I'm sorry a Hunter tried to disembowel me Japanese style," she said, still keeping that look of mock anger. You may be wondering why I said such a thing to the one person who kept me from becoming that Smoker's meal. This is just how Sam and I are, always joking in spite of almost dying. We laughed in the face of danger. Haha, not really, we ran away and then laughed in the face of danger. "Well, I guess I can forgive you this time, considering you went Texas Chainsaw Massacre on that Smoker," I said with a smirk. I walked over to my Desert Eagle and picked it up, placing it in the holster at my side. "Thanks," I said, looking over at Sam. She just smiled. "No problem," she replied. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and turned my gaze back to her. "Let's go."