Hey guys and gals! Here, by request from The Badger Boy, is the next chapter - this time, it's Bill in a one-on-one with a Hunter! Enjoy, and remember to submit more requests as part of your reviews!
-O-
Cold fear slithered up Bill's spine as the slim, lethal muzzle of his M16 swept the midnight alley. His flashlight flickered and spasmed in the last throes of its life, and the rubber grip of his sleek black weapon was slick beneath his fingers. "Louis? Zoey?" he ventured, glancing up and down the barren alley. "Francis? Anyone?" No answer. "Shit."
Thunder rumbled somewhere far away, a faint basso thrum, foreboding and ominous. Bill reached up with his free hand, idly adjusting his beret in a nervous tic he'd developed a long time ago. He had been separated from the rest of his team in a horde attack, and had spent the last five minutes searching the alleys for any sign of his companions. So far he had found nothing.
Then something snarled somewhere behind him. Bill stiffened, muscles strained to a razor's edge, instincts honed in the crucible of warfare screaming at him, forcing him into action. He whirled, rifle up and tracking. His flashlight illuminated a skulking, shadowy figure for a brief fragment of a second before it sputtered and died.
Bill didn't hesitate. His finger tightened on the trigger, and the rifle roared into violent life. The alley was illuminated in stark, strobing light as flame stabbed forth from the M16's muzzle, the rifle's chattering cry shattering the silence as bricks chipped, fragmented and exploded. But the figure was gone, and Bill released the trigger, shivering as silence fell over the alley once more. That had been a Hunter, as sure as he needed a goddamn smoke. And it was living up to its name.
Bill cast a glance up at the tortured sky as the first rain drops spattered down onto his head and shoulders. Apparently the storm had caught up to him. Shaking himself, he started forward at a half-jog, his combat boots thudding dully on the cobblestones. A few zombies lurched out of the gloom at him, but he put them down without much thought. Blood splattered onto the unpainted brick of the buildings lining the alley, and Bill continued on, casting an occasional furtive glance over his shoulder. Where the hell had that hunter gone?
-O-
Prey. Prey had wandered close, at long last. Its smell filled the predator's nostrils, tantalizing and sweet. Ferocious yellow eyes narrowed, and bloody lips pulled back from pointed teeth as an animalistic snarl escaped the predator's jaws. Claws scraped against brick, firm and rough. Bunching its legs, the predator leaped, soaring through the air, spinning around mid-leap and ricocheting off a storefront with another push from its powerful legs. What remained of its mind was a churning mass of hunger and feral bloodlust, and there was only one goal that it strove for, only one objective in its sights.
Prey.
-O-
Bill stopped to rest for a moment, leaning against a dumpster and pulling out his last cigarette pack. Withdrawing one of the three cancer sticks within, he pocketed the pack again and pulled out his lighter. A deft flick and the tip of his cigarette glowed a hellish red, and the lighter was stuffed back into the jacket pocket from whence it came.
Taking a long drag from the cigarette, Bill allowed himself to briefly relax, enjoying the moment of peace. Then he stiffened, his eyes shot wide and his hand flew to the grip of his M16. Something had moved in the alley to his left. He had heard its claws scraping against the cobblestones.
A low growl echoed from the alley walls, and Bill's blood chilled as he whirled, wishing that his flashlight hadn't broken. Nothing moved - nothing visible, at least - and Bill took a step backwards, raising his rifle.
The hunter flew from the shadows like a bloodthirsty hawk, claws outstretched, feral jaws gaping. Bill dove to the side, grunting with pain as he hit the cobblestones at an awkward angle. Shit, I'm not as fast as I used to be. The rifle in his hands chattered as it lit the alley in strident flashes of gunfire, but the hunter stayed a step ahead of the storm of lead, zigzagging back and forth across the alley. Then the rifle's harsh roar abruptly ceased as the magazine ran dry, and Bill's heart nearly stopped.
In an instant, the feral creature was atop him, swatting the rifle aside with a clawed hand. Bill's combat knife flashed from its sheath, and the hunter snarled as wan moonlight glittered from the folded steel. With a cry, Bill jabbed upwards, but the hunter dodged out of the way, fast and sinuous as a serpent. Getting his feet beneath him, Bill hauled himself to his feet, cursing his age-weakened legs. Dropping into a knife-fighter's crouch only slightly skewed from disuse, he spat his cigarette out and ground it beneath the heel of his combat boot, then locked eyes with the creature in the alley before him.
The hunter moved first. It was so fast, Bill's eyes could barely keep up with it as it hurled itself to the side, rebounding from the wall and coming at him with flashing claws and bared teeth. Pain blossomed as razor talons slashed across his face, drawing parallel gouges in his cheek and nose and missing his right eye by a bare inch. Crying out in pain and rage, Bill snaked his knife forward in a counter-attack, but the hunter ducked beneath it.
Pressing the attack, Bill stepped forward and brought his free hand around in a hook. The hunter, caught off-guard, took the blow across the face but rolled with it, back up and swinging in an instant. Dodging backwards and wishing he was ten years younger, Bill jabbed forward at the hunter's gut, but it swerved and only received a grazing blow on its side. Infected blood spurted, and the hunter hissed through its teeth.
Good, Bill thought savagely, his teeth flashing in an expression that had nothing to do with a smile. The son of a bitch is hurt.
Seemingly unaffected by the wound in its side, the hunter lashed out again, scoring a set of gashes down Bill's thigh. Crying out and dropping to one knee as his injured leg gave out, Bill gritted his teeth, feinted low and attacked high. The hunter, its simple mind not grasping the concept of the ruse, fell for it and earned a slash across the face as it tried to dodge the blow that never came.
With an agonized yelp, the hunter leapt backwards, swiping at its face with its hands. Getting his injured leg beneath him and grimly ignoring its protests, Bill brutally shoved himself to his feet and started forward, the knife dripping blood and water onto the rain-slick cobblestones.
When the hunter lowered its claws, Bill saw with grim satisfaction that one of his eyes was gone. Bill's knife had bit deep, and there was a long, bloody gouge running from the beast's left temple to the left side of its mouth. The beast was clearly in immense pain, and it wobbled a little on its feet as it readied itself to fight again. "Come on, you bastard," Bill spat, raising his knife. "I'm still more than man enough to take you on."
The hunter screeched in response, and the only warning Bill got was it bunching its legs beneath it. Then it leapt faster than a striking serpent, and it was only Bill's honed reflexes that saved his life. Swerving to the side, Bill lashed out as the hunter passed, and hot blood splattered his face as his knife struck home. The hunter's leap turned into an awkward tumble, and it rolled as it landed, coming up in a crouch. Giving Bill one last look, it turned and started running down the alley away from him.
"Oh hell no," Bill growled, whipping his handgun from its holster and sighting down the barrel. His first shot missed its mark, blowing a chunk out of the brick wall near the sprinting hunter. His second shot took the beast in its leg, and it pitched forward with a startled squawk. Bill emptied the rest of the clip, firing until the hunter's twitches ceased. Calmly reloading the weapon, he shoved it back into its holster and limped down the alley, leaning down and decapitating the fallen hunter with one slash of his combat knife. Never can be too sure.
"Bill!" The 'Nam vet snapped his head up as the strong, rough baritone cut through the patter of raindrops on stone and brick. Coming down the alley towards him was Francis, a shotgun resting on the huge biker's shoulder, a worried frown on his rough, chiseled features. Behind him were Zoey and Louis, the former looking immensely relieved and the latter scanning the alley behind them for any infected that might have followed them.
Bill's lips split into a relieved grin. "Well, well, well," he said, wiping his knife on the hunter's hoodie and straightening. "Where the hell have you three been?"