Boston was the first to wake up the next morning. He rolled out of bed quickly, remembering who was curled up next to him. He tossed the Hunter's shoes on the bed and shouldered the shotgun he had lain on the floor next to the bed last night. Meanwhile, the large lump under the covers continued to rise and fall steadily, showing no sign of waking up. Boston tried cleared his throat, loudly. He tried poking the Hunter with his foot. He finally sighed, strolled over to the window, and yanked the cord that sent the blinds skyward. The room filled with a burst of intense morning sunlight and Cal yowled in surprise when the blanket was pulled from his head. The Hunter protested groggily as Boston rechecked their supplies; as was the usual for Boston, they had nothing.

Boston wasn't sure how long Hunters could go without feeling hunger, but he himself needed a meal. He hadn't eaten properly in about a week, far too occupied with covering as much distance as possible in order to get to Kansas City on time. As if in response, his stomach growled loudly enough that Cal looked up from putting his shoes on.

Boston's face dusted pink and he busied himself with checking nearby rooms for any source of food. His search yielded two sleeves of crackers, a warm bottle of water, a pistol with a full magazine, and a package of hot dogs that had surely gone bad, but Cal set to devouring them anyway. Boston hoped the infected had stronger immune systems, because he definitely did not feel like dealing with Hunter diarrhea. He could stave off hunger with crackers, and the water would be nice for the road, but he hoped the military had more desirable food in Kansas City.

The two hit the road at around 10 A.M, if Boston guessed correctly. The sun hadn't yet reached its peak point in the sky and the temperature hadn't risen uncomfortably high. Cal kept his head down as they drove, the sun still being much too bright for his light-sensitive eyes. Even so, he kept glancing at the Remington laid across the console between them, as if afraid it would rear up and shoot him on its own accord. Boston kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the rotting bodies on the side of the highway and swerving carefully around abandoned cars. The two drove in silence, the atmosphere in the car filled with mingled anticipation and anxiety.

As he swerved recklessly to avoid a confused Smoker, Boston couldn't help but wonder about the future of the Hunter beside him. The two were allies, if not budding friends, and Boston didn't want to see the Hunter shot dead by soldiers. However, he had seen enough Animal Planet to know that the smell of prolonged human contact was often grounds for animals to be exiled from their packs. The infected wouldn't accept Cal back now, and it was doubtful that he would want to. The Hunter was everything the infected were not: he was protective and friendly, and had a mischievous sense of humor. He had been more subdued this morning, but Boston attributed it to hunger, or the contagiousness of Boston's aura of anxiety.

They were a mile outside the city limits when Cal's head shot up. He immediately winced as the light hit his eyes, but he let out a warning screech that caused Boston to jump.

"What's the-" was all he had time to say before a Charger came blazing out from behind an overturned SUV, barely missing the Miata as it passed. Boston fumbled for the pistol on the dash and fired two shots at the beast behind them, one striking it in the leg and causing it to fall with a shout. As Boston turned around, another elephantine roar echoed across the highway and a second Charger appeared from out of nowhere, slamming into the driver's side door and driving the car off the road.

Boston shrieked in pain as his left arm was crushed between the collapsed door and his body. The agony was so intense he couldn't see straight, but he aimed the pistol as best he could up at the Charger, who was still attempting to shunt the car off the road, and fired. The massive beast collapsed but the damage was done: Boston's arm was fractured, if not broken, and the impact had knocked the car's engine out. The ordeal was far from over, though. He heard a hacking cough and a horrible gurgling, squealing noise. This was an ambush.

He needed to get out of the car, but his arm was on fire. He heard the Horde approaching, and craned his neck to look at Cal. The Hunter's seatbelt had been slashed apart and he was gone. The betrayal stung worse than his shattered arm, but it filled him with resolve. He had come too far to give up now. He may die, but he was taking as many of these creatures down with him.

He sat up. The infected horde, led by a Smoker and a Spitter, was charging from the woods to the west. He grabbed the shotgun, which had rolled into the floorboard when the Charger hit, with his good arm, balanced it on the edge of the crumpled door, and fired. He squeezed the trigger over and over, each blast felling several infected. The Spitter was hit in the chest and a torrent of burning acid burst forth, covering nearby infected. Those hit fell to the ground screeching and crying out as the acid eroded their flesh.

For every infected that went down, there were three more that were angrier and quicker. As Boston struggled to fit more shells in the emptied gun, he felt a slick, muscular appendage wrap around his neck. The Smoker pulled him over the car door, cutting him on the sharp metal and slamming him onto the ground, injured arm first. Boston screamed so hard his voice broke and faded. He tried to call for Cal, but the tongue tightened around his airway. The Smoker continued to reel him in, through the crowd of common infected that kicked and stomped and scratched at Boston's helpless body. The pain was too much. His vision began to blur and fade. He was going to die here, in the middle of the highway. Alone.

The blows continued to land on his unprotected body, but he no longer felt it. The Smoker had reeled him in fully now and looked down upon him with its disgusting visage, but Boston no longer cared. He was going home, away from the infected, away from the ruined world. Away from disease and death and bullets. Away from Cal.

Away from Cal.

Regret surged through him. He was leaving Cal behind, the Hunter he had known for such a short time but who had been a more dependable ally than any human could have been. He was leaving him behind in a world where mercy and compassion no longer had a place. He vaguely heard the sound of a Hunter's screech and the roar of the infected. He felt the pressure around his neck release and the ground beneath his back fall away. A pleasant hum echoed through his battered skull as he floated through space and conscious thought slipped away.


Boston found himself floating somewhere between life and death. His comatose sleep was hounded by nightmares and horrors. He saw a vivid vision of the Smoker that had attacked him, its whiplike tongue snaking around his midsection and slamming him into the earth over and over. He saw his own corpse, jaw slack and eyes dull, laying lifeless with his limbs twisted in unnatural directions. But at some point, the nightmares shifted and changed. He saw no death, nor blood, nor bullets or illness.

He saw a man, no more than twenty-one years old. He was sitting on a chair in a dark room, impossibly dark, illuminated so specifically against the inky blackness that the shadows appeared to grab at him. He appeared to be struggling against the darkness, his face contorted in concentration, trying to keep the shadowy hands from pulling him away. He seemed to look up at Boston. His eyes were steely gray, contrasting with his long, black hair. When he spoke, his eyes filled with determination, resolve, and more than a little desperation.

"I need you."


Boston's eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the gentle moonlight that filled the room through the drawn curtains. Curled up like a cat at the end of the bed lay Cal, his hoodie torn in some places but still relatively intact, breathing softly. Boston tried to speak, to signal the Hunter that he was awake, but his throat seared. He looked around, not recognizing where he was. It looked like an old fashioned log cabin. The air was cold, even through the layers of blankets on top of him, and he could see and hear a fireplace crackling merrily at the opposite end of the bedroom. The walls were adorned with pictures of a family Boston had never seen before.

"So. You're awake, I see."

Boston flinched violently at the slightly raspy voice, a motion that made his various wounds protest. He wordlessly groaned in pain and looked over to the doorway.

The Smoker appeared to stand a few inches taller than Boston, roughly 6'1, if he had to estimate, and very lean. He was wearing an unzipped wool bomber jacket and black ski pants, along with some heavy leather boots. His dark-brown hair was flecked with snow, and the fireplace threw shadows over his angular and oddly tumor-free face. The infected's long tongue hung to his waist, and it twitched as he walked into the room.

Boston reflexively reached for the Remington, but realized it was probably gone with the car. He felt naked without his ever-present shotgun, especially in the presence of an infected. The movement also aggravated his bad arm, and he gave a broken shriek, which in turn burned his throat. The Smoker raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Yeah, you're beat up pretty bad. Lucky for you, this place has some old medical encyclopedias that were pretty helpful in putting your pieces back together."

Boston's eyes swept over his battered body. His injured left arm was held tightly in a makeshift splint formed from two planks of wood. His other, more superficial wounds had been treated and seemed to have healed, aside from a few stray bruises. The Smoker walked over to his bedside and pulled a flask from a pocket on the front of his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the liquid inside into Boston's mouth. It tasted like honey. He didn't trust the Smoker, but Cal seemed to, or else one of the two infected wouldn't be there.

Once he had drunk an amount of liquid deemed appropriate by the Smoker, Boston tried to speak again. It didn't hurt as badly, but his voice still came out broken and croaky. "How...long...?"

The Smoker crossed the room and pulled the curtains open, allowing a bit more light into the room. The snow outside was falling gently and piling up on the windowsill.

"Two and a half weeks, I think." Boston's mouth fell open and his heart dropped. "And to answer your next series of questions, yes, you missed the Kansas City evac, yes, your friend here is fine, you're in a cabin outside Jackson, Wyoming, I drove you here on the brink of death with your Hunter pal in hysterics, and my name is Tom. I've been wiping your ass and getting you to eat and drink while fading in and out of consciousness for the past twenty or so days while this Hunter has refused to leave this room. He smells like the backstage area of a circus and I can't get him to shower. Thus concludes our formal introduction, sir." He bowed dramatically. "Feel like telling me your name? Or is the abyss calling again?"

"Boston," the human croaked, astonished, ashamed and grateful that the Smoker had done all that seemingly out of compassion. "That's...Cal." He pointed with his good arm at the over-sized navy blue cat at the end of the bed, still asleep. "Oh, it has a name." Tom said sarcastically. "I was just going to call it Fido. And to answer your next question, you impertinent wretch," he jabbed viciously but with no real venom, "This is my cabin. Well, it was my family's. Before they all died and I took it. Best thing about this whole zombie apocalypse bullshit? Nobody has time to foreclose on a cabin in the mountains of Wyoming." He snorted and his tongue quivered. He crossed his arms and shot the appendage out, giving the sleeping Cal a sharp jab with the tongue. The Hunter attempted to roll into a defensive crouch, ready to pounce, but went the wrong way and rolled off the end of the bed with a yelp. Tom put his hand over his face and sighed. "I decide to do some good and save some people, and just my luck, I get the slow-witted ones. Honestly..."

As Cal got up, growling indignantly, his steel eyes locked with Cal's green ones. Boston was reminded suddenly of the man in his dream, the one who was being slowly torn apart by the shadows. The Hunter grinned at him with tired relief and crawled slowly into the bed next to him. Boston's face reddened when the Hunter looked up, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Happy...you're okay." It was the most he had spoken in a while, and Boston got the impression that he had been practicing that line for a while. He smiled down at his friend, his companion. It was the first time since meeting each other that they had finally been somewhat stress-free.

"And don't you two go and have the audacity to screw in there! I'm not washing those damned sheets in ten degree weather!" Tom shouted from the main room.

Boston blushed crimson and Cal snickered. Maybe things would work out after all.


And you thought he was going to get to Kansas City! BAM! CURVEBALL.

The more I write this, the more anxious I get that somebody is going to compare my story unfavorably with Leapingspirit's Separated. I know they're similar, but I'm trying to make my story as unique as possible...however that works out.

I also completed this chapter way ahead of the deadline I set for myself. Now I can finally plan the rest of the story out, and relax for a little bit.

Thank you guys so much for the support. Please review if you can spare the time, I feed on them.