Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.

Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.

Natureboy3: Oh, they fare pretty fair…but not as fair as a hare with hair at the fair. My idiocy aside, thanks for the review.

Alexandra . Weedall: Yes, a cliffy…and you really should try the game out if you haven't yet, it's quite fun (Well, with the right people anyway). Arigato for the gore and the review.

Spacejam: Um…thanks for the mudkip? And you were to groaning, just admit it.

The Ninja Platypus: Thanks, had fun with writing the Tank fight. Action scenes can be such a pain to choreograph on paper. As for Francis' mental state…I would find it quite funny if he randomly named his shotgun 'Lucy' and started talking to it.


Chapter 8: Luck of the Irish (Part 1)


We are fake, we are afraid; you know it's far from over.

"Ugly" – The Exies


E pluribus unum…out of many, one. You are a part of me now…


Fairfield, Pennsylvania

14 Days After First Infection

"Mother of God…" Francis murmured while staring at what was possibly the most beautiful sight he had ever encountered. "We have hit the goddamn jackpot."

Louis nodded in agreement, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Now this is what I'm talkin' about."

Francis turned and called over his shoulder, "Hey guys, you might wanna come check this out!"

"Damnit Francis, keep your voice down!" Bill hissed while darting into the building. "Do you have any idea how many…Infected…there…"

Zoey strolled up behind the veteran, an eyebrow cocked at the former soldier's trailing voice.

"Whoa…"

Bill merely nodded as the brunette voiced his thoughts.

Situated before the group of survivors, behind a finely crafted marble counter, stood an entire wall of display cases…

…Display cases filled to the brim with firearms and ammunition.

Francis turned toward his companions and waggled his eyebrows. "So…who's up for some shopping?"

Upon discovering a spare key to the cases hidden behind the counter, the next handful of minutes ticked by in relative silence, sans the rustling of metal and Louis' excited jabber about the different firearms' names.

"Oh man, that's an M14! With a scope no less!" The businessman gushed over the rifle Zoey had just plucked from the rack. "It's supposed to be one of the most accurate rifles available to the general public."

The young woman tested the gun's weight in her hands before bringing the scope to her eye. "Reminds me of the rifle my dad used when he took me hunting."

Grief flickered across her face. "When he was still alive, anyway."

A grunt emitted from across the room, where Francis had disposed of his tattered pump-shotgun. "It's in the past, Zo…nothing you can do to change it now."

"Francis…" Bill warned, the edge in his voice more than apparent to the biker.

Zoey stopped the veteran with a quick shake of her head. "No…he's right, Bill…although he is being an ass about it."

"You're welcome," the biker chirped before lifting up a pristine black shotgun. "Hell yes! This is the kinda shit SWAT uses!"

"A Franchi SPAS-12," Louis clarified with a grin. "Never would've pegged you as the type to appreciate law enforcement, Francis."

"Correction," Francis muttered while gazing down the iron sights of his newly acquired weapon. "The cops can kiss my ass for all I care…'cept for your old man, Zo. Wade was an alright guy…when he wasn't pointing a gun at me or cuffing me. I may not like them, but I do appreciate their taste in guns."

Zoey merely rolled her eyes at Francis' omission regarding her father, but let it slide.

"Going with the M16, Bill?"

Francis and Zoey paused at Louis' observation, taking a moment to observe the relatively uniformed veteran delicately pull the assault rifle from its place on the wall. Bill pressed the stock against his shoulder while wrapping his hands around the grip and barrel respectively. The senior citizen cocked the rifle before aiming at an imaginary target on the wall. The wrinkled finger at the trigger squeezed, and an audible click filled the room.

"Like riding a damn bike," Bill murmured to himself with a small smile.

Francis cleared his throat, garnering the veteran's attention. "You're not gonna start having any crazy-ass Nam flashbacks, are ya?"

Bill smirked cryptically. "If I do, you'll be the first to know, Francis."

The biker snorted at the answer, but smirked along with the senior citizen.

"What about you, Louis?" Zoey inquired while attaching a shoulder strap to her new rifle.

The businessman glanced at the remaining display of weaponry before settling on a more handheld piece near the bottom row.

"The black guy picks an Uzi, figures," Francis snickered.

"Don't get me wrong, Francis," Louis explained dryly. "But I'm going for light weight and mobility here. The Uzi packs enough of a punch, but I'm not sacrificing speed by carrying a cumbersome gun."

"Not a bad plan," Bill commented while giving his beard a thoughtful scratch.

"Was just messing with you anyway, chill."

"But if it'll make Francis think of me as more masculine," Louis continued sarcastically while looking through the sidearm display case. "Then I'll pick up a – is that a Desert Eagle?"

The other two men peeked over the bald survivor's shoulders as he pulled a large, metallic handgun from the glass casing. "It looks a little different from the other models that I've seen."

Louis unloaded the magazine. "This thing can hold eight .50 caliber rounds…"

"How do you know so much about guns anyway?"

The businessman glimpsed over his shoulder at Francis. "Used to always go to a shooting range everyday during my lunch break. It was originally just a way for me to blow off steam, but the guys at the range were friendly enough and eventually got me hooked on this stuff."

"Hey, idiots!" Zoey called, smirking when all three men turned to look at her. The brunette jerked her thumb toward the sign behind her, which read: 'Soundproof Shooting Range Available!'

"You guys wanna test drive these things?"


"Damn, Zoey…you are one helluva shot," Bill praised with a whistle as the veteran assessed the paper target in his hands.

The brunette smiled while sliding a fresh magazine into the scoped rifle. "Thanks, Bill."

"Damn…the magnum's got a lot more recoil than I thought it would," Louis muttered while tossing his target paper aside. "Looks like I'll have to leave it behind."

Francis picked up the discarded handgun – fully reloaded – in his right hand and aimed it down the range. "Can't see why…it's just a large pistol, that's all."

Bill, who had caught the exchange, took a brief moment to glance over at the biker, weathered blue eyes lighting up.

"Francis, do me a favor and try and hit the bullseye."

The large survivor cocked an eyebrow at the spry old man.

"Humor me on this, son," Bill snapped. "And use both hands to grip the gun."

"What the hell are you planning?" Francis demanded with a growl, but did as ordered and secured the magnum in both hands.

Bang!

Binoculars at his eyes, Bill discovered a sizeable hole mere centimeters away from the mark.

"Again. This time squeeze out the rest of the clip."

Seven shots later and Bill felt a grin reach his face while flipping the booth's switch. "Francis, you're keeping the magnum."

"Huh?"

The veteran yanked off the paper and presented it to the trio of survivors, revealing a cluster of eight large, overlapping holes around the bullseye. Louis' eyes practically popped out of his skull.

"Few guys can do what you just did."

"…Hit the bullseye?"

Bill shook his head, "Magnum's are infamous for their recoil, making accuracy a bitch unless you take the time between rounds to realign your shots. But not you, you're built like a brick shithouse, son."

Francis merely smirked. He wasn't going to argue the truth.

The veteran continued, "With your size and stature, coupled with the strength in your arms, you've pretty much eliminated the magnum's recoil."

"I see what you mean and all, Bill…but what exactly is your point?"

Bill fixed the tattooed survivor with an even stare. "You can shoot a handgun capable of punching holes the size of dinner plates into a zombie at the same speed as one of these measly 9mm Beretta's."

Francis' eyes gleamed with predatory interest as he glanced down at the large sidearm.

"What you're holding is one of the most powerful handguns in the world, son. I know you may favor your shotgun and all, but in your hands that magnum is probably the most lethal firearm against these zombie bastards."

"Punch holes the size of dinner plates, eh?" Francis mused while sliding in a fresh magazine. "It'll be like a third fist…alright, I'm game."


Mobile, Alabama

21 Days After First Infection

What I said about Bill and Louis were true, as for me…hell, I'd probably find a Tank and try to rip its spine from out of its ass.

You really are an idiot, you know that?

So I've been told.

Everyone has a job. Bill makes sure we're on the right track in getting the hell out of here, while Louis makes sure we don't kill each other. You give us the heads up on shit before it gets to us…as for me, I make sure the three of you get hurt as little as possible.

What if you die before then?

I'm indestructible, remember?

"Gregory, you and the twins check on the other two! You three, help me with this one!"

Shut it, Bill! I can understand Zoey, she's still a kid, but Louis here is a goddamn adult, so he better start acting like one!

I'm still trying to get used to this kind of shit, Francis. It's just…it's just that it's hard to believe that humans could have done something like that…

For the love of – they're not human!

They were human at one point! They were human, just like you and me, before shit hit the fan! They had friends, family, jobs, and dreams! You wouldn't understand that though, would you? Nope, not Francis! Not Mr. Inde – fucking – structable! Surely not the man who didn't have any friends or family, hell no!

"Dear Mother of God…he's still breathing!"

In all honesty, running off to an island to wait out the storm…it was the last thing I wanted to do. I thought like Zoey at one point…I wanted to stay behind and save as many as I could. It's impossible though, simply impossible; just the sheer way that this thing is spreading…what it's capable of producing…there's no way to save everyone.

Contrary to what Zoey may think, we're all alone now. The Infected are trying to kill us, the military's trying to kill us, and even if we do encounter any other survivors, we'll just end up infecting them and then they'll try to kill us.

What happened to the 'we look after our own' talk?

…I'm glad…glad that we're actually able to see eye-to-eye on something.

I just hope that it's not the last time we do.

"The water's starting to recede. Lads, go get the truck…it's time we got back."

So…what now?

We wait. If they make it, they make it; if not…well, we can't save everyone.

What are we going to do now?

What can we do?

We'll do what we do best: Survive.

"Cassie, fetch Alex quickly! We need to get these three's fevers down immediately!"

They're not immune…they're Carriers.

At least with them, it's easy to tell…but you…you people just waltz around, spreading Green without rhyme or reason!

God damn it! We'll die out here if you don't let us in!

…Good riddance.

My hypothesis…one so absurd…so fictional that I originally felt that it couldn't possibly be true. This whole outbreak…it's not some kind of disease. It's not even the extinction of the human race. Simply put…it's…

Evolution.

"They were actually out in the storm?"

End of the line…we're dead!

We're Carriers, Zoey! To them, we're the same as the Infected!

This is the 'jackass.' Why are you helping us?

…I just don't want to see any more people die unnecessarily.

I'm going back for him…keep going!

I'm not leaving you guys! I won't let anyone else that I care about die on my watch!

Why the fuck did you come back for me? Both of you could've died!

No one else gets left behind.

"You should've seen it, Cass!"

"This one here was just throwing himself at a Hulk like a lunatic…it was awesome!"

And leave you all alone with this? Hell no!

That's an order, Zoey!

You're not Bill!

How can either of us trust you when you don't even trust us anymore?

Believe in me.

So this is what it felt like…eh, Bill?

No one else gets left behind…remember?

"Boys, go help Gregory secure the perimeter…we don't want any of those things slipping in."

I just don't want to end up being the one who says 'I told you so.'

It's just a kid! You two would leave her to die…just like that?

We need to find her some first aid now or she'll die!

How the fuck is this thing still alive?

What the fuck are you doing, Louis? You're gonna die!

Trust me!

Don't know what the fuck it is…but it needs to die.

So much for trusting us, eh?

Some claim this is an Infected capable of manipulation…able to devise, to deceive, to learn.

I think we found the 'Zombie Bigfoot'…

"Lord, guide these souls in their gravest hour…"

We're in this together and we'll make it through this…together, if not for ourselves…then for Bill.

We can always just kill the girl. We don't want to…but we're not afraid to, either.

I already told you that I don't give a shit about the buggy…that thing's nothing more than a hunk of scrap metal compared to her.

If it's so important…how about another trade?

Words cannot describe how much I want to shoot you right now.

Like hell Bill's memory is going to die on that note.

Only the fittest can survive now…even if that means treating everyone else like shit.

You gotta pick your battles, Louis…and that's a battle we can't win no matter how hard we try.

"Other than the fevers and overexposure to the storm, this one has a lightly torn vastus lateralis and five heavily bruised ribs. The younger one has an old wound across his thigh, a small lesion on his temple, and a mild concussion. As for the girl: a near-fatal gash along her side, just below the lung."

You guys so owe me for this.

Hope you're watching my back up there, old man.

What are you doing?

Only the fittest can survive now.

All the fuckin' vampires in the world couldn't kill us…but now some wind and rain's gonna do the trick.

I guess I am loosing it.

Goodbyes are a bitch…so I'm gonna settle on a 'see you sooner or later.' Not very classy, but I don't really give a shit.

Come out here and dance with the devil!

He had failed them…he had failed Bill…

Finish it!

"It's a miracle they're even still alive."

Francis shot up, the sweet bliss of unconsciousness torn away from him with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning. Dilated brown eyes swept wildly from side to side, unsuccessfully trying to drink in every detail in the same instant. His vision was a mirage of blurs and after-images while his hearing was reduced to a dull static. As if a sudden wave of hypersensitivity washed over him, Francis became immediately aware of the pair of feminine hands pushing against his chest. The biker gave his head a quick shake in an attempt to dispel some of the haze.

"…need to lie back down! Your ribs are very fragile right now!"

Dazedly, Francis followed the source of the noise to the owner of the petite hands at his chest. A young blonde woman was gazing worriedly at him, and, quickly sensing the futility of her actions, shouted something over to the biker's far right. The nerves running along Francis' arm lit up as adrenaline began pumping through his veins.

Unfamiliar place.

Unfamiliar people.

Not good.

His arms flew up, grabbing the girl's shoulders in what – judging from the wince – Francis could only assume was a painful grip.

"Where are they?"

The young woman whimpered when the tattooed survivor violently shook her.

"I said where are they?"

Francis' primal roar was cut short when he was abruptly pulled away from the girl and shoved back onto the cot. Two separate weights settled on both of his arms, automatically provoking the biker to struggle.

"Easy there, big guy!"

"Holy crap, he's a strong one!"

Glancing from side to side, Francis surmised that he must've still been hallucinating, or suffering from double vision at the very least. Sitting on his left arm was a lanky blonde teenager, and on his other arm sat the same kid.

"Dude, stop freaking out!"

With another roar the large man practically threw the two boys off of him before bolting upright once again. His breaths coming out in heaves, Francis anxiously scanned the room.

"Where the fuck are they?"

The young woman collapsed backwards as Francis lurched from the cot. Landing unceremoniously onto the floor, the biker became vaguely aware of the pain that flared up in his left thigh. Like a rabid animal he staggered forward, desperately searching, hoping…praying. A flicker of red and white somewhere behind the girl caught his eye. Mind racing, Francis pushed the young woman aside while straining his eyes to focus properly.

Across the room lay Zoey and Louis on separate cots. The slow, but steady, rising and falling of their chests brought a tidal wave of relief washing over the tattooed survivor. As quickly as it came, the adrenaline vanished, leaving Francis to fall back into unconsciousness' embrace.


A gentle humming was the first thing he could even begin to sense. He felt like a computer starting up, his senses coming online one at a time. As the clarity of the melodic tune grew sharper, Francis became aware of the light assaulting his vision from beyond his closed eyelids. He slowly cracked them open, allowing his eyes time to adjust and soak in the detail of the ceiling. It was a dank, eggshell colored plaster with the paint already beginning to chip away in a few places. There were a few fluorescent fixtures, but none of them were the source of the illumination which he was basking in. Keeping still as to remain inconspicuous, Francis glanced over to his right, finding a series of tall stain glass windows stretching all the way to the ceiling. The artwork looked pretty Christian-esque, so he could only assume he was in a church.

The humming once again demanded his attention, forcing Francis to pull his gaze in the opposite direction. The young woman from earlier was sitting beside his cot, a young dark-haired girl sitting in her lap. The older of the two had shoulder-length blonde – almost sun-kissed – hair with a thin braid hanging loosely by her left cheek. The child – who looked no more than nine or ten – was scribbling on what appeared to be a sketchpad. Meanwhile, the young woman was braiding the little girl's hair, her eyes closed. Her lips were pressed into a small, heartbroken smile.

"That's a sad tune," Francis murmured, his eyes half-open.

The woman jumped with a startled gasp. Instinctively she pulled the child from her lap and positioned herself in a protective manner, eyes blazing with determination.

"Relax…I'm not going to do anything."

Aquamarine eyes remained doubtful. "Father!"

"Ah! So you're up, are ya?" Francis turned his head toward the Irish accent, coming face to face with an elderly man sitting to his right. "How're ya feeling, lad?"

"Like shit…but I've had worse," Francis answered with a small shrug, taking a moment to assess the old man's features.

He was clearly old, but he was also a far cry from decrepit. In that regard he reminded the biker of Bill. A stockless Remington 870 was slung over his shoulder on a strap, a worn straw hat resting on his right knee. Neatly combed – but still slightly disheveled – faded red hair sat on his head, shades of grey near the scalp giving away his age. His face was a mess of stress lines and wrinkles, but his emerald eyes burned with a gentle warmth. His attire consisted of formal clothing, his "Sunday best" as some would call it, but the once-orderly slacks and jacket were frayed and adorned with grime and blood.

The elderly man chuckled, "That's a hard fact to believe, boyo."

Francis gingerly began to sit up, but paused when the young blonde woman rushed to his side. "Please! Your injuries…!"

The biker waved her off. "Like I said, I've had worse."

The woman frowned, but relented and sat back down in her chair. Leaning over, she whispered something in the child's ear before the young one scampered off.

"Zoey and Louis?"

"Your friends?" the elderly man inquired. Upon receiving a nod, he jerked his toward the other side of the room. "See for yourself."

The tattooed survivor craned his neck and found, much to his relief, his companions sitting on their own cots, conversing with a few of the building's residents. Seeing as the two looked rather comfortable with their setting, Francis felt a vast majority of the tension leave his muscles. Tenderly prodding the gauze wrapped around his shirtless midsection, he glanced between the two people beside his cot. "Who are you people? How did we end up here?"

"Well," the old man replied. "My name is Mickey O'Callaghan. The lovely young lass sitting across from me is Alex, our resident medic. She's the one who kept the Lord from claiming you a bit too early before your time."

Francis turned back to Alex and offered her a nod. "Thanks."

The young woman blushed and bowed her head, muttering a quick 'your welcome.'

Mickey laughed at the display. "She's also a bit shy and can't really handle compliments from strangers."

"Father!" Alex whined with a childish stomp of her foot. "Stop embarrassing me!"

"Father?" Francis murmured in slight confusion.

"Ah," Mickey chuckled. "I'm the priest of this chapel, you see. No relation by blood, but we are all God's children."

Francis inwardly groaned at the religious tidbit of information, but quickly shrugged it off and turned back to Alex.

"Were they seriously wounded?"

Timidity momentarily forgotten, Alex shook her head. "The girl…Zoey, was it?"

The biker nodded.

"The stitching on her side had come loose at one point, so I fixed that up as good as new. Other than that, she accrued a fever and several symptoms of hypothermia from being exposed to the storm for such a long time. Luckily we were able to beat the fever; that was the hard part. As soon as that stabilized, the hypothermia was easy to manage."

"And Louis?"

Alex nodded. "The stitching on his leg is still holding up. As for the head, he suffered a minor concussion from where he hit it. The bleeding has stopped, and once he gets some more rest, he'll be back to normal. He was in the same boat when it came to the fever. You still drew the short stick though."

"Usually do," Francis muttered.

"Basically, you're dealing with a lightly torn thigh muscle in your left leg and a handful of heavily bruised ribs. If you start acting too recklessly without any rest, the fragility of your ribs may come to a head and you'll end up cracking – if not fully breaking – them."

"…So?"

Alex released an exasperated hiss. "If you break any ribs, there's a very good chance one of your lungs will get punctured…resulting in death."

"Noted," Francis' shoulders heaved with a sigh of relief. "Really, thank you for saving them."

The shyness quickly returned as Alex's face flushed brightly while looking away. "It's really no big deal."

Mickey grinned, but his face promptly sobered. "You really shouldn't have been so reckless, lad."

Before the tattooed survivor could answer, the doors flew open.

"Is the Terminator awake?"

"Oh sweet, he is!"

Two identical blonde teenagers ran up to Francis' cot, matching grins spread across their faces. They were both on the tall side – still shorter than him, though – and a bit lanky, most likely an appearance due to their height. A shaggy mop of sandy blonde hair sat on either of their heads. They both had mismatched eyes: the left green, the right blue. Hell the only difference that Francis could see between the two was that the right boy's face was dusted with freckles.

"You are insanely strong!"

"Practically threw us across the room back there!"

"And what was up with you fighting a Hulk all by yourself in the middle of a hurricane? Pretty stupid…"

"…But really badass."

Francis cut the two boys off with a confused stare. "Hulk?"

Mickey interjected before either of the boys could answer. "The behemoth Infected."

Realization dawned on the biker. "Oh! Yeah, those…we just call them 'Tanks.'"

"'Tanks,' huh? To each his own. Might as well introduce you, the twins did save you after all. The one of the left is Erik, and the other is Cyle."

The twins grinned with a collective wave. "Yo."

"Francis," the biker muttered with a hesitant nod. Before the twins could continue their interrogation, they were suddenly snatched up into the arms of a large, middle-aged woman. Francis wouldn't have pegged her as fat per se…a little thick – not that he would dare openly say it – but she carried it well. By now the newcomer had both of her arms around the boys' necks, putting them both in awkward, yet painful, headlocks.

"Whatever it is…we didn't do it!" Erik gasped while futilely slapping at the large forearm around his head.

"Yeah, Cass! We're behaving, honestly!" Cyle managed to choke out.

If anything the burly woman tightened her hold on the boys, "Behaving? The poor man's been awake barely even a minute and you two are suffocating him with questions. He doesn't even have his bearings yet!"

"Not our fault…" Cyle grumbled, but squirmed harder when Cass once again tightened her hold. "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!"

"Apologize to him…now."

"We're sorry, Mr. Terminator!" Erik wheezed, his face beginning to turn an odd shade of blue.

"Really sorry!" Cyle quipped after receiving a stern glare from his captor.

"Uh…no problem?" Francis muttered slowly, feeling a small twinge of pity for the twins.

Mickey merely laughed from his place beside the cot, "And this fiery lass here is Cassie. We like to think of her as the mother hen of this place."

Cassie slackened her grip on the boys, but didn't quite release them, and offered the biker a polite smile and a small bow of her head, "It's good to see that the three of you managed to pull through."

"Indeed," Mickey hummed in agreement. "Now can you please let those poor boys go, Cass?"

The woman frowned, "Sorry, Father, but they've been a little mischievous while you were here watching over this one."

Erik attempted to swivel his head around to glare up at Cassie, but to no avail. "We helped Greg secure the place. What more do you want?"

Francis watched as the woman fixed her severe gaze on the freckle-less brother. "Both of you were pestering his friends the moment they woke up!"

Erik, tempting fate, snapped back. "Hey! I was just asking them if they were alright. Cyle was the one hitting on that Zoey chick!"

"Don't try and pin that on me!" Cyle growled defensively. "That was all you!"

"That's enough, lads," Mickey interjected before Erik could fire off a retort. "Now's not the time."

"Sorry, Mickey." The brothers murmured in unison.

Cassie released the boys, who massaged their necks in annoyance, but still possessed the presence of mind to hold their tongues.

"Francis!"

The biker twisted at the waist toward the source of the voice just as a red blur collided with his midsection. Pain throbbed across his abdomen, but Francis was able to discern lithe arms wrapped around his neck and a head of brown hair pressed against his shoulder. A tattooed arm hooked itself around Zoey's shoulders, but the other was hastily tapping on her arm.

"Injured ribs, Zo!" Francis hissed through clenched teeth, and grunted when another weight settled on his other side. "What the hell, Louis?"

The businessman's eyes were apologetic, but a grin was plastered across his face. "Sorry, but I couldn't resist."

The biker grumbled while trying to shake off the spontaneous group hug which he had been engulfed in. It wasn't that he didn't miss them or anything, but this level of clinginess was starting to cross some personal space boundaries for Francis. Peaking to his left, the gruff survivor could see Alex waving her hands frantically, shouting about the condition of his ribs in an effort to relieve him. Oceanic eyes snapped open and Zoey threw herself off of Francis.

"Oh God! I'm so sorry, Francis!" Zoey quickly apologized, watching on in worry as the biker tenderly held his midsection.

"Don't worry about it," Francis tried to assure, but couldn't keep the pained expression from his face.

The brunette turned to face Alex. "It's just his ribs, right?"

"And his left thigh," the medic informed.

Zoey nodded…and then promptly punched Francis in the shoulder as hard as she could.

"Ow," Francis growled while rolling the sore joint. "What the hell was that for?"

"What did I tell you about pulling stupid stunts?" Zoey demanded with a fixed glare. "Fighting a Tank? By yourself? What the hell, Francis?"

The biker scoffed, "Oh, that's rich coming from little Ms. 'Oh-it's-just-a-child-Francis-it'll-be-fine.'"

The fierceness of the young woman's stare intensified, if possible. "How was I supposed to know that it would be a trap?"

Unbeknownst to the bickering pair, Mickey's gaze darkened at Zoey's words.

"And I was just going to let the Tank run roughshod all over you guys? Like hell!"

"Guys, guys!" Louis interposed while stepping between his two companions. "Easy now…we're all still alive, aren't we?"

The two huffed, but ceased their argument nevertheless. Louis bit back the urge to chuckle as Zoey continued to shoot sidelong glares at Francis, who was more than happy to do the same. When they chose to squabble they could go on and on – seemingly forever, in fact – until Bill would step in and decisively end the fight. Louis may not have been as authoritative as the veteran, but he didn't need the two of them at each other's throats when they had barely just recovered from their near-brush with death.

"And it's because of these guys that we are," Louis continued while gesturing toward their little 'audience.' "They saved us and patched us up as good as…"

The businessman trailed off, the weight of his words suddenly hitting him in full force. From what Alex had told him upon his awakening, he had a head wound, and that she had redone Zoey's stitching. Judging from the gauze wrapped securely around his cranium, the injury had broken the skin.

They had been openly bleeding…

"Louis?" Zoey gently prodded with a confused stare.

"Oh god…" Louis moaned while bring a trembling hand to his bandaged head.

Francis frowned up at the businessman, "What is it?"

"Our blood…our blood!"

The realization hit Zoey first, almost like a physical blow. Color drained from the brunette's face as she stared fearfully around the room. Francis was last, but knew damn well the situation that they were in now. Memories of Millhaven flashed through the biker's mind like a demented movie reel. The massive survivor heaved himself from his cot into a standing position.

"Your ribs…" Alex began while stepping forward.

Francis sharply cut her off. "We need to leave."

The statement was directed at Mickey, who rose from his chair. "In the state that you all are in? That's suicide, lad."

"Now."

The clergyman brought his hand up in a neutral gesture. "Slow down, now. What's got you three so worried?"

Alex's eyes lit up in understanding. "They're Carriers…"

The trio of survivors stiffened and herded closer together, with Francis unconsciously pulling the other two behind him. "We'll leave peacefully if we can just get our stuff back and go."

Mickey answered with a deep chuckle. "I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding."

"You didn't tell them about us, did ya, Mick?" Cyle muttered.

"I was going to, then you and your brother barged on in here and interrupted our conversation," Mickey chided gently before turning back toward the three survivors. "I realize what you're worried about, but don't be."

Grinning warmly, the clergyman placed the straw hat on his head and spread his arms in a hospitable motion. "Welcome to Sanctuary…"

The survivors merely blinked in confusion.

"…Built by Carriers, for Carriers."


To Be Continued…

Up Next: Luck of the Irish (Part 2)

A/N: Happy belated holidays to all (As little meaning as that may have now)! And welcome to 2012, the supposed final year of mankind (still got my money on the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man destroying the world). I was on hiatus due to midterms, finals, holidays, drunken birthday…the usual, but for the time being I'm back. I would just like to point out that Saints Row: The Third is absurdly awesome.

As for the chapter…didn't intent for it to be split into two parts, but then again I didn't plan for this project to be as long as it is becoming. I was hoping to be further along with this by its one year anniversary, but I ran into some problems that just couldn't be ignored…moving on. Introduced a few of my own personal characters into the fold. Do you think they need more fleshing out? Oh! And I wanted to include at some point in the project a place where Carriers were welcome and accepted, given how much flak they take in the plot.

As my boss so aptly put it: "Dude! It's like the Xavier Institute from X-Men!"

As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.

- C.C.