A/N: Sorry this isn't an Ellis/Zoey chapter. Next one will be - but I have to deal with what happens to these guys, as its an integral part of the story. This'll be the last chapter actually set in the encampment - as it's been hella hard to write this bit and also probably the most tedious part of the story. Got plenty more coming up, so I hope this bit's not too boring for you all.

On a lighter note - finally got 'Still Something to Prove' :') I'm so 'cool'...

An explosion shook the grounds of the encampment as the trio of survivors, accompanied by the soldiers, clambered onto the roof.

Not an explosion of fire, or gas. It was of a different kind. This one came as an explosion of brick. One came in a huge sound, followed by another. The miniguns were working furiously, focussing all of their fire on the thing causing the incessant, damaging pounding. Roars ripped through the air; infected clambering over the gas truck like spiders and breaking into lumbering, pathetic runs when they dropped down, legs torn partially to pieces by the sharp wire curling its way around the wall, like a bramble snake. The hole it had made gaped open, like an unblinking eye. It was punching at it and widening it. They could see its fists reaching through, like a prisoner desperate for water.

However, it was not after water and never would be. Instead, it would make do with their blood and would never stop until it got what it wanted or fell to the lead rainfall. Shouts and cries ripped through the air as the soldiers fired at the thing and the others, surrounding the three carriers on the roof with a barrier of green.

The miniguns, though, did their job, because it did eventually fall down. Only, however, after the hole was around a metre and a half across. They were now clambering through it; squeezing and pushing as they squabbled to get through, frantic to tear whatever was still human apart.

Rochelle didn't know she had done it, but she had gripped Nick's hand, so tightly that her knuckles had actually gone pale. They had come sooner than they thought, so much so. They thought they'd have at least a couple hours more of quiet; with no need to really begin fighting until the last run. But their choices were now reduced to just two, as they always had been before they had gotten to Cliff's Edge.

Kill, or be killed.

"We can do this," Nick whispered harshly to her, though his voice was audibly shaky. "We have a plan. If we just stick with it, we can get through this, as we've done with worse."

Rochelle nodded to please him, though unconvinced and turned to Coach. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing a prayer. From her reporting, she had learned a few things about lip-reading and was able to make a little of it out.

Lord, deliver us from this place,

Save us with your mighty hand.

Keep us in your Kingdom with your might and mercy...

(Save us)

"Forty-eight hours my ass, Nick," she breathed, unable to stop herself. She felt guilty when he looked hurt, so squeezed his hand a little. His palms were smoother than she'd thought they would be, considering his previous business.

"I can't count the infected beyond the wall, honey." He replied, his tone slightly irate. "Situation must've been even shittier than we previously expected."

Rochelle nodded, as two of the soldiers threw a bile jar and a Molotov consecutively; on the survivors' advice. They struck the entrance of the hole; after which their surroundings became thick with screaming. They were drawn to it, like moths to a lamp and they went up in smoke the same way. Coach always thought of hell when he saw them as they ran, burning – and it never failed to freeze every drop of blood in his body. Aside from the moon and their torches, the fire caused by the Molotov was the only light; burning furiously in their vision when they were so used to the dark. They had to squint to make out anything clearly.

There were eight on the roof, including the three of them – and even then, had there been a great enough number, they'd have been cautioned from going up there. The others were either sniping, or in the guard towers, but the trio knew uncomfortably that they wouldn't last much longer. The Smokers would come soon, in the menagerie and they would be one of their worst problems.

"We can do this, men." Bennett said, his voice strong despite the hopelessness. "The future of this country may depend on how we fight here today."

He saluted them and they saluted him.

"Y'aught t've bin'a Major, ya dumb asshole," said Jones, making them all laugh.

"Not me," he responded. "I like drink, rebellion and women far too fuckin' much."

The bile wore away quickly. When it did, the scene below became truly terrifying, in a transition that was almost instant.

The dim had become bright; the darkness changing. The twilight was now filled with eyes. Eyes staring at them; unceasing in their yellow leering.

Dozens upon dozens of them – completely still, heavy breathing rampant in the air.

Coach finished his prayer and cocked his gun.

"Aim for the head."

He shot the first bullet of the night into the forehead of the closest; an overweight man in a TGI Friday's uniform. It echoed around them; a proverbial pin that had dropped.

Then, in a torrent of furious, ugly sounds; they charged.

"I don't want to speak to you."

Francis rolled his eyes.

"You're going to have to eventually, Louis."

The young, IT consultant had aged dramatically in the past few weeks. His brow had crinkled and there were lines around his mouth. His injuries were still bad; one leg still barely hanging in there. Most days he'd swum in the sea, just to get away from speaking to Francis and to help clean the wounds on his damaged leg. He was not in the mood today, so he had lain on the beach, as far away as he could from Francis, who, after nearly a week of silence, had still not gotten the hint.

When he realised Francis wasn't going away this time, Louis gave in and glared over at him furiously.

"We could have gone back for her, Francis," he muttered angrily. "It wasn't too late."

Francis didn't say anything for a minute, his head bowed. Louis shuffled on his side, away from him; not wanting to look at him. This week had been one of the darkest of their lives. Two deaths had brought them to this paradise; free of the infected, or military. It made them both feel dirty thinking about it like that. Louis would far rather be back on the mainland; Zoey and Bill still alive and with them rather than the two of them being out here, alone.

"I wanted to, Louis." He finally said, his voice shaking a little, but Louis was still stubbornly facing away from him. A palm leaf fell, crackling and brown, a few feet away. Its sections stretched toward Francis, like a many fingered hand. He looked at it and thought of Zoey's fingers, reaching through the waves as they claimed her, swallowing her into the blackness. It had haunted their dreams and everything around them seemed to be her, calling out to them and begging for help.

"But we couldn't go back," he continued, his tone becoming more indignant, "because if we'd gone back..."

"We'd have drowned too," Louis spat. "I get that. I still say it'd been worth it. She'd have risked it, had it been one of us."

Francis knew he wasn't looking, but pointed anyway, yelling now.

"Look at the boat, Louis!"

Louis didn't need to, because he knew exactly what he would see. Half of the deck was gone; destroyed by the attacking Tank and the storm. Many of the supplies had become bloated with water; rendering them useless. The majority of the journey to the island had been spent with buckets, hurling water off the side in an attempt to keep the innards dry. They had made it, but only barely; the engine instantly dying as soon as they reached land. Louis had spent the remainder of his time, when he wasn't swimming or sleeping, trying to fix the engine; but the spark plug had frazzled. It was an easily fixable problem ashore, but getting to the mainland now, with no working boat, was virtually impossible.

They were stuck on this island and they could do nothing about it.

Louis heard footsteps behind him; trudges in the sand and knew Francis had finally left him; in favour of another of his long walks. He had been taking them more and more lately, trying to find wood or other supplies. They had made a bonfire to signal any air transport and to keep them warm; the nights becoming fairly cold even in Florida due to the approaching winter, but it needed fuelling. Wood supplies around them were getting low, so it had been up to Francis to acquire the majority of the wood; Louis unable to walk very far.

As the sun moved across the sky in a fiery arc; Louis wondered dimly if Francis was coming back. Although he was angry with the man still; a part of him really needed him. If he lost his company in the place, with nobody at all for the rest of his life in all of this impossibility, he seriously didn't know what to think. This walk was the longest walk that Louis could remember; even topping the one when they first got here. It was hours before he returned and the sun was setting on the horizon; the shadows long and invasive across the white sand of the beach.

"Took you long –"

Francis's face cut his sentence short. He looked like he had run half of the way; deep scratches on his arms from gorse bushes that were clustered about in the small jungle in the centre of the island. Louis had never before seen a man look how Francis did then, no matter how bad things had gotten and it frightened him. He looked like a ghost – his deep tan now fully pale, a nasty greyish-white colour of old oatmeal.

"I need to take you somewhere in the morning and show you something," Francis muttered, half to Louis and half to his shoes.

"Dude what happened out there? Are you –"

"You need to see it to believe it."

"Get down!"

They were everywhere; climbing up onto the roof – surrounding them. The mines had exploded long ago, leaving small craters in the ground; gore scattered generously around them. However, they could not see this in the dim; or through the thickness of the horde that had filled the encampment. The survivors had been reduced to using only their melée weapons; having only a clip left each in their M16s. They would save them until they well and truly had no other choice.

Rochelle eyed the walkie-talkie on Coach's belt and wondered if Ellis could hear any of this. Unbelievably, she found herself, rather than worrying about her own death, which looked pretty imminent at the moment, if the kid was still going. One of the snipers tried to jump down from where they were to get over to the roof of the mess; but something jumped on their head, dragging them off, screaming. None of them saw this, too busy edging their way toward the entry to the mess whilst attempting to stay together, but they all heard the scream and Rochelle shivered terribly.

"Is this how you imagined it?"

Rochelle turned around to look at Nick, looking surprisingly powerful despite his use of a frying pan as a weapon. He beat them back viciously with it, swinging it with all of the skill that Rochelle's grandmamma had used on her cheating ex-husband. She giggled shrilly.

"Not really," she admitted, "but then again, I didn't really think I'd be alive when the world went to shit, either."

"You and me both, doll."

Beating back the horde as they moved, they clambered back into the mess. As she climbed, Rochelle saw the elder of the two men handling the miniguns constricted, a long purple tongue grasping and pulling him like a string on a tent. She tried to call out, but was shoved down into the hole as one of the soldiers bolted shut the small trapdoor leading to the roof. Nausea overtook her as she stumbled backward into the wall; sinking down with her head in her lap.

The doors to the room had been barricaded; but they could see eyes from the outside peering in through the glass as the doors shook; their fists pounding and pounding in order to break them down. They would get through – and soon.

They always did.

"Get a compress!"

Coach turned around and saw the doctor, red-faced and standing over Applegate, whose body was shaking.

He was having a seizure.

"Oh, God –"

Coach ran for the sink; taking off his polo shirt and soaking it in water. Sodden shirt in hand, he rushed back, Nick and Rochelle looking on with worried eyes as Bennett fought over the radio with Papa Gator, using several angry sentences filled with expletives. There was brief purr of interference before the reply came; barely audible over Bennett's panicked breaths.

"Roger that, Corporal. Chopper is on its way and will get there when it gets there. I suggest you and the remainder of your group attempt to plan an escape route for when it arrives. Over and out."

The doctor applied the compress to his head and looked up at the rest of them; mask covering his pursed lips.

"We can't wait around on them. If we don't get him out of here soon, he's going to die. He's haemorrhaging into his brain – meaning next time he goes into shock, it could be it for him."

The young man was now limp; shallow breaths heaving his chest in and out forcefully.

"What d'ya suggest?" Asked Cajun Jones, voice heavy. "He be mon ami, monsieur. I'll risk what needs be for 'im."

"We need to get out of here," the doctor replied sharply. "We need to get out of here and get to the jeeps. There's a hospital a few miles north of here, that we could get supplies from. If we can charge through –"

"There's too many of them now," Nick shot back at him, his tone desperate. "We'll never make it –and if we do, there's still a goddamn gas truck to contend with up against the gates –"

"Unless they have bait."

They turned around to face the soldier with the shoulder wound. His mask had splintered; the visor cracked open to reveal a pair of soulful brown eyes. Despite it however, he was standing tall; an air of decision surrounding him. Nick looked at him and felt how he'd felt towards the actions of the brave soldiers in the guard towers; one of whom, beyond anyone's knowledge aside from Rochelle, was already likely dead.

"How much bile have we got left?"

"Two jars," replied the doctor bitterly, holding them up. "That's all."

He put them on the table in front of them; the green fluid in them glinting in the light of their torches.

"Are the jeeps in working order, Lowry?"

"Two are," the soldier furthest away replied, "but the other's brakes are cut. I tried to fix them up, but the fluid needed for the hydraulics must've leaked out. There wasn't enough left in supply to replace it."

They could barely hear each other over the terrible noise from outside. It closed in like dense air inside a bubble; pounding at the walls. They felt as if they were in a funhouse, or trapped within something that seemed alive. Glass splintered as hands began to claw through the doorway, their hinges squealing loudly. They had piled as much furniture as humanly possible around it, but the doors wouldn't take much more. If another Tank came, they would be dead in seconds.

"We're going to have to move," Nick cut in. "If we run, we can make it before the bile wears off. It's the best chance we have. This room can't help us anymore. If we go down into that cellar, they'll just beat their way into there too."

Rochelle stepped forward; placing a supportive hand on his arm.

"He's right," she said. "I ran about half that distance alone, from the barracks to the power shed, during that first wave. With bile, we can make it."

Bennett whistled in awe, as Applegate pushed up with his hands, fighting to sit up. The doctor shushed him, gently easing his head back down. A side table overturned near the door; falling near them and breaking a leg. Rochelle helplessly imagined the constricted man, but forced her face to stay straight.

Jones stepped forward, urging away the doctor and picking up Applegate in a piggyback. His compress fell off, which Coach then proceeded to pick up and pull back over his head; the damp smell of stagnant water mixing unpleasantly with his sweat.

"Tis t'only way," he said, voice struggling under Applegate's weight affecting his arm. "I'll carry him ova' dere. Can't let dis'eyre boy die yet."

Bennett nodded, touching his shoulder.

"You're a good man, Jean," he said. "I could never be more proud to know anyone."

Jones just shrugged, hissing at the strain of doing so. Lowry went to approach him, but Jones shook his head.

"Dis be for moi, boy," he whispered. "You be needed elsewhere."

Bennett turned to the others, his fingers flexing and unflexing next to the two handguns at his sides. They were both Glocks and fully loaded. His assault rifle, however, was empty. He would not be able to take point for the others with the weapons he had, despite being in the best condition out of all of his fellow soldiers.

"Is anyone still alive out there?" He asked into his walkie-talkie.

Coach was ashamed that even he'd not expected a response. It took a few seconds, but words did crackle through; the creaking of the hinges almost fazing them out.

"Private Samberg here, sir – and only just," yelled the young man over the frequency.

Bennett let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank God for that. What's happening out there?"

"Luton is still going, but it's looking like he's not going to last – they're charging away from the gates towards the buildings and with nobody up there..."

He trailed off. Bennett gave him a minute before saying anything.

"He'll have to fight them off for now, if he can't get down. We're forming a plan to get us out of here. Are you able to walk?"

"I can walk," Samberg replied, "but only barely. My left ankle's broken."

Bennett swallowed.

(Out of all of the injuries)

"Good. Here are my orders. I want you to move the gas truck out of the way of the gates. After you do that; I want you to climb back up into the guard tower and electrify the fence. The battery won't last long, but it might just be able to buy us enough time for us all to push through. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'll help him," the Sergeant cut across. "With a broken ankle, he's going to need all the help he can get. I can run."

Rochelle wanted to step forward and say something. They were risking their lives and she felt badly that needed to just do something. She looked at them all and thought of how unfair she had been to them; thinking of them as cowards. If she had seen so many at once, having only fought from a distance before, when one bite could kill...

The way this facility had been run had been a dispute of differences between the carriers and the authorities. Rochelle – as well as the others – had disliked feeling the constant threat, knowing that their lives were virtually out of their hands. But they all had a common goal – and that was survival. The will to fight. The soldiers had gotten that back, at least for now and they weren't giving it up.

"Roger that," Bennett added, "Sergeant Ogden will assist you for backup –"

Coach held up a quivering finger.

"Look."

The hinges had bent into shapes that were virtually pretzel – like. Blood pooled on the floor in front of them; dripping from hands coated in something congealed and terrible. Rochelle's own hands were sweating so badly, that her machete slid downwards; the blade stinging her skin. She swore and looked at it, wishing that she had been more careful. A thin red line streaked across her palm for a moment; before her blood welled over – a river bursting its banks.

Something in that metaphor broke her. With a yell; she charged towards the doors, swinging her machete in a silvery crescent. Stabbing and cutting furiously; she did not stop, even when she became plated in blood; continuing on when the doors finally buckled.

I control my own fuckin' destiny, thank you very much.