Cancer. After all the years he spent thinking he would die as a happy old man, he only had two years to live thanks to oral cancer. Only thirty years old and already knowing when he was going to die. He was lying in his bed, left arm behind his head, contemplating the doctor's findings, wondering whether or not he should chance chemotherapy, and all the while staring at the culprit of his disease.
Between his finger and thumb he had a cigarette, holding it between his head and the ceiling, observing the seemingly harmlessly source of stress relief. Smoking these things for twelve years, since he was old enough to buy them legally by himself, laced his tongue and throat with cancerous cells, and not the benign kind.
He sighed heavily and tossed the cigarette to the far corner of his pricy bedroom before sitting up, and succumbing to a fit of harsh coughing. He'd been watching it on the news lately, CEDA reporting about a Green Flu outbreak or some such thing, but what was a little flu compared to cancer? He'd caught it a couple of days ago, but didn't care at all about it. After his coughing fit ended, he rubbed his throat, feeling the occasional lump that shouldn't be there. He decided it was about time to get out of bed and check the news to see if they'd come up with a vaccine or not, just to see if there was some good news for once.
He went into his living room, sat upon the couch, and flicked on the television with his remote control. He did not enjoy what was on the news.
A reporter, an African American woman in pink Depeche Mode t-shirt, was speaking into a microphone in front of a shaking camera. He could barely make out some things in the background, but he could definitely hear some screams.
"This is Rochelle Aytes of the Eyewitness 10 News. Reports indicate that the Green Flu is far worse than anticipated." Her breath was ragged as she and the cameraman appeared to be running from the chaos in the background, "As you can see behind me, some of the infected individuals have lost their minds and started attacking random civilians. They bite and scratch to the point of killing, and those that are dead or on the brink of death have been getting back up. You must all remain alert, barricade yourselves indoors or get the hell out of infected zones! So far, it seems that it's located solely in Pennsylvania, the two main epicentres of the disease being Philadelphia and Erie. Get out or fortify, I repeat, get out of the state or fortify yourselves as soon as possible!"
He left the television on, but paid it no more attention. He had to run or fortify; he knew this. Then he thought of how he had contracted the same flu as them, and wondering if he too would lose his mind. Thinking it for the best, he decided to hole up in his house, specifically his bathroom. He filled it with food and clean water, even going as far as cleaning his bathtub and filling that with excess fresh water. He then began to barricade the door, nailing broken pieces of chair and a table without its legs. Satisfied with what he had done, he checked over what he had again, just to be sure.
A hot plate with plenty of fuel, a hooked hammer, a butcher knife for defense, plenty of food and water, and his lighter.
"There… all done," he said in a scratchy voice before sitting down, "now if I turn into one of them, I won't hurt anyone. If I don't… I'll be safe, and someone will find me. Hopefully."
He rooted through his supplies, looking for something to eat to pass the time, when he saw his carton of cigarettes.
"Well… I'm probably going to die anyway."
He sat down on his toilet, placed a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a long drag.
"Damn that's good."
He continued smoking on into the night, his bathroom fan removing most the smoke. He started to hear cars crashing and guns being fired, and it was to this noise that he fell asleep, allowing the disease to take him in his slumber.
Two and a Half Weeks Later
He awoke groggily, shaking his head from side to side. He didn't feel the jiggling of the extra flesh attached to his face. His mouth was dry, and he could feel a severe need to cough. He got up and grabbed a jug of water nearby, caring more about the water than the look of his hands. His tongue felt like it wanted to burst from his mouth, and had to restrain it as he took a long drink.
It wasn't until he set the jug aside that he noticed that his hands were pale, ragged, and thick skinned. He stood to look down at the rest of himself. His red over shirt and white under shirt were both stained and dirty while his jeans and sneakers looked to be in good condition. He wondered why he was wearing shoes in the bathroom, and through his ponderings came to realize just how little he knew, or rather, remembered.
He looked around to try to get some bearings of what was going on, of whom he was, of where he was. The bathroom door was boarded up, but long scratch marks covered the wood and nearby walls, as if something was desperately trying to get out. He turned completely around, and saw a hotplate by the sink. Inside the sink was a butcher's knife right next to a lighter and a lot of ashes and cigarette butts. His gaze trailed upwards towards the mirror, and upon seeing his own reflection, he gagged and covered his mouth.
His face was covered with several horrible, postulating tumor sacs hanging from the side of his head. They were squishy, nerveless, and utterly disgusting and horrifying. His mouth dropped, and he lost control of his tongue, allowing it to fall out, hanging out at least two feet, and it only served to frighten him more. He backed up against the door opposite to the mirror, and could only watch his disgusting reflection.
He didn't know how long he spent just staring, but he did know how long it took him to get the gruesome idea that had come to mind. One second. He didn't care that it may kill him, he didn't care that he'd be in unimaginable pain, he only cared about getting rid of the horrid tumors. He turned on the hot plate, the sound of leaking gas terribly loud in the quiet bathroom. He grabbed his lighter, lit the portable stove, and turned it to its hottest setting. The smoker searched the room for some kind of cloth, and found a bed sheet in the corner, most likely one he used while trapped in here. Using the butcher knife, he cut it up into long rags, like bandages and set them on the toilet by the sink.
He breathed heavily, giving out hacking coughs, and placed the blade of the knife on the fire. He took the time waiting for the knife to turn red hot to examine his tongue more closely, as that was something he was thinking to keep. It was long, unbelievably long. He could feel it pooling near the bottom of his abdomen, around where he intestines should have been.
'Maybe my guts turned into this?' He thought to himself.
He took a deep, calming breath, and ended up just coughing again. To his side he noticed a half-empty carton of cigarettes. 'I remember… I love these things.' He thought, a few memories returning to him. He grabbed one of the cancer sticks and lit it on the hotplate, still cooking the knife, and took a long puff. Instantly, the tickle in his throat vanished, and he began much more relaxed, even a little euphoric as he inhaled the nicotine.
After inhaling half of his delightful smoke, he saw that the knife had become red hot, and was threatening to melt the hard-plastic handle. He gulped hard, took in as much of the cigarette as he could in one breath, and tossed it into the sink. Taking the knife in hand, he shakily raised it up, brought it to the bottom of his tumors, and began his sickening procedure.
For the next half hour, all that could be heard from the bathroom were his echoing screams and grunts of pain.
The grown of wood giving way sounded off as he unhooked the boards barricading the door with his hooked hammer. After he was done, he stepped out of the bathroom, bloody butcher knife in hand, smokes in his pocket next to his lighter, and his head covered in blood soaked rags. They covered most of his face, leaving only his mouth and one eye uncovered. He looked bald thanks to the rags covering his head, but he couldn't tie them on any other way. He was in pain, but some force of his new biology helped dull his pain receptors, and his better mood brought about by looking vaguely normal helped ease it away.
He noticed his apartment was in a mess, as if someone had been through it already looking for something. No lights were on, and the place smelled of rotten food, so he assumed that the power had been out for a while. His cough returned to him suddenly, and he groaned, reaching for another cigarette. He had it in his mouth and was about to light it when he heard an ear piercing shriek resonate from outside, staling him, causing him to jump and drop his lighter.
Bending over, he picked up the dropped lighter and then quickly ran to the window. Outside he saw people lurching about, looking much like the crazed maniacs on the news, though looking far more calm and subdued. The shrieking continued, and he finally caught sight of it; a crazed, pale woman with giant claws was chasing a man wearing a green hoodie and pants. He noticed that there was a smaller version of the crazed woman sitting on the guy's shoulder, clutching him for safety.
He took a step back in shock when he saw the green dressed man had crouched, then leapt twenty feet into the air, and grabbed on to a drainpipe attached to his building. The pale little girl fell off of the jumper's shoulder, calling out his name, which apparently was Matt. He watched the event unfold right up until the crazed woman fell into the fire at the order of the guy named Matt. The now tumor-less man ran out of his apartment and towards where he knew the stairs to the roof were, one of the few things he remembered. He wanted desperately to find out what exactly was going on in the world and why he woke up with that disgusting thing attached to his face.
He opened to the door to the roof and looked around. It took him only a moment to see the Matt person and the little girl by the edge of the roof. While wondering how to approach them, a cough erupted from his throat that threatened to knock out his cigarette, one that also alerted the other two to his presence.
"Damn it, another one…" Matt said as he stepped defensively in front of the cowering little girl.
He tried to speak to them in some fashion, but only coughing and gurgling escaped his throat. Clapping a hand over part of his mouth, he rooted around for his lighter, all the while Matt was approaching menacingly. Finally finding his lighter, he lit the cigarette and took a long puff, the action causing the hunter approaching to stop. After taking a long drag to clear his throat, he tried to speak again.
"Testing, testing… There we go."
"You can talk? Oh, thank the gods, that's a relief. I didn't think we'd find more like us."
"Yeah, see, that's actually something I was curious about. Look… uhh… she said your name was Matt, right?"
"Yeah, I'm Matt, Matt Destin. She's Parrot." He said, pointing to the little witch girl hiding behind his leg.
"Parrot? What kind of name is that?"
"Do you remember your own name?"
The smoker thought for a moment, and then realised that he didn't remember much of anything about his life, name included, "Uhh… no, actually. How'd you know?"
"I didn't, but I had some ID on me. She didn't remember hers either, so I just gave her a nickname. You have anything on you?"
The newcomer patted his pockets, and only found his carton of cigarettes and lighter, "No… I don't think so. Might be in my apartment though."
"Alright, that sounds good, I can go help. Some shelter would be good to have."
"Me too! I'll help!" Cheered Parrot, happy to have another friendly face about. She opened her arms and Matt picked her up, placing her on his shoulder once more.
"You like it up there, huh?" Inquired the newcomer.
"Mhm! I do, raggy man!"
"Don't pick on him now, Parrot. Whatever those are covering looks like it hurt." Matt said, mildly scolding her.
"Oh yeah, they did. As a side note, don't go into my bathroom, it's not pretty."
The other two nodded, and followed him down the stairs towards his apartment, and began to search it once they got inside. After fifteen minutes, their combined efforts turned up very little, even the clothes had been taken.
"Seems like they took my wallet, and nothing I found points to a name. They took most everything capable of being carried easily."
"Yeah, it seems like survivors thought it to be a good time to be looting." Replied Matt.
"Mm… well, while we're here, how about you explain to me what's been going on? You seem to know more than I do."
"Right well… this is about all I know. A while ago, the Green Flu got out, and eventually it started turning people into zombies. I got infected too at some point, and then I woke up like this. No eyes, super other senses, and I can leap tall buildings in a single bound. There was another like me, but a mindless zombie like the rest. Seemed to be on the hunt. By the looks of things, me, you, and Parrot are some of the lucky, or unlucky, few that can still think for ourselves. The other zombies don't even seem to care about us, except the ones that cry, but that's because we touched her."
The other nodded in understanding, "So… we're kinda like half-zombies huh? Damn… never thought this would ever happen. And it seems like I'll need a new name now, at least, for a while."
"Heh, well, think on it. I wanna go and check up on Parrot, I haven't seen her since we split up to search the apartment."
The nameless apartment owner nodded and Matt left, "Parrot! Where are you?"
A muffled greetings and noisy eating sounds were the only response. This was, however, enough for Matt to pinpoint her location, which was the kitchen. He walked inside and found her sitting on the floor, going to town on a bag of sugar, shovelling the stuff into her mouth.
"What in the world are you doing?"
She looked up at him and shrugged. She swallowed before speaking, "It's sooo good! I just smelled it in here and I couldn't stop! It's almost all gone though…"
As soon as she finished speaking, she went back to eating, quickly finishing the bag, and then began licking at her palms and claws to get any loose crumbs.
"I didn't think it was possible to eat that much raw sugar. Is it the kid in you or the zombie in you?"
She just looked at him innocently and shrugged, still sitting on the floor.
Matt sighed and picked her up, sitting her back on his shoulder, before returning to the living room and the newcomer, "Come on, we gotta help the new guy think of a name. We couldn't find his wallet."
When they returned, they noticed that there were bloody rags on the floor, and their new friend was wrapping fresh, clean ones around his head. The new ones looked more torn than cut, but at least they were clean. The fresh rags were a mix of red and white this time, and still covered his head to make him look bald.
"Ooo, more rags! Where'd ya get those?"
He looked to the little girl as he finished the last knot, "Some spare strips I had in the bathroom, and a curtain for strength."
Matt nodded, as did Parrot, but it was the former that spoke next, "So, think of a name for yourself yet?"
The other man shook his head negatively, and Parrot piped up cheerfully, "I'm gunna call you Rags! Cause you keep puttin' 'em on your head."
Rags blinked at this, "What? No, I don't think that's a good ide---"
Parrot quickly cut him off with, "Nope! Rags, Rags, Rags! That's your name now cause I say so!" She crossed her arms and gave a definitive nod, showing that she meant business, in her own little girl sort of way.
Matt and Rags both looked at her, slightly stunned, then to each other. The ridiculous degree of finality that Parrot had said her sentence struck them both as utterly hilarious, and soon both were laughing heartily. The little girl looked at them curiously and huffed, wondering what was so funny.
After calming down, Rags was the first to talk, "Alright, alright, I'll use Rags for now. Guess it's better than raggy man."
Parrot smiled wide and clapped her palms together, claws making little scraping noises as they scratched together, making Matt shiver a bit.
"What wrong?" She said, looking to Matt.
"Sorry, really sensitive hearing. Your claws scraping together sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me. Always sends a shiver down my spine."
"Oh, sorry."
"Jeez, you two are quite the pair. You seem like long time friends. When did you two meet up?" Asked Rags.
"Huh? Oh, about a half an hour ago. You kind of bond quickly when you think you might be the last two people in the world who can still think." Answered Matt, coming up with a quick explanation.
Rags nodded, accepting the response, "Then hopefully we can all get along," he said with a smirk.
They all smiled to one another, feeling better every second they were in each other's presence.
But the peace was broken by a crescendo of howls coming from the distance. "What the hell was that?" Asked Rags with a look of bewilderment on his face.
"I have no idea." Matt said, before running to the window to scope the situation.
Rags joined him, and Parrot, sitting atop her favourite shoulder, peered out the window as well. All of the zombies that had been calm before, ones just seemingly relaxing in the streets, were all now running as fast as they could, all growling in a feral manner, all heading in the same direction.
"What's wrong with them?" Asked Parrot.
"I have no idea, but how about we go find out? We can just stay out of their way and maybe we'll find out more about what's going on here. They'll most likely ignore us anyway."
"Alright, not like there's much left for us here anyway. I'd like to know more about this too." Said Rags with a nod.
All in agreement, they set out of the apartment and chased after the running horde, and like Matt had said, they were completely ignored by the running zombies.
A/N: I think I made a good choice not to write the gruesome bathroom scene. Well, now we have a party of three, but it wouldn't be Left 4 Dead without a fourth, now would it? Stay tuned.