The Eleventh Evening – The night 'Dust to dust' took on a whole new meaning.

-Francis-

"I feel like there are better ways we could be chillin' with the world ending," Tripp muttered, staring almost dejectedly down at his whiskey. His longish brown hair was tied in a horsetail at the back of his neck, lying in between the leather-clad shoulder blades and stopping halfway down his back. The air was thick with the smell of leather exuding from he and his colleagues, though between two pairs of pants, a set of chaps (that Tripp was damn proud of, thank-you-very-much), and one very special vest, the odor wasn't surprising, though nor was it entirely unpleasant. The man on Tripp's right smiled a little, watching the old television mounted above the left corner of the bar, but didn't respond past that. "You know?" he prodded, knowing he was being ignored by both of his colleagues as well as the bartender. "Hit the highways for a poker run, something." The distant sounds of people milling about were just barely audible through the thickness of the old Winchester's walls. These, too went apparently unheeded.

"Highways are boned," the third of the group grumbled, folding tattooed arms over a broad chest. He rubbed a hand subconsciously over his shaved head, irritated. "Goddamn military is all over the fucking place like it's a damn warzone."

"…have a little respect, Francis," the man beside Tripp said quietly, storm-colored eyes not moving from the screen. Francis raised an eyebrow at his fellow biker, glancing down the bar as Leon—the third of their group—nodded his head at the grey-haired man seated at the end of it. The older male was dressed in fatigues and watching the television screen just like Leon and the bartender, forehead creased in what appeared to be deep thought. The glimmer of the silver dog tags around his neck was just visible in the dim light that permeated from behind the bottles of alcohol opposite them on the bar.

"I hate the military," Francis grumbled, though per his friend's request (God only knew why) he kept his voice low when he said it. Leon nodded slightly in approval. He was a serious one but the other bikers respected that, taking his usual long silences for what they were: just another part of the flavor the Legion provided. Some might have called them mismatched: Francis was the most vocal of the group, as well as the most forward. Leon was quiet and focused while Tripp was just that, a trip down the highway to Hell kicking and screaming and damn near wasted every minute his ass was on his bike and his bike on the road. The longneck in his hand was empty and he beckoned to Al, the wizened bartender, for another.

On the television, warnings and CEDA advisories were trailing in bright letters across the bottom of pictures detailing an overwhelmed hospital in the center of the city. Even the newscaster was clearly stopping every few words to cover a cough with the back of her manicured hand. The people in the pictures and video looked far less composed than she; the deeper into the city the news clips went, the more crowded and chaotic the scene became. Francis's pronouncement about the highways seemed to be true of most of the streets out of the city, as well as many of those within it. Barbed wire fences blocking off entire streets and flanked by armed military personnel were even visible in a few of the shots.

"Whole place is going to Hell in a hand basket," Al murmured mournfully. "Haven't seen riots this bad in years."

"Those aren't rioters," the man in the fatigues said, eyes hard.

"Then what the Hell do you call it, old man?" Francis asked. Leon frowned a little; the veteran scowled.

"I call it panic. Chaotic like a riot yes, but not all those people are running away." He pointed at the screen, across which a short clip of a crowd was playing. "The news won't talk about it but the sickness is doing something to people. Something bad." Francis scoffed and muttered something under his breath, though he did watch the scene on the TV a little more closely. True to the war vet's word he could pick out people in the background that seemed to be running down those around them, punching and clawing and kicking like madmen. The soldiers appeared to try and maintain order but there were more of the attacking than they could control. The news station cut away for a commercial break.

"It's a bunch of bullshit any way you slice it," Francis proffered, "…but we might be able to get something out of it." Tripp perked up instantly, finishing his whiskey in one long gulp.

"You think, Francis?" Tripp was the minority sidekick to Francis's mainstream superhero, if the superhero routinely started bar fights and punched other breathing things when they looked at him funny. The taller man snorted at the question.

"Hell yeah I do. We can definitely find something to keep us…" he glanced at the scowl on the old man's face down the bar and rephrased, "…entertained. You coming with, Leon?" The dark haired biker closed his eyes, not responding for a long moment.

"…I think I'll pass." Tripp's face fell a bit at that; Francis just shrugged, not surprised. Leon was a good friend of his, close as brother and had been for years on the road. The difference between them was that while Tripp and Francis had joined the Legion for camaraderie and to start shit, Leon used riding his bike mainly to get away, though from what Francis didn't know. About the only thing he knew about Leon was that the man took meticulous care of his motorcycle and was a damn good guy to have watching your back when the shit hit the fan. Beyond that, he had no idea why the hell the guy hung around when he didn't say word one most of the time.

Tripp…Tripp was different. The man was a solid guy but a little thicker than most between the ears. His intentions were good, or rather, his intentions went along with everything Francis told him, which worked out OK for everyone involved…well, everyone involved on the bikers' side, that is.

Francis stood, slapping his hands to the wooden bar. His excitement was palpable and catching, at least to Tripp. The latter stood up so fast he nearly brained himself when his foot caught in the barstool's leg and he toppled. The old man down the bar snickered; Leon shook his head; Francis snorted a laugh and offered a hand to haul the smaller man to his feet.

"You gonna be open for awhile Al?" The bartender nodded.

"Not going let some flu stop the thirsty. Though," as he glanced at the television, deep lines furrowed his forehead, "I may lock the door if the crazies filter down towards this end of town. Just give a knock if you can't get in and I'll see to it that you do." Francis gave Al a grin, clapped Leon once on the shoulder, and headed for the door.

"We'll catch ya on the flip side then. Ashes to ashes, Leon."

"Dust to dust," the other man replied quietly. "If it weren't for the Legion…"

"The highways would rust," Tripp finished.

If either of them noticed the veteran's scowl deepening they ignored it as the door to the Winchester thumped closed behind them.

"Let's hoof it for now," Francis instructed and Tripp, ever the eager one, nodded vigorously. "We'll see what entertainment we can scare up."

Unbeknownst to the biker it was the 'scare' in his words that would hold the most gravity on how his night—and his life—would progress from that point. But at that point he didn't give half a damn, relishing instead the cool air and the tingling of an evening's first adrenaline.

Still plodding along, sorry for the wait! Thanks to everyone who favorited/added me to their update list!!! PLEASE R&R

A/N: There is a blatant homage to 'Shaun of the Dead' in this chap a la the bar being named the "Winchester." A minor point but giving credit where it's due :) Also, Al and Leon, while not in L4D, are based on likenesses from Batman and Kingdom Hearts respectively.

-K-