A/N: Whoooo, chapter two. I want to take this time thank my one and only reviewer, clac234, for reviewing the both the prologue and the first chapter. Seriously, you are awesome. I hope you'll stick around even if this story fails to live up to your expectations. If it doesn't, at least tell me before you decide to stop reviewing my crap, so I don't start wondering, "Where did my one and only reviewer go? ;_;"

If you're reading this but not reviewing this, that's cool I guess. But reviews give me a HUGE burst of happy. Seriously, they like, make my day. And happiness brings motivation. But if you're not reading this then I guess you really don't care so nyaaaa. BUT IF YOU ARE READING THIS, please, make a teenaged girl's day. :D I'm not one of those people who say "REVIEW OR I WON'T WRITE RAWWR" because I write for fun, but hey. Reviews rock.

Jacky is kinda out of character in this chapter. If she even has much of a character yet after two chapters. The monologue is really weird if you ask me and when I read it over my reaction was "... neh" but I decided it was good enough. Unfortunately I'm not a very "devoted" writer yet. I'm sorry. :X

Feel free to point out any grammar issues or WTF words. Sometimes I'll type a word that I totally did not mean to type. My brain moves faster than my fingers on the keyboard (and my fingers on the keyboard are pretty fast). The first draft is always a diaster and I usually only notice the errors until after I publish it. The first chapter has been edited already.

Long author's note is long. This where I SHOULD put a disclaimer saying I don't own Left 4 Dead but uh... this is fanfiction so... duh.

Chapter 2
the bad stuff

The silence was so thick we were practically swimming in it. Everyone stared from their places in the room at Mr. Fredrickson's bleeding, twitching form, not quite believing what they were seeing. I didn't. I couldn't. This was like some strange dream, some strange nightmare. Blood oozed from the bullet holes in my late teacher's chest, and I swallowed the rising sobs in my throat. Biology. Teacher. Floor. Dead. Blood. Bullets. Gun. Student. Murder.

I tried to press myself against the back of the wall even more than I had been, maybe trying to disappear, to wake up. I only realized my breathing was rapid and shallow when I started to feel light-headed. Not happening not happening this was not happening this never happens to me not to me not to my family—

A scream punctured the quiet like a soap bubble, and two dozen heads whipped around to the source of the noise. Huddled in a corner, farthest as could be from the armed boy in the center of the room, was Madison Karr. Showing all signs of losing her petty blonde head, she cowered against the wall with her arms folded and her body hunched over her knees.

"You killed him," she said once, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared at Mr. Fredrickson's murderer. Then she grabbed fistfuls of her shoulder-length hair and tears exploded from her eyes. "You killed him!" she screamed.

"Yeah, what the hell, Dylan?" I shouted, wheeling around to the wiry brown haired teenager gripping a pistol in his hands tightly, only a few meters away from me. I don't know how I remembered his name, but I certainly needed to remember how to breathe correctly after using all that air to sob and scream. I forgot myself for a moment as I tried to steady myself, I even closed my eyes and put one hand on my chest, trying to slow my breathing. In, out. In, out. Deeper breaths. The light headed feeling faded, but the panic and sheer terror I felt did not. While I was trying to calm down, though, everyone else decided to choose that moments to freak out.

"We're going to die!"

"He's going to kill us!"

"I need my cellphone. Where's my cellphone?"

The classroom exploded into a huge screaming, crying, and hair pulling fest the loud resounding crashes coming from frustrated and scared boys flipping over desks. Only a few remained quiet, slumped against the walls staring hopelessly at their palms or looking very ill. I guess everyone would be feeling sick after watching their teacher get shot. It was difficult for me to breathe again as a sob choked out of my mouth. I slapped a hand over it, more tears leaking out of my eyes.

"He killed Steven!" Dylan shouted over the chaos, and only a few paused to look up at him with wide eyes. "He killed Steven, and you're saying I'm the problem here?" I only bit my lip and listened to the millions of replies.

"You're holding us hostage!" Madison was the first to shriek. "You killed them and now—oh my God, oh my God, oh my God..."

"Probably shot Steven himself—"

"Mr. Fredrickson wouldn't—"

"Liar! You shot him on purpose!"

"Dead! Two people are dead! Why is this—"

"Why did you have a gun in your bag, Dylan?" a scrawny boy with greasy hair and a football jersey sitting against the wall not even a foot from me murmured, and yet it was the only thing I heard and registered. Yeah. Yeah. Why did Dylan have a gun? Why did he have it in his bag? Why? Why? This was school. No guns at school were allowed. No exceptions. Except maybe for cops. Dylan was not a cop.

"Why?" Dylan rounded around to face me and the majority of the class, huddled in the back of room, trying to get as far away from the corpses and the maniac as they could. He seemed to glare at each of us individually. "You want to know why?"

A few nodded, although wide-eyed and dazed like. Dylan let out a short, bark like laugh and clenched his fingers around the butt of the gun, but the laughter didn't reach his cold blue eyes. "I got up this morning and went to school today, and I planned on shooting down every one of you motherfuckers. That's why."

I could feel the blood draining out of my face, my hands trembling violently. This was it, then. I was going to be killed by a teenager I haven't even spoken to, but a teenager that obviously held a huge grudge against the majority of the school. Maybe he was bullied. Maybe when he was younger, the children were cruel to him. I didn't know. I didn't know him.

I closed my eyes tightly, trying to clear my eyes of tears without wiping them away with my hand and smudging my eyeliner. And now, I never will.

The breathing exercises from before obviously didn't work. I was hyperventilating, crying, breathing rapidly. Was I just thinking, a split second ago, about wiping away my tears and ruining my eyeliner? How could I be so stupid? How could I be such a priss? A disgusting feeling wound up in my stomach and I slowly opened my eyes to see Dylan standing on top of a desk staring the class down with a pinched up expression.

"Maddie, don't—!" Most of everyone turned when they saw a girl desperately reaching out to her friend as she scurried away, daringly crawling past Dylan in some strange crab like motion that was almost humorous if only the situation was appropriate for it. Dylan spared her a glance as she wrenched her duffel bag out from underneath an overturned desk, viciously unzipped it, plunged her arm into and yanked out a bright pink flip phone, punching in the numbers for what I guessed to be 9-1-1.

"Thank God," someone breathed.

"Idiot!" I said, but my voice was hoarse from screaming and crying before. I coughed into my fist. "He's right there, he'll kill you!"

But Dylan didn't seem to care. He seemed strangely interested in a couple huddled in the corner Madison once was in, the girl with curly red hair—Bonnie—saying soothing things and petting Braiden's hair. I only knew his name because she kept saying it, over and over, "Braiden, Braiden, Braiden..."

"Was he sick before?" Dylan asked Bonnie, holding his weapon in a defensive position. What a dick. He was going to make conversation with us and draw this out instead of just killing us and getting it over with. My blood turned to acid burning in my veins at the thought, a strange energy surged through my body that hit me so hard I could barely see straight, but before I could act on any violent impulses a word gently floated into my thoughts: s i c k. . .

Was he sick before?

Sick? I craned my neck past all of the people lining the wall to my right to get a glimpse of Braiden who was slumped over with Bonnie hanging all over him, his hands clammy and his eyes glassy.

"No," Bonnie sobbed, pressing her face to Braiden's face and closing her eyes, big fat tearing clinging to her big thick eyelashes. He didn't react at all, only stared ahead of him emptily. "No, no, he wasn't, he was fine earlier today."

I leaned forward a little more to get a full of view of Braiden, and the first thing I noticed was a strange one.

His slump was similar to Mr. Fredrickson's before Dylan shot him.

I could see the wheels turning in Dylan's head. He licked his lips and raised the gun to the couple.

Bonnie screamed and threw himself over Braidon as if to protect him. Others wailed and sunk further into the walls. The poisonous energy returned.

"What do you think you're doing?" I shouted, taking big steps towards him. I considered how brave and stupid I was being for a moment. I could be shot any moment now. "You said you killed Fredrickson because he attacked us— Braiden hasn't done anything! You dick! You just want to kill us!"

Dylan whipped his head to me, freakishly pale blue eyes glaring down at me. I was right next to him, only he was still standing on top of a desk. I was also really terrified, but I hoped it didn't show. His loud reply came quickly.

"Haven't you seen the movies? There must be a freakish sickness going around, turning everyone into mindless monsters and—"

"Fredrickson was not a monster!"

"Yes, he was! He had yellow eyes and he attacked Steven! Now he's somehow spread it to Braiden and Braiden's going to give it to someone else if we don't kill him, now!"

"Nobody's answering!" Madison shrieked hysterically, slamming her phone onto the ground. "Why isn't anybody answering?"

"You're an idiot, Dylan!" I threw my hands up in the air and turned my back him, and faced the rest of the class. "That stuff doesn't happen in real life! When someone finds us, you'll be going to jail!"

The high pitched scream shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did—it seemed to be becoming a normal sound in this classroom—but still my body jerked at it and I looked for the source and—Bonnie. Braidon's very teeth sunk into her neck and blood sprayed out fall over his face. I staggered back, the urge to puke very strong once again. Minutes. He was healthy just minutes ago. In mere minutes he—he—impossible! This was impossible!

Reflexively Dylan held the gun up to eye level and shot probably half a clip of bullets into both of them, assuring himself they were dead.

"Why'd you shoot Bonnie?" I screamed, turning back around to face him and grabbing the leg of his baggy pants. I stopped caring by this point that tears were streaming from my eyes and my heart was pounding three times as fast as it should have been. "Why!"

"She was dead anyway!"

"What is this?" still I screamed, and my arms wrapped around his leg, his calf the only thing at eye level. I crushed the thing like a boa constrictor. "What is this and why is this happening? Why are they dead? Why do you want to kill us? Tell me!"

I was seeking comfort in this freak, this delinquent, this boy, and it was embarrassing. I couldn't think, I couldn't see, and I was asking for answers from the enemy. I expected him to kick me off any minute, but he didn't. I think he was glaring at me from above. The acidic feeling, the hatred, the anger, melted into pure terror and desperation. I couldn't... I wouldn't... ever understand. My brain raced, senseless thoughts darting across it.

What could this...

Thump-thump, my heart beat in my ears.

What could this be?

Something is wrong with Mr. Fredrickson... something is wrong with Braiden...

Maybe we should take them to the doctor.

Bonnie, too?

No, Jacky, there's no cure for death.

What can I do?

What can I do?

Nothing. He'll probably shoot you, too.

What could this possibly be?

Let go of his leg.

What's going to happen to Mom and Dad?

What's going to happen to you?

Is this why Jay couldn't give me a ride?

Jay is dead.

I can't die. I'm only sixteen. I don't have my license.

Only the good die young.

What does that even mean?

What's going to happen to everybody?

Is everybody going to be okay?

Everybody is dead, Jacky.

And then there was one word: flu.

The headlines of the paper this morning flashed in my head.

DEATH TOLL FOR FLU RISES

No. No way. No...

This stuff doesn't happen to me.

Ha...

Nothing bad... ever happens... to my family.

Ha ha.

The bad stuff always misses us.

The bad stuff always passes us by.

The armed teenager shouted something, and I clung to him still. But I opened my eyes. An orchestra of screams and shrieks and shouts rose from not only my classmates, but something feral just outside the door. A chunk of the door flew across the room and a dozen limbs shot through the hole, clawing, groping, reaching at the air, at us. Sickly gray arms, covered in sores and blisters and blue veins and blotchy spots. Hands with sharpened claws and outstretched fingers reaching for—for what? My throat? My heart? It didn't matter. The hole in the door got bigger and mad beings crawled through it, delighted shrieks rising from their throats as they stumbled at an alarming speed towards other human life.

Dylan pushed me off of his leg and to the ground, and I finally realized he wasn't the threat here anymore.

I don't know who the first person to launch themselves out the window was, but it sent shards of glass flying across the room that bit into the skin of my forearms as I brought them up to shield my face. I thought, what a fool. I didn't know if that was someone following the impulse to commit suicide or a desperate attempt to get away, hardly thinking of the consequences. But after that, even I thought of little. I just snatched up a larger piece of glass, ignored how it immediately cut deeply into my palms, and began plunging it into anything and everything fleshy and pale skinned. I only knew I needed to live, and I couldn't depend on Dylan.

I'm deaf, I decided, clumsily slicing the neck of a girl with neatly combed hair, little head ribbons, shiny black Mary Janes... and soulless yellow eyes. I couldn't hear anything. Everything was just a dull buzz, the screams and shatters and cries all melting into one monotonous sound.

"Ammo! I need more ammo!" Dylan shouted, smashing someone's head in with the butt of his pistol with a sickening crack. Human skulls were not that fragile. "My bag! Get me my bag!"

He was screaming at no one in particular, but the bag was just by my feet because I had been knocked further away from Dylan cutting through these people. I let the shard of glass drop from my hand and I fell to my knees, starting to tear open the black book bag I recognized as his, but a sharp pain shot up my arm from my fingers and I yelped, my arm jerking oddly. I looked at my hand, and when I saw the wounds, it hurt ten times more. One deep cut in my palm, and four others at the ends of my fingers. The blood was mine, and not belonging to any other.

My fingers. My fingers were going to fall off.

"Hurry up!"

As fast as I could with one badly trembling hand, I unzipped the bag and reached my hand in there. It was full of clips of ammo, I could tell just by feeling inside the bag. Something swiped at my shoulder and I let out a low hiss as I struggled to my feet, but when I turned around a large, thick book collided with the person's skull, successfully bringing it to the ground. Someone bumped me in the shoulder that was swiped and caused me to stumble forward, but before I could yell at them three of the insane students killing us were on him and tearing at his insides. Everything was a blur of colors, shapes, and vague outlines, all human faces either fogged with some sort of madness or just a smudge of facial features. I could barely see the overturn desks around me, the battlefield that was this classroom. The only thing in clear crystalline focus was the clip of bullets in my hand, my nearly severed fingers, and Dylan, still standing on top of a desk and holding his ground against anyone who came near him, brutally beating away and kicking whatever came near him. But he wouldn't last long.

And then none of us would last.

The bullets. If he gets the bullets, we'll survive.

I made a run for Dylan.

I leapt over the desks, the chairs, the bodies, shoved aside and punched at the fragile bodies desperate to kill me, ignored how impossible, illogically, incomprehensible this situation one and focused on one thing alone: survival. And if I was going to survive, I had to get these bullets to Dylan.

A fleeting thought passed me—you're killing your friends.

But my friends were killing me. And I would never let my friends kill me.

Somehow I made it to him. Somehow, I managed to avoid his kick aimed at my head at the blind accusation I was one of the rapid, and I managed to slap the clip of bullets in his hand. Somehow, Dylan finished off what was left of the monsters and somehow they stopped coming through the door.

Somehow, I survived. Dylan survived.

The silence was sudden and great, almost as deafening as the chaos not minutes before. There were several things missing. Screams. Cries. Sobs. But there was only Dylan's heavy breathing and little hisses of pain from me.

I brought my eyes up from the ground, and something caught in my throat.

We were the only ones who survived.