They Left Four Dying - Chapter 3

It was one thing for a pacifist like Kyle to fire a weapon at something he believed contained life. It was another thing for a pacifist like Kyle to fire a weapon at somebody he actually knew, hung out with before, and respected. It would have taken all the irony in the world, combined into a ball of morbid humour and thrown at the Blacks' mansion by the hand of God himself for the latter situation to actually happen, but as it turned out, South Park just had something that made for fantastic ironic comedy.

Kyle's mind, on the other hand, was as far away from jokes as humanly possible as he stared into the dead eyes of Token Black, the grip on his pistol quivering and his lower lip trembling as he fought the urge to cry. Kyle had always been the most emotional of their group of four, though his excess emotional energy was usually spent spitting out verbal counter-missiles to Cartman's volley of anti-semitic jibes, making him come off to everyone as more of a fiery redhead than a prissy, crybaby one. Kyle hardly cried, even when he was by himself, after all. It seemed like such a ridiculous thing to do when he was living in a town where he consistently had to deal with things that were out of the ordinary. The only appropriate reaction to the town's insanity was to either be angry about it, or to laugh it off. Kyle was, most decidedly, not the giggly type.

Kyle was still, however, an emotional kid. And in the face of this situation, where his old childhood friend was staring at him with hungry eyes, like he wanted to eat him alive, there was very little room for either rage or comedy. Still in partial denial at the utter crappiness of the hell that had descended upon his town, Kyle squeaked out two syllables, his gun still clutched firmly, albeit shakily, in his hands.

"Token?"

The hunter's reaction startled him. Upon hearing him speak, the zombie growled and refocused its attention on its small, but still meaty prey before pouncing yet again, more ferociously than before, its legs springing it outwards with inhuman force. Kyle hastened to feint to the side as he had done successfully before, but wasn't as lucky or fortunate this time round as he felt the hunter's firm grip upon his leg before it pulled him to the ground, Kyle yelping in pain as he landed painfully on his side. Gasping a little in his shock and fear, Kyle felt rough fabric rubbing against his skin, and realised to his horror that the zombie was actually reeling him in against the carpet on the floor, his eyes looking menacingly hungry as he opened his gaping jaw.

Kyle knew that he was exaggerating to himself a little, but this was become too much of a convertor-belt-ish situation for him to be comfortable, and dead-Token or not, Kyle was not going to be eaten like a slab of steak. With more strength than he thought possible of himself, Kyle lashed out with his right foot, feeling the zombie's jaw crack as he contacted the beast's chin, causing the hunter to stumble backwards and lose its grip on Kyle's foot. Kyle shakily unclicked the safety on his pistol, but before he could even raise his weapon and steady it, the hunter was on him again, this time gripping on his torso and pushing him against the floor, its jaw practically clicking with anticipation of meat and the new injury that it couldn't feel.

Kyle had never felt more terrified in his life. In the midst of the fear that he might die at the hands of one of his old friends, he heard the sound of a shout that sounded like it came from downstairs, and his entire body seized up. It was as though a spark had spontaneously ignited in his head, and although he was afraid, he had promised Kenny something just before they had entered this God forsaken hellhole of a house. He had promised that he would be able to not only look after himself, but protect them with every breath that he could muster from his body.

With that in mind, rage finally began to trickle into Kyle consciousness. The zombie that was straddling him was not Token Black. He was not their resident friendly rich kid. That kid was dead, and Kyle was somehow sure that if he was still alive, he wouldn't want to be in a situation where he was pinning his Jewish friend to the wall in a painfully compromising situation and wanting to eat his brains out.

He had to do Token a favor.

Screaming bloody murder, Kyle let loose the last figment of self-control that he had before raising his hand, grabbing the zombie's head and smashing it as hard as he possibly could into the adjacent wall, watching as it fell to the ground in a messy heap. When the hunter twitched beneath his feet and turned its head to face him, its jaw still clicking with anticipation, Kyle slammed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth before firing round after round into the zombie's figure, not letting up until the click of a hollow chamber woke him from his blind trigger-happiness.

Turning violently away from the dead zombie, Kyle stumbled a little before finding his feet again, wiping the hot tears that had leaked unconsciously from his eyes away. Spotting a bottle of alcohol and somehow instinctively knowing that he was going to need it, Kyle snatched it up and threw the door open.

There was time to cry later.


His rifle lay by his side, forgotten in the midst of blood and terror. Stan couldn't feel anything, and couldn't even move a muscle to defend himself. He couldn't feel the cold sweat running down his back, or the blood that was streaming down open wounds that were mercilessly torn open by the witch, who was attacking in the way that suggested that she was running on nothing but blank rage. It was antithetical to think that the dead could process emotions, but the redness in the witch's eyes and the rawness of her attacks suggested that she was not only alive, but was desperate to swap Stan's life for her own. The one thing Stan could feel was the life rapidly draining away with the blood pouring from his body.

Another slash, and Stan winced as the witch's blow struck his face, leaving behind a sharp gash on his cheek. Another slash, and Stan screamed in agony. He had definitely felt that one. Another slash, and Stan felt pained tears streaming down his cheeks as he bit down on his lips hard enough to draw blood, in a futile attempt to distract himself from the pain that was radiating from his body.

Then there was another scream that sounded nothing like his or the witch's. Stan turned his head weakly in the direction of the sound, only to see a pint-sized blond boy dressed in a dirty orange parka dashing with all his might towards him, his rifle raised magnificently above his head like a tribal spear.

With a growl that sounded almost feral, Kenny, short and unassuming as he was, drove the butt of his rifle into the witch's unsuspecting chin with as much force as his small stature could muster, watching in cruel satisfaction as the witch's neck snapped backwards before she stumbled, crashing into the wall directly behind her. Realising that he had forgotten to load his rifle, but not wanting to give her any time to recover, Kenny unsheathed his loaded Desert Eagle from its holster, unclicked the safety, and emptied his entire magazine into the demon, yelling as loudly as he could in his rage, his earlier warnings to his friends about being stealthy forgotten in his need to avenge Stan for the blood he had spilled.

It wasn't until he heard an anguished moan from behind him did Kenny's entire posture slump, all the adrenaline fading from his veins as he re-evaluated his priorities. Turning around, Kenny sheathed his pistol before kneeling down, taking in the sorry sight on the ground before placing his palms on a particularly nasty wound on Stan's stomach and applying pressure, a worried expression etched on his face.

"I seriously...owe you one, dude."

"Don't thank me yet, Stan. We need to find the other two and regroup before leaving this place. Thank me once we're safe."

"Her claws hurt like hell, but I don't think I'm seriousl-LOOK OUT!"

Startled by Stan's sudden outburst, Kenny spun back around, only to see five sharp miniature appendages flying towards him. Realising that it would take far too long to pick up his weapon to defend himself, Kenny raised his arm to protect his face, yelling out in agony as the witch left five deep cuts on the skin of his forearm. Kenny reached to his side in an attempt to snatch up his rifle, only to be beaten to the punch by a shower of 5.56mm rounds tearing their way into rock hard but weakened flesh. It appeared that that final attack finally did it, the witch falling to the ground almost in slow motion, like at the end of a hard boss battle of some video game. Kenny turned his head and saw Stan standing up, his AK-47 still smoking from the sheer velocity of its semi-automatic firing.

Stan wobbled a little before the weight of all his injuries fell upon him in a single swoop. He crashed to the ground, his rifle falling with a loud clatter next to him.

"Shit...that really took it out of me..."

Kenny was on him in an instant, angry tears in his eyes.

"Stan, you idiot! Why did you do that when you're bleeding out! I could have looked after myself!"

Stan merely grinned weakly at his friend.

"I don't know...my body just moved..."


Eric Cartman was not a pushover. Sure, he was an anti-semitic who also consistently ripped on black people. Sure, he was an arrogant bastard who believes that the rest of the universe orbits around his massive gravitational pull. Sure, he was in constant denial that he was fat. Eric Cartman was all of those things, but he was not, in any circumstance ever, a pushover. As far he was concerned, Cartman was damn strong, God fucking dammit.

But as wave after wave after wave of zombies poured through the broken glass windows on the first floor of Token's home towards him, Cartman felt his strength rapidly running out. There was just something about the fear of being eaten, the sound of dozens of feet on parquet floors, the disorientation brought about by gooey crap in his eyes, and the lack of knowledge regarding exactly when the horde of zombies would deplete itself that made for a remarkably potent combination that could bring even the strongest person down to their knees. Cartman was still holding his own relatively well, having navigated via instinct and found a nice corner to funnel the zombies into and blast their faces in with his shotgun, but his patience and willpower were gradually wearing thin.

As the shotgun gave a hollow "click", Cartman swore before reaching fat fingers into the ammunition pouch on his side before popping shells back into the gun one by one. Shotguns had a ton of power, but had an astonishingly cumbersome reloading mechanism that made Cartman swear under his breath with every single cartridge he handled, the zombie horde getting disturbingly closer and closer to him with every reloaded shell.

"Fuck...fuck...fuck..."

One of the zombies succeeded in touching his foot, and Cartman, not expecting the sudden contact, yelped before kicking it back into its group of similarly undead friends. Another zombie succeeded in grabbing his arm, and Cartman screamed before shoving it off himself. His shotgun was barely loaded, and Cartman estimated that he would be finished with his weapon ammunition in about two more minutes of fighting. As what felt like swarms of zombies surrounded him, Cartman closed his already blinded eyes in abject terror just before he heard a familiar voice that he somehow couldn't recognise amidst the pounding of his heart in his ears, shouting at him from a short distance away.

"CARTMAN! STAND THE FUCK UP!"

There was the sound of gunshots, and the few zombies that had succeeded in getting close to Cartman fell off him like dying flies. Cartman barely had time to get to his feet before what felt like a dishcloth was flung into his face. Before he could express his indignation at the rude treatment, his saviour shouted at him yet again, anger flooding his voice.

"Clean your face, fatass! I can't hold them off forever!"

A few cursory wipes cleared Cartman's vision, and Cartman's jaw nearly dropped at the sight in front of him. Kyle Broflovski, duel-wielding two Desert Eagles, curly hair sticking to his face from sweat and a ferocious snarl on his face, looking far more badass than he had ever imagined a short Jewish boy could look.

Shaking himself from his stunned stupor (Kyle's menacing glare whilst dispatching undead after undead helping tremendously with that), Cartman snatched up his shotgun and continued the process of filing its chamber up with as many rounds as he could.

"Is your shotgun full?!"

"Yes!"

"Good! Fire at a constant rhythm, buy me some time!"

A cursory glimpse to his right revealed a bottle of vodka that Kyle had somehow procured from wherever he had been before, tucked firmly in his pocket. Cartman wanted to ask questions, but decided against it at the last moment and settled for pounding zombie flesh to bits with his gun, yelling unrestrainedly through his adrenaline rush now that making loud sounds wouldn't exactly hurt their situation. Kyle popped the bottle open with some difficulty before pouring about a quarter of the vodka onto the floor, making Cartman grunt resentfully. Ignoring Cartman's indignation at wasting good liquor, Kyle snatched up the bile-stained cloth that Cartman had discarded on the floor before stuffing it as tightly as he could into the neck of the bottle, turning the entire thing over a few times. Extracting a box of matches from his other pocket, Kyle struck one alight. Cartman's eyes widened as he realised what Kyle was trying to do.

"Jew..."

Kyle caught his eye.

"You understand what I'm going to do, right Cartman? Once I toss it, run for the steps, and don't look back."

Kyle didn't wait for Cartman's response before he held the match to the dirtied cloth. As the cloth started to burn, Kyle extinguished the match under his foot before grabbing the impromptu Molotov cocktail by its neck. Taking a deep breath, he flung the deadly homemade fire bomb towards the broken windows, where zombies were still relentlessly pouring into the house from. There was a crunching sound as the bottle shattered against the wooden floors, and moments later, the small fire made contact with the massive puddle of alcohol that was soaking the floors.

Inferno.

It became clear to both the boys that they had not expected the sheer magnitude of the fire that would spring from such a deceptively small bottle of liquor, both boys yelling in shock as the heat and blinding light from the fire hit them. The zombies appeared to be stunned by the sudden appearance of the fire, which effectively halted the flow of zombies into the house and started eating at those that were too close to the epicentre of the rapid oxidation. The zombies no longer had functioning pain receptors, merely making annoyed noises as they continued to try and move forwards towards their prey, before falling apart as the flames disintegrated their already decomposing bodies.

The Nazi and the Jew, the most unlikely team ever, raced as quickly as they could up the stairs. Cartman was pulling forward ahead from Kyle, who tripped on one of the steps that led to the second floor in his haste, but before he even found the time to fall to the ground, a large hand was already pulling him back up onto his feet and urging him on with a desperate shove on his back.

"Be careful, you stupid Jew!"

Kyle hid his surprise at Cartman's comment well. He silently added it onto the list of things that he had time to do later.

As the pair ran as quickly as their legs could carry them through the corridor of the second floor, trying their best to ignore the fact that the fire and the few remaining surviving zombies appeared to be gaining on them, they skidded to a halt at the sight of a familiar boy in an orange parka, who appeared to be shaking a little as he knelt down next to another boy in a brown jacket and a red poof ball hat. Kyle felt his heart plummet when he saw the pool of blood spilt haphazardly on the floor around the boy, the torn up remnants of his precious jacket, and the corpse of the she-demon that had gone apeshit on them just minutes ago, a twisted growl still on her face and her dagger-like fingers coated with what looked like his super best friend's blood.

Kyle had planned to cry by himself when they had escaped from the Blacks' festering hellhole of a house, but he couldn't resist a desperate sob as he saw Stan groaning on the floor, blood still leaking from countless wounds on his body. Kenny finally appeared to notice the reappearance of his two other friends, and when he turned his head to face them, his look of determination and momentary relief juxtaposed horribly with the tear streaks across his cheeks.

"Thank fucking God you guys are alive."

Cartman finally finished off the last remaining zombies that were chasing them with a few pops of his shotgun before turning back to Kenny, his jaw clenched at the sight of Stan bleeding on the floor.

"We've got to get out of here, Kenny. We got ambushed by a horde; Kyle had to set the lower floor alight to hold them off. We need to take a window."

"Can you walk, Stan?"

Another pained groan from the boy on the ground told them all they needed to know, and Kyle resisted the urge to let out another sob. Without a moment of hesitation, Cartman knelt down on his knees before scooping Stan up in his arms in a bridal style and rising to his feet, the strength that he had lost in the earlier fight against the infected downstairs seemingly back in his arms without explanation. As Kenny used his rifle to smash a nearby window that led to a climbable tree, Cartman turned to a distraught, trembling Kyle and spoke softly but sternly.

"Stan's not going to die, Jew. You hear me? We need to get him out of here. Pull all that badass that I saw just now out of your ass and wait till we're finished with this and safe before you cry. I promise I won't laugh at you later, Kyle."

Maybe it was Cartman's assurance of Stan's survival that ignited a spark in him, or perhaps it was the fact that Cartman had inexplicably addressed him by his actual name, but Kyle appeared to snap out of his funk instantly before nodding at Cartman, drawing his two pistols and covering their backs as Cartman carried Stan as carefully as he could out the window, the sound of Stan's small winces and grimaces as he was shaken back and forth acting as fuel to his burning fire.


Author's Note - Alright, I'll admit it...this was fun to write. Not that I like seeing Stan bleed or anything, but I like writing about a badass Kyle. I know people portray him differently in FanFiction, and I know Kyle is nowhere near a pushover on the original show, but I needed one character to be a little timid at the start of the story and grow as the story progressed, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Kenny, I'll tell you that. I hope my action scenes weren't distracting, and that you guys could picture what I had written down properly. Those who play L4D2 will know that Molotov cocktails do exist in the game, and this therefore justifies my decision to include one in this chapter to carry the plot forward. Whether I will decide to use them again is another thing altogether.

The next chapter will be a little quieter (and perhaps shorter too), giving the characters some time for some well overdue introspection. I know I wrote this story as a primarily action fic for practice, but that doesn't mean that I can't package and craft it into something that is both fun and thoughtful.

Reviews Appreciated.

~SUITELIFEFAN