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After only five minutes, it was clear that Francis wasn't going to be walking much farther without medical assistance. He had started limping, and I was walking along beside him, ready to help should it be needed. Being rather stubborn, Francis had rejected my offers of help and trudged along grimly, but I could tell that the pain was starting to get to him. His breath hissed in through gritted teeth every time he inhaled, and the tendons in his neck stood out like ropes, his jaw tightly clenched. With most of my attention focused on the big, stubborn biker, I didn't notice the smoker behind me until it was too late. The slimy, ludicrously strong tongue snaked around my torso and left arm, pinning the appendage to my body and rendering it useless. With a sharp tug, I was jerked backwards off my feet with a startled cry, and the smoker started dragging me backwards into an alley. Whipping around, Francis unhooked the pistol from his belt and started firing, limping as fast as he could towards me. Louis turned to look, and Bill tossed Francis a second pistol. Deftly catching the flying weapon, he started blasting away two-handed. One of the bullets must have found its mark, as the grip of the foul tongue slackened and the smoker burst apart in a cloud of thick, choking smoke. Gagging as the foul-smelling vapor assaulted my lungs, I painfully got to my feet, wincing as a cracked rib made its presence known. Stumbling out of the reeking cloud, I ran straight into Francis, who was in the process of entering said cloud. "You okay, darlin'?" I heard Francis say, and I simply nodded, still coughing.
That was when I heard the bloodcurdling, groundshaking bellow, a sound I'd come to know all to well. I tried to shout a warning, but the words caught in my throat, the last vestiges of the smoker's foul gas clogging my windpipe. I coughed to clear the blockage, and was about to try again, but Bill beat me to it. "TAAANK!" he yelled, opening up with his M16 at the behemoth advancing down the street. Turning, Louis whipped out his sub-machine gun and started firing, running backwards and cutting loose with a string of curses. Francis stood protectively in front of me, shotgun raised, as the tank turned and charged down the alley we stood in. Yelling "Go to hell!" Francis let the huge creature have a blast point-blank with his shotgun, the buckshot tearing a good section of the beast's chest into hamburger. Grunting in pain, the tank shoved him aside and bore down on me like a freight train. I stood frozen, rooted to the spot, staring up at the mass of bloody muscle as it charged, roaring. Its huge fist slammed into me, and my world exploded in a flash of agony as I soared backwards to land painfully on the hard blacktop. My vision swam, and I tasted the coppery tang of blood. Whimpering, I feebly attempted to crawl backwards, looking up into the face of death as the tank raised its mighty fists above its head for a crushing blow. Then, as I lay bleeding on the concrete, certain of my impending demise, I witnessed the bravest – and quite possibly stupidest – thing that I had yet seen. A battle cry that was not the tank's split the air, a completely human bellow torn from a familiar throat. The tank paused at the shout, and turned to look as Francis, armed only with his big hunting knife, slammed into the tank in a full-body tackle.
Now, Francis is easily one of the strongest men I've ever met, and I've seen him pop a zombie's head from its shoulders like popping a cork from a wine bottle. But a tank's strength is so far beyond that of any mortal man that most human minds simply couldn't grasp their terrible power. I've seen tanks pick up and hurl minivans, rip chunks of concrete from the ground with their bare hands, and smash through foot-thick concrete walls. Francis simply never stood a chance.
To his credit, he held on longer than most other men would have, his long knife jabbing down again and again, spraying tainted blood into the air as he wrenched it out, only to plunge it down again into the mass of muscle and bone beneath him with a grunt of effort. But then the tank reached up and took a hold of the biker, hurling him across the alley like someone carelessly discarding a used toy. Francis slammed against the wall of a nearby building and lay still, bloodstained knife slipping from limp fingers. "Francis!" I screamed, staring at the unmoving form.
Francis's attack had given Bill and Louis time to catch up with us, and the tank turned to chase its new prey, roaring as bullets peppered it like rain. Hauling myself painfully across the asphalt to Francis's side, I turned the biker over until he was facing me, murmuring "No… no…" My heart skipped a beat as I saw his chest rise as he took a shuddering breath. Feeling useless and not knowing what else to do, I gently shifted him until he lay with his head in my lap. He blinked open his eyes and looked up at me, surprised – but not displeased – by his position. "Hey, Zoey," he croaked, and I blinked away the tears that were starting to form at the corners of my eyes. "What the hell did you go and do that for?" I whispered, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. "Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Francis managed to get out, giving me a grin which quickly became a grimace. "Shit…" he said, feeling his chest and wincing. "He got me good." Unhooking the bottle of pain pills from my belt, I unscrewed the cap, shook two tablets into my hand, and pressed them to Francis's lips. Weakly accepting the pills, he dry-swallowed them with effort, and groaned in pain. "Can you walk?" I said, hearing the tank's roar trail off into a gurgling sigh, and the gunfire stop. "If I have to," Francis said with a grimace. Gently moving his head off my lap, I stood up rather painfully, wincing as my injuries flared up. I reached a hand down to Francis, who took it gratefully and hauled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. Leaning on each other for support, we started limping towards our comrades.
As we exited the alley, we were greeted by a rather worried-looking Bill and Louis, standing near the prone, bloodied form of the tank. "Holy shit, you look worse than some of the casualties I saw back in 'Nam," Bill said, eyes widening as he took in Francis's appearance. "What in the hell happened to you?" Forcing a grin, Francis said "Nice to see you too, Gramps." Sighing and turning to me, Bill gave me a look that said 'I can see I'm going to get nothing out of that ass, can you please tell me what happened?' Giving him a weak smile, I said "Francis tackled the tank to distract it from me, and it worked, but… well, the tank did a real number on him." "You tackled a tank!?" Louis said, eyes widening and a look of mock awe written on his face. "Damn, man, you're even dumber than I thought!" "Go to hell, Louis," Francis growled and started limping forward, dragging me along with him. Louis put a hand on his chest to stop him, and said, face drained of humor, "In all seriousness, though, don't do no more stupid shit like that, 'kay? We need you alive, not crushed to paste or ripped to shreds." Disengaging himself temporarily from me, Francis shoved Louis's chest hard enough to send the skinny man stumbling backwards, and practically roared "Piss off, Louis! It goddamn well worked, didn't it!? Zoey's alive, and I don't give a shit about anything else!" So saying, he stalked off towards the safe house down the street, leaving Louis staring after him, a dumbfounded and slightly hurt expression on his face. With a cry of "Francis! Wait!" I started after him as fast as my unsteady legs would take me.
A few minutes later, I staggered into the saferoom to find Francis fumbling with a roll of gauze bandages in an attempt to patch himself up, a first-aid kit open on the table before him. His tank-top and vest had been stripped off and now lay on the chair beside him, revealing his injuries in all their hideous glory. It was enough to make me involuntarily gasp. The hunter had ripped deep, parallel gouges in his chest and gut, the gaping wounds slowly oozing a steady trickle of blood. His entire back and right side were covered in ugly bruises, and from the way he favored that side, I could tell a few ribs were broken. He glanced up at my gasp, and managed a lopsided smile. "I guess it's a good thing I'm indestructible, huh?" he said. Walking over, I took the roll of gauze from him and wordlessly took over the task, gingerly wrapping up his wounds. This close, I couldn't help but notice the thick, rippling muscles, the broad shoulders, the powerful arms as big as my thighs. Staring down at my work so Francis wouldn't see my reddening cheeks, I grimly yanked my train of thought off its rails, fearful of what I might do should it reach its destination. Determined not to be defeated, however, it regained its place firmly on its tracks and chugged along merrily as if nothing had happened. Glancing up, I took in Francis's hard, thick jaw covered with a thin coating of beard stubble, his dark, piercing brown eyes staring down into mine, his nose, possessing that unique bend that suggested it had been broken at least once. I suddenly realized that my hands had stopped their work, and Francis grinned down at me. I felt one of those big, powerful arms wrap protectively around my shoulders, and almost unconsciously one of my own arms snaked up his back to cup his head and pull it down towards mine.
A loud throat-clearing from behind me stopped the romantic scene in its tracks, and I stepped back, my arm dropping to my side, face turning beet-red. Francis looked up, took in the figure in the door, and his features hardened. Shrugging on his tank-top and vest, he walked into a corner of the saferoom and plopped down in a folding metal chair with a grunt of pain, not saying so much as hello when Louis entered. Pointedly ignoring the biker, he turned to me with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Glancing over at Francis, I saw him extract his bloodstained hunting knife from his belt – he'd hastily stuffed it inbetween the leather cord and his leg after recovering it from the alley floor – and take a few experimental passes with it, wincing as he pulled on sore muscles and broken ribs. Noticing my glance, he grinned at me, and I hurriedly looked back at Louis, face turning even redder. "Daaamn," Louis said, eyes flicking to the biker then back to me, "I look away for two seconds and you two are giving each other cow-eyes!" Francis growled something unintelligible, and I brushed past Louis and stalked into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.
After washing my hands and face in the – thank god – working sink, I sat on the floor in the corner of the small, tile-walled bathroom, my mind spinning, my knees pulled up to my chest. Part of me wanted to burst out that door and start again where Francis and I left off, and to hell with Louis watching. The other part of me was afraid. After two weeks of killing zombies, you'd think I'd have grown immune to fear, but no. Francis was big, strong, handsome and, above all, clearly infatuated with me – why else would he jump onto a tank to save me? – but he was also more than a little frightening. Images flashed into my head of him wading into a horde, hunting knife in one hand, pistol in the other. I clearly recalled the manic, shit-eating grin on his face as he slashed, the tainted blood splattering his chest and face as he drove the knife deep into infected flesh, the way he seemed to relish every moment of this hell. Shuddering, I remembered him straddling a zombie's chest, pounding it with his bare fists until its skull shattered like an overripe melon, and, hugged my knees even tighter.
It wasn't long until I heard a tentative knock at the door, and Louis's voice saying "Uh, Zoey, you okay in there, girl?" Swallowing the knot of conflicting emotions in my chest, I said "Yep, I'm fine. I'll be out in a second." "Okay," Louis said, still sounding uncertain, and I listened as his footsteps receded. Pushing myself to my feet, I took a moment to arrange my hair in the mirror, brushing the black locks into a semblance of order before pushing the door open and walking out. Louis and Bill were sitting on the couch, flipping through channels on the television – they were all static now, the signals long gone. Francis lounged catlike on the recliner in the corner of the room, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. He looked up as I entered the room, and a corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile, which quickly faded into a worried frown as he took in my appearance. Glancing down, I noticed the rather large bloodstain spreading across my sweater, and suddenly remembered my injuries, forgotten until now in the turmoil of emotions. "Well, that's not good," I said weakly, feeling faint. The room swam before my eyes, and I stumbled backwards, hand against a wall to support myself. Losing all balance, I swooned and toppled over, face-first, towards the hard concrete floor. Francis, however, was faster. Lunging from his chair like a striking cobra, beer long forgotten, he snatched me out of the air before I hit the floor, cradling me in his powerful arms. Swiping debris off one of the tables, he laid me gently on the hard, smooth surface, and tugged open the front of my sweater to expose the torn, bloodsoaked T-shirt beneath. Slinging the first-aid kit off of his back, he unzipped it with trembling hands, pulling out a bandage and a bottle of disinfectant. "This is gonna hurt like hell, darlin'," he said in an apologetic tone, and I weakly reached in the direction of the beer bottle. Grabbing it, he passed it to me and I took a generous swig as he unscrewed the cap on the disinfectant. It was warm, but the numbing affect of the alcohol was more than welcome. Reaching down, Francis gingerly dabbed at my wounds with a disinfectant-soaked bandage, and I hissed in my breath as the injuries burned like fire as the harsh chemicals seared them clean. Taking another large gulp from the bottle, I leaned back against the wall as Francis went to work.