"Francis!" I cried out, lurching forward and catching the big biker in my arms. His weight bore me down until I was sitting on the floor, cradling his powerful frame in my lap. He reached up a hand, running his thick fingers through my hair and smiling up at me. I was crying for joy, murmuring his name over and over like a chant. Reaching up, he feebly wrapped his arms around me, and I practically crushed him as I returned the hug. I kissed him then, first on the top of his head, burying my face in his buzz-cut. Then I pulled his head up, cupping his face in both hands, and assaulted his lips with mine.
After a moment that I never wanted to end, I pulled back, needing to take a breath. Francis was staring up at me, eyes twinkling even through what must have been incredible amounts of pain. Teasing a strand of my hair between two fingers, he croaked "Well… that was worth getting nearly torn to pieces." From somewhere behind us, Bill awkwardly cleared his throat, but I didn't turn to look. I was past caring about anything else. "Uh, Zoey, we should probably get Francis patched up," the 'Nam vet said, and I nodded vigorously, swallowing and wiping tears from my cheeks. I helped Francis to sit up, and leaned him against a wall, stripping his vest and tank-top off. Lingering perhaps a little too long on these actions and turning a simple procedure into a tender caress, I planted a brief kiss on his neck and pulled back, setting the biker's clothes aside as Bill went to work with his first-aid kit. Grunting in pain, Francis turned to Louis – who was still behind the counter – and growled "Hey Louie, don't suppose they got any beer back there?" Louis shook his head, and Francis spent a few moments grumbling. Bill started cleansing Francis's wounds with rubbing alcohol, and the big man's face turned pale. To his credit, though, he didn't make a sound as Bill dabbed at his countless cuts and bites, and I reached over, taking his hand and squeezing it. He squeezed back, and favored me with a lopsided grin which quickly turned into a grimace as Bill found a particularly tender spot.
Francis passed out halfway through Bill's harsh administrations, whether from pain or blood loss or a combination of the two I'm not sure. He now lay in the same spot, with a crude sheet from my backpack thrown over him, asleep. I sat next to him, my head resting on his powerful shoulder, staring off into space. I reached my hand down and twined my fingers with his, feeling the rough, calloused skin of his hands. I had come so close to losing him today. It was as if a part of me had stayed back there in the supermarket with him, and I was torn apart when I thought he was dead. Sitting there next to my Francis, my love, my world, on the cold tile floor, I vowed before all the world – or what was left of it – to never, ever let him go. I would protect him with my life, if I had to. And looking up into that thick-jawed, sleeping face, with its scars and rough beard, I knew that he would die to protect me, too. Snuggled up against this huge biker, this heavyweight killing machine, I felt safer than I ever did before. It didn't matter that we were in the middle of the zombie apocalypse: I had my Francis, and he had me, and nothing could touch us. Snuggling into him – careful not to bump his countless injuries – I let my eyes close and soon slipped into blissful, dreamless oblivion.
I woke to the sound of gunfire and cursing. My hand flashed to my hip, instinctively groping for my pistol, but my questing fingers met only my jeans and an empty holster. Shit! Blinking sleep from my eyes, I lurched upright, recent injuries whimpering in protest as I strained them. Francis was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Bill or Louis. Where the hell is everyone? I started to panic, looking around frantically for any sign of my companions. Then I heard Francis's gruff voice, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Die, you son of a bitch!" he growled, and I heart a wet thud followed by a choking snarl. A single gunshot boomed out like a thunderclap, a burst akin to a balloon popping was heard, and then silence fell. "Guys?" I said, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. I heard Francis curse to himself, then call my name. A few moments later, the big man came limping through the back door of the Burger Tank, his hunting knife held in one hand, a pistol in the other. The swelling around his eye had gone down, but it still mostly obscured the glittering orb. His cuts and bruises were still starkly evident – and must have stung something fierce – but I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed that none of them showed signs of infection. Thank god Bill's impromptu first aid had done its job. "Sorry, darlin'," Francis said, stumbling towards me and grimacing as he put weight on his injured leg. "Bill an' Louis are out lookin' for supplies. I stepped into the kitchen to get somethin' to eat, but a Smoker nabbed me and dragged me out the door." My eyes widened, and I took an almost involuntary step forward. "Are you okay?" I said, then instantly regretted the question. Giving me a look somewhere between amusement and irritation, Francis growled "Do I look okay to you, babe?" After a long, awkward pause, he added "But no, the Smoker didn't get me too bad. Good thing I had my weapons on hand." Nodding wordlessly, I tried not to imagine what would have happened if Francis had been weaponless. In his wounded state, even he would have been no match for a Smoker bare-handed.
We stood in silence for a few moments, then I slid onto a nearby booth, patting the seat beside me as an invitation for Francis to sit with me. "Thought you'd never ask," he said with a grin, and plopped down onto the booth next to me. Glancing over at him with a sly grin, I leaned into his chest, and he encircled my waist with a muscular arm, pulling me closer. Slithering up onto his lap, I wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned in, planting a firm kiss on his lips. They tasted of sweat, beer and hamburgers, but I was past caring – and I knew mine probably didn't taste much better. His arms worked their way up my sides, gently caressing my shoulders and back. I was reaching up to the zipper of my sweater when I heard Louis's voice from behind us, saying "Daamn, you two, get a room!" I felt my face heat up, and I slowly extricated myself from Francis's grip. Seemingly impervious to embarrassment, Francis was still grinning, and kept an arm draped across my shoulders as I sat down beside him. Shaking his head and smiling to himself, Louis walked in, carrying a stack of cardboard boxes. He was followed by Bill, who was similarly burdened. "What did you find?" I managed to get out, looking away so they wouldn't see my face – which was roughly the color of a ripe tomato. Setting his load down, Louis pulled several items out of the top box, and said "Soup, soup, and… oh, look! More soup. Take your pick." Francis growled "Goddamn it, I hate soup." I chuckled, and got up from the booth to inspect Bill and Louis's findings. Francis gave me a mournful look as I left, and I couldn't help but grin at the sight. "I'll be back," I whispered, giving him a wink before pulling open a box and digging around inside.
That night, I lay snuggled up to Francis, the big biker's arm draped over me, feeling his hot breath against the back of my neck. We were lying on the floor, on a makeshift mattress made of a folded-open sleeping bag, with my sweater thrown over us as a crude blanket. Even in the comfort and safety of Francis's warm embrace, sleep eluded me. I lay awake, listening to the growls, roars and screams of the infected outside the Burger Tank. From somewhere behind me, I heard Francis whisper "Can't sleep?" "Yeah," I whispered back, and I felt his thick fingers trace a line down my back, sending shivers up my spine. "Neither can I," he said, and his other hand moved up to caress my bare shoulder. His touch tingled like an electric shock, and I rolled over to face him. Staring into those deep brown eyes, I trailed a hand along his chin, feeling the rough beard stubble growing there. Grinning, he pulled me into a crushing hug, and I squeezed back, burying myself in his muscular chest. He grunted softly as I brushed one of his many injuries, but he made no effort to pull away so neither did I. "Zoey?" he said, his voice barely audible. "Yes?" I whispered, pulling my head back to look up at him. "Can I tell you something… personal?" His voice was tinged with… sorrow? Was that possible? Francis? Sorrow? "Sure," I said, and reached up to give him a light kiss on the cheek. "You know you can tell me anything."
Running an idle hand through my hair, he said after a pause "Before all this 'infection' shit, I had a brother. His name was Max, and he was just like me – a, tattooed badass biker boy. We were closer than best friends, and we'd go out to the bar together almost every night. Pick up girls, get plastered and wake up in the mornin' with a new tattoo on our asses, that kind of thing." Here he paused and gave a long sigh, his hand moving down to gently brush my neck. "First day of this 'apocalypse,' he came home from work – he had a job repairin' motorbikes – with a shotgun and a bleeding wound." I hissed in my breath, my eyes wide. I could see where this was going. Francis's voice actually cracked, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "He… he had this crazy plan, said we were gonna go kick some ass. He gave me a pistol that he'd bought at the local gun store and we headed out on our bikes. We'd stopped at a bar to get a few drinks when he…" Francis paused, looked away. His hand dropped limply to his side. "When he… you know. Turned." I gave Francis a squeeze, snuggling closer to him and murmuring "I'm so sorry." He returned the embrace with enough force to crush the breath out of me, and said "He was the first goddamn vampire I ever killed. He knocked the gun out of my hand, threw me to the floor, and started trying to eat me. I…" His voice dropped still further, and he finished "I beat my own brother to death with my bare hands." A lone tear dropped from his eye, rolling down his cheek and leaving a wet trail. Reaching up a hand and swiping at it furiously, he growled in a shaky voice "Goddamn it. Now I sound like a pussy, bawlin' like this. Shit." On the last word, he launched to his feet, disengaging from me and standing rigid, hands in his pockets, glaring off at who knew what. Standing up, I pressed myself to his back, wrapping my arms around his waist and murmuring "Shh, I'm here. I'm here." After a long silence, Francis whispered, almost reluctantly "…Thanks, Zoey. I've…" he blew out a long breath, then continued "I've never told that to anyone before. Sorry if I gushed." Smiling, I whispered "Don't worry. You'll always be a badass to me."