"Francis, is it really wise for you to be up and moving so soon?" Bill was saying as I blinked my eyes open. Fighting against the haze of sleep, I pushed myself into a sitting position, taking in the old 'Nam vet standing in front of the big biker, who was glaring down at the older man. Francis folded his arms over his chest, and said "Outta the way, old man. I'm goddamn hungry, and these god damn boxes of frozen tortellini" – he paused to hurl a box of frozen noodles to the floor – "Are really starting to get on my nerves!" Bill massaged the bridge of his nose, and said, slowly and enunciating carefully as if talking to a small child, "You are still injured. If you go out there in that condition, you're going to die." "Screw that," Francis said, pulling out his hunting knife and throwing it like a dart. It stuck into a nearby wall, where it hung, quivering. "I'm indestructible! These vampires get between me and my hamburgers an' I'll pound 'em 'til their goddamn grandmothers wished they'd never had children!" I smiled muzzily, and Francis took notice of my consciousness. His face brightened, and he waved cheerily. "Mornin', babe!" he said, and I waved back. "Going out for food?" I said, voice still slightly slurred by the last vestiges of sleep. "Yeppers," Francis said, then shot a glare at Bill and added "Or, I would be, if this old fart wasn't acting like my mother." Bill sighed, muttered something along the lines of "Dumbass," and stalked off, towards where Louis was sitting. Grinning, Francis walked over and reached down an arm, saying "Need a hand, darlin'?" Taking his hand, I noticed several not-quite-healed cuts and bruises on the thickly-muscled limb, and bit my lip in worry. Bill might have been right in keeping the big man here. Francis hauled me to my feet one-handed, and I winced at the brutal power in his arm, correcting my former assumption. Even injured, I didn't doubt that Francis could, and would, kick the ass of anything that "got between him and his hamburgers," as he put it. Francis took advantage of our proximity to plant a quick kiss on my lips, then stepped past me towards the door, retrieving his shotgun from a table as he passed. "Not so fast," I said, turning with my hands on my hips. Looking back at me, Francis quirked an eyebrow and said "Yeah, doll?" Picking up my twin pistols and shoving them in the holsters at my hips, I said "I'm coming with you."
"See anything?" Francis's voice was calm, but it was a calm that belied the tension I knew he was feeling. I was feeling it too: being in a group of two, unlike the group of four that we'd all grown so used to over the past weeks, was not exactly a calming experience. A lucky hunter and smoker would be all it would take to kill us both. "Nope," I responded, eyes flicking around, pistols at the ready. We stood at one end of a 4-way intersection, the traffic lights swaying back and forth slowly in the slight wind. Abandoned and wrecked cars were scattered about, and in the middle of the intersection a semi truck had collided with the side of a military humvee. The charred wreckage was not a pretty sight. Shaking his head in disbelief, Francis stalked up to one of the houses that lined the road. It was a simple, two-story affair with baby-blue siding and a dirt-colored slate roof, with light cream curtains visible behind the thick boards that were nailed on every window. Walking up to the front door, Francis didn't bother with pleasantries, simply bringing up a booted foot and slamming it into the wooden door. The door burst inwards, slamming against the wall in a shower of dust. I winced at the noise, then winced again as I heard the thunderous report of his shotgun. I heard Francis chuckle, then another noise, one all too familiar. The screeching howl of a Hunter looking for prey.
"Shit!" I hissed, darting after Francis into the relative security of the house. I took in the scene at a glance – the dead zombie, its head and shoulders reduced to bloody shreds, Francis standing over it with that grin of battle-lust on his face, the smoking shotgun leveled at the still-falling corpse. We stood in a wood-floored kitchen, the yellow flower-print wallpaper fading and peeling. One wall was lined with cupboards, a dishwasher and an oven, and a refrigerator stood against an adjacent wall. A table and chairs were set up at the other end of the room, and two doors led off into other parts of the house. Turning as I entered, Francis grinned at me, thumbing another round into his shotgun and racking the slide. His grin faded, however, as his gaze slipped past me and landed on something behind me. He raised the shotgun, and opened his mouth to yell something. But the hunter was faster. It impacted my back with enough force to knock me over, pinning me face-down on the floor and tearing into my back with its razor-sharp talons. I tried to scream, but the brutal impact had knocked the breath from my lungs. Then, suddenly, the weight was removed from my back, the talons ceased their ripping and tearing. I heard Francis growl something unintelligible, then the booming report of the shotgun rang out again. Powerful arms encircled me, lifting me up off the wood floor. I cried out as they brushed the gashes on my back, and felt something being pressed to my lips. I blinked open my eyes to see Francis holding me, looking down at me with worry etched on his features. He held two pain relievers to my lips, which I gladly swallowed. "Thanks," I managed, and he sat me down at the table, brushing a lock of hair from my face. Unhooking the first aid kit from his back, he walked around behind me and after a moment said "Er… I'm gonna need you to take off that sweater, Zo." The embarrassment in his voice made me want to giggle, but I complied, slipping the garment off and wincing as it pulled at my injuries. Left with nothing by my thin, white T-shirt, I shivered in the chill air, hugging myself for warmth. Francis began winding the gauze bandages around my torso, and I felt his warm breath tingling at the back of my neck. After a short while, he tied the bandage off, and stood back, saying "Sorry, babe. That's all I can do for you out here. We need to get back to the Burger Tank – Bill and Louis have some stronger stuff." Nodding, I stood up and slid back into my sweater, zipping up the front and retrieving my weapons from where I had dropped them.
Francis walked over to the refrigerator and ripped the door open viciously, clearly pissed. At what, my pain-addled brain couldn't figure out. Savagely pulling out handfuls of anything and everything un-perishable – the temperature-dependent goods had long since gone bad due to the lack of power in this area – he stuffed them in his backpack, his pockets, anything handy. Snatching the shotgun from the counter, he stormed out of the house, and I dazedly followed.
Halfway back to the Burger Tank, I started limping and stumbling, my vision dancing before my eyes. Francis stopped and turned, and his eyes widened as he took in my sorry state. Dashing forward, he scooped me up and held me in his arms, planting a kiss on my forehead and breaking into a run. I vaguely heard him curse, and lifted my head with an effort of will, staring past his arm to the road behind us. What I saw froze my blood: a tank was chasing after us, roaring and bellowing, swatting aside wrecked cars effortlessly as it passed. What's worse, it's roars were attracting zombies, and they started bursting from houses, crawling over fences and from car wrecks to pursue us. Forcing his injured body into a sprint, Francis gritted his teeth and held me protectively against his chest. A chunk of concrete smashed against the asphalt nearby, breaking into countless pieces on impact and sending bits of concrete skittering in all directions. I could just make out the Burger Tank sign sticking above the roofs in the distance, and I struggled to withdraw one of my pistols. Sitting up in Francis's arms, I blearily took aim and fired off several inaccurate shots at the tank chasing us, which only seemed to enrage in further. Dropping back in exhaustion and defeat, I suddenly noticed an object bouncing at Francis's hip – a pipe bomb. Unhooking it, I thumbed the ignition button and hurled it with all my tired might. It bounced and rolled along the road towards the tank, attracting all the nearby infected with its piercing wail, before detonating with a thunderous explosion that really did nothing to help my headache. I heard a familiar shout, and the stuttering roar of an assault rifle opening up on full-auto burst through my daze. "Bill!" Francis yelled as he ran. I saw blood start to seep through his jeans, and bit my lip in worry. Dammit, this full-out sprint must be reopening his injuries. His pace did not slow, however, and soon I was under a roof once more, my vision slowly fading until I was engulfed by sucking nothingness and knew no more.