Suddenly, Bill brushed past Coach and stormed up to Francis, positively fuming. Jabbing a finger into the biker's muscular chest, the army vet growled "God damn it Francis, I told you! I goddamn told you a hundred times to be careful and not go charging ahead! How many goddamn times now have you endangered our group with your senseless blundering!" Pausing only to take a breath, Bill continued "I swear to God, if this was the army I'd have you dishonorably discharged! In future, you will listen to me, and you will be careful when I tell you to be goddamn careful! Do I make myself clear!"
If that outburst came from anyone else - except me, of course - I have no doubt that Francis would have beat them to a bloody pulp without hesitation. Since it was Bill, however, he just folded his arms over his chest and stared down at the older man, not saying anything. The two dominant alpha males locked eyes and spent several long moments just staring at each other, Bill almost ready to explode with rage, irritation and an 'I told you so' attitude, Francis cool and with 'get the hell out of my face, grandpa' exuding from every pore. I decided to intervene before the two men came to blows.
Stepping in between them, I put a hand on each of their chests and said "Guys, there'll be plenty of time for macho headbutting later. Right now, we sorta have some zombies coming after us that we need to run from." Bill blew out a long breath through his nose, then turned around and stalked off towards the rest of the group, shooting over his shoulder "Remember what I told you, dammit!" Francis stared after him for a long moment, face contorted into a withering, ice-cold glower. Then he shook himself, turned to me, and said "Alright, time to get outta here, babe!"
Matching action to words, our group took off at a run as soon as everyone was informed of the danger, fleeing from the decrepit old manor house. As I was beginning to lose sight of it through the trees, I heard the very distinctive splintering CRACK of wood breaking. It was a sound that sent chills through me. The rest of the group heard it too, apparently, as Coach crossed himself, Ellis pulled his ballcap down farther and seemed to be whispering a prayer, Nick and Francis drew their guns - Bill's was already out - and Louis exchanged a panicked glance with Rochelle. "Here they come," I muttered, pulling back the slide on my pistol and listening to the satisfying 'click' as it snapped back into position.
Then they started appearing out of the woods behind us. First a trickle, a few particular fast sprinters pelting through the trees like hell itself were on their heels, bloody mouths agape, snarling and spitting with fury. These we gunned down with little effort, felling most of them in a matter of seconds. Then came a flood, a writhing, surging mass of undead flesh that spilled towards us like an oncoming tidal wave. "Ah, shit," Francis growled, unloading shell after shell into the oncoming swarm. "Francis…" I started to say, but he cut me off. "Save it, doll," he snarled, turning towards the oncoming horde, hand moving to the knife at his hip. "You can tell me when we're both safely in hell."
With a roar like an enraged bull, Francis counter-charged the oncoming press of zombies, knife springing from his belt and flashing in the feeble rays of sun that managed to penetrate the canopy of leaves overhead. His first strike felled three; the zombies were so closely packed that the long knife couldn't help but carve through several with each swing. His backstroke lopped the head off one and carved open the chest of a second. His third mighty sweep killed two more and lodged in the skull of a third, who promptly jerked backwards and yanked the knife from Francis's grip.
Cursing, I skidded to a halt and raised my pistol in a two-handed grip, taking carefully-aimed shots to support Francis. The big biker, his knife stolen, was fighting, once again, with his shotgun as an improvised club. It reminded me of things I'd heard about Viking berserkers - the fell light in his eyes, the raw, brutal, unforgiving power behind each blow; it was as if he was putting every single ounce of energy he possessed into the battle, heedless of the consequences. It was as if he didn't expect to live through it to feel those consequences.
It was about this time that the rest of the group took notice. Bill and Louis noticed first, halting and turning around to look and see where Francis was. "God damn it!" Bill yelled, running back to me and opening fire. Louis turned back and yelled "Shit! Guys, get back here!" The rest of the group turned to look, and as one, their eyes widened. Coach swore, Ellis doffed his cap, and Nick gave the raging biker an appraising look, muttering something that I couldn't make out at this range. Turning back to Francis, I noticed with alarm that his shotgun had broken in half, the broken pieces long since discarded. He was now surrounded by zombies, lashing out with anything and everything at his disposal - fists, feet, knees, elbows, shoulders, even his head were weapons in his arsenal. He was keeping the horde at bay and felling many of them, but I knew that even he couldn't keep it up for long.
And then Coach pushed past me, running towards Francis with a bellow of "Cover me!" I hastened to comply, running after him and picking off any zombies that got too close. As Coach reached the embattled biker, he broke through the zombies surrounding him like an offensive tackle shoving through the defensive line to get to the quarterback in a game of football. Reaching forward with a thick arm, he grabbed Francis by the collar and started hauling the big man back, Francis still trying to strike out at all the zombies along the way. The light of battle had not gone out of his eyes, and he snarled "Let go of me, god damn it! There's still plenty of vampires left!" "Shut up and run!" Coach boomed, turning Francis around and shoving him towards me before taking off at a full sprint back towards the rest of the group. Looking back, I noticed that Bill was holding something in his hand and waving at us, but from this distance I couldn't tell what it was.
"Come on!" I yelled, grabbing Francis by the wrist and tugging him along with me. He still cast furious glances over his shoulder occasionally, but he complied, putting on a burst of speed as Bill pulled back his arm and threw whatever it was he was holding. As it sailed past us, I caught a glimpse of a beer bottle with a flaming rag stuffed in the top. A Molotov cocktail. The bottle shattered on impact, spreading a curtain of fire that lapped hungrily at the infected charging through it. Flaming zombies stumbled around, howling and batting uselessly at the blaze that consumed them.
Francis stared into the crackling flames with a stricken expression. I almost laughed - the sight of Francis the badass looking like a child who just lost their favorite teddy bear was practically hilarious. Fortunately for me, I managed to maintain control, and said "What's wrong?"
Francis swallowed, and said "My… my knife is in there." "Come on, Francis," I said, slightly exasperated. "It's just a weap-…" However, he didn't even let me finish the word, lunging forward and taking a hold of my collar. "Just a weapon!" he snarled in my face. "That knife was given to me by Max, my brother, the day he died. It was a gift, something to help me kill these vampires. It's the knife I used to kill him - even in death, Max was a tough son of a bitch, and my bare fists didn't cut it." Tears were sparkling in his eyes, and I suddenly felt like an insensitive bitch. I feebly started to apologize, and Francis enveloped me in a crushing hug, his chest shuddering with silent sobs. "It… it was the only piece of him I had left," Francis whispered. "I even named it after him. And now it's gone too."
That night, we bedded down in an abandoned campground, fallen tents, food and various other supplies scattered about like discarded child's toys. Bill took first watch, and I could see him from where I lay, sitting on a crate of foodstuffs, silhouetted against the campfire we had made. I also saw Francis, sitting up in his sleeping bag, facing away from me. His bare, tattooed shoulders were hunched and his head was hanging low. I bit my lip in worry as I watched him - apparently losing his knife had hit him pretty hard.
After several long moments, I slithered out of my sleeping bag, snuck over and sat down beside Francis, putting an arm around his broad shoulders. Asking 'are you okay' would have been pointless given that I knew the answer - and it was a strong and definite 'no' - I merely said "Can I help?" He looked up at me, face mostly composed into his hardened, 'I'm-a-badass' mask once more. Shaking his head and letting the mask slip just a little, he said "It's just… first my parents, then Nicky, then Max… everyone I cared about is gone." Locking his piercing brown eyes with mine, he said, voice cracking "Don't you dare leave me too." Leaning forward, I planted a quick but tender kiss on his lips, ran a hand through the fuzz on the back of his head, and murmured "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."