Chapter Two

The male Hunter doesn't remember his full name.

As soon as the virus entered his body through the saliva from his sister's bite, two weeks ago, it began to change him. It ate away at his brain until he could no longer be considered to possess human intelligence. However, it hadn't destroyed all of his brain, and in fact retained a portion of his most basic memory. So he remembers a name that he'd been called every day of his life; he remembers the names of his sisters, and their constant companion since youth. He'll never recall the names on the pieces of paper that certified their births seventeen, twenty-three, forty-seven years ago; he can only remember those names which had been hardwired into the portion of his brain that the virus didn't touch.

His name is Chris, and his twin is Lexi.

Ever since he succumbed to the virus, Chris could distinguish between "my kind" and "not my kind." His first breath after Infection carried the scents of those around him through his enhanced nose into his enlarged olfactory chambers just behind his ruined eyes, where they were hardwired into his restructured brain. All Infected became "my kind;" the virus gave its victims a particular scent that he shared. He and his twin were filed away as "my kind—Hunter;" anyone to share his genes became "one half of myself." Animals and unInfected became "not my kind."

When he wakes again, it's daylight, and Chris can smell the scent of "my kind." Aside from his twin's scent, there are two others that are fresh. One is familiar, the scent of smoke, leather and blood that was present when he went to sleep. It belongs to a male Smoker; Chris knows his name, too.

Blake has been the twins' constant companion since Infection. He watches over them, warning them of danger, and even leading them to shelter or food or aiding in a difficult kill. In exchange, the twins protect him and leave him portions of their kills. Chris considers him a part of their small pack, and treats him as such.

But the second scent is unfamiliar; "my kind," but neither Hunter, Smoker nor "one half of myself." Chris is instantly awake, and he sits up quickly. Lexi wakes with his movement, growling at being disturbed. But a second later, she registers the strange scent, too, and both of the twins fall into defensive crouches. Above them, where Chris had smelled him the night before, Blake wheezes out a warning.

The twins pull in deep breaths through their noses, analyzing the scent further. It belongs to a male Charger, those raging bulls of the Infected. He's coming closer, and moments later, he appears at the mouth of the alley. The twins can't see him, of course, but they know he's there as well as Blake does. But the Smoker still sounds a warning anyway, mostly for the Charger's benefit; the two Hunters answer him with shrieks.

The Charger is intrigued. He can't really smell very well since the Infection took his nose, but he can still pick up the scent of decay—the twins' kills. His eyesight is just as dim (in fact, only his sense of touch was unaffected by the virus), but he can just barely see the two ravaged corpses at the end of the alley. He's ravenously hungry; he hasn't had a decent meal in a day or two. The small animals that infest the city now are too hard for him to catch, and the place is practically devoid of humanity. He's had some success in scavenging, however.

Hunters don't concern the Charger. He's large for his strain, almost the size of a Tank, and his size gives him confidence. Hunger gives him motivation, and he decides that he'll steal his next meal. He completely ignores the Smoker; that one's no match for him, too fragile and too slow to face him directly. Once he drives off the Hunters, he'll be able to smash the two corpses down to a pulp that he can swallow.

The Charger brings up his massive, armored arm and charges with a howl. The twins leap away quickly with angry cries, clinging to the brick of the buildings that form the alleyway. They snarl furiously at him, but he ignores them and turns to the mangled bodies. Just as he's about to scoop one up to pummel, he finds himself face-down on the ground; his right leg had been pulled out from under him.

He's helpless on the ground. He can get himself back up, of course, but the lopsidedness of his body makes the use of his arm awkward on his back and especially on his front. As soon as he's down, the twins leap onto his back, but they're light enough that he's able to heave himself back onto his feet again. He feels their claws tearing into him, ripping at him like they did their prey the night before. He screams, trying to shrug them off or at least dislodge them. Then he swings his arm around, trying to reach over his head to pull the two Hunters off—but it's too big, and he misses them completely.

With a growl, the Charger flings himself backwards, hoping to crush the twins against the wall with his weight. But they release him and drop off just before impact; he slams his bare and injured back against the brick wall, and the pain flares into agony. He howls, and starts swinging wildly with his massive arm, flailing with the hopes that he might chance to hit one of them. But they're too smart; they back away, out of his reach. He chances a glace upwards, at the wall opposite the one on which he now leans, and sees the Smoker bracing himself on the edge.

The Charger thinks for a moment that this Smoker is a strange-looking one. There is much of him that is white, including the flat sail on his head, shielding his single eye and at least a portion of the tumors typical of the strain. But his legs and belly are blue like the sky, and his feet are a shiny brown and click on the brick and concrete like they were rock or metal. Yet he's unmistakably a Smoker—the smoky spore cloud that follows them everywhere is present with him, too, and he definitely has the tongue.

Then the tongue shoots out again, and wraps around the Charger's ankle. With a powerful yank, the Smoker brings down the Charger again, this time on his back. The renewed agony stuns him for a moment, along with the heavy impact. It's all the twins need. They pounce again from both sides, and this time, they don't hold back. In seconds, the Charger lays dead, his throat and his heart torn out.

Chris cuts the heart in half, and nudges one of those halves toward his sister. Lexi takes it, and they happily feed. Behind them, Blake jumps to the ground, coughing—though he manages to give the sound a smug tone. Knowing that Blake isn't able to do so for himself, Chris tears open the Charger's belly, exposing the steaming, tender organs. The Smoker starts to feed as well, using his tongue to bring the intestines to his mouth like an elephant's trunk. He doesn't chew—his tongue prevents him from doing so; the only thing he really can do with his teeth is dice the flesh into manageable hunks. But to make up for that, his body produces more stomach acid (and stomach lining to protect the rest of him) to quickly dissolve his food.

With their hunger sated, the twins start wrestling again. Blake moves to slump against a wall, wheezing out a satisfied noise. He watches the twins play, kicking them when they get too close. They snap at him in return, but they don't include him; he's too tall and not as rambunctious. So as they chase each other around the alley, snarling and snapping and laughing, he keeps a careful eye out, watching for other predators.

They stay in that alley for a few days. It's a good spot, well enough out of the way that they don't attract too many scavengers that they can't defend against. But then their food runs low; all that's left of the two girls are their clothing and weapons, and all that's left of the Charger is the armored arm, too tough for any of them to crack. When nothing edible is left, the three of them move on.

They head north. Blake can see light in the sky at night in that direction; he knows that to mean humanity. The twins can smell the humans, too. But Infected numbers are lower, so hunting there will be more successful. They won't get too close; too many humans mean trouble, as any wild animal knows. But there is always a loner, or one sick or injured, and that always makes for a quick kill. The three Infected know better than to count on always making a kill from the fringes, but they're hopeful.

As they wander farther from where they'd come, barricades are erected behind them. They aren't aware of those barricades, but they do notice the jets flying overhead and the staccato explosions that pierce the silence of the city over the course of the next few days. It makes them nervous, and their pace picks up. In another day or two, they've settled in a ruined, burned out building that still offers some form of shelter, like the roots of a great, fallen tree. After one more day, when the bombings have stopped and the jets have disappeared, they resume the hunt.

Author's Note: Oi, that took longer than I'd wanted it to. Oh well.

So I have a question for you folks! Would you like to see a comic version of From the Desk/Hunter Red? Keep in mind, the comic will be drawn by me (samples linked in my profile) as practice, between writing on this and Eredar's Redemption, so it won't be very quick, and it'll be posted on my DeviantArt account. Feel free to answer in the reviews!