Son of a…

It takes me a millisecond to exit the room. I don't bother with the door, instead deigning to rest against the wall outside. My breath is already in short pants, and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

A witch. The last time I'd come so close to one it had punched a hole through a metal door and nearly taken off Louis' head. I'm not frightened of the other zombies. Scared for my life, perhaps, but not so fucking terrified that I can't even move like I am with this one.

At least it's still quiet here, quiet enough that I can still hear the flutter of wind that drags the smell of decay and rot to my senses. After the flight I'd taken to get here, this is like sensory deprivation to me. Suddenly it's just me, my fear, and my surroundings that become all the more pronounced.

This is more than just a hallway to run and hide through. This is my tomb but not mine alone; the arm, the feeding pile, this… thing…

With enough time alone to my thoughts and the aches and pains of my body, the fear begins to lessen its grip on me. It didn't see me, it just looked through me, and that's enough to save my life for another moment longer. There're very few options for me to keep on living though. The infected have most likely broken through downstairs and are on the hunt for me, and I have my pistol clutched to my chest like a child, reminding me that I only have one bullet left in it.

One bullet may be enough to fracture its skull if I can get close enough, but that's a long shot, and one that would alert every zombie on the next three floors, at that. Ending it seems out of the question right now, which leaves me sitting quietly against the wall holding my pistol.

Why do the dead have to be such a pain?

Frustration overcomes me and I tear up, pushed against the wall with no friends and no hope. Why me is the question of the moment. Why did I have to get separated? Bill, Francis, and Louis are all long gone by now, listening to the unspoken rule of the survivors that is don't stop running.

Bill and Francis found me huddled in a closet weeks ago, handed me this pistol in my hands, and never asked more of me than to survive. I thought, I honestly thought, we would make it through this.

No, no, no! I have to survive. I just have to. There's no way these zombie bastards are going to get the best of me.

I sit up a little straighter and try again to think of a way out. There's got to be a car around here somewhere, and the man who's arm lies next to me and blood touches my shoes may just be the answer. There's a good chance his ride is still in the employee parking.

That just leaves me the question of how to get there… No fire exits this far out of the city, unfortunately. So I guess I'm sneaking down through the elevator or stairs again. If I'm quiet it shouldn't matter how many zombies are flooding through the lower levels itching for a taste of my skin.

I'm not really doing this because I want to. I've just gone too far to die here in this place, even if I'd like nothing better than to just lay here and let these bastards win.

My body is sluggish as I fight to my feet, exhaustion wearing down on me even after, especially after, such a brief respite. It's time to move though, I owe myself that much, and I turn down the hall and start back up the way I came, back towards the smell of death.

And then came a sound, distant at first. I hear it as I'm leaving and it's so quiet I crane my neck in curiosity. My first thought is that it's outside, but I'm too far up for that. It's just the silence that's drawing the sound to me, but then I recognize it… A low moan that grows into a cacophony so immense that it's heard from…

Not now... I plead to myself.

But it's started already. The witch is crying a long, baleful tune and already I hear its effects from the stairs I had come up.

An infected strikes the door, shattering pieces of faux wood and splinters just a few dozen feet ahead of me. Shut up, I try to urge the creature with my thoughts.

But it's too late for that, and the door splinters more and more outward, followed by the raspy howl of the infected known as the hunter. There's a reason we call it that, and it's earning its name by being on the prowl even now.

I take a few steps back. There's still the one bullet in my pistol, but it's more useless as my hands. This one will be fast, far more than me, and I don't want to do anything that would wake the vengeance in the monster to my side.

Just as its shadowed form steps through the splintered remains of the door I make my decision and sidestep the hallway, hoping I was quick enough that it didn't see me. There's not much I can do if he did, and I have other problems. I'm in the lair of the beast now, the conference room that remains in a permanent state of shambles after a month of neglect. Over the table I can still see the witch, huddled forward and howling in some emotion I can't understand.

My breath refuses to come, as much from my hope that I can keep quiet enough for it not to notice me as the fear that grips my chest. My eyes refuse to stray too. I'm left tentatively skirting the wall, keeping as far from it as possible without knocking over something or making a further idiot out of myself.

To add to my problems, I hear the hunter's breath and obnoxious screech on the other side of the wall now. It's still prowling about, perhaps even hunting me specifically. I wouldn't be surprised if it bounds from the door right now to tear me limb from limb while this most feared, hated of creatures watches on.

There's a table holding a coffee machine halfway through the room. I slide down beside it after I pass, having crossed this far without turning my back on the witch. The conference table has long, slender legs and I can see it clearly now against the backdrop of the windows. I can also see the looming shadow of the hunter that's stalking me through the door just as it bursts open.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming or jumping. The hunter jumps in the door, screeching once more. But now I notice that the focus of its attention isn't me, but the figure huddled behind the table. The hunter realizes its mistake just as the witch turns.

There are some things I'll never forget… My first infected is one. Putting down my best friend with a computer tower is another. This, I have to add to the list. It's not the hunter though. The hunter's mouth clamps down and it turns tail and runs without another sound. It's the witch, what I had so far classified as a beast, monster, or "it."

She's younger than I am. Wide, bright red eyes set on pale grey skin. Her brows, so expressive, are slightly wrinkled and her lips are pursed like she's in pain. Deep, emotional, pain. The tears that have streamed down her face reflect the light of the cloudy night and the moon that reflects through them.

She's… Beautiful… And hurt… I feel tears streaming down my face for her, someone so young and innocent who was just at the wrong place and the wrong time and ended up like this because of it. She shouldn't be here, she should be laughing with friends and family and living a life of innocence. I don't just feel sad for her, I feel sick that she's even here.

My eyes can't seem to leave her face, but my mind wanders regardless of my attentions. Just a few days ago we had drawn straws for the fate of one such girl who sat crying in our path. Bill, valiant cheater that he is, took the short one and held the shotgun against her skull. Thinking of that I can't help but think of the man who met his fate to a stone in my hand just a bit earlier. He now lays, skull cracked open, eyes staring into the same spot unseeing. The same spot I had been standing.

I can't help it if the witch sees; acting on the impulse I turn to the side and vomit what little was in my stomach to the floor. When I come back up, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, her eyes are on me and I have to fight the urge to turn away. There's sadness and longing in that gaze, but it's primal and animalistic now. Without pause she turns away and her voice starts up again, crying once more. I can't help but think her voice would be beautiful if it did something besides cry.

I have to turn away, looking at her is too painful for me. I'll start thinking about why all this happened, and that will lead only to bad thoughts. I end up looking at the door and listening to her tears. The hunter is gone now, but I can hear his howl from somewhere down the hall. More than that, I can hear the telltale gurgle of a vomiting infected and the cough of a smoker. There's no way out anymore, no safety for me outside that door. The only reason they haven't checked in here and eaten me already is because of this girl, the same one I fear and now feel a sickening pity for.

Apparently the door is a source of poor thoughts as well, so I turn back and resign myself to my fate. I rest my pistol on my lap and settle here, looking both out the window and at the witch, the girl. Her face is sunken and dark now, but I can still see just how beautiful it once was; soft and sweet, if not a bit childish. I can picture her with freckles, and there's a bobby pin in her hair that fell out of place long ago. Blonde hair would look right on her. Blonde hair and blue eyes, maybe green.

She also seems much more alert than the other infected I've seen. I hear a smoker cough outside the door and her eyes dark up, widening just a bit, small enough that I wouldn't notice if I hadn't been staring so intently. Coupled with those sobs that speak of more than just pain, they speak of emotions too intense and innumerable for me to realize, I would say she's afraid. But she's a witch, she can't be, can she?

She doesn't answer, just returning to her huddled position, occasionally moving under the filtered moonlight to crawl further along the floor. We stay like this for a while, I forget how long, but it's long enough for the first drop of rain to hit the window and long enough for me to smell the first hint of acrid smoke. It doesn't surprise me to realize that the Molotov I threw upon my entrance spread flames throughout the lower part of the building. I can smell the corpses frying below us now, but my exits have all been thoroughly covered.

It's like some great director in the sky doesn't want his actors leaving the building so soon. I don't know, but whatever the case, at least I can't hear the infected outside the door anymore.

"Know why I'm here?" Her head darts up when I talk, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. It surprises me too, I'm not sure why I opened my mouth, and don't have a clue what possesses me to continue. "It's 'cause I was weak." Ah, I see. I'm not even talking to her, but to myself. The last straw, I guess you could say, and I've gone insane. "Sure, I talked big, but when the going got tough, I just locked up and cried, just like you."

I pause for a second, considering apologizing. She moved while I was talking, pushing further away from me until her back pressed against the windows. Now she sits, mimicking my position on the opposite side of the room. "Everyone I knew, everyone important, died while I was crying. I just wanted someone, anyone, to come and make it all go away. Protect me from the big bad monsters… And then…

"And now they're gone too. You suppose it's destiny, me meeting you?" I ask, letting out a morbid snort. Destiny… Destiny just wants to watch the world burn. She huddles back into herself and cries quietly now, and though I'm staring at her with a wide open expression on my face, tears are streaming down my cheeks and I'm crying right along with her. I'm crying for her.

The building shakes under us, nearly startling her. At first I think it's the fire eating away at the supports, but then a bellow reaches my ears. I've heard it only a few times before, less than the other telltale rattles of the other evolving infected. The tank must be inside already, busting through walls and destroying everything in its path in a hormonal rage.

Sometime, when I snuck in this room to hide, I gave up. There's no way for me to escape. Even making it through the zombies waiting outside the door, there's always the fire, or the zombies downstairs, or outside. There's always the zombies across the street or anywhere else. I guess I accepted destiny, and that's why I opened my mouth.

So has she, and yet she hasn't. She sits and cries at her fate, just like she would even if a man was standing behind her with a shotgun to her head. And yet I see the fear in her eyes as the tank smashes through yet another wall and support beam, and the entire building suddenly shifts towards her side of the room. I see fear build up inside her, and rage follow it, getting ready to make her burst and charge away on a murderous rampage.

I open my mouth to say the first thing that's on my mind, but… If I speak, it may set her off, and her eyes are already wide and wild as is. She's just too much like I was, too human despite herself, for me to leave it alone, and I feel the words slip out anyway. "Don't worry. If it's that scary, I'll protect you."

She's just too much like I was, and despite being the most terrifying creature I've ever laid my eyes on, I say those words and I mean them. All I wanted was someone to protect me until I picked up this pistol and did it myself, and I couldn't stand it if she went through the same things I did to get here tonight.