mgowriter's note: I never thought my first TLOU story would be about Bill and Frank, but after multiple playthroughs, Bill has become one of my favorite characters. Kudos to W. Earl Brown for his amazing voice acting and MoCap work.

1. Timing, Luck and Circumstance

Bill froze behind the metal cabinet that he had dragged into the street just moments ago. Either his ears were playing tricks on him, or a clicker had just growled somewhere nearby. Seconds passed without another sound. White puffs formed around his breath in the cold winter air.

He scanned the deserted road again, listening for signs of the infected. Heavy snowflakes continued to fall from the gray, sunless sky. The four-inch layer of powder that had accumulated overnight made some of the older buildings moan as they settled against the wind.

After a full minute, he shook his head and grabbed onto the metal cabinet again. "You're hearin' things that ain't there, Bill," he muttered to himself. "Keep this up and you can assign yourself one of these buildings as a personal loony bin."

Before he could give the cabinet another push, he heard the splash of a glass bottle crumbling into pieces against a wall, and this time, the definite scream of a runner.

Bill automatically ducked into a crouching position as he armed himself with his handgun.

"Goddammit," he swore. He had just cleared out the street a week ago. If not for the damn storm, he could've had the area secured last night.

He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps crunched on the snow at a rapid pace until a figure burst out of the alleyway, running at full speed. Bill's pistol was trained on him in less than a second, and the trigger was halfway depressed when the man yelled out.

"Help!" he cried aloud. "Help me!"

Bill looked up from his aim. It was impossible for the man to see him where he crouched. That meant only one thing. The guy was an idiot. Making that much noise was going to get a lot more infected on his ass than the two runners and single clicker that were following close behind.

Bill considered his options. He could let the infected finish the job. Considering the way the guy was hollering and yelling, he probably deserved it. He could kill the infected, but the sound of the gunshots would bring more. Either way, he was going to have to clear this block out all over again.

Before he made up his mind, he saw the man take a wild turn and head straight for the open doorway of one of the buildings close to where he crouched. The sign above read, "Angie's Antiques."

"Shit," Bill said aloud as he realized what was about to happen. The man sprinted through the door, narrowly missing a thin wire that connected to two small explosives on either side of the frame. Seconds later, the first runner that followed tripped on the wire, and the ground shook with the explosion. The other runner was engulfed in the same blast, and the clicker, lured by the noise, fell easily into the flames.

Bill circled around until he reached the back entryway of the building. Furniture littered the interior, making it hard to see inside. He swore again, this time in silence.

When he reached the storefront, a set of chairs near the entrance were already on fire. He inched closer until a cough nearby caught his attention. Bill turned quickly to train his gun on the stranger, who immediately raised his hands in surrender.

"Wait," the man said in panic. A long rivulet of blood trailed downward from a piece of glass that obtruded from his left arm. "Please, don't shoot."

"Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in this town?" Bill spat out his words.

"I'm…I was with a group," the man stammered. "We got overrun. I was just trying to get away. Please, don't shoot."

"Do you have any fucking idea how many of those things heard that explosion? The whole goddamn town of infected is gonna be on us."

"Please," the other man said. "I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice. I…I'm Frank."

"What?"

"My name. It's Frank."

As if on cue, the screams of multiple runners pierced the air. They were just a few blocks away.

Bill cursed under his breath. "Get up."

"What?"

"If you wanna live, follow me." Bill began to make his way to the rear of the building. "If not, stay here."

. . .

The two-story building that housed Sammy's Diner was only five blocks away, but because of the barricades and fences Bill had set up, the two men covered twice the distance to reach their destination.

"I think we lost'em," Bill said as he closed the door and dragged a bookshelf to block it.

"That was close," Frank breathed in relief. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," said Bill. "You might be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive, missing that tripwire, but I haven't fully convinced myself to keep from shooting you."

He studied the stranger. Frank was younger than himself, somewhere in his late thirties. He was slightly taller than average, and naturally on the thin side. Lack of food had left a considerable amount of room around his jeans and the solitary sweatshirt that hung on his skinny frame. He was shivering against the cold. The blood that saturated his sleeve had begun to drip onto the floor.

"What the hell happened to you?" Bill asked.

"Our group got overrun just outside of town," Frank replied, looking around at their surroundings. The diner comprised of a long, rectangular bar that spanned the length of the room and curved inward at one end. A row of red, leather booths stood against the opposite wall, next to windows that had been carefully boarded up. Two fire pits stood on either end of the room, one jerry-rigged to resemble a small, brick stove and the other one free-standing to provide warmth. It was a sparse setup, but secure enough that he didn't have to worry about the infected getting in.

Frank tried to rub his hands together for warmth but winced as the left arm was disturbed. He looked down at the blood that seeped slowly from the wound.

"We were trying to get to Boston," he said with heaviness in his voice. "I was the only one to make it out, but I lost everything—all of my food and supplies."

"You ain't exactly dressed for the weather," Bill observed.

"A runner grabbed my jacket. He was about an inch away from sinking his teeth into me. Better the jacket than me, I guess."

Bill was silent as he considered Frank's story. The other man crossed his good arm across his body and continued to tremble. The blood from his arm made a small, neat puddle of red on the concrete floor.

"Wait here," he finally said. "There's wood and a couple of matches. I suggest you get a fire started if you don't intend on catchin' hypothermia."

When he returned from the living quarters upstairs, he carried a bottle of alcohol, a few clean strips of cloth cut from a t-shirt, some duct tape, and a blanket. He dug inside one of the cabinets behind the bar for a can of food.

Frank followed him with a hopeful gaze as he lined up the items along the bar top.

"You can stay the night but you're gone by tomorrow morning." He looked at Frank to make sure the message got through. "Otherwise I am gonna shoot you myself."

"Thank you," Frank said with genuine gratitude.

Bill took one last look at the man, shook his head, and headed back upstairs.