A/N: Hello all, your Chapter 6 is ready to be read! I don't own Left 4 Dead, otherwise I'd be typing this on a throne made out of money.

Quick reminder: /word/ = strikethrough.

Strange smells. Many smells, all strange, from all over. Hurt. Everything hurts. Feel hot…and cold. Cold /on skin/. Bright light. Veerrrrry bright light. Eyes hurt from light.

Open eyes, little bit. Close them. Veryvery bright. Wait. One familiar smell.

/Prey/ her.

Open eyes all the way.

Try to move. Can't. Trapped again? Try to move. Smell some more; Not the same place, but still can't pounce…

Can move head. Turn head. Head feels funny, but I move it.

She is standing away from me.

Holding smoke thing /gun/

Hold still. Watch. Smell.

Making sound.

"- - - - "

Don't know what sound is. Heard other noises like it, but don't pay attention. /Means something/ Don't know what.

Keep watching.

"- - - - - -?"

Funny noises. Familiar… Remember them? Head hurts now, trying to remember…

"- - - - -…." More noises. Still can't tell. Sounds tired, smells a little scared…

"Denver?"

Wait. Big noise. Important noise. Means something…

/Name/

My name…

/'D- - - - - - , are you coming?'/

My name is Denver.

For a zombie that had come very close to eviscerating me in the messiest way possible, Denver was oddly placid. I had some bandaging work to do on his shoulder, and he sat patiently while I did so (Albeit, after making sure he wouldn't lunge at me through the ropes) Hell, he didn't even growl; though whether he was more human than I expected, or if was just biding his time, I wasn't sure.

He never took his eyes off of me for the entire while, though.

I, for my part, was surprised at how I was taking this in stride; I guess it was dead-mode again, except, instead of killing zombies, I was rescuing one. Which makes you wonder what the world was coming to, what with me caring for zombies and all. Hell, it was like one of that smarmy animal-rescue movie, cept' instead of, I dunno, a bear or whatever, it was a fellow human being.

I decided not to dwell on that too much.

"All right, I think you're all patched up here." I said, quietly, so as not to startle him, snapping a butterfly clip onto the bandage. All of his cuts were cleaned out, and, for the most part, covered; The eyes were considerable-better looking, but deep, scarred gashes on the sides and cheeks were pretty damn disconcerting.

The zombie-Denver, corrected myself- didn't respond, simply watching as I packed up the kit. I checked his fever again; It was still burning, though it seemed to have lowered a bit. Feed a cold, starve a fever; The old adage played in my head, despite the fact it was very medically incorrect. Which brought to mind: What (And, more importantly, how) exactly would I feed him?

Maybe I should have though this through more.

Don't move. Just watch.

Doing something to arm. Wrapping thing. Feels tight, but don't make sounds. Don't want her to use gun, or run away.

Just lay still.

Light is still bright. Too bright. Keep eyes open, though. Keep watching her.

Brown things on her face. Spots. /Freckles/

Can smell place clearer now. Smells of gun-smoke, and regular smoke, and chemicals, and blood.

My blood. /Prey/.

Thing in head says to pounce. Run, tear, /kill/

Then bigger thing in head says no, you do not.

/You are human./

No hunting.

So I wait.

I was beginning to have doubts. I mean, was what I was about the stupidest thing I had done all day (And, possibly, my life) or the second-stupidest?

Eh, only one way to find out.

I took out the Glock again. "Some ground rules." I said. (I didn't know if he could understand, but you don't know if you don't try.)

"You try anything, I shoot. Got it?"

He nodded. Well, I think he nodded. It could have been delusional; how could I know? I was probably too far over the edge to tell.

I plowed on.

"Secondly," I said, narrowing my eyes for effect, "If it weren't for me, you would currently be rotting in the barbed wire out there," I gestured to the window with my head. "So no funny business. Understand?"

Another possibly-delusional-nod. Well, at least my imagination was being consistent; gotta give it points for that, y'know?

Might as well get down to business.

It didn't take me long to cut through the first set of ropes; My hands were shaking as I did so, though you couldn't tell, what with the knife sawing and all. I was ready to spring back and shoot if needed, in any case.

He stayed still for the entire time, even after his top half was free, and I was working on the legs. He just watched me (Albeit, in a pretty damn creepy way) as I sliced away; For a zombie, he was pretty damn patient. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but he wasn't trying to eat me (Yet) so I might as well count my blessings.

As the last bit of rope fell away from his ankles, I jumped back, ready to react to any moves Denver made, in case with his newfound freedom he would become volatile. I didn't take the gun out, But I kept my hand on the holster all the same.

Now for the moment of truth.

He didn't do anything.

Right. This was kind of weird.

'Ok, Denver." I said, quietly, ready for any sudden movements. "You're free now. Go on."

He kept staying still for a moment, but then he moved. I tensed, but he didn't make any motions to pounce. Instead, he rose, slowly, like Frankenstein, (Which is oddly appropriate in any case) sans the whole hand-up-in-front thing. Instead, he just kind of rolled of the bed, this time more like a lazy teenager than an undead monster (Though frankly, I can't tell the difference.)

Then, unlike anything I'd ever seen before, he dropped down on all-fours, with his hands and feet.

Okaaay. The weird factor has certainly increased by tenfold.

He walked (Stalked? I don't know anymore) over to me. I stiffened, backing up in alarm as my hand gripped my still-holstered gun. He was right in front of me now.

But all he did was sniff my boots in a vague sort of manner, and turn a sharp left, leaving the room through the open door, and entering the main part of The Cabin.

Right. I thought uneasily. That was even weirder.

I followed his path through the door, my gun ready in case of an ambush.

Instead, he was in front of the fireplace, curled up like a cat, his face buried in his arms, and seemingly asleep.

Awesome. I decided. This is now entirely fucking weird.

A/N: Oh, Marcy, you don't know the start of it. Hope you liked this chapter; I spent a good long while scrutinizing it, and hopefully the plot isn't developing too fast to be (fairly) realistic. Thank you to all of my reviewers, followers, and fav-ers, as you make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like I've just conquered a small European country. Please recommend this to your friends if you liked it, or print it and use it as fire kindling if you didn't.

Until the next chapter!

-Author