A/N: Chapter 7, at your service. I don't own Left 4 Dead, I hate disclaimers, blah, blah, see Chapter One.

It is the zombie apocalypse. Civilization along the East Coast has crumbled, fallen to mindless infected that now roam the streets, with the remaining government either in disarray, possibly anarchy. Thousands of people die by the day, and life as we know it has ended.

And here I am, sitting in front of a fireplace, engaging in a staring contest with a grown man.

"Knock it off." I said, breaking the silence. "Look, I can't read minds, so if you want something, you gotta communicate it to me."

He kept staring at me. I sighed; zombie or no, this was getting pretty old, pretty damn quickly.

"Are you…" I thought, wildly. "Hungry?" I gestured towards my mouth.

Aaaaaaaand we were back to Square One, Blank Stare. Damn. (Well, I was kind of dreading the answer, so it was just as well.)

"C'mon, man, you were talking before!" I said, exasperated. I mean, why was he clamming up all of a sudden? Unless, of course, I HAD been hallucinating back there…

Then he got up from his spot in front of the fire, and stretched, like, oh god, a cat…

He was watching me now. I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with him.

"Umm…." Where do I start?

"My name is Marzia." I said. Might as well begin with introductions, even if I already knew his name.

"You can call me Marcy."

Marzia was the one my mother picked, anyways, after my Finnish grandmother (Whom I had never even met) Dad said it was Uncle Whit that started calling me Marcy; After that, it was only the occasional schoolteacher, and Dad (Only when he was mad) that called me by my given name.

"Mar." He said.

Ok, so he could talk. His voice was less rough and sandpapery than before, but it still sounded like he wasn't used to speaking.

"Mar-see." I said back. (Hey, if he was gonna say my name, he might as well say it right.)

"Mar."

"Mar-see." I said, slower this time.

"Mar."

"Fine, you win." I said, throwing up my hands. Hell, it was a miracle enough that he could get one syllable out; Might as well take baby steps.

"And you're Denver, right?"

"Den." He said.

"Right. Denver." Yep, looks like he was still on the monosyllabic stage of life.

"Can you remember anything? At all?"

A headshake. Well, at least he seemed to have non-verbal communication down.

"Nothing? Your full name, your hometown…"

Another headshake. Damn, I should've thought better; He couldn't even remember his own name. How could I expect him to remember anything else? Well, might as well start with the most recent bits, and work my way back.

"Can you remember how you got here? What happened to you?"

He actually look thoughtful, now. " 'Member." He managed, concentrating on his speech. "Pain. Hurt."

Ah, hell.

"Anything else?"

"Big noises. Smells. Chase."

How incredibly specific and helpful.

While I was mulling over this, he up and started for Dad's old room, emerging a minute later with the old sweater clenched in his teeth. He sat in front of me, with a hopeful look in his eyes.

I shook my head. "Dude, that thing is covered in dirt, grime, blood, and god-knows-what-else. Hell, I had to cut it off you! You can't wear that anymore!"

He didn't reply, and just gave me that hopeful look again. I replied with a glare of my own, and we were back into stare-down mode again.

After several minutes of prolonged silence, (And my eyes starting to water) I gave up.

"Fine." I said. "I'll see if I have anything in the back."

He brightened when he heard this, and followed me into my own room. I dug through my clothes dresser, pushing aside T-shirts, socks, and miscellaneous hand weaponry until I found what I was looking for.

I held the hoodie up to check for size.

"It's a bit big on me, so it should fit you." I said. "It'll probably be more comfortable on you anyways."

Granted, it smelled like mothballs, and, also granted, it had SkullKrushers Boot Camp for Adolescent Survivalists emblazoned on the back, but I reckoned he couldn't tell the difference. I didn't like the camp that much, anyways; it'd been too soft for me.

Denver came over, sniffing the hoodie experimentally. He gave me a quizzical look. (Maybe it was the mothballs.)

I returned it with a look of my own. "Take it or leave it. It's this, or a T-shirt."

Hearing this, he sat back, an expectant look on his face.

"Hands up." I commanded.

He complied. Looks like his vocab is improving I thought, bemusedly.

I pulled the sweater over his arms, the hood catching over his head, obscuring his eyes (And much of his scars) and giving him a look similar to the one he had before.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork. He was in a clean sweater, at least; The rest of him, I wasn't sure how to navigate.

Denver seemed happy, though. He shook a bit, and padded back to the living room. I followed suit, finding him curled up, once again, in front of the fireplace.

Since most of my day had gone straight to hell (Read: Rescuing random zombies from barbed wire fences) I decided to cut straight to the chase and start wrapping up for the day. It was getting dark, anyways; Maine nights came pretty early, when you start hitting the fall and winter months. This of course, meant I had to get all the chores done: the water fetched, and the fire stoked. Zombies or no, I couldn't let the whole place fall apart.

The whole time, Denver just napped in front of the fireplace. I approached this with caution, and never took my eyes off of him; but, nope, he seemed content to not try and pounce on me and eat my guts out.

This was the, what, the third zombie I've ever seen, but, by God, it was the damn weirdest zombie I've ever laid eyes on. Well, if you could still call him a zombie; I wasn't sure if he met the criteria anymore.

When darkness had truly fallen, and everything was done, I sat down on the Hideous Floral Couch, and logged the day's events. Dad made me do this as a way to keep track of time; Apparently, if you don't write Did inventory and Dug out new outhouse at the end of every day, then you start going nuts.

The only question now was how to start, without making it look like I had gone nuts.

I chewed the end of my pencil, and wrote, decisively,

Oct. 9. Expended following items: Iodine (1/2 bttle), gloves (Latex-free, 8)

A flash of movement interrupted my thought process, and my writing. I glanced up to see Denver watching my endeavors from by the fireplace, his gaze contemplative.

"What're you looking at?"

But then he went back to his curled up position. I shrugged; probably the pencil scratching that woke him up. I continued on.

Gauze (1 pck), suture (1 spool)

There was a soft thump next to me, and I looked to my left to see he had jumped on the couch, gazing over my shoulder at the log.

The Glock was out in a moment; If I had been thinking, I would have waited a moment, but now my thoughts were running on raw fear, and I did it instinctively.

The infected screeched, scrambling off the couch at the sight of the gun. In his haste, he fell off and hit the coffee table with a large THWACK.

I suppressed a laugh, too shaken to think about anything else. "Dude, I said no funny business." I said, putting my gun away as he rubbed his (Now sore) head. The screech had been damn creepy, but now he seemed to be a bit less agile than I thought. "You OK?" I asked, surprised by my concern.

He shook himself, and shot me what I imagined was a dirty look from under the hood. I snorted; I didn't think that zombies could have wounded pride, but there you go. He seemed alright in any case.

"Don't startle me like that, k?" I said, once he had recollected himself. "Last time you did that, you tried to eat my guts. Next time, I might not hesitate to shoot."

He gave me another dirty look. Surprising how a person, while they don't even know how to speak, can still know how to give look that could kill.

"Don't take it personally. You wouldn't be the first zombie I've shot, anyways."

He humphed, returning to his spot by the fire. I felt a bit bad for pulling the gun, but what's a survivalist to do?

"What were you looking at anyways?" I asked, intrigued.

He didn't answer, but just kept staring at me. Or, rather, near me.

I picked up the log. "What, this?" I asked, and his gaze followed the movement of the notebook. I looked at the log itself; It didn't seem to have changed in a way that would capture the interest of a zombie.

"It's just the records-book. Nothing interesting in here." I said. Well, not until fairly recently. I thought to myself. He kept staring at it though, so, out of curiosity, I cracked open it to the middle and read a passage at random. "Oct. 8, inventory finished, checked traps…"

I stopped. Denver had sat straight up, and was listening with rapt attention, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He seemed less attentive now that I had stopped, but still had an air of expectancy about him.

I glanced at the logbook again, and turned to a different page. "Oct. 3, chased badger from outhouse again…"

And, again, the rapt attention. God, it was creepy to watch; I haven't seen anyone so excited to be read to since, what, 1st grade? Not anyone over the age of 7, anyways; much less a zombie.

I looked at the book in my lap. Yep, still the same; 51 pages of MRE inventory, recorded faithfully.

And he was still waiting.

I sighed. "You're a mystery to me.: I said, shaking my head, but nonetheless I turned back to the 1st page, which was an entry from 6 months ago (The last time I visited The Cabin)

"Feb. 10, arranged books in alphabetical order…"

I stopped short of the Helicopter Incident. I was tired, Denver seemed to be nodding off, and I didn't want to give him ideas in any case. Not that he seemed to remember it; even so, better safe than sorry.

I left him sleeping next to the Hideous Floral Couch. What I'd do with him come morning would be a task for when I woke up; for now, I needed to get some shut-eye before anything else. It's been a pretty damn long day, and I didn't need to make it even longer.

I again thanked my father for his sensibility, as I bolted the oakwood bedroom door. Though it might not have withstood, say, a well-heaved battering ram, it could probably take one zombie.

Probably.

It's a good thing my bed was comfortable.

As I settled into afore-mentioned very comfortable bed, I contemplated the vast complexities of life, chance, and circumstance. Mainly, that God has an incredibly twisted sense of humor.

I mean, here I was, doing very well, thankyouverymuch, in the middle of nowhere, for the express purpose of avoiding zombies.

And yet, not 2 weeks after my arrival, heaven itself rains a zombie down on me.

The chances of that should be nigh-impossible; and yet it happened, and not just that; but it would have to be an intelligent (fairly) speaking (sorta) zombie?

Maybe this was all a cabin fever-induced hallucination. Or, perhaps I died, and this was some sort of vague limbo as punishment for, I dunno, not donating to those Santas at the mall every Christmas.,or some other minor infraction that required disproportionate retribution.

Either way, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep, the man upstairs is a sick bastard.

A/N: Marcy isn't really the religious type. (Well, except when it comes to her cursing)

This chapter took me awhile to write and edit, since it was so incredibly horribly awkward the first few drafts. Hopefully, some of that awkwardness has been edited out. Thank you all SO much for your awesome and encouraging reviews; They really inspire me to keep going on :)

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-Author