A/N: Chapter 8 y'all. I own this story, and Valve owns Left 4 Dead, as is the natural order of the universe. Happy reading!

The next day was a Thursday.

Dad always hated Thursdays.

I don't know why he hated them. I, personally, held no particular disdain for them; to me, they were just another day of the week. For Dad, it was another matter entirely. He loathed Thursdays with a hatred typically reserved for dentists, lawyers, and doing taxes. For some reason, Dad reviled Thursdays, and Thursdays reviled him. (Or so he claimed)

You could say it was one of his…odder quirks.

Oh, he tried to justify it. He'd say it was the day when all the bills arrived, or that it was the day that got in the way of Friday (i.e., one more day between him being at work and him going up to The Cabin) or some other crappy excuse. All it meant to me was that he was in a surlier mood than usual, which is maybe further proof of him having some sort of mental illness, but I don't know. Not that him having a mental illness would change anything; he'd probably refuse to take any meds, and fight anyone who tried to take him to a nuthouse.

Live and let live, Dad used to say.

In either case, I would have yet to see if my day would be so-so, or if it would turn into a shitstorm. Hopefully not the latter, because, frankly, I hate getting blood on the carpets.

The sun was shining, the Glock was loaded, and I was ready.

I listened at the door. Sure, it was thick, but you never know. I wasn't about to walk into the next room in a sleepy daze, and into the waiting claws of a hungry zombie; Supposedly-reformed or no, sometimes you have to let the cynicism win.

Cynicism makes for survivors.

I didn't hear anything, but I flicked the safety off anyways. I unlatched the door, listening all the while, and flung it open, ready to fire. I must've done it a wee bit forcefully, because it went bang as it hit the wall.

Denver was on the Hideous Floral Couch, jumping a bit at the bang, and giving me an inquisitive look.

I hid my sheepish feeling as I put the gun away. Eh, better safe than sorry.

The zombie didn't seem to mind, in any case. He jumped off the couch, and padded over to the door with an expectant look on his face.

"You want to go out." I said, my tone deadpan. What the hell, is he a dog? I thought, but he didn't offer me any answers on the matter.

I opened the front door (The fact zombies can't open doors is a relief, I'll tell you that) and nearly regretted it, since the little bastard nearly bowled me over as he sprang out, and lighted for the woods.

He was gone for several minutes, and I waited, the cold Maine air making my breath fog. Several more minutes passed by, and I was starting to wonder if he was caught in the fence again when he came back, with a very traumatized-looking squirrel in his mouth and a proud look on his face.

My response was purely automatic.

"Den, drop." I said, and he dropped the squirrel. Apparently, it was merely stunned in its capture, because it came to the minute it hit the ground, and ran off.

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered, or terrified (The squirrels around here are fast little buggers, they're hard to catch) so I just went with authoritative.

"No hunting squirrels." I said, giving him a steely look. He looked crestfallen at this, so I added, "At least, not in front of me. And try not to the shirt dirty, 'k? I have to wash the laundry by hand here."

At this, he seemed to cheer up, and padded (Yes, padded. No, I wasn't drunk) past me into the Cabin.

Breakfast was fairly uneventful, and it was MREs, since I hadn't gotten any decent game recently. Denver seemed to take to them pretty well, which surprised me; I guess the whole zombie/brains things is a myth. It was just as well; I was fresh out of pilot.

Saying words to me.

Again.

Like to hear the words. Remind me of something. Far off. Voices, in the back of head.

Dark outside now. Like the dark. Light hurts my eyes, so I wear thing on my sweater /hood/ over them. Makes everything dark.

In light-time, she /Mar/ is doing many things, with many smells. Lights the smoky-thing that is warm, near the nice sleeping place, and getting wet-stuff /water/ and other stuff I can't get my head to say /remember/.

But it is dark-time, and now she is saying words from the flat-thing. Listen. Can't remember the words, but it fills head with noises.

Nice noises. Like the noises.

"- - - - - - standard survival - - - - - - . Any longer, and the - - - - -. Common - - - - - - such as - - - - - - - , - - - - -, - - - to be kept - - hand - - - -."

Sometimes head tells me what words are.

She smells… relaxed. Not scary. Was scary earlier, when I was prey. /Hunt/.

Now is not scary.

Not scared.

For a Thursday, it seemed to lack a fair amount of the despicability that Dad claimed that it held. True, as I did the morning chores, I had to turn my back every 8 seconds, out of sheer paranoia, and, true, when we went out to check the traps, Denver brought back a rabbit, but it was otherwise peaceful. What amazed me was how bloody tame the damn zombie was. I don't know what exactly happened, if perhaps the knock I gave him just yesterday made his head right again (Ha!) or, hey, maybe the cosmic justice thing. Anyways, by the end of the day, I stopped jumping every time he moved. Call it letting my guard down, but, frankly, I had a feeling Denver didn't want to tear my guts out.

Probably.

All in all, it was pretty good progress for a Thursday (Or any day, for that matter.) I caught a couple of mink, I got some wood loaded in for the fireplace, and I managed to get a zombie that tried to kill me yesterday, practically begging me to read James Grigori's The Work of a Man With Too Much Time on His Hands (Which is the greatest survival manual ever written by someone declared clinically insane.)

Oh, how the world turns, and how the mind adapts.

He didn't talk much. Just mostly grunts, and growls, and the occasional screech or shout. I guess he used up all of his mental energy on the last little conversation. (Read: A few words) Hopefully, he was just clamming up; Speech therapy isn't one of my strong suits.

At least it meant he kept quiet for the reading.

"Constant vigilance is a necessity in any survival situation." I read aloud. Denver looked enamored; whether he actually understood the words, I didn't know.

"The various entrapments of non-awareness may be alluring, but be warned! Danger lurks every corner, and death awaits those who close their eyes! Settle not for mediocrity, but for the highest standard of focus and attentiveness in all endeavors that you may undertake! This, of course, applies to your arms, in all cases. This will be covered in Chapter VII, Various Assorted Weapons and Their Uses in Anarchistic Situations (With additional notes on flamethrowers)."

Yep, for a Thursday, it was pretty damn productive.

A/N: That's it for Chapter 8! Watch out for references and shout-outs to other games and books, etc. Thank you for all of your reviews, favs, and follows; They make me smile. :)

As for action-y things... all I can say is, be careful what you wish for.

Leave a review for this chapter, and fav it/follow it if you enjoyed it. Recommend it to all of your fellow zombie-nuts, every view counts. Until next chapter!

-Author