(note on the virus - the small percentage who are immune cannot catch it through infected air, while most humans can catch it through infected air. The only way immune people can contract the disease is through exchange of bodily fluids; eg. Being bled on.)
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Chapter 2 - Alfie.
Dean.
Dean woke to the thick scent of autumn leaves in his nose, a thin blanket over his body and a thin slat of sunlight in his face. He rolled over, a small yawn climbing through his throat, and shot a glance to the corner of the room, and the bundle of rags that lay there.
Or rather, the empty, discarded bundle of rags, and the lack of a Sammy.
Suddenly wide awake, Dean shot out of bed, haphazardly pulling on his battered jacket and almost sprinting out of the door. Panicking, Dean bellowed, "SAM!"
This scene was all too familiar.
His name was Samandriel, but Dean called him Alfie. He was the youngest person in the Outpost - hell, he was practically Dean's younger brother by now - and Dean took care of him.
It was an innocent mistake. Once a month, heavily supervised and impossibly careful and sticking to each other like glue, the inhabitants of Outpost 4 would leave. It was only for an hour - barely that - and they could only go a hundred metres out, but for Alfie and Dean, it was salvation from the uniform metal bunks and the disinfectant-scented air and claustrophobic walls. Dean was a surly seventeen-year old with the beginnings of stubble and long limbs, and he still wore his father's old leather jacket. Alfie was a bouncy thirteen-year old with bright brown eyes and too much optimism.
It was springtime, sunshine dripping through green, leafy canopies and onto the damp ground, and as soon as Alfie and Dean stepped out of the thick, metal doors of Outpost 4, they could feel the elation sink into their bones, the smell of pine thick and omnipresent.
They walked with the group, making idle chit chat and teasing each other like brothers. Carefree and careless, they had wandered ahead of the group and out of sight before they'd even realized.
It was the silence that alerted Dean that something was wrong - the roar of deafening silence that was broken all too quickly by a much worse sound. A blood curdling scream ripped through the forest from the direction of the main group. They were here - the infected - and the group was as good as dead. All Dean could do now was save Alfie. He turned round and yelled for Alfie to run, but the kid was paralyzed with fear, his wide eyes fixed on the direction of the scream, glinting with unshed tears. Dean grabbed his arm and dragged him, sprinting clumsily through the under growth, but Alfie went down, face slamming into the dirt as his ankle was snagged by the fingers of a rotten tree root.
Dean tried to lift him up, but his limbs were heavy and numb and Alfie was frozen stiff, so scared he didn't even try to stand up on his own. Blood trickled in a steady stream from a gash on his forehead and dripped onto the thick, gnarled root. Dean took out his gun and stood stock still over Alfie. He heard them before he saw the, the crashing in the under growth, the bestial snarls, the pounding of feet as the hoard approached from in front of him. Well, mostly in front of him.
A single diseased individual, so far past gone that there eyes seemed to leak pale fluid from the tear ducts, tackled Dean from behind. That's when the frenzy started. Dean managed to kill the thing and push it off himself, but the valuable seconds lost had serious consequences. They were all over Alfie, biting, scratching, beating. Alfie's head flew back as he let out a pained cry. Dean acted quickly, killing as many of those filthy things as he could and scattering the rest. But it was too late.
He knelt down beside Alfie and cradled him in his arms. He was covered in blood and not just his own.
"It's fine. It-it'll be fine. You're OK," lied Dean, his throat thick with grief. Alfie rasped out a laugh, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. "We both know I'm not fine Dean, they bled on me. I'm infected-" he chocked out, interrupted by a hysterical Dean.
"No! You don't know that!"
Alfie looked back at him, his usually warm eyes sad and fading. "Please," he begged, "Don't let me end up like my mother. Don't let me kill anyone. Please, Dean, shoot me, now. Before it's too late." Dean paled, he shook his head and swallowed stiffly. He couldn't do that. Not to him, not here, not now.
A single tear finally escaped from Alfie's eyes, as they slowly started to pale. "Please." he whispered.
Dean slowly stood up, guilt and grief already settling deep in his soul, he pointed the barrel of his gun at Alfie's head. A small, grateful smile wavered on the younger teen's lips.
"Goodbye, Alfie," he choked out, before pulling the trigger. The awful sound made him flinch violently as it echoed through the forest. Within 5 minutes he had lost everything, and he wasn't going to let that happen again. Never.
Dean was older now, stronger and faster and not the scared and shaking teen he once was - but now, crashing through the browning undergrowth with adrenaline thrashing across his veins, it felt no different to that day. Sam, Alfie - he couldn't lose them both. He'd barely known Sam for a few hours, but he was going to protect the kid even if it meant death now. He couldn't be the cause of two deaths. Dean wouldn't let that happen.
"Sammy!" His voice was a bellow through the silent forest, and the caws of birds filled his ears as they launched from the trees and into the sky, shocked by the noise. Dean silently cursed - not this, not again. He'd just made noise, and now they were bound to be coming, and Sam was out there, alone. A slide of cold dread covered his senses. Dean had to find Sam, now.
Feet pounding on the ground, pushing his body to the limit of it's power, Dean raced through the forest faster than he'd moved in a long, long time. He could hear them now, the chattering and screaming and growling stabbing through the air from all around, and he yelled again before he knew what he was doing - "SAM!"
And finally, Sam replied.
"Dean!" His voice was thin through the sounds of the infected, barely coherent, but Dean sprinted towards it like it was a beacon of light
And suddenly, Sam was there, appearing from behind a blackberry bush. Dean's heart swelled with relief, and before he knew whet he was doing he had folded Sam into a crushing hug. Sam made a muffled noise that might have been a squeak of surprise, before hugging back awkwardly.
After a second Dean let go, his face red. "Oh, um... I thought that you were- I thought something had happened to you. Sorry."
"Oh, well, I'm fine. Thanks. And I've got breakfast!" Sam grinned, holding up a large cloth filled with berries.
"Maybe you could explain that weird outburst over breakfast? You know once we've run about 100 miles in a different direction to make up for the minor problem of-" (Sam gestured vaguely to the approaching noises) "-them?
Dean laughed, smacked Sam on the back and started to run - but this time, the panic wasn't there. There wasn't a tree root in the way to pull Alfie to the ground, no blood and no fear. The two boys set of, quickly gathering their stuff and hightailing away from their camp. The dying embers of the fire slowly turned from orange to black as the two figures disappeared, shoulder to shoulder, into the distance.
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Castiel.
Castiel threw himself out of the way as the wolf snarled and pounced again, white eyes feral and wide as blood run in rivets from her maw. Cas had managed to get in a good swing (hence the gash over her jaw) but now he was tiring, body aching and screaming with pain. I'm losing, he panicked, slamming his body to the side as the infected animal leapt at him again, I'm going to die here.
Twisting, Castiel launched himself away from the beast as another sound suddenly joined the snarling and the wind in his ears and his heavy, rasping breathing. A cacophony of screeches and screams was suddenly alive in the forest all around him, grotesque harmonies of shrieks and moans that froze Cas to the spot. They were here - a lot of them.
Rolling out of the way of the wolf's razor-sharp claws, a plan quickly started to form in Castiel's mind. When the first of the infected appeared, dragging a mangled leg that could barely be called a leg anymore, Castiel took his chance; pounding his foot into the wolf's nose, he swung upwards onto the branch of a tree, and launched himself off that and into the shadows of the deep jungle. Everything was a blur around him, the world a mass of dark brown and green, and he ran and ran until the sounds of the infected died away behind him.
Collapsing against a tree far, far away from the fight, Castiel's head lolled onto his chest. The too-large trench coat slipped down over his hands - even after all this time, he still hadn't grown into it.
What the hell had brought all those infected to the same place all at once? Sure, Castiel and the wolf had been making a little bit of noise, but the infected weren't often attracted to noise unless it was distinctly human - distinctly uninfected. Whoever had brought all of them here wad evidently human (an immune or half-gone, no doubt), which could only mean one thing.
Castiel wasn't alone.
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The figure moved on silent feet across the street, one hand wrapped around the handle of the gun in his belt. His dark, brown eyes were shaded against the autumn sunlight as he darted into the shadows. He had evidently done this over and over again, knew where the cracks in the road were and knew his way to the small door in the side of the building he was creeping alongside.
Sliding in, the figure didn't emerge for multiple minutes, and when he did there was a heavy, black bag slung over his shoulder. The contents clanked metallically against each other slightly but, once again, he was near-silent as he slid back across the street and into the shadows once again.
The figure walked through the abandoned industrial estate for a few minutes, eyes darting and feet silent on the gravel-covered ground, until he reached a large block of offices. The main doors were barred, but he seemed to know his way around. Scrambling onto a well-hidden, rusty ladder, the man clambered onto the windowsill, slinging in his black bag before slipping through the window himself.
The man emerged from the window into a bare, slightly broken down room. The wallpaper, now faded, had once been daffodil-yellow, and the room as a whole was furnished with only a scratched, wooden table and a few books piled in the corner.
Bathazar raised his head, smirking. "Dad, I'm home!"
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