Left 4 Dead is the property of Valve. No profit is being made off this fiction, and the authors claim no ownership of the setting or characters. Cross-posted to the hero_closet community on livejournal. Go join, if that's your bag.

Without having to set an alarm, Zoey still woke up relatively early in the morning. Not early enough to catch her mother or father bustling out the door, of course. Even though she was awake, Zoey stayed in bed, staring at her room. It was pretty clean for her. Her laundry was picked up and in the basket, her various gadgets and movies all put away in their proper spots. Her book-bag, still heavy with books, sat next to her computer. She'd remember to take them out eventually. For some reason, the weight of them was reassuring.

She exhaled a minute sigh and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, wriggling her toes on the plush carpet. Zoey swept her feet over the surface a few times and sighed again. For some reason she'd felt a bit... disconnected since school had let out. Like she'd lost her sense of purpose. School had been grueling, and she hadn't even declared her major yet, and she'd been looking forward to spending the whole summer doing nothing at all. And now that she had nothing to do, she felt like everything was just wrong.

Breakfast would be her first mission, she supposed, and she forced herself up and out of bed. Her clock read nine a.m. so she decided she'd be out of the house before noon. The cleaning people came then and it was awkward being home doing nothing while they busted their asses. It was their job and they got paid, but still. Weird.

Normally she just had cereal or pop-tarts, but she needed something to put effort into. She made herself some scrambled eggs, turning on the news while she ate them, certain there were more interesting shows on. They had digital cable, but all she ever felt like watching anymore was the news. Even the news felt boring.

Zoey had to get out of her funk. It was nearly ten thirty by the time she was ready to go out and she picked up what she had formerly considered her life line. Lately, it only felt like a tether. She paged through her friends, wondering if they were even awake yet. She tried Amanda, the more responsible of her two closest friends.

"Hey!" Amanda said when she answered the phone. The sunshine in her voice made Zoey smile a little.

"Mornin'," Zoey said, "What's shakin'?"

"We are so clubbing tonight," Amanda determined, "Remember that party last night? The one you bailed on at like eight?"

"Yeah," Zoey said, smirking at her tone.

"Well I met these really cute guys," she said, "And they're gonna meet us tonight."

"Aw, Amanda," Zoey protested, "Jeez, why do you do that? I hate blind dates!"

"It's not a date, it's just... listen, they're really cute Zoey," Amanda insisted, "Besides, what else are we going to do? Josh's party isn't for a few days yet."

"Nnngh," Zoey growled.

"Well what do you want to do then?" Amanda asked her, her voice exasperated.

"I was looking around on the 'net and there is this paintball place not far from-"

"Oh my god, Zoey, I am not getting balls of paint shot at me!" she said, almost offended that Zoey had suggested such a thing, "You don't want to do that Zoey. Paintball is for rednecks, anyway."

Zoey sighed wearily and shook her head even though Amanda couldn't see her. She wasn't even sure why she'd tried that one. She'd be better off trying to drag one of the guys, but even they would be reluctant. They preferred Halo. Fake guns. Paintball guns were fake as well, but not quite fake enough. Why was she so frustrated by this? Normally she'd agree wholeheartedly. She was a nerd and nerds didn't play outdoor sports.

"All right, we'll go to the club," she said, smirking when Amanda cheered, "But these guys better not be the usual slack jawed idiots."

"One of them likes video games," Amanda said, obviously trying to be enticing without ruling out the slack jawed idiot idea.

"I already said I'd go," Zoey said, "You want to do anything for lunch?"

Amanda did, in fact, and Zoey agreed to meet her there. When she hung up, she didn't know what to make of her exasperation and impatience. Some of her friends were kind of bubbleheads sometimes, sure, but they had always been fun to hang out with. Zoey was their token weirdo friend, given, but lately she found herself wishing they could do things that didn't involve boys or clubbing or video games. Was this what it was like being a grown up? God, next thing she knew she'd be telling people to get off the lawn. She'd have some damned fun today, and that was that.

"Snap out of it, Zoey," she told herself, slapping her cheeks and shaking herself out. It was summer break, damn it. Time to have fun.

The alarm went off. Louis reached out and smacked it into silence before the first tone had finished. It was a mind game; with the alarm silenced he had to force himself out of bed before he went back to sleep and go through the motions of his morning routine. He showered and then put on clothes identical to the ones he wore yesterday, kitchen for a glass of water (apparently it was healthy), cereal in front of a morning show that had the cheer and sweetness of powdered sugar and made no sense to his sleep-addled mind. Watch, wallet, keys; Rachel. He was seven floors away when he remembered he hadn't said goodbye. Maybe she was still asleep. He didn't have time to rectify his oversight.

Still mostly on autopilot he joined the thousands of commuters on the clogged arterial roads leading into the city center. At zombie-shuffle speed through a fog of car exhaust, he edged into the city, and managed to find a free spot at his usual car park. The commute had woken him up; the stop-start rhythm of traffic had reached into some primal part of his brain and turned on the switch labeled 'you are going to be late'. Him and everyone else.

He took the stairs down from the car-park. Elevators just took too long; he needed fuel before he could face the office. His watch declined to tick ominously but he felt himself lose seconds nevertheless as he risked life and limb, his hurried footsteps echoing along the stairwell. The elevator doors where shut when he reached ground floor; he told himself his flight down the stairs had beaten it. He wasn't even puffed; the gym was paying off, although it hadn't made him any less late for work.

The pedestrian stream had averaged itself out to a speed too fast for the old ladies shuffling behind their bags and too slow for Louis and his brethren hovering impatiently at traffic lights, answering their phones and burning caffeine. Louis had his sights set on the little cafe on the corner, its steam and bustle dwarfed by the towering office block it nourished.

Surrounded by the smell of coffee and the newly-washed, Louis came to his first dead stop of the day in, what else, a queue, at the same spot he usually started his day. Louis jittered in place a little and checked his watch, letting out an irate sigh. He had a briefcase in one hand, his suit jacket draped over his arm, and he was going to be late if this barista didn't haul his fat ass around a little faster and make him some damn cappuccinos.

Once they were finally done and paid for, he walked as quickly as he could with the full tray without spilling it, doing rather well considering. He dodged around people and managed to dart in front of a cab (he honked and Louis didn't even bother flicking him off - hands full anyway), rushing into his office building and making a dash for the elevators. Of course, the door closed just as he got to them and he swore, poking the call button a few times.

His cellphone rang and after a sensational balancing act, he managed to answer it without checking the caller id. He winced when he answered. Rachel.

"Yeah, baby, I won't be late tonight," Louis assured her, "I know I didn't say goodbye this morning. I'm sorry. Listen, I'm still runnin' kinda late so I gotta... yeah... yeah. Love you, too. Bye."

He flipped his cellphone shut and squeezed into the elevator, glaring at some idiot mail-boy who jostled him. It wasn't going to be a very good day, and it was just like every other day.

There was a knock at the door. Bill sat up, alert and ready. It was past nine. He scowled at his own laziness and swung himself out of bed, wincing as something clicked in his back. There was another knock.

"Goddamn it, hold your fire, I'm coming." He pulled on his dressing gown, walking through a sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean apartment and muttering to himself as he went to answer the door. They were going to think he was some useless old man, still in his pyjamas at nine in the morning, he berated himself.

He opened the door, "Yes?"

"Hiii~ I'm Bethany from the Christian Outreach Center and I-"

"Get the hell out of my doorway! If Jesus is so goddamn keen on me he can ask me out himself!" He slammed the door in her face, feeling a bit better. He took a deep breath and angrily shrugged off his dressing gown.

He walked past the mirror in the hall and noticed a note jammed in the gap between the glass and frame. Aw hell, was that today? He picked up the pace back to his bedroom to get changed. Fucking useless Kid Doctor and his fucking useless tests.

"Should tell him to piss off until they find a cure for old," he muttered, picking up his lighter from beside the bed.

The Mercy hospital. Bill's mood grew blacker. He slouched outside the specimen collection office and finished his cigarette, ignoring the looks he was getting from the other patients and hospital staff. He knew what they were thinking; that whatever he was dying of it was his fault in the first place for keeping some of the bad habits he'd picked up while risking his life for them. Well he wasn't dying by a long shot, and if it kept 'em at an arm's length so much the better.

Goddamn sick people. He didn't belong here.

Chin up, soldier. He presented himself to the front desk and a girl with a polite smile took his details and made him fill out a form, and then told him to wait. As far as Bill was concerned, it was the anteroom to hell. There were silent televisions showing sports or talk shows, and piles of gossip magazines on the low tables between the rows of seats. Bill watched the other inmates for a while, trying to guess what was wrong with them, and he knew they were probably looking at him and wondering the same thing. Their guesses were probably just as helpful as Kid Doctor's.

His name was called, and he went in to see the vampires.

He seemed to get a new attendant every time, and they all treated him like a kid going for his first visit to the dentist. "Just jab it in, or I'll do it myself," he snapped, "you don't think I've had worse?" And they were always agreeable and distant and it pissed him off more. They probably thought he was scared of needles and blustering to cover for it.

The good part was that he'd had it done often enough, and it meant that his ordeal was nearly over. Until next time. Christ, one depressing thing at a time, please. They stuck a needle in his arm and patched him up, and he found himself outside the hospital again, blinking in the sunlight. He lit up again but didn't wait around to smoke it, stalking away with the smoke coiling over his shoulder.

Sick people were superfluous. Useless. Old and sick were even worse. But he wasn't sick, damn it all.

There was a screech of tyres followed by horns and shouting. Francis opened one eye to see sunlight pouring in from between the slats in his blinds. The clock on the bedside table told him that it was almost eleven. He shook himself awake and looked around, frowning and blinking and generally feeling like he'd been backed over by a truck.

"Fucking hell," he muttered. "I hate mornings."

In the street, the argument continued before engines revved and the combatants sped away. Francis kicked away empty beer cans and staggered into his tiny bathroom. He wandered around the cheap brick box he called a home before unearthing some pizza from the back of his fridge. It was better than nothing.

His apartment was a mess. There was empty junk food containers and beer cans on almost every flat surface, and he hadn't washed a dish in over two weeks. Not that the landlord cared as long as he kept paying cash.

His ability to continue this was in some doubt. He put the pizza box down on top of the television before picking up his phone and punching in a number.

"It's Francis. Yeah, can I speak to- thanks."

He leaned against the wall and toed at a hole in his carpet while he waited.

"Hey, man. Yeah, long time no see."

He paused, listening. He frowned but kept his tone a genial growl.

"I know, I know. Wonderin' if I could pick it back up. Couple nights a week?"

"Fucking hell, man. You know I wouldn't. Yeah."

He ran his hand over his head and scowled.

"It's your call, man. You can get back to me when they get their asses handed to 'em."

He hung up. Thanks for sweet fuck all. He retrieved his pizza and wolfed it down; it looked like it was going to be breakfast and lunch. He tossed the empty pizza box on the pile near the door and grabbed his keys before slamming the door behind him.

He went downstairs to the communal garage that his neighbours tended to use to store junk, rather than cars. He stepped around a pile of boxes and some electrical equipment of dubious origin. His eyes lit up, and he grinned.

"Hello baby," he said affectionately, "least you're still here." Jobs came and went, and currently there was a lot of went, but his beloved bike was always there for him.

He wheeled the chopper out onto the driveway and went back inside to fetch his tools. With the morning sun beating down on his head, and the sound of rap music echoing mindlessly from a nearby apartment, he started taking his bike to bits. Maybe he'd think of someone else to call, or someone would call him, but in the meantime he could lose himself in the grease and chrome.

The music in the club thumped in her eardrums and she did her best not to grimace, to have fun instead. They weren't really supposed to be in here, but it was kind of underground, and so long as they didn't actually try and buy any drinks, they wouldn't get kicked out. She felt completely exposed out on the dance floor. The lighting was sporadic, strobe-like, and it was too easy to imagine the bouncing, dancing bodies around her as... as something else. She didn't know at what point she'd started to hate crowds. All she wanted to do right now was shrink into a corner and keep an eye on everything. Maybe even go outside, away from the racket.

Abruptly a hand grabbed her wrist and she stiffened, but it was only Amanda, smiling and mouthing 'Follow me'. Zoey allowed herself to be led through the crowd (the crush of bodies, the breath of hundreds of people, her skin was crawling off) and sat down at a table they'd claimed. Zoey drank from a nine dollar bottle of water gratefully, though she wasn't sweating from exertion. It looked normal alongside everyone else, so she'd take it.

Amanda flipped her phone open, texting, while Zoey tugged at her skirt and adjusted her knee-high boots. This was such an impractical outfit, but it was her favorite. It had been. For clubbing. When clubbing had still been pretty fun. Ugh, she was out of it tonight.

"Ohh, they're here," the redhead said, perking up and propping up on her tip-toes and squinting out into the crowd.

"What do they look like?" Zoey wondered, raising her eyebrows and swiping an arm over her forehead.

"A blonde and a one has really dark hair," Amanda said, "The blonde has a red shirt on."

Zoey peered out into the crowd, scanning it, and pointed, "Is that them?"

It took Amanda a moment but she nodded, laughing, "Shit, you're good Zoey. Hey! Over here!"

Amanda waved wildly and finally got the boys attention, and Zoey resisted the urge to groan. They both looked like absolute douchelords, in her opinion. Hair done up to look like it hadn't been done up, tight shirts, tight jeans, and one of them had even popped his collar up. Both of them waded through the crowd, and Amanda happened to glance at Zoey, whacking her friend on the shoulder.

"Oh my god, you haven't even talked to them yet," she said, disapproving, "What is your deal anymore, Zoey?"

"They look boring," she insisted, talking at normal volume. They wouldn't be able to hear a damn thing until they were right up on them, anyway.

"Hey," the blonde said when he managed to squeeze over to their table. The dark haired one put up a hand and waved as well, and Zoey forced herself to wave back.

"Hey, Brendan!" Amanda said, scooching forward to hug him. Obviously she had some designs on him, and Zoey hid a smirk by drinking, "Brendan, Mark, this is Zoey."

"Hey Zoey," Mark said, looking her over.

Zoey offered him a silent 'cheers' with her bottled water and leaned on their table, zoning out as Amanda made small talk. She'd make an effort tonight. Maybe some good brainless fun would break her out of her funk.

Later, as Zoey drove them home, Amanda was stewing and Zoey felt like a jerk. She'd really, really tried, but things... hadn't gone well.

"I can't believe you told Mark to grow some pubes before he calls you," she seethed after a very long silence, "What's your problem!? He was cute!"

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, hunching her shoulders and wincing as she watched the road, "I just... come on, Amanda, I could kick his ass. I don't like dating guys I can kick the ass of."

"Well you used too," Amanda pouted.

Zoey exhaled a world weary sigh. That was true, wasn't it? What had changed?