Author's Note: this is based on complete reality, at least in my game. No matter who plays Francis, he is constantly the one constricted by smokers. I'm usually leading the team and smokers standing ten feet in front of me will ignore me in favor of Francis. It's a joke amongst my friends and family. The smoker obviously has an obsession with him.

Excuse the weird writing. I wanted it to sound like a guy who is mostly zombie is narrating. I didn't put it in a point of view either because I wanted it to be ambiguous. Instead, I think it came out confusing and obnoxious. Criticism is always welcomed.

I originally posted the two chapters together, but it wouldn't separate the scenes correctly so I split it into two chapters. Sorry!

Down below, there is a man in the streetlight. Tall and strong, armed with an assault rifle – not an easy target. But a target nonetheless, living and breathing, full of sweet blood and fresh meat and mushy, slippery organs that would soothe the burning inside. A cough and a wheeze in preparation to spit forth the endless tongue and constrict the passerby. Puffs of smoke escape, and the smell, or perhaps the coughing, alerts the man below. When he turns, his face is startling and faint memories dance in the distant part of the brain believed to be long dead.

Tattoos on his arms like roadmaps of a hometown, familiar enough that the shapes are distinguishable even from this distance. Skulls and demons and naked women, images so harsh and gritty, but remember the flesh to be soft and smooth, slightly hairy but the hair is short and fine, pleasant to touch. The tattoos have no story, mean nothing to this man. Just images, picked from the wall of the tattoo parlor. He must have explained that many times; it is implanted in memories.

His head is shaved. He is not old, but is balding. Shaves his head to avoid watching hair disappear. But for every strand of hair missing outside, there are a million thoughts inside. There were drunken discussions at night before passing out on the hallway floor and sober discussions with hangovers in the morning at breakfast. He knows a lot about literature, politics, philosophy – does not let anyone know this because he says it is "queer". Why laugh? Is that funny?

The man returns to the shadows. Follow him across the rooftops. Do not let him disappear. He makes the body feel alive again.

Memories in peripheral vision, just out of reach. Eats his eggs scrambled, likes to be kissed behind the ear, sleeps on his back and snores loudly. Unsure why those are the only things remembered. Tears fill eyes and trickle over the contours of the sagging, pus-filled tumors across the face.

On the street, commotion. Man has joined three others. They are survivors, too. Listen to their hearts pump, makes mouth water. Almost attack again, but kill the man's friends and he will be mad. The reunion has alerted others. At first, they raise their heads slowly, groan and snarl. Then they leap into action, darting towards the living, saliva hanging in tendrils from their mouths. Sounds of gunshots. Blood splashes brick buildings, smells delicious. Need to stay back, not get shot, or the man will stay a mystery.

Too high above the street to hear the man, yet his voice echoes in mind. Cocky and mean, even when speaking tender words. Sends chills down back. Cough and wheeze again. Someone below hears, a man's voice yells "Smoker!" But it is not right.

"I hate those smelly bastards!" a second man says. This voice is the same from those memories. Makes the breath catch. Splutter. Cough.

The ground begins to shake. Roars in the distance. A giant barrels down the street, overturning cars. Watch from the rooftop, hypnotized by the action. Instinct is to join the melee, but that man… The thoughts are human, irritating. Fingers tense. Choking on tongue. Twitch and swoon, fighting off the instinct to fight. More guns, pops exploding over the loud giant's screams. The four humans run from the giant, shooting over their shoulders. They split up to confuse it. It bleeds profusely, close to death, but turns. Eyes lock on the man…

Heart races as giant gallops down street. A girl shrieks, "Francis!" That is his name! Francis… More memories flood in... Cold, flavorful beer and the smell of cigarette smoke… Bed on the floor, no frame, just sheets spread over a mattress stained with semen… Lips framed in bristly facial hair, soft and just slightly wet, pressed to trembling fingertips…

With a howl and a shudder, the tongue stretches with the speed of a bullet. It wraps around Francis's waist. A distance of seventy feet is easy to cover. Pull him back and he shrieks like a woman. Fight instincts and gently set him on the rooftop. He stares up, eyes wild, hands busy with the tangles of the tongue. Giving up, he reaches for his gun. He aims at hideous, rotting, blistered face. Almost shoots, but stops, puzzled. He does not understand why a smoker stands, watching with tortured eyes.

Try to say Francis, try to ask questions, but tongue is too long. Choke and cough. Down below, the giant has been killed. The others call out for Francis, panicking, fearing him dead.

Francis sets down the gun. Brows raised, eyes confused, but dark and distant, just as in memories. Reach out a hand. Touch the tattoos. Flesh numb, charred by smoke – cannot feel Francis's skin. Must be soft. Must be slightly hairy, slightly damp with sweat. Blood on his shoulder, caked in his hair. Emotion, so human – sadness? Lean in, smell him… perspiration and cologne, so familiar and musky.

Can't speak, can't feel. Just smell and watch.

Francis cocks his head, observes carefully. There are emotions and thoughts in his eyes. He sees something that pains him. "Are you… No, can't be…" He gets to his feet, brushes dirt from his leather vest, picks up the gun. Points gun, but does not shoot. He pats on the back, strong and hearty. "Thanks for the hand, you walking poster for emphysema." Chuckles at the joke, then calls out, "Up here guys!"

A voice down below – "Francis! Where are you?"

"Mind letting me down, buddy?" He chuckles again. He looks for a ladder or a staircase.

Can't speak, can't feel. Can point to the fire escape.

Francis laughs, doubling over and slapping his thigh. "Well, what do we have here? This fricken zombie's a regular old boy scout!"

Want to smile. Want to laugh. Want to say goodbye. Mouth is too damaged, the flesh blackened and hard. All there is to do is watch him leave.