Writer's block everywhere. So I tried another prompt. Sorry if it drags in places, I really struggled at times.

Oh, and this is a sequal to another prompt, so I suggest reading this ( http : / / left4bed. livejournal . com /378 . html? thread = 20602 # t20602 ) first. It's not too long, and it's slashy, so basically it's totally worth reading. Oh, and remove the spaces if you want the link to actually work, haha. And you might have to refresh your browser, but only once, so no worries.

Disclaimer: Left 4 Dead (c) Valve

Warnings: Violence. Swearing. SLASH. You have been warned.

Echoes on walls, hollow and empty as they may be, are perfectly capable of traveling great distances. Reaching many ears, bouncing off walls; shaking glass panes, broken and tattered in what was left of their paneling. Containing the rustle of secrecy and danger, the growl of contempt, the whimper of hurt, the whisper of curiosity. An intelligent creature would have kept its jaws firmly shut, preventing the rising alarm that would summon the beasts hidden within the shadows. A smart creature would have also kept to itself, claws sheathed, haunches stilled, breath mellow and calm. Anything to keep the oh-so-important element of surprise intact.

But not all creatures, in this day and age at least, were quite so intelligent. Or perhaps, even, they simply paid no heed to their carelessness, knowing somehow that they were the superior ones. That secrecy was no longer required of them, because they were at the top of the chain now.

Bill was the first to notice one such creature, one of the smarter ones who just didn't care, one who had the motivation and purpose to track their small party through the crowded alleys of the city. At first it was the trickle of crumbling foundation on his shoulder that caught his attention. Eyes drawn immediately upward as it dusted along his coat, he'd turned his gun to what he'd thought to be a threat, to find nothing. Overhead was a crudely formed hole in the ceiling, rough at the edges and dark as could be. Where it led, he didn't know nor care, but somehow he knew, knew something had quickly taken residence inside.

"C'mon old man, we don't have all day to wait for your slow ass."

At Francis' voice, all suspicion was gone, replaced with irritation as he shouldered his gun and marched from the general store, glass crunching underfoot as he passed under the window they'd broken to scramble in. Outside stood his motley crew, consisting of a loud-mouthed, leather wearing moron, an analyst gone wild and a twenty-somethin' year old girl who'd bit off more than she could chew.

"'bout time," Francis groused as he approached, annoyed as usual. "I was startin' to think you'd been dragged under the counter by a common or something. Wouldn't put it past you to let your guard down like that."

Completely oblivious, Bill pushed right past the man, "On your toes, everyone. Something's not right around here." He hardly cared for the frown on Francis' face, or the roll of his eyes as he fell into line. Gun at the ready, Bill took off down the road, eyes scanning for danger, as per usual. But also for any signs of stores or houses, anything they could possibly raid to get their rations back up.

Zoey and Louis quickly followed suit, pistols and rifles held tight, but smiles as loose and easy as could be. Their chatter was light-hearted and friendly, and Francis' lip quirked ever downwards as he slowed, watching the trio walk further and further away. He didn't want to follow along, these weren't his type of people after all, and it made things so damn difficult. But at the same time... A clatter from a nearby building had him rushing to catch up, the hack of a Smoker setting his teeth painfully on edge.

Later, as they gathered around a makeshift camp and scraped the wrappers of what had once been saltine crackers with tongues parched as sandpaper, Bill found himself uneasy once more. Head cocked, he listened for the sound he'd known he'd heard. He was discreet in his manner, not wanting to alarm the others unnecessarily. They'd been cornered and beaten and harassed all day. He wanted them to have, at the very least, this small moment of respite. No matter how hard he strained his ears however, the sound did not return, and, grudgingly, he returned to his meager meal, eyes peering over bowed fingers to watch as Francis kicked back, completely at ease. How the man did so in such conditions, he'd never know. But if he was honest with himself for just a few seconds, he knew he was only jealous, seeing as how his own nerves would never allow him to settle in such a way. Not with such responsibilities on his shoulders. The lives of his comrades. The children he'd picked up, offered to lead, to protect. Said young ones, Louis and Zoey, sat knee-to-knee, a stack of cards sitting a few inches away, dog-eared and worn. Bill wasn't sure what they were playing, but was glad that they too could find a spot of time for leisure, despite the circumstances. Their faces were dirty, arms scratched, pant legs torn and tattered. Sleeves rolled up, rolled back; a tie loosened, shoes dirty...

They were a mess, streaked with blood and grime, and yet, still so capable of forgetting all about the Infected.

Bill sighed, the note long and ragged, run down by time and fear. And at the same time...

The sound came to him once more, this time so close that he actually felt the need to raise his gun, cock it, hold it close, waiting. Across the way, Francis' eyebrows had pulled downward, noting the old man's behavior and following the lead presented to him. At his side lay a shotgun, always within arms reach, and he did reach for it, fingers grasping quickly for the correct positions.

Zoey and Louis halted in their game, hands pausing mid-lay as the cards in their hands were quickly tossed aside in favor of firearms. Louis was the first to speak, eyes darting this way and that, anxious, "What is it? What's wrong, Bill?"

And Zoey, always trying to lighten the mood, "Don't tell me, zombies?"

In the distance, the rattle of spittle and blood ran deep in the throat of an Infected they'd all become too familiar with. How far away it was they weren't sure. Due to the twisting alleys and buildings surrounding them, any sound that came to their ears had already been twisted, reverberating off stone and cement. The creature itself could have been miles off, or perhaps even a few feet, already crouching, pouncing, sailing through the air, claws extended and ready...

Francis sneered, hip cocking as he scanned the shadows, "Come on out, Wussy! We're ready for 'ya!"

But at his call, another sound stirred into being, one of great commotion, suddenly swelling and extending all around them. From the rubble rose the horde they'd tried so hard to avoid, and it was without question what their next action was. Guns were raised, triggers trembling as fingers tightened swiftly against them. In the deafening silence, as time seemed to slow, what happened next was unlike anything the group would have ever expected.

From a nearby rooftop, cloaked in shadows, a Hunter sprang from the darkness and landed before them, growls prominent and vicious. It was without hesitation that the survivors turned their aim to it instead, opting to kill the more dangerous of the Infected before slaying the oncoming horde. But before any of them could act, it was already moving, but away from their party. Needless to say, their guns followed, steadily watching, tracking it as it leapt through the commons, shredding and goring anything in its path. Blood splashed wet and dark on the garbage littering the ground, high on the bricks of buildings and lamp posts alike. Entrails were flung with ease, bodies sliced in dozens of pieces as the Hunter worked its way through the crowd, never stopping, always moving like a fluid, graceful creature of death. The commons hadn't a chance against their powerful cousin, only able to meekly defend themselves as it snarled and plowed through, splicing through bones and flesh. It wasn't long before the masses ceased, the remaining commons crawling away in fear, awed at the betrayal of their own kin.

"Well," Louis began slowly, watching as the Hunter finally settled, "that's one way to do it. But uh, what now?"

"What do you mean by what now?" Francis began, pushing the shorter man out of the way, "we shoot the damn thing! I'm not getting my throat ripped out for this little bitch."

But as he brought his gun up, Zoey's hand quickly grasped his own, eyes scorning as she pinned him with her coal black eyes.

"That 'little bitch' just saved us a lot of trouble, Francis. And look at it," Four pairs of eyes scanned the creature where it sat, head cocked as it panted into the night, "it's just sitting there, all calm and quiet. I think if it wanted to hurt us, it would have done so already. You know, before it cleared the horde."

"You know we can't trust the little shits, Zoey. It's not a damn puppy, or pet of any kind! Did you have your eyes closed when it killed those things? Picture it doing that to us, no, me! What would the world do without a guy like me?"

Zoey rolled her eyes, but nevertheless held her ground, head rolling to pin Bill with pleading eyes instead. "Bill, c'mon, you know it's alright, don't you?"

Looking just as indecisive as Francis, the old man's good eye scrunched tight, face contorted in a look of displeasure as he tried to break it as easy as possible to the younger girl. But before he had the chance, the Hunter turned, suddenly quiet, to stare up at Francis. And something seemed to pass between them in that moment, a flicker of familiarity perhaps, something of a kinship, unknown and incredibly disturbing all at once. Francis took a step back, eyebrows raising in humor when he realized what was so familiar about it.

"Hey, that's the Hunter I – no, wait..." He caught himself a moment too late, grin sliding away as he realized his mistake. And fuck, if he hadn't nearly given himself away in front of the entire party.

"You... what? You tried to kill? Yeah, man. We all tried to kill it, what's your point?"

For a split second, Francis could have hugged – well... patted Louis on the back. He'd unknowingly saved him from divulging the dirty pleasures of his past, and Francis grasped the reigns as quickly as he could, taking the out that had been presented to him.

"Yeah, of course. I don't know what I was getting on about, guess I'm just in shock or somethin'. But uh, yeah, the Hunter. We should do something about it. Because I hate Hunters. And I hate dyin', too. And something tells me the two mix pretty well."

The Hunter, completely oblivious to the ensuing conversation over whether or not it would live or die, let out a yawn and shook itself as it returned to a feral, crouched position once more. It failed to notice the way the survivors stilled in stifled panic, paid little heed to the barrels aimed for the crease between its hollowed eyes as it dragged the freshest of its kill over to Francis' feet. The man, or what remained of it, was still seeping blood, blood that pooled around Francis' shoes, staining the soles and prompting the man to take another step back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Francis demanded of it, but all it did was cower beneath him, head lowered in fear and submission. And before Francis could go so far as to shove it away, Bill chuckled, surprising them all.

"I'll be damned," he said, producing a battered cigarette from the inner folds of his coat, "you see what it's doing there? That's submissive behavior, seen it in dogs before, way back in the day. The lower members of the pack give their alpha-males first pick of the kill." His eyes met Francis', creased at the corner in amusement and confusion alike, "Looks like it sees you as its leader of sorts. You should be proud, I guess. At least this means it won't kill you." He paused, shared a skeptical look with Louis, "Maybe, that is."

"Yeah, well," Shouldering his gun, the leather-clad man grimaced down at the whimpering creature at his feet, "hm..."

Louis and Zoey shared a look, watching as the Hunter inched closer, looking to rub up against Francis' legs like some domestic pet. Their minds followed the same path, wondering, perhaps, how Francis could have garnered this watch dog of sorts, and Zoey was the first to speak, "Say, Francis, why you, huh? Why not me? Or Louis? Or Bill? It would make a lot more sense if it were him. I mean, look at him, he practically oozes alpha material."

"Very funny." Bill groused, but the tilt of his head failed to hide the smile on his face.

And, smiling herself, Zoey turns back to Francis, "So? What is it?"

"I ah, I dunno." He flustered about for a moment, grumbling something about running out of ammunition, looking to get some time alone from the constant questioning. Louis stopped him, mouth opening to pose a question, but Francis beat him to it, "I don't know what you're talkin' about!"

The other survivors stared at him curiously, but Bill finally shook his head, shoulders rolling as he dismissed the conversation, "Well, whatever the reason may be, I have to agree with Francis. We can't let it live, not knowing that it could turn on us at any second. I don't want to be around when the shit hits the fan." To his surprise though, as Zoey and Louis sadly shook their heads in agreement, Francis stepped back in, hand raised ever so slightly, "Now just wait a second... maybe we should keep it around. I mean," he spared it a look, noting the way it practically threw itself at his feet. "it's the first thing to pay me proper respect in a long, long time. That means it's smart. And we should keep it."

"But a few minutes ago you were the only one who wanted to kill it." Zoey reminded him, but he shook his head, waving her off, "That was before it offered to kill shit for me and follow me like a king." He sneered, watching as the girl rolled her eyes up at Louis, unwilling to believe the arrogance, "I vote we keep it. You said it yourself, it could be handy, save us a bit of ammunition, 'yanno?"

Frustrated, Bill let out a long sigh, rubbing a temple, "I can't believe we're even considering this. Look, we can't keep it, I won't allow -"

Before he could finish his sentence however, the screech of yet another Hunter echoed off the buildings around them, and without a moments notice the beast appeared, standing taller and larger than the snarling creature at Francis' feet. The larger Hunter paused for half a second before leaping for Louis, its closest target, but it was met halfway by an opposing force, dragged back to the ground by the Hunter that had taken a liking to Francis. They rolled about in the dirt, snarling and clawing, biting one another with teeth that tore and ripped with ease. The survivors could only watch as the smaller Hunter pinned down the larger, teeth at its throat to rip and tear through flesh and blood, exposing innards and tendons and veins that bled freely. An agonizingly painful screech was its dying cry as the smaller of the two tore voraciously into its foe, claws and teeth making swift work of the Infected. Pleased with its work, the smaller grasped the larger and dragged it over dirt and rubble to lay it at Francis' feet. When that was done, it sat back and tipped its head upwards, possibly looking for praise, but receiving nothing but a scoff and a laugh. Francis turned his head to the others, grin in place as he raised an eyebrow, "Well? What say you now?"

And, grudgingly, the others couldn't help but find themselves impressed, and just the slightest bit relieved. The vote was unanimous. The Hunter would stay; for the time being at least.

"But," Bill began, once again taking his place as the leader of their crew, "if it even looks at one of us the wrong way, I'm putting a bullet in its brain."

And Francis, snarky as always, "Well, I wouldn't worry about that. Damn thing doesn't even have eyes to look at you wrong with."

So as they continued on through their day, Francis dragging his feet as per usual to stay behind the pack, he couldn't help but notice the way Wussy, as he had taken to calling the Hunter, practically clung to his ankles. It was irritating at first, prompting him to lash out and kick the creature away with a demand for personal space. But each and every time, it would ignore him completely and crawl right back up to him, rubbing briefly against his leg before backing off once more. Francis wasn't sure how to react to something like that, but he knew for a fact he didn't exactly like it. For all he knew, it was getting closer, trying to gain his trust, so that it could take a bite out of his calf. But no matter how many times he kicked it away, it only returned, growling a bit at him as if in meager protest.

Eventually, he simply let it go, accepting the fact that there was no ridding himself of the parasite. And, to his despair, it was at that point that the Hunter decided to go off on its own. It dashed from the group, startling them all a bit as it did so, but it paid them no mind, too focused on the commons that were milling about around them. As they continued on, the Hospital, their goal, growing closer and closer in sight, the Hunter occupied itself with hunting.

Each kill was brought back to Francis' feet, laid quickly down and then abandoned. At one point, a group of commons appeared, huddled together in a bloody circle of hunger that converged on the survivors in a fit of screeches and bellows. Bill picked off two of the braver ones instantly, gun already up and loaded, ready to blow skulls and faces apart. Zoey and Louis were backing him up, but Francis lagged behind, too occupied with the suddenly possessive creature at his feet. He tried to shoot, to pull his weight in the defense of their party, but Wussy, being the diligent guard dog he was, did nothing but hassle him. When he took a step back, the Hunter would be right there, almost tripping him up as he tried to gain his footing. And when he went to lift his gun, the Hunter was already standing, arms up, claws extended, growls of anger fending the other Infected off. They refused to approach the Hunter, and therefore Francis was completely untouchable. The rest of the team, however...

"I think it's kind of cute." Zoey said, loading a clip. "I mean, about as cute as a mindless zombie can get, I guess."

"More like annoying." Francis lamented, grimacing down at the panting beast at his feet. Fighting was one of the only things that entertained him anymore. And now this... this thing was taking that away from him. But he couldn't help but feel a little grateful, for whatever reason. He supposed it had something to do with the die-hard respect the Hunter seemed to have for him, which happened to be something Francis didn't take lightly. But as Wussy brought another man to his feet, piling it up with the other four commons, the irritation from earlier returned.

"Look here, moron," he began, snapping his fingers to catch the Hunter's attention. "I don't know what you're tryin' to do here, but I'm not keeping a tally of all your kills if that's what you're wanting."

It whimpered up at him, shoulders slumping as it sat dejected.

"Aw, c'mon, lighten up, Francis." Zoey said, pouting up at him. But he waved her off, strutting past them all. He didn't care, it was... it was just a Hunter.

"It's only a zombie, you don't have to coddle it, Zoe."

The other three survivors exchanged knowing looks, but did nothing more for the Hunter. They simply walked away, leaving it to crawl after them. Instead of returning to Francis' feet, however, it ran off into the darkness, slaying anything that came its way in an attempt to prove itself.

This act carried on for many hours, the Hunter returning briefly every few minutes to sling a corpse not too far from Francis' feet. The man tried to ignore it, unwilling to give the Hunter the satisfaction, but every time they seemed to be coming closer and closer until all he could do was trip and find himself with a mouthful of dirt. He groaned, cheeks flushing at the ensuing laughter from his team, eyes meeting the soulless sockets hiding beneath the Hunter's hood. It lay on the ground in front of him, hands at its face, giving it a rather, well, adorable look as it scooted closer, bringing them almost nose to nose. Francis huffed, pushing the Hunter away with the flat of his hand as he hefted himself up. "Alright," he growled, "I get it, I get it!" But honestly, he really didn't, and the way the Hunter continued to lay at his feet, all lax and quiet, only served to confuse him more. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, "Hey, get up already, we don't have all day."

Wussy didn't move. Francis chuckled, "It's starting to remind me of you, Bill. Lazy. Kinda slow. Yep, you two are a lot alike."

"I don't think it's doing that on purpose." Louis said, and the other two survivors nodded as they stood at Francis' side, staring down at the Hunter as it curled into a tiny ball. Bill produced yet another cigarette, huffing smoke and curling the noses of Zoey and Louis as they took a step away, "I think I know what's wrong with it, actually. It's another alpha-dog thing. It can't eat before you do Francis, and, well..." he trailed off, eying the newest addition to the corpse pile, "You can't exactly eat what Wussy is offering you, now can you?"

"So, what? It's going to keep on waiting and waiting until it eventually starves to death?" Bill nodded, and Zoey frowned, lip pouting as she stared up at Francis with big, dark eyes. "Can't you, I dunno, pretend to eat one?"

"Hell no, I'm not putting my mouth anywhere near that thing." Francis crossed his arms over a broad chest, ignoring the pleading looks he received, "There's absolutely no way. No way in hell."

"Can't say I blame you." Bill digressed, "I wouldn't do it, either."

"Me either." Louis chipped in, smirking slightly. And Zoey, seeming to catch on to what the others were doing, couldn't help but add, "Yeah, who would? Not me, that's for sure. None of us would. Guess that makes us, I dunno, alike? Wouldn't you say we're alike, Francis?"

And, as they had planned, Francis stiffened, eyes zoning in on the Hunter, "Alike, huh?" Frowning, he paused a moment, weighing his options, feeling the stares on his back as he observed the creature, now whimpering, at his feet. And with a sigh, he stooped, catching the corpse up in one large fist, dragging it over to an empty crate. He sat, ignoring the inquiring stares he received, and produced a knife from his jacket, taking to the task of eviscerating the body in his grip.

The scent was revolting, to say the least. And the sight wasn't much better. But Francis tarried on, cutting limb from limb, organs and entrails splashing to the ground as he made a pile at his feet. He glanced up, a forearm in hand, and promptly tossed the piece to Wussy, whose interest was immediately piqued. It heaved itself up weakly, hands clenching and unclenching, eyes almost asking permission, waiting for a go-to. Francis let out a long sigh, "Yes, yes it's yours, just eat already, you moron."

And Wussy did, in desperate, giant gulps, stripping flesh from bone and letting nothing go to waste. Francis continued throwing him pieces until the body was nearly gone, slightly intrigued by the way Wussy ate. It wasn't everyday that you came across a literal garbage disposal, which was exactly what the Hunter reminded him of. The other members of his team were a little less inclined to watch, more sick to their stomachs at the action than curious. Zoey, however, could not help but tease Francis a bit, voicing aloud what all of them were probably thinking, "It's strange seeing you do something so thoughtful, big guy. I wonder though, why try so hard? What is Wussy to you?"

"A pet, of course." Francis quipped, throwing down the last of the mangled corpse. Wussy snatched it up and slurped it down noisily, shaking himself once down, completely sated and ready to continue his hunt. Before slipping away, it rubbed against Francis' legs, a growl emanating from deep within its throat that more so resembled a purr than anything resentful.

With the kinks worked out of their new procession, things seemed to progress much smoothly from that point. Wussy would hunt for a majority of that day, and collapse as the sun began to dip beyond the horizon, prompting one of the survivors, but most usually Francis, to feed it. The commons that attacked were easily taken down, guns and claws working together to ease the use of ammunition. Everyday, Mercy Hospital seemed closer and closer, and despite the warnings along the way, the group carried on. The hospital was their only salvation at that point, so no amount of graffiti on safe house walls would deter their efforts. But as the building grew closer, Wussy became anxious, less inclined to hunt and more comfortable trailing behind Francis, or between the legs of whoever seemed closest. Its whines and whimpers were accentuated by the flinching and jumpiness that began to define it, and no amount of head pats and soft words seemed to soothe it.

When the group sat to rest, Wussy would take to Francis' side, pressing as close as possible, growling possessively as it surveyed the area. Should anything stray too close, the Hunter was immediately upon them, slashing through hide and bone before the attacker itself was even aware of the pain. Francis wasn't sure how the Hunter would fare against anything other than a common or another Hunter though, so when the tell tale hack of a Smoker sent the survivors on alarm, he was the first to pick the Infected off, a well-placed head shot earning him looks of admiration from the other three humans in the party.

Things were finally looking up, it seemed.

That is, until the hospital was finally within range.

They'd woken early, knowing that today would finally be the day, and that rescue was nearly upon them. Wussy had shown no signs of turning on them, and ammunition levels were high. Med packs were in high stock, and the commons milling about were little to none. It should have been a perfect maneuver, an easy goal, but something told Francis that nothing was ever so easy anymore.

As they stepped out onto the broken up street, Bill suddenly held a hand up, calling for the others to come to a stop. Spitting the cigarette that had been perched on his lower lip out, he hitched his gun up, "You guy's feel that?"

Zoey stepped closer, uneasy, "No, nothing. What is it Bill?" But regardless, she too brought her twin pistols up, having lost the rifle she'd been using in a fight two days prior. Immediately at her back, Louis couldn't help but inquire as well, "I don't feel anything, what are you talking about, Bill?"

And Francis, separated from the others as he always was, was the first to notice something was well and truly wrong. Bill's anxiety was nothing but paranoia, but Francis' worries were not without reason. It didn't help that Wussy, whose hackles were raised, had begun to growl, low and feral and more dangerous that anything any of the other survivors had ever heard. But he felt it, felt what Bill had felt, but not yet registered, and he knew immediately what it was.

"Oh, fuck." He spat, eyes widening a bit as he stepped back, "Shit guys, we have to get out of here, now!"

But it was too late. As the others turned to stare curiously at him, time seemed to slow, and the incurring explosion from before them was the sounding equivalent of an atomic bomb. Heads swiveled in the direction of the noise, already knowing what had created it. The rumble beneath them, the shouts of fury, it all belonged to the very creature that defined the infection. The large and hobbling beast that had struck fear into their hearts, and had been the thing that, above all else, they would have given anything to avoid.

It was a Tank, and it was headed right for them.

"Give it everything you've got!" Bill shouted, already shooting, gun heating up quickly in his hands as he fired round after round. The others weren't far off, shooting and aiming for anything they could, bullets spraying the Tank like water, and slipping off in the very same way. It threw itself in their direction, smashing cars and trash cans out of its way, screaming at them, disrupting the ground in a way not unlike an earthquake. The bullets streaming in and out of its flesh were nothing more than pinpricks, nothing more than the pinch of an insect's bite. Four streams of fire became three as Bill stopped to reload, and the Tank never stopped, gaining ground in leagues, coming faster than they could possibly have hoped to make up for.

"Fall back! If you have to, run for your life, don't die for this piece of shit!"

Its breath was nearly on their faces, and the survivors had no choice but to work their way back, avoiding street lamps and debris, buildings and alleys that cut off in dead ends. There was hardly room to move though, the Tank such a large, foreboding foe that it seemed to cut off all areas of escape, and Francis felt his heart sink when his back touched the cool chill of brick and cement. The Tank was gaining on him, only meters away, fists smashing through pavement like it was made of candied brittle. He never ceased shooting though, he thought. At least, in his last moments, he could remember that he went out in furious, blazing glory. He almost grinned, eyebrows pulling downwards as he let out a shout of victory, bullets aimed right for the crease between the Tank's eyes. Though it had little effect on the beast, he refused to take his finger off the trigger, not even when the Infected was upon him, fists raising to smack him right through the foundation at his back.

But as its fists came careening down, a shout caught Francis' attention, and a sudden wave of heat had him recoiling, stumbling sideways with his free arm over his eyes to avert the light that had broken out over him. He could hear the Tank yowling in pain, and the renewed shots aimed at it, and when he finally opened his eyes he could see flames licking their way up its back, engulfing the creature in a wave of heat. Zoey stood triumphantly to the side, one pistol in hand, and the holding a lighter that she had presumably used to light the Molotov that had exploded against the Tank's back.

"I've got your back!" She shouted over the flames, winking at him, and he'd never once been so happy that she was there.

It was at that moment, as the battle began to turn in their favor, that Wussy, who had been all but forgotten, made its appearance. Leaping from a building overhead, it evaded bullets and flames, striking the Tank directly in the face with a scream of rage. The two locks arms, Wussy scratching, biting, piercing, howling; the Tank grabbing desperately at the slender creature, trying to tear the Hunter away by the leg, the arm, anything. But Wussy would not be deterred, its claws tearing into anything it could get its hands on. And the Tank bellowed furiously at everything around it, the ground wavering as it trampled back onto the street, fists pounding and grabbing. Finally, in a fit of desperation, the Tank managed to grab Wussy by the middle, its meaty fist flinging it away. But to its dismay, the Hunter clung tightly, claws digging into pure muscle as it tore into the beast's knuckles with teeth as sharp as daggers. It was at this point that the survivors remembered the guns in their hands, having been previously too busy watching the fight between the two Infected to intervene.

They began their efforts anew, and with Wussy's help, the Tank soon stumbled to its knees, a rattle of death escaping its throat as it fell to the dirt and stilled. The flames on its back still flickered strongly, enveloping the creature completely as Wussy crawled away, nursing a few bruises and cuts as it did so. Bill stood proudly on the sidewalk, overlooking the others as they exchanged smirks of victory, and the overwhelming urge to smoke had him producing a cigarette he couldn't help but feel that he earned. Francis limped over to his side, still a little shaky from what had transpired, and to Bill's utmost surprised, the man snatched the cancer stick from him before he could place it to his lip, taking a long, fitful drag. He handed it back a moment later, blowing a few smoke rings, "Sorry 'bout that but, you know, needed something to calm my nerves."

It wasn't said aloud, but that moment was one of the few where they stood side to side, looking to all the world like true teammates.

"Let's find a place to rest this excitement off." Bill finally said, shouldering his gun as he took Zoey and Louis by the shoulder, and motioned to Francis with a tip of his chin. Wussy followed suit, its walk so jaunty and proud that, when Francis glanced down, he could almost imagine a wagging, eager tail behind it.

That night they rested in the relative safety of the Hospital lobby, chairs and desks blocking the doors and windows, save for a small side exit that Wussy used to climb in and out of the building. It prowled about as night hours ticked on, slaying anything that came too close, and anything that was even headed in the hospital's general direction. Inside, Bill and the others tended their wounds, limbs and cuts bound tightly in gauze they'd found in one of the desks propped against the wall. Their meal was another ration of crackers, and water from a bottle they'd found tightly sealed in the last safe house they'd come across. It was drank from with large, greedy gulps, the survivors convinced that the Hospital would be their salvation, and that, once they reached the top, someone would come to save them. Perhaps it was a bit too optimistic, but with the situation as it was, it didn't hurt to be a little hopeful.

As the night dragged on, Zoey's head began to dip, a yawn escaped her despite her efforts to keep her fatigue a secret. Louis stared at her knowingly, yawning contagiously himself, "Maybe we should all go to sleep. That Hunter seems to have things under control, and I don't think there will be too many Infected around anyway, since this is Tank territory."

"But that's just it, isn't it?" Zoey said, a hint of fear in her voice, "What if another Tank shows up? We don't have much ammo left at all, and whose to say Wussy can take on another one of those things?"

"Got any more Molotov's?" Bill asked her, leaning heavily on a rusting filing cabinet. She shook her head, "Nope, used the last one to save Francis."

They turned their heads to the man in question, who was standing guard at one of the boarded up windows. Through the wood plastered over it he could just barely see out onto the street, eyes keeping careful watch in case Wussy happened to miss something. Louis nudged Zoey, smiling a bit, "Funny isn't it, seeing him like this?"

"Yeah, it's so unlike him." But Zoey smiled, "It's a good thing though, he seems... happier? I mean, I guess it's frustrating for him sometimes, being around us. Because, well, we're all so different..."

"He just doesn't like having someone better than him around." Bill muttered, grinning a bit. It prompted a laugh from the younger survivors, but Francis finally tilted his head, pouting a bit, "Ha ha, very funny, you guys. I can hear everything you're saying, you know."

Bill waved him off, "All in good humor, Francis." And then, yawning a bit himself, "Well, I'm gonna go find a place to lie down. I've had enough excitement for today. I suggest you three do the same but, ah," he turned inquiring eyes to Francis, raising an eyebrow. He didn't have to say anymore, the leather-clad man nodding, "No worries, I'm not tired anyway. I'll stay up and keep watch, you guys go curl up somewhere. But if the horde runs in, you're on your own!"

"Asshole." Louis griped, but the crease in his eyes took the sting out of the swear. Francis threw him the finger, but couldn't hide the quirk in his lip.

Wussy returned later that night, long after the quiet snores of his teammates kicked up. Francis was reclining in a chair that had been propped up against the main entryway, gun held to his chest as he waited for morning to come. As the Hunter crawled in however, Francis sat up, immediately attracting the creatures attention. Normally, it would have run immediately to him, but something in the man's eyes made Wussy pause, head tilted in a silent question, almost asking him if it were in trouble.

Grinning in the darkness, Francis leaned onto his knees, hand extending, "C'mere you little shit." He said, waggling a few fingers. Wussy huffed, leaping onto the floor, shaking itself off, and then crawling over to where Francis sat. It stared up at him with hollow, yet baleful eye sockets, recognizing him as the alpha, but still wanting to invade the man's personal space. Francis leaned back, "Yeah, yeah, whatever." And Wussy, figurative tail wagging once more, leaned its chin on Francis' knee, growling deep in its throat a passive, content note.

They sat like that for awhile, Francis' hand finding its tentative way to the hood over Wussy's skull, ruffling it a bit as he leaned back into the chair as far as it would go. Wussy continued to purr against him, throat rattling, claws tangling in the slack of Francis' jeans. Their silence was comfortable, passive, and the Hunter would have been content to stay that way throughout the night. But the man above him had other ideas, and before long he was shoving the Infected off him, standing tall and lean as he stretched, popping and snapping a tired spine back into place.

"C'mon, I've got something for you." He said, leaning his gun against the chair as he stepped over Wussy to walk across the lobby, disappearing into a dark room off to the side. The Hunter followed cautiously, ears perking for any sounds of danger, but catching nothing but the ragged note of a snore from the old man in the other room.

As it entered the room Francis had disappeared into, the sound of running water caught its attention, head tilting curiously as it sat and waited. Francis produced a bucket from the corner, running it under the ancient, rusting medical sink at the counter. The bucket was dirty, coated with dirt and a bit of rust, but it would have to do. It was no better than the water running from the faucet, anyway. What with the grime and blood staining it. But it would work, and it would become much dirtier, regardless.

When the bucket was full and the Hunter's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Francis beckoned it closer, stepping past it to close the door as quietly as possible, flinching a bit at the protesting squawk of rust he received in reply. But it closed snugly, and when that was done, Francis returned to the Hunter and the bucket of water it was dipping its hands into, the man shooing it off into the corner as he pulled the bucket to the center of the room. There lay a drain that had once been used to run blood and clots to the drains below. Next to it stood a mortician's worktable, bolted to the floor, upon which Francis patted his hand, "Up you go." He said, motioning to the tabletop. But Wussy crouched closer to the floor, whining a bit.

"Look, I'm not going to dissect you or anything, I just want to wash all that shit off you. I mean, you smell. Bad. Really bad." Another whimper, but Wussy leapt onto the table without another word of protest, settling uncomfortably on the tabletop. Awkwardly, it moved its legs so they dangled off the table, looking almost human for a fraction of a second. That is, until it slouched forward, head tilting to watch Francis scoot the bucket a little closer, and the illusion was broken, the Hunter once again looking to all the world the Infected creature that it was.

Francis stood once more, observing the creature with eyes half-mast, trying not to panic the creature with his next move, "Now uh, don't freak out or anything. I'm gonna get you clean, but, well, you know, I'll have to take your clothes off."

Wussy tilted its head, ears perking a bit. Francis wasn't sure it honestly understood, but he could only sigh, reaching for the Hunter's hood, but pausing, "And if you bite me, I'm going to smash your face in, so just relax, got it?" Overhead, a light flickered into existence, a bit unexpected in its suddenness, but Francis took it as a good sign, hoping that it meant help would soon be on the way. He returned to the task at hand though, reaching for the Hunter sitting before him once more.

Wussy whimpered, leaning back a bit as Francis' hands seized its hood and slowly peeled it back, revealing matted hair and sticky blood, blood of which Francis hoped belonged to something other than the Hunter itself. Wussy shied away from the light, the hollowed out circles of its eyes sensitive to the brightness. Francis did it a favor and leaned forward a bit more, moving himself so he blocked out most of it, and Wussy leaned up into him, growling its appreciation. However, as the man took the Hunter's jacket zipper in hand and began to yank it down, working through blood and rust, Wussy returned to squirming, hands reaching up to lift the hood back up, to push Francis' hands away and hide in darkness. But he would have none of that, and the man pushed Wussy's hands back to the table, glaring warningly as he worked the zipper out of its track and peeled the jacket away. He paid little attention to what was underneath, concentrating on removing the dirtied, filthy article of clothing. His eyes watched the way Wussy's muscles jerked and tensed as it was yanked off its arms, revealing pale, bruised skin. It seemed oddly pliant, even healthy despite the hard growths in place, and the oddly tinted colors. There were a few strips of tape he had to stop and unravel, plucking them off and away, then tossing them to the floor in stringy, sticky bits. When the jacket was gone and settling in a heap on the floor, Francis finally stepped back to take in the Hunter's appearance, eyes uncaring, hands completely professional. That is, until he saw what the Hunter was wearing.

A Midnight Riders t-shirt. Completely intact, print a bit faded but glaringly obvious. His idol's facing staring up at him, fire and brimstone surrounding their tour dates of a few years back. Francis blinked, completely blown away.

He fucking loved the Midnight Riders. And here Wussy was, wearing one of their shirts. A shirt he, Francis, owned as well, though he had lost it when the Infection hit.

"Damn, they were right... me and you... we're more alike than I thought."

Sighing, Francis ignored the whimper Wussy gave him as he bunched the fabric up at the bottom and brought it up and over the Hunter's head, depositing it in the general direction of the jacket. Keeping his composure, Francis then beckoned the Hunter to slide down off the table, and it did so, looking strange and unnatural. It was hard to picture this jacket-less, exposed creature as a feral Hunter anymore, even more so as Francis jerked it closer, fingers sliding into the belt loops on its jeans, yanking and pulling them down. Wussy leaned back against the table, head turned a bit, and if Hunter's could have flushed, its face may have been just the slightest bit tinted. Francis ignored it though, trying to stay as calm as possible, to reinforce himself as the alpha, and to convince the beast in front of him that none of this was wrong. Was weird. Was strange, and just... why was he doing this? He shook his head, using his own booted feet to pull off Wussy's shoes and to kick away its jeans. This left the creature in nothing but a faded pair of black boxers, which Francis left on for the time being, hoping that no one walked in, because there was just no way, no way in hell that he was really this brave.

"Ah, well, might as well start with your hair. Lean over a bit, wouldja?" He had Wussy sit cross-legged by the bucket in the floor, then snatched up the jacket he'd stripped away from it. Ripping the sleeve off, much to the Hunter's dismay, Francis dipped it into the mucky water, his free hand finding Wussy's neck, gently pulling him down to face the bucket. The Hunter struggled momentarily, whimpering, hand finding Francis' knee, but the man only massaged the nape of its neck, the jacket sleeve lathering the Hunter's hair, washing away clots of blood and grime, revealing hair that was as dark as the night outside. It took awhile, and a refill of the bucket, but before long, Wussy's hair almost smelled clean, and Francis was content to leave it so. Wussy stayed in place as the man leaned back a bit, watching streaks of red run down the drain at his knees. It felt oddly nice to have its hair so clean, and it await Francis' next move eagerly, wondering, watching, observing every move. Wringing out the sleeve, Francis maneuvered himself behind the Hunter, but froze, noting a large, black smear on its back. Grunting, he ran the cloth over it, wiping away caked on dirt only to find the Midnight Riders staring back at him once again.

A tattoo. Wussy had a goddamn tattoo.

"You've gotta be kidding me... this is just... fuck." Too good to be true, he thought to himself, but he refused to say it aloud, instead filling the gap with another swipe of the cloth, water running in fat droplets off the Hunter's side, carrying away blood and scabs, leaving behind nothing but smooth, yet bruised flesh.

He failed to notice the way Wussy's skin trembled under his touch, not until he'd moved to refresh the cloth in his hand, which, upon his return he found the Hunter's skin to be raised in goosebumps, bumpy and ragged against his palm.

"Cold?" He asked the Hunter, not expecting a reply. It didn't take long to clean the rest of Wussy's torso, bringing out the pale pallor of the creature's skin. That completed, Francis let the Hunter stand, pushing him back onto the table once more as he left to refill the bucket.

Wussy watched him move slowly, wringing the cloth out as good as possible so he could tend the Hunter's face. It prompted the Hunter to recoil a bit, not wanting such cold water to run down its cheeks, but Francis persisted, scrubbing its face clean of all the blood and dirt that had caked itself there. He then grasped its jaw firmly in hand, squeezing until it opened slightly, just enough for him to run the cloth over Wussy's teeth. It wasn't as effective as a toothbrush, but it was better than nothing. Francis had picked up on the technique himself not too long ago, and had been grateful to have at least a little comfort. Wussy didn't seem to like it though, that is, until Francis fingers swiped the length of its tongue, cloth-less and naked, pure flesh against muscle. Rubbing in deft little circles, Francis smoothed the length of Wussy's tongue, cautious of the way its jaw began to twitch, worrying for a fraction of a second that teeth would clamp down on his hand, and then all would be lost. But Wussy stayed still and quiet, throat rumbling as Francis ran circles across its gums, the inside of its cheeks and the sensitive, almost ticklish roof of its mouth.

As he did so, Francis ran his hand down Wussy's side, cloth in hand, swiping at nothing but clean skin, but moving all the same. When it came to rest at the beast's clothed waist, Francis removed his fingers from Wussy's mouth, ceasing the subtle in and out motions he'd been making, knowing fully well the Hunter had no idea what they reflected.

"Stand up. One last time, just gotta clean the rest of you, then we'll be done." How much could Hunter's understand, he wondered. How clear was Wussy's recognition of him? But all the same, he helped the creature up onto the table, hands reaching blindly for its matted and bloodstained boxers. Francis refused to look down, eyes focusing on the sockets staring back at him. Sockets shadowed in the mangy, wild hair Wussy had, black as coals and somewhat fluffy, puffing up as it dried. All too quickly Wussy was quite naked, and Francis simply stood, holding eye contact, waiting, waiting.

Wussy whimpered, a single, guttural note echoing in its throat as it leaned forward and brushed its cheek against Francis' shoulder.

It seemed to break whatever had held the man still, and with clinical indifference, he went to wash the rest of the Hunter, keeping his touch polite, 'Because this is just a bath. Nothing else. Not yet.'

And luckily, Wussy was none the wiser. Its cheek lay against Francis' shoulder, the rumble in its throat growing ever more. There was something different in it now, something... affectionate? It was no longer the primal, otherworldly warning that Francis had come to associate with Hunter's. Nor was it the gentle, friendly growls that Wussy had directed at his team. It was something else, something he'd never heard before.

Needy. It sounded needy.

"I only wish," Francis murmured, eyes avoiding, hands hitching Wussy's legs up at his waist to gain better access at its calves and shins, "that I could wash away the Infection as well."

Wussy whines, cheek sweeping upwards, lips and tongue and teeth brushing at Francis' neck instead, hot air brushing against him like a physical caress. Francis tries to ignore it, teeth gritting, knowing that he really shouldn't. But Wussy persisted, hands finding Francis' sides, kneading cloth and flesh like a sated kitten, tongue lapping at the dip in the man's collar bone. Whining, always whining, growing in pitch like a keening whimper, and Francis hears the cold splat of the washcloth hitting the floor before he realizes he's dropped it in favor of seizing the Hunter on the table in front of him.

He pushed it back, hands on its shoulders, knees clamoring up onto the table to tower over the Hunter, whose hands are reaching blindly, claws grasping. And Francis throws his cautions to the wind and practically collapses, lips and teeth and tongue meeting in a fervent, almost furious clash.

"The others will hear for sure." Francis growls, nearly deafened by their proximity, and the single, wailing note that Wussy is hissing into his ear. All gentility is gone, abandoned in favor of the same frustration Francis had felt a few days prior. The simple need to take, and to give, and to forget everything else in the process. Because he and Wussy were always alike, always the same. They'd met in a clash of wills, and had parted in the very same, the sound of a slap echoing in that filthy alleyway. Things were different now though, because Francis knew, knew that this Hunter, this creature, was more akin to him than anything else roaming about out there. And it was funny, perhaps, how he almost wasn't surprised, that even in the zombie apocalypse, the only thing he could get along with was the very thing trying to kill him.

But that was the past, and this was the now, and he didn't care for the people sleeping peacefully in the other room, only for the writhing, keening creature beneath him whose back was arching, body pressing and searching. And Francis was going to give, give everything, and take everything as well with rough and callused hands.

Clothes were discarded, shredded and thrown aside. Francis wasted little time in foreplay, he and the Hunter alike wanting nothing but the sheer, rough pleasure of a bond hastily wrought. Hands everywhere, scalding hot, searing through flesh to stroke at tender muscle, and Francis' teeth worked away at Wussy's neck, pulling and sucking, leaving his mark. At its waist, hands caressing and grasping hard enough to bruise, bringing them flush together as they rocked, breath mingling when the sensation became too much to focus on anything else. Sweat dripped from Francis' brow, the harsh, medical light on his back too hot, and the Hunter beneath him a heady, warm glow. Both burned him straight to the core, making him shudder, and he latched onto Wussy's lower lip, biting hard and deep, eliciting a sinful croon that made the hair on the back of his neck raise considerably.

"I'm going to fuck you through this table." Francis hissed, rocking them together, skin slipping and sliding through sweat and other immeasurable things. "You'll be howling with it, you little shit. Making me do this... whimpering in my ear... you brought it on yourself." Eyes hard, yet soft, Francis nearly glared, but Wussy only reached for him, hands scrabbling at too wide shoulders, lips meeting the man's in a crushing embrace.

Their joining seemed to last forever, dragging on the serrated edge of pleasure and pain. There was nothing to ease the process in their current predicament, leaving them to suffer through the rough and the intolerable. But they hardly cared, too occupied with one another to notice anything else. Wussy arching, whining, howling for more. Francis happy to oblige, actions hard enough to break, thrusting in and out, seeking completion. His hands brushed over Wussy's taut stomach, stroking circles and triangles and whatever the fuck else that came to him. A coiling spring of blind, white heat wrapped itself around their hearts, muscles tightening to an almost unbearable point, and their kiss, in that final moment, was almost tender, an affectionate farewell, and all too soon Wussy was buckling beneath him, voice straining until it broke and became nothing but a silent scream. Francis' hands slid on the table, soaked with sweat and cum, his eyes closing as he came, teeth gritting as every muscle in his body broke, washing away like a retreating tide. It left him sated and boneless, breath heavy and wet as he tried to catch it.

Wussy stared up at him, panting, a hand flexing on its chest, another hanging off the edge of the table. Francis thought, in that moment, that if the Hunter had been the human it appeared to be, it might have smiled. But instead it was only him, whose teeth flashed bright for the slightest of moments.

What remained of their clothing was very little, Francis dressing first, stiffly, hips sore and mind numb, ready to shut down and sleep for as long as physically possible. His jacket had a large tear in the back, and his mind scrambled for an explanation, knowing he would need one, but he couldn't make himself care. Wussy sat on the edge of the table, purring deep in its throat, watching as Francis moved to its side and slipped the Midnight Riders shirt back over its head.

"There's nothing else for you to wear." Francis grumbled, picking up the Hunters' pants and giving them a good, hard sling, "You'll just have to grin and bear it, I guess."

And Wussy did, all too content to lean into Francis' heat as the man slipped the pants up and over calves, thighs and ass. Clawed hands reaching around, awkwardly grasping the man in what could have been described as a hug, and Francis froze, unsure as to what he was supposed to do. But he finally wrapped a single arm around the Hunter's neck, free hand ruffling that ebony hair, "Alright, alright, you're cool."

They stood like that for a few minutes, a mismatched pair, destined to soon be parted. Francis knew he couldn't take Wussy anywhere, knew that this was the end, and that once someone came to rescue them, the two would have to part.

The only thing he'd gotten along with in so long... and he had to leave it to fade and die in the remnants of a crumbling city. But for now, he allowed the Hunter to lean into him, all sinew and bones, and he sighed.

Things were good. Things were fine.

This was how it was supposed to be.

The helicopter was a most welcome sight, blades cutting through the sky in a circular arc, casting air down upon the survivors as they stood and waited, guns in hand. All around them the horde surged in and out, threatening to topple them even as salvation was so close, so very close.

"Just hold on for a few minutes longer!" Came the mechanical voice, the helicopter turning and searching blindly, looking for the helipad that would allow it to land, and to save its precious cargo. The survivors struggled to make their way through, guns blazing white hot, dropping zombies here and there like flies. Smokers emerged from the rubble, tongues lashing out, but meeting swift ends, becoming nothing but thick, viscous clouds of smoke. Hunters leapt, but were met halfway, toppled and crippled, throats bleeding out. Boomers exploded easily, coating zombies in vile fluid, turning them on one another. A single Tank roared out somewhere in the city, missing the fight, but dashing for them all the same, eager to join.

All around them, commons fell, ammunition eased by a single, traitorous Hunter. One who worked twice as hard as any survivor could, shredding the way through, leading them to the helicopter that would take them away.

But as they boarded, one man held back, shouting over the blades, reaching, reaching.

And for the slightest moment, human met Infected, and their hands shook, securing a friendship that would outlast the Infection itself.

The helicopter took off, taking the survivors with it, leaving the Hunter to fend for itself, its brethren angry with its betrayal. But they were no match for it, flung easily away by the beast as it leapt away, scaling building after building, watching as the helicopter drew further and further away.

There was no catching up, and soon, it knew, the blades would disappear into the horizon, and there would be no more survivors.

It wasn't sad, only lonely, claws gripping the ac unit beneath it, head tilting to the side as it always did. What had happened had been a startling, surprising, unthinkable thing, and it could only be grateful.

In the distance, perhaps miles away, the helicopter lurched, spluttering, and the Hunter watched as it dipped dangerously down, twisting painful in the sky. It recovered for a moment, teetering anxiously, then ducked downwards again, rocking a bit. It laster a moment more, hovering in the sky, then sputtered and finally died. The machine fell, clattering, disappearing behind the buildings to land somewhere on the outskirts of the city, far, far away.

Intrigued, the Hunter shook itself, haunches tightening as it prepared to leap.

The hunt was on.

The end was actually a quick add-on. The prompter wanted a happy ending, after all. By the by, reviews make me want to write more L4D slash, so if you have the time, review?

And if you see any obvious mistakes/typos/errors, let me know, would you?