This started as a writing excersize that eventually got away from me, and I really liked where it ended up. Comments and Critiques are always welcome!

He stumbled, but didn't fall, gaze never wavering. The body was lying only feet away, a dark form slumped sadly against the filthy wall. The night rang with the echoing blasts of a handgun, the ringing rapport of a submachine gun. Nearby a chainsaw roared. His own weapon hung at his side.

He didn't need it.

They would cover him, and he could move faster without focusing on shooting as well. And he needed to move fast.

Suddenly he was on top of the figure, leather shoes skidding in the pooling blood. Not his, not his, he prayed. Too much, just too much. Warm and sticky, it soaked through the knees of his pants as he knelt. He didn't notice. Didn't care.

The gun was set aside, hands reaching for thick muscle wrapped around the kid's chest, stomach, neck. Like a snake. A slimy, mutated, zombie fucking snake.

It's okay, it's okay, he mumbles, over and over.

He doesn't know who he's convincing.

The freakish appendage comes loose in a strange, sticky sort of way. It's like the kid's wrapped in a giant string of wet taffy. Bile rises in his throat at the thought. He keeps pulling.

As the tongue—dear god this is someone's tongue—falls away he rolls the kid onto his back. Half-lidded eyes, white crescents in a too-pale face, look past him. His breath hitches. The purr of the chainsaw is momentarily muffled by the sounds of screeching and wet splatters. Someone shouts in triumph.

His hands fall to a neck, the skin already ringing with a thick, black and blue band. There is no twitch of life beneath his fingertips.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

Someone shouts a threat, the submachine gun rattles.

His fingers are fumbling with the medical device hanging at the kid's hip. They'd only carried it because "you never know." God, wasn't that the fucking truth. But it wasn't coming loose—did you superglue the God damned thing to you? He pulls, a single wrenching yank that pulls the man's body to one side, snaps his already frayed belt. He thinks the kid'll forgive him the fashion accessory.

Something screeches, a wailing keen that's way too close for comfort. He doesn't touch his gun. Doesn't even look up. A wordless shout, the wet thud of something solid on decaying skull. The fump of a body dropping.

Looks like it's not just the spinning end that takes them down.

But he can't think about that now, as the defibrillator drops beside him. He presses the single button—but damn, was this thing designed with dumb shits like us in mind—and leans close. The paddles whine with their charge. He's already shoved the kid's shirt out of the way. Dark bands of bruising crisscross the kid's chest. Shock here, he thinks sardonically.

The kid's body jerks with more force than he'd expected, as if trying to jump away from him. For a moment there is no movement, no response. It didn't work.

He can feel bile bubbling up his throat; he's going to be sick and he needs to think fast if he doesn't feel like desecration.

Then the kid's jaw drops open, sucks down a breath as he twists. He rolls onto his hands and knees, coughing, coughing, gagging. He stays close, saying stupid, pointless assurances and wondering if all his effort was about to be reversed by a broken rib, collapsed lung, crushed trachea.

The kid collapses weakly on his side, still gasping. Still breathing. Blinking hard, his eyes wander, eventually look up. Blue lights with a familiar emotion, and suddenly he wants to strangle the kid.

Whoohoo, he breathes. His voice is strained, a whisper. So, that's what it's like to be dead.

Fun? he asks, his tone icy, eyes rolling.

The kid shrugs, the motion subdued against the pavement. He settles on, Kinda lonely.

And then he's struggling to his feet. Sighing his exasperation, he reaches out, grabs the kid's arm to keep him from face planting.

He's up, he shouts. The gunfire doesn't pause, but over it there is a shout of Get to the Safe room! The red door is close by—they'd almost been through it, even had it open—before they'd been literally pulled back into the fight.

The kid stumbles, still blinking, but he's got a grip on his arm and won't let him fall again. The roar of the chainsaw, clatter of the gun, follow them, corralling them through the heavy door.

Inside he can't keep the kid up anymore, struggles just to turn his fall into something semi-controlled. He drops down, seized with panic when he realizes the kid is lying still, eyes closed.

Son of a whore he thinks, maybe says, because apparently there was more damage than he thought. His hands are working across the kid's torso, looking for signs he's not trained to find anyway, when a soft drawl stops him short.

Didn't think you felt that way, Nick. The kid's eyes are still closed, but his lips are pulling up at the corners.

Fuck it, I guess I'll just have to finish the job. But he can't—can't finish strangling the kid because the others are there now, kneeling at his side and standing sentinel at the door, gaze on the trio.

You've got to stop ending up down here—she's smiling, but the terror is still fading from her eyes—this is no way to stay alive.

Sorry, the kid mumbles, but he's smiling, glad she's there and okay too.

Everyone okay?

It's a more objective question than it once was—now little more than an abbreviation for everyone alive, breathing, and the majority of them in a single piece.

We're good, the kid says, and everyone just looks at him.

At least he's the worst off, and if he's okay then everyone is.

It's an odd kind of little relief, and it has everyone sighing, slumping as the fear and adrenaline fade. That night they sleep like they usually do after such close calls—shifted all to one side of the room, not right on top of one another, but close enough to feel body heat, hear the soft sounds of breathing. It's nothing planned; more reflexive than anything. Assurance that look, they're all still alive, still here.

Despite the harrows of the previous day, they will not linger, will not sit around and fret and worry. The world no longer allows for such luxury, and even if it did they are not the type to be interested.

In the morning they sun will slowly rise. The first to wake will lie for a few moments, just long enough to look at the bodies sleeping around them. And then they will rattle about and wake the others. And as they rub sleep from their eyes they will gather their things, mumble soft how are you feeling's as they check weapons, ammo, food. They will eye the door, falling into a traveling formation even before they'd stepped foot outside.

As they sun peeks over the horizon, they will brace themselves, exchange the briefest of looks and gentle nods.

By the time the sun has fully risen, they will be gone.