Left 4 Dead: Come Hell and High Water {IC}

OOC Topic


"Virgil's on his way, y'all!"

Ellis raised his hand high over his head, clutching a walky-talky within rain-soaked, wrinkled fingers. He held a wide grin, drops of icy rain streaming in a torrent down the pallid flesh of his face, following the laugh lines deep in his skin. His once lush tresses of ochre now hung limp with the pounding rain that drenched each of the three men and one woman. With a heaving sigh, he tucked a pistol into the belt at his side and wiped the rain from his brow, situating his ball-cap tighter unto his head.

"Guess this means we'll make it a couple more hours, huh?" he chuckled with smiling eyes of cerulean. "What'cha all think? There's bound to be more people out there. Should we look fer a few? Bet Virgil wouldn't mind if we take a couple more along."

~~~

Robin let his head fall back against the wall, onyx hair draped over the greater portion of his face. In contempt, his lips twitched downward and his fingers coiled tight over the sleeves of his sodden sweatshirt. His peculiarly long lashes curved delicately upward with the gentle shut of his shockingly bright, icy eyes. When a curt shriek was heard in the far-off distance, even over the insufferable volume of the storm, his hand instantly fell to the shotgun rested across his lap, and his lips drew back into a snarl.

He, Helena, and January--unfortunately--had found brief safety in a seemingly abandoned house with a high foundation that kept it out of harm's way due to the rapidly flooding earth. January... why in the hell had Helena offered for him to come along with them? Robin argued that the little rapist would be just fine on his own, but no; Helena simply had to take her perv of a half-brother to Ducatel-fucking-Mississippi. And zombies were bad enough...

Robin shot a glare at this demented man, bearing his teeth and tightening his grip on the barrel of the weapon held in his lap.

"Wh-what do you suggest we d-do now?" he barked, stammering out his words. "I don't think I c-can handle m-much more of this... those d-damn Hunters, man..." He was shaking bad, suffering the bite of the cold--not from the pounding rain, nor the howling winds, however. No, this was a cold of a different kind; a deep, inner ice that took over the mind and body, stuttering the heart, locking the brain, and churning the stomach. A cold he had suffered many times before, but not as bad as this; no, not quite as bad. And this time, he knew it was there to stay, and it wouldn't be simple to shake...

"Fuck..." he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

~~~

“Desmond…” Lucas’s voice was tinged with a hint of fear. “The storm’s getting really rough… I don’t think we should go any further… Where are we, anyway?”

From his seat at the wheel of the car, Desmond turned his crisp hazel eyes toward the boy in the passenger seat. The windshield-wipers were on full speed, washing away the thick rain pelting the windowpane and nearly making sight past the splatters of water impossible. Des shifted his focus from the glass to Luke several times with a frown. He gnawed on this inside of his lip and loosed a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know if here is the right place to stop…” he murmured, accompanied by a moderate Scottish accent, gazing to his left out the window. He could’ve sworn something glared right back through the pounding rain. “We’re… Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been in America for all but twenty-four hours! You’re the American, you should know where we are!”

“I’m from California,” Lucas huffed. “All I know is that we’re in Mississippi near the Gulf of Mexico.” Under his breath, he muttered, “God, I should never have left Kennedy…”

“Listen, hun, we can get through this.” Desmond offered a lopsided smile. “We’re out here looking for serenity, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think a hurricane is exactly serene, Des,” Luke sighed, leaning his forehead against the windowpane and watching his breath make the glass hazy, toying with the trigger of the magnum rested on his thigh—not necessarily a wise action.

~~~

Neal’s teeth chattered frightfully, arms outstretched before him, knuckles drained of all color with the force with which he gripped the steering wheel. Horror constricted his throat, and he took in deep gulps of air. He’d been driving for what seemed like days, and not yet had he even begun to calm from the shock of the previous hours.

Quit your sniveling… Jimmy snarled in a bad temper. Neal ground his teeth and let his eyes flicker from the rain-drenched road and to the rifle perched upright in the passenger seat. A wordless utter broke from his lips and he shook his head in denial.

“They… th-they’re d-dead, Jimmy…” he fumbled for words.

You’re immune, yawned Jimmy uncaringly. If anything, you should be glad you’re not dead… that we’re not dead.

“B-but—”

Do I have to beat you to your fucking senses? snapped the harsh boy. He sighed and muttered something inaudible. More gently, he murmured, Listen… Just… don’t think about it now, a’right? We’ll get through this. You just have to keep focused.

“Y-yes, Jimmy.” Neal swallowed down his fear and released a shaking breath. “Whatever you say…”

A low, annoyed growling rumbled from the gambler's chest as he tried to sit through the young hick's ramblings, the sound of his voice combined with the constant buzz of rain and crash of thunder getting to be just a bit too much for him. Nick glanced behind the group of rogue survivors out of sheer instinct before running a large, pruny hand through his soaking chestnut locks that now began to slip from the tight hold of his hair gel and into his line of sight, successfully pissing him off even more than Ellis and the god damned hurricane had managed to already. His harsh green eyes, darkened in fatigue and paranoia, scouring the flooded terrain for any sign of life while the others had let their guard drop in the temporary calm that typically followed the extermination of the most recent horde.

"Is he really now? Well, it'd be damn great if he let us know he planned on leaving us to fend for ourselves in the first place. The man has no fucking gas, what the hell did he plan on doing? And I don't feel right just standing here, waiting for the next horde to come after us." he complained accordingly, shouting over the increasing volume of the storm that didn't bother to let up for the swindler to get out what he had to say.

Rolling her dark eyes at Nick's input on Ellis's news, Rochelle propped her hands upon her curvy, denim clad hips with nothing more than a proper scolding, "Oh stop it. It ain't Ellis's fault, and you know it." Her coarse, saturated hair slapped swiftly against her bare arms and wet, cotton sheathed back as the young mechanic's next statement just barely reached her ears. "Wait, wait, wait, in a few hours it'll be too late for Virgil to see anything, let alone the water. That man thinks we'll even be able to reach the sugar mill by the time he gets here, he's lost his mind."

"C'mon, Ro, don't yell at the kid," the lanky man mocked the tone she'd used with him just seconds ago, leaning toward her slowly with an arrogant, crooked grin, "It's not his fault we'll be spending the night here. Don't worry though, guys, I'm sure the pain of our fresh wounds will keep us warm enough to survive the night."

On that note, Rochelle frowned and cocked her AK-47 in much a similar way both Nick and Coach had begun to take caution in doing before preparing to head off in the direction of the poor houses situated just in front of the sugar mill, most likely what they'd be calling home for the evening. She gave one last kind glance at Ellis with an exhausted smirk, trying to do anything to keep his morale up, not that he really would need much assistance with that anyhow. As long as Ellis was happy, she'd noticed, most of the group was happy, with Nick being the only exception. Ever, really.

"More people? You're really that hopeful, Ellis?" Rochelle had to wonder aloud whilst joining Nick in his venture to scope the area briefly before pressing forward towards some sort of shelter. It was inspiring how optimistic the boy could stay, no matter what the circumstances. She had to review all of the people she'd ever had the pleasure of meeting in her twenty-nine years to be sure, but she knew the handsome country boy was certainly the only person on the face of the planet actually glad to be thrust into a zombie-goddamn-apocalypse. It was an admirable quality, if anything.

"Alright people, let's move, ah?" Nick hollered over the ferocious typhoon wind, gluing his work trodden fingers to his submachine gun instantaneously from his increasing anticipation for what horrors awaited them, or the instinct he'd developed over the past few weeks to protect each and every person around him, no matter how much he liked or disliked them. As much as he'd hate to admit it, the two men standing beside and far behind him - respectively - and the graceful woman bounding up beside him were the only people he could ever truly call family. Of course, a vastly dysfunctional family full of adult mass murderers with vocabularies whose gaudiness rivaled that of the most brilliant rainbow, but still a family nonetheless.

O___________________________O

Helena looked on at her beloved fiance, with near physical pain in her glassy blue eyes, cowering in stoic fear on the far side of the large bedroom, nearest the boarded up door leading up into the attic. She could only imagine what sort of terrifying thing lay on the other side of that wall, seeing only the blood and gore she had to bear witness to back at their apartment in Honolulu. She remembered the afternoon she'd learned she was immune to the virus, in which Robin had returned home just in time to beat the life out of one of the - now infected - neighbors the couple had never bothered to introduce themselves to. The shaking little woman violently shoved the bothersome thoughts away, not yet ready to face any of what had happened head on just yet.

Before making her way over to the young man's trembling figure, Helena gave her brother a sympathetic glance, to which he nodded accordingly. January sneered slightly at the dirty look Robin had offered to him, though still readied his pump shotgun, taking over for his panicked female companion as far as keeping watch went. Knowing full well his younger sister would pay no mind to him now, he watched the two silently out of the corner of his hazy grey eyes, keeping to himself as means to hear their conversation.

"Robin?" the petite young lady murmured, squealing and falling quickly to the floor in front of her husband-to-be as a crackling round of thunder shot through the swelled clouds, rain battering the roof even harder than it had before.

It sounded to her that if the storm got any more intense, the roof would've fallen in on them all, and with luck, would've killed them before any zombies had the chance. If the flood water started to reach the bedroom, they'd be forced to tear down the boards and stake out up in the attic, and she certainly wasn't looking forward to that. She was horrified beyond belief at all that surrounded her. Closest to her was a mortified and cold lover, who worried darling little 'Lena more and more with each passing moment of silence, and on the outside were thousands, millions of zombies just waiting for the seemingly delectable taste of blood on their tongues, and further still was the merciless hurricane. It brought forth thunder, lightning, water, and destruction, all of which the woman was certain she'd never grow accustomed to.

No matter to the obstacles she'd have to come face to face with, though; all she wanted right then was to get a small taste of normalcy by having her dearest Robin hold her in his arms, but if they were shuddering in terror, nothing of that sort would happen either. "...Things are certainly miserable, aren't they? I-I really don't know where we go from here. I think the first order of business should be to make sure that we-we're all alright. Please," she almost begged, feeling tears of anguish sting violently at her tired eyes. Her small fingers tugged weakly at her lover's arm, hoping there was a smile on her pale face rather than the nervous frown she so desperately felt was showing.

Ellis cocked a brow, though his grin never faltered in the least. He shook his head much like your average dog would, slipped the cap from his sopping hair, if only for a moment, in order to shake it loose of all collected rain. Confidently, he waded through a ridiculously deep puddle--if it really could still be considered as such--and narrowed his eyes through the thick rain and haze. Every now and again, a bolt of electricity would surge through the heavens, illuminating every dark pocket as a flash of an image branded into the young man's mind. Ellis blinked his wide, calm blue eyes and tugged free the bloodied axe strapped to his back, landing the handle several times into the palm of his opposite hand.

"Now I can't hear y'all too well over this here rain," he called over the cacophony, "but I sure as hell hope that wasn't an insult, Nick." He beamed wide and strode slowly through the swampy waters. He mused to himself when a sharp, maniacle cackle arose above the thundering storm, a thrilling jolt leaping down his spine at the mere noise. "Y'all hear that? There's a back-humper 'round. Better find shelter quick before that son of a bitch shows it's ugly mug, right?" He brandished the axe over his head with a grinning snarl and a curt laugh.

"I wouldn't trust a lot of these houses," Coach called with a gruff toss of his head as he scanned his deep, mahogany eyes across the blindingly misty area. His thick fingers wringed tight around an assault rifle. "Don't want 'em breakin' down on us, now do we? What you all say? We stoppin' for the night, or what?" He grunted and glared into the fog. "That Jockey sounds like it means business."

~~~

"Well, we... we certainly c-can't sleep," Robin chortled sadistically. "Wouldn't wanna wake up d-dead... Hah. That's c-contradicting." Though he was frozen-over, stiff, aching, and ill, the lean and lanky man pushed the weapon from his lap and hauled Helena into his arms to put his shaking lips to her ivory blonde locks, stroking his tense fingers down the small of her back.

"I'm too afraid to sleep," he murmured just loud enough for Helena to hear; never would he admit such a horribly crippling emotion before January. "Too restless... too fucking..." His voice died off, and his muscles gave a sharp jerk, sending shivers down his spine. "God... damnit... I can't do this... I can't hold out m-much longer. Y-you think zombies sell h-heroin?" He tried to laugh, but it only came out as nervous and wordless stuttering. Yet another bone-chilling quake took hold of his body, and one of his hands fell from around Helena and came down on the floor where his fingernails sunk into soft wood. It didn't help that he was drenched with icy rain, and even beneath it all, he could feel the feverish sweat of withrawal crawl across his flesh.

Robin's eyes lifted wearily from the floor and caught Helena's crystalline gaze before allowing his vision to collapse once more. "H-how are you holding up...?"

Nick grunted uncomfortably as he tightened his grip on the gun in his hands, his finger coiling dangerously close to tripping the trigger and sending a wild barrage of bullets at the hefty middle-aged high school teacher standing in front of him with a stiff frown. His dark face, though blurred and obstructed by the relentless onslaught of water falling from the furious heavens, was contorted into a serious, stoic countenance. The pessimistic man was quick to discard Coach's front as a sort of example set for the others to keep morale high. Before the infection, it was practically Nick's livelihood to call others on their bluffs, and he'd be fucked by a Spitter if Coach wasn't bluffing at that very moment.

His chest was heaving unevenly and his dark, warm eyes lingered just a bit too long upon certain plots, as if he had fallen asleep without caring to shut his eyes beforehand. The debilitated circles beneath the aging man's weary eyes had grown darker and more prominent, and Nick immediately felt like kicking himself when he decided to let the guy have some well deserved rest for what had to be the first time in days. Before speaking, he turned to his right and looked on at Rochelle for any similar signs of fatigue as well, and swallowed hard when she struggled to keep her weapon upright, being that her arms were weakened and shaking from cold and over strain. Ellis, however, was about ready to run head on into a Charger about then, the gambler could gather from the excited spark in his twangy young voice.

A sigh fled from the man's chapped lips and into the frigid, soaking wet air in a puff of fog as he realized just how tired he himself was too. Nick wouldn't say a word until they got to shelter, of course, but the nagging tug of sleep would certainly find a way to annoy him along the way there, he was sure. "Lead the way, ol' man. Wouldn't want you to fall asleep carrying our slack from behind. Look, there's a light not too far down, maybe that means a dry place to get our asses some sleep."

"Well damn, Nick, didn't know you cared," Rochelle piped up, slightly impressed by the most impersonal member of the team taking a - condescending, mind you - interest in Coach's wellbeing. "I'll cover the back if you need me to. Let's just try and avoid that jockey, 'kay?"

The aforementioned individual didn't stick around to hear what the young woman had to say, and walked hastily behind Coach, making sure he was paying attention to what he was doing so he didn't accidentally go wandering into trouble, or pissing off the wrong zombie. The storm had drowned out most, if not all, of the sounds coming from behind him, so he hoped in the back of his mind Rochelle could protect Ellis and vice versa long enough for each of the survivors to take refuge within the house with the lights on. It was certainly a long shot, improbable that the area would be safe, but he had to rely on instinct alone if he wanted a team fit for beating their way through the damn apocalypse come morning time.

0______________________________0

Cringing inwardly at the clamminess now in between the two, Helena refused the urge to peel off her sopping wet clothes, as they were the only ones she had left, and there were two men present in the room. Then again, it wasn't exactly ideal to be sick, pregnant, and in danger of getting eaten alive by other, less intelligent, more carnal people. She buried her head into her beloved's chest feverishly as the next round of thunder came roaring through the swampy Mississippi countryside, the deafening sound mixing with the arduous shrieks of zombies and other infected beings, one of which she could easily make out as a jockey, what with the manic, nonsensical laughter and babbling.

"Me?" Helena mumbled pitifully into the warm, exposed flesh on Robin's collar bone, kissing tenderly and timidly there in the lengthy pause she took to finish her statement. "I'm all right, just worri--apprehensive. Anxiety just acting up with all the water everywhere, and you feeling...well..." she trailed off and pressed her full lips even more softly into the now reddened flesh on her fiance's chest, moving up slightly toward his neck as she tried to make them both forget about the grim situation they'd gotten into.

January growled under his breath at the way his half-sister catered to her boyfriend, knowing full well that if he'd evacuated Hawaii with her three weeks before - liked he'd planned - it would be him wrapping her in his strong arms, enjoying the warmth of her delicate, pink lips and...Damn. He had to pay attention. More zombies had started clawing at what was left of the front door to the house, only a story below, he could hear. They'd be trying to make it up the stairs in about an hour, but he figured Robin would be quick to dispose of them if only to look like a fucking hero in dearest Helena's eyes.

If the man weren't so damn attractive, Jan was positive he'd hate him.

ooc/ ... I'm damn tired. I'm not going to respond with Ellis and Coach. Only Robin. xD Maybe a bit of Luke and Des and Neal running into each other... quite literally, that is.

ic/ Robin, though with dulled senses, could hear the rabid screeches and cries from the band of Infected just outside their sanctuary. He frowned and lulled his head to the side to blink over at January, who had likewise heard the bashing and clawing at the front door. "Take a peek out the window, will you?" Robin asked. "How many are there?"

ooc/ *head bashes down on keyboard* So... suhleepey... cannot... go on... Wh... why is Robin being somewhat kind to January? ;________; Ohhh nooo... *unconsciousness*

... I'm done for the night. O-O Err... well, morning...
... TITTY RESIDUE.
... G'night, Brittany.


EDIT**: ALRIGHTY THEN. I think I'm good after a six hour sleep. xD Better than I was at four in the morning, that is... Well... Ignore everything above. In fact, I think I'll strike it all. There. PAY NO HEED.

ic/ The mind-numbing and fear-striking snarls as the infeced beasts slashed at the door downstairs could be heard from the room in which the three had discovered their temporary security. Robin grimaced into the dull light, drawing his arm firmly around Helena when she recoiled from the burst of lightning and the following crash of monstrous thunder; there was hardly even a pause between the two. He looked up to January, who's attention has strayed--no surprise there--to the cacophony downstairs.

"Those damned, disgusting, depraved, wrongful..." Robin rumbled several other adjectives as he gently removed Helena from his lap, grasped the shotgun at his side, and struggled to his feet. His stomach wrenched, and he leaned back heavily to the wall once more, but didn't intend on staying there. Oh, no, not at all. "I'll kill them," he growled, azure eyes blazing. "I'll kill them all! They are not getting in this house." His eyes flickered to the taller man and down to the weapon he held. "January?" he spat. "I could probably use some help."

Robin brushed his fingers through Helena's hair and cast her a woeful look. "Would you be fine up here, love?" he inquired gingerly.

~~~

Ellis watched Nick and Coach vanish through the misty torrents, but shrugged it off. As long as he wasn’t completely alone, everything would be fine. Why, of course he was very nearly indestructible—nothing could bring him down!—but abandonment was one thing young Ellis could not handle. However, at that moment, Rochelle was there to keep him company, and more importantly, watch over him. Trekking the hurricane alone would be pure suicide, and Ellis knew he needed to buddy up in order to survive out there. Though, he was well aware he could strive through on his own, he’d just rather not suffer the crippling grip of solitude.

Ellis stepped behind Rochelle as the two strode on through the murky waters together, and he put his hands on her shoulders. “I got your back, Ro,” he stated proudly. “No way is any Jockey humpin’ your head. Man, them things are humiliatin’! Creepy, too. What’cha think they’re laughin’ about? I remember this one time, my buddy Keith and I went to the movies, and it was a horror film, and it scared the shit out of him, but he didn’t wanna admit it, and he was laughin’ hysterically for, like, weeks after that, until finally…” Ellis continued on blatantly, not necessarily speaking to Rochelle, but just speaking aloud in general.

January pursed his full lips for a moment, as if in thought as to how he should respond to the shorter man's order. His smoky eyes lolled between the barely translucent window beside him, and the vicious looking young man waiting for his reply on the same end of the room as his beloved sister. It was almost as if he could see the adrenaline pumping fervently into Robin's veins, his entire body shaking passionately along with the fire sparked in complete terror and hatred in regard to the infected individuals trying with all their might to beat the door down on the lower level.

He would've refused, had Helena's safety not been at risk, Jan was positive both men were aware, but the worried blue eyes entrusting him with her life on the other end of the room convinced the young adult they'd be surviving for the night. Disregarding Robin's looming, thin form completely, the omni-sexual waltzed over to the now standing little lady and planted a thoughtful few kisses on her forehead and rosy, warm cheeks before stroking her face lightly with the soft palm of his hand.

"I love you, please be safe--no--be careful," January hummed low in her ear, grinning toothily at the unnerved and flustered shiver that wracked his sister's body in response.

She looked up hesitantly into the younger survivor's hazy eyes and smiled meekly, not expecting the kiss he next lay precisely upon her lips. It lasted a few odd seconds, Jan's wet fingers going a few delicate runs through her equally sopping ivory locks before parting sadly and reloading his shot gun with a pleased smirk aimed towards her. Her idle fingers sought solace with the hem of her shirt, now clinging to her shuddering wet body and she nodded with a gentle smile to her brother, wishing him luck in silence. Robin's reaction to that entire scene wouldn't be pretty, and they both knew that. The satisfied, defiant glimmer in her half-brother's eyes assured her January wouldn't give a damn about it anyway, and so the young woman waited for Robin to make the next leading move.

"'Lena will be fine, trust me." the young gentleman drawled out with a cocky grin, readying himself to throw open the bedroom door and charge down the stairs to bust some mindless heads. "So, let's get the hell downstairs and hold 'em off."

0_______________________________________0

Chuckling ever so slightly at the mechanic's curt choice of words, the young woman watched on with a tired, but interested gaze as Ellis tripped into one of his long winded stories about his adventures with his fellow Bull Shifter, Keith. Rochelle was surprised and intrigued all the more at Ellis's never ending source of energy and light, staying positive through just about anything they'd encountered thus far. It was almost amazing how little mind the boy paid to the world ending at his feet, and focused only on the people who he saw as his friends.

The WTTQ news producer hadn't ever expected to grow close to any of the men she was forced to survive with, but was glad to know she had a generally pretty positive relationship with all of her fellow non infected sons of bitches, even Nick. If she'd ever had the time to feel proud of herself, she would've, but now, all she wanted to do was stay awake, and Ellis's recollection of his country bumpkin pal was helping, more or less. Rochelle figured it would've been nice to let the young man finish up his story, being that if it were Nick or Coach in her position, he'd have been long silenced by now.

"Do you even know if Keith's...alive anymore? I mean, judging from your stories, he's gonna be person to wipe out all those bastards without flinching, but still." she had to shout, just over the roar of the raging monsoon. It was a sad thought, but one she'd encountered often while keeping to herself in search of the nearest safe room. It was hard to think about her family and friends and co-workers back in Cleveland, not knowing that - if she was to escape the South - she'd have a home to return to or not. "Actually, forget it. Don't wanna make you sad when you're so excited to beat the shit of some sons o' bitches, right?"

The ominous cackling of the jockey waned between frighteningly loud and close, to distant and soft as the storm eased and pounded savagely at the Earth and the living beings speckling its surface. She was shaking out of both cold and fear now, but one wouldn't be able to tell the difference. If a jockey decided to make either of the two survivors its victim, it would be a simplistic task to drown them in the rising water, now licking just above their knees. Her once tightly wound bun had fallen carelessly down her back and into her numb, round face, and her vastly exhausted, heavy eyes found themselves widened and awake each time a stroke of lightning and the boom of thunder rattled the small, hick town of Ducatel.

"You think Nick and Coach are all right?" Rochelle asked fretfully, praying inwardly that the two of them weren't in any danger. Then again, it was she and Ellis who were destined for danger, being separated so far from the others - of course, unbeknown to them.

ooc/ ... If this were a completely non-serious roleplay, Robin's reaction would just be violent kicking and screaming, frothing at the mouth, and several swears not even native to the English language while Helena--with her odd moments of random strength--would hold him back from just plain biting January... He certainly is a biter... >.>


ic/ Anger and disgust swelled in Robin's chest, boiling blood seething through his veins and heating his flesh in an irate inferno. He coiled his fingers in a tight fist around the collar of January's rain-soaked and blood-stained shirt, and gave him a rough jerk away from his fiance. He wanted nothing more than to confiscate the boy's weapon and send him hurtling straight through the window and smack-dab in the midst of impending doom in the form of a dozen ravenous, vile, and deranged zombies. But of course, that would upset Helena... Robin wouldn't dare cross the line into a territory such as that. Tension between them would surely get them killed, for he was pretty sure all that was keeping them bound to that earth was the two's love for each other and for their unborn child.

Love...? Robin wasn't sure if he loved this kid just yet; it sure would take time. The mere mention of the word father made him cringe. He had never envisioned himself as a dad, nor had he ever thought about settling down with a single woman. Before Helena, he merely had fuck-buddies; there were no such things as girlfriends to him, let alone fiances. But people change, eh? Robin just never realized that he had even the potential to change...

Pressing the end of his gun to the center of January's spine, Robin prodded him forth and away from Helena. "The only reason I'm not murdering you is because I can't fight zombies alone," he snarled through clenched teeth. "You sick bastard... A little piece of advice: never touch Helena like that when I'm carrying a loaded weapon." A heartless grin graced his lips. "You know me and control, kid... Are you trying to get yourself killed?" He swiveled around and pushed his lips into Helena's, making sure to eliminate any remnant January.

"Stay safe," he told her, as if January hadn't said the same thing two minutes previous. His eyes locked on the man, then. "Let's go, sicko."

~~~

"Shit, Keith ain't dead!" Ellis laughed good-naturedly. "If I know that guy like I have for years, he's probably found a group of friends just like I have--some people to kick zombie ass with! If Keith survived bein' bombed by the military, gettin' rolled by 'gators, drownin' in the tunnel of love, gettin' third degree burns all over his body--twice!--gettin' stabbed by a ghost, fallin' down a manhole and gettin' paved over, fallin' out a roller coaster, drivin' his car off a cliff and breakin' both his legs--" Ellis paused and thought a moment. "Well... anyway, a zombie apocalypse ain't nothin' to Keith. Thinkin' 'bout him only makes me excited. I mean, I can't wait to share all the shit we've been through with him!"

The lean-muscled man gazed thoughfully up at the lightning-streaked heavens, narrowing his eyes against the rain. "Ah, Nick would never let anything happen to Coach, and vice versa, y'know. They're tight as ever, 'cept for when Nick gets grumpy, but he still means well. They'll be just f--" He cut off mid-sentence, and his eyes widened when, within his peripheral vision, a pink, fleshy body lunged around through the tremendous rain and haze and mad cackling arose nearer than ever. He tightened his grip on the axe handle and backed into Rochelle. "Ah, hog-wash, man! Jockey! Where'd it go?" He blindly searched the darkened fog, but to no avail. "Shit..."

The shuddering, cold, drenched woman took a few moments to laugh earnestly at how much faith the mechanic had in his friend, and how excited and damn sure he was that they'd meet again to tell the story of charging through Georgia all the way to Mississippi with zombies on all sides around them. It was a sweet thought that one day she'd finally get to meet the infamous "Keith", but the rather dreary reality of it all made Rochelle doubt in the possibility as a whole. Truthfully, she was surprised that she'd managed to shoot her way through, and to, survival thus far. There'd been the highs and lows of being left for dead, she could recall easily, but this shit hole sugar mill town was certainly one of the low points in her not yet finished adventure.

"I believe you," Rochelle finally decided to respond as the giggles started to die down. She was now listening as intently as the relentless storm would allow to his tangent about their two far off teammates, but frowned worriedly when she noticed Ellis squaring his shoulders and suddenly growing rigid, as if something had shook him stiff. "What?"

Then the tell-tale sound of shrill, hysterical laughter echoed amidst the sound of the crackling thunder, the entire road illuminated for only a few moments. The short amount of light she was offered for the even shorter amount of time was just enough for her to stare an incoming horde in the face, flooding onto the road in much the same way the rain water was to Ducatel in its entirety. Ellis's affectionate country drawl was drowned in the vengeful hurricane wind, rain, and thunder and Rochelle - unfortunately - realized that the only way she'd be able to tell Ellis was still near her was the touch of his muscular back against hers.

And though she knew he wouldn't hear much of anything with how unbelievably uproarious the seemingly everlasting storm had grown in the better half of five minutes, the former executive producer went on to warn him about the impending danger on her side of the street. "Ellis, horde coming!" she screamed with all her might, though she couldn't very well hear the sound of her own voice over the roar of the pitch dark clouds and the simultaneous wails and screeches emanating from the massive cumulation of brainless infected.

0_________________________________0

On the other end of the street, though it would've appeared to have been a mile and then some away to the other rather unlucky survivors mentioned previously, Nick was churning with worry on the inside, though kept his cold gaze on the short row of flooded, boarded up houses on the following streets ahead. Coach was keeping to himself, and that wasn't helping to ease his thoughts about Rochelle and Ellis's wellbeing at all. Normally, had he not been so exhausted, Nick would've received a clap to the shoulder and a, "They'll be fine, man. Keep yo' eyes on the prize," in that impressionable, gravelly voice that rolled so lightly off Coach's tongue and he would've felt just a little better, and would most likely be able to keep moving without the constant thoughts of danger fresh in his mind.

Relying on others was no easy task for the former swinger, and it angered him to no fathomable end that he had to deal with the thoughts of other goddamn people tumbling about in his warped, consistently quite pessimistic brain. He remembered his deep rooted hatred for dependency was what drove he and his - now ex - wife apart, and he honestly couldn't have cared less if she was one of the many zombified women he'd killed thus far. Women were untrustworthy bitches, or at least that was the lesson she'd taught him by the end of the divorce, and men were all in it for something, be it sex, money, or what have you; that lesson he learned from his life as a high stakes criminal and swindler on the unforgiving streets of Las Vegas. It was a crappy sort of world to live in, sure, but he truthfully wouldn't have had in any other way.

But the more time spent with these complete and utter strangers, the more they proved each and every boundary and life lesson he'd set and been taught wrong. He was only supposed to look out for number one, and there he was, shaking in his drowned designer dress shoes, worrying his ass off about some half-retarded country bumpkin kid, and a somewhat oblivious, workaholic chick with little more to her than a nice all around nature, and an even nicer ass. Holy hell, what was wrong with him?

"Think I heard something." he grumbled loudly to the older man, aiming his gun out in front of him, towards the street where he was certain Rochelle and Ellis still were. "It doesn't feel right. Let's go back."

0________________________________0

"I don't think I'm the one who needs to be safe," Helena murmured fearfully to herself as her brother and her fiance stalked through to kicked open bedroom door and down to the entry to the house, where she suddenly heard the agonized shrill cries of the infected. Her thin, pale hands rested on her belly, where she stroked gently to help calm herself and her unborn baby. She didn't want to lose anyone, and being stranded in a hillbilly town during a merciless hurricane certainly didn't precisely fit the bill of safety the young woman would've preferred.

January hollered from the staircase to the frightened woman waiting anxiously in the bedroom, "Close the door, barricade it! They're not laying a hand on you if we can help it!"

So, she did as she was told and struggled to push one of the heavy, mahogany dressers in the doorway, only after shutting the door first, of course. Her arms wobbled weakly in fatigue and fear, and she shifted her position so that her back was pressing forcefully against the side of the dresser, and grinned happily when it creaked across the damaged wooden floor and into the door's wake. Her chest was heaving nervously, but triumphantly, when she backed away from the heavy piece of furniture, and she fell back onto the large double bed in the center of the room, waiting for her husband and half-brother to come pounding on the door. If they really had to, they'd kick the door open and send the bureau flying out into the middle of the room with ease, but she'd try her best to assist when they needed it.

Something on the floor caught her eye where the dresser had once been, and she nimbly clambered off the bed over to the object, holding it by its silvery handle and running a few fingers along the length of its barrel. It was only a magnum pistol, but it would do for protection when she truly needed it, and thanked whatever higher power it was watching over that damned Earth for the former inhabitants of the house being prepared for something of a zombie apocalypse's caliber.

ooc/ So sorry. Tried to respond two days ago, post got accidentally deleted, I got pissed off, went to go play World of Warcraft, and then I wasn't allowed online yesterday, and now I just got home. Dx

Anywho... *blasts "So What" by Pink when writing the zombie-killing action* WE'RE ALL GONNA GET IN A FIGHT! >:D


ic/ Fog had seeped through the shattered windows of the first floor of the house, and so a smoke-like haze crawled about the floor and lifted into the air, clouding Robin's vision as he and January descended the worn staircase. Long, narrow splits in the door shone with the acidic incandescence of infected eyes, jaws clipping together with deformed and jagged little teeth. They shrieked and they moaned, pleading to bash through the door and rip the two men limb from limb. Robin knew, however, that neither he nor January would ever let such a monstrosity occur upon the fact that Helena had created her own little dwelling within the bedroom upstairs. They'd quite blatantly die for her, but they'd never die on her and leave her to fend for herself--which is why Robin paid no heed to his pain, his yearning, his inexorable cold, or his restless agony, and only took every ounce of his anger toward whatever entity it was directed at, and focused it on the corrupted beings just beyond the frail, wooden door..

And so, with a mighty cry--mostly of fright, but partially of fury-- Robin rammed his shoulder into the door and felt the blood fly when he pulled the trigger of the shotgun clenched tight in his hands, fearful of allowing the weapon to slip. Clawed fingers reached out to him and ravaged his flesh (ooc/ Hah... accidental Venetia Fair lyrics. xD), and so he retreated several steps, cocked the gun, and fired blindly into the relentless mist once more, cringing at the flare of hot blood that splattered his soaked shirt.


ooc/ Ah... I have to go, so I'll respond with Ellis and Coach in my next response, eh?

The grin that crept ever so slowly unto the young man's face made his conscience recoil in disgust, though January held on for his sanity with all the strength he could manage. The zombies all clambered in through the wrecked doorway, clawing desperately for any sort of solidity to tear apart, if only for the sake of destroying something. They hissed and squalled, injuring each other in their haste to get to the two, seemingly hopeless, survivors. January glanced out of the corner of his eye at Robin, who seemed all too disturbed by the situation fate just so happened to set them in and grinned triumphantly. It was a habitual, nearly carnal satisfaction that set upon the young survivor's shoulders as he watched his sister's fiance fire bullet after bullet through the swiftly deteriorating, bloody flesh of the recalcitrant beasts with a mortified, pained expression.

"Are you gonna be able to hold out, Robbie?" The dark haired omnisexual hollered over the rumble of collective gunfire, pumping another shell into, and soon out of, the barrel.

He grinned wholeheartedly as a rather hefty Infected stumbled backward in agony, flailing its arms at its sides as to keep balance, but only succeeded in sending a group of zombies slamming back into the doorway, wall, and bloodstained wooden floor. January set the weapon down at his side, though one hand clutched cautiously and ever instinctively it by the safety and trigger, wondering if the worst of the flood was over; well, the flood of cannibalistic sons of whores, at least. The raging, merciless gust of wind that broke in two of the windows nearest the place where the sturdy, reinforced door once stood were proof that this storm had no intent of stopping that night.

Inwardly, so as not to worry Helena or grant Robin the satisfaction, January worried the storm would never leave Ducatel, and the small group would be at the mercy of the elements, if not the wanton hands of zombies. As the rain and cold suddenly flooded in through the three openings now laying the survivors safety out on a platter, Jan groaned at the feeling of his face and fingers growing numb. The zombies would only stop once they were dead, or they'd gotten a decent meal, and he wasn't quite certain which outcome was more likely.

"The bastards," he shouted in both anger and self-pity, "There's no way! Just no...no fucking way!" And with that, he swung the hefty firearm into the makeshift cradle both of his thin arms made, pumped himself a new shot and got ready for a maelstrom. Bang-bang, shoot-shoot, after all.

Robin tossed his head back in a concise swivel to watch January, if only for a moment. His hair swung around with the brisk motion, sodden and sable tresses melded together and stuck across his dampened forehead. Upon cold, scarring claws raking his arms and hands, Robin drew back his weapon and thrust it out once more, knocking back several infected beasts. They squealed and staggered backward, frustradedly thrashing their arms, their backs falling flat against the wall. The smaller man blinked ahead with wide, cerulean eyes, astonished by the lack of proper bodily functions amongst the zombified creatures.

"Ah, d-don't call me that." Robin's tone--rather than a short, cruel snap as he meant it to be--was hesitant, unsure, and frankly terrified. "And you, you shouldn't s-say that, 'cause... We'll make it through this, 'kay...? Right...?" Though he didn't want to admit it, all of the blood and gore was really getting to him, and the bloodcurdling, agonized screams weren't helping much either. With a wordless utter, Robin shook his head and fired away once again, the mere noise of the gunfire driving nails into his skull.

Abruptly, from the mass of screeching Infected and viscious fog and pounding rain, a flesh-like chord struck from the darkness and wove around Robin's torso with a tight snapping noise, instantly slacking and jerking him through the crowd of ravenous zombies. Fearfully, Robin struggled against the rope-like object and cried out to January with pleading eyes as he latched himselff to the edge of the doorway to keep from being dragged back any further. "Holy shit, what the fuck is this?" he sobbed out, shaking his head frantically. "J-January!"

~~~

"Fuck! Ro, Ro, Ro, keep close, darlin'!" Ellis called out between clenched teeth. Crunch went the skull of a zombie as he landed his axe straight through the top of the beast's cranium with nary a flinch. He backed tighter into Rochelle, hoping to god she didn't step even a foot from him. Topaz glares scored the deep, storming obscurity, and from such glares arose entire bodies of Infected, blathering nonsense and reaching out with contorted claws and snapping jaws.

~~~

"Man, you're right," Coach sighed. "Somethin's up..." He trailed off when the excessive noise of the storm died down just a tad, but enough to hear pleading cries from farther behind. It was a male's voice, no doubt about it, but whether it was Ellis or not, he was unsure. Coach lifted his thick hand to his bristly chin and scratched at his jaw thoughtfully, motioning with his free hand for Nick to follow. "Gotta stick together in this crazy shit, man..." he grumbled beneath his breath, swatting his hand before him as if to clear the haze from his vision.

The daunting call of impending carnage sent the former news station producer reeling with anxiety. Her heart drummed unevenly in her chest, going from slow to a rapid, relentless assault on her nerves and health. If Rochelle was trembling, she wouldn't have noticed, for near everything about her began to quake in the wake of one final roll of thunder, echoing aimlessly throughout the streets. For a long while, the woman was unsure as to whether or not she'd died, or some deity from the highest, whitest clouds in the stygian evening sky had spared both her and Ellis's lives and temporarily put every last thing in Ducatel to a stop.

Burnished amber eyes darted about, paranoid and frightened beyond the true extent of all possibility while they were still endowed with the power of sight, no matter how obstructed vision was with the rigorous fall of rain. She could make out the vastly mutated, ferocious faces of zombies in the overwhelmingly bright light shed by the lightning stinging across the ebony Mississippi sky, and they, too, seemed to stop for the short few moments all was free for Rochelle to bear witness. She watched nervously as her soaking wet and pruny fingers struggled to keep a decent grip on the weapon in her hands, and readjusted them as accordingly as she could. Her face was frigid, and wet and numb, and the continued onslaught of rain and wind and infected only made the churning, sickened feeling in her stomach grow intense all the more.

"Ellis!" she screamed, not knowing whether the water dripping down the round, soft sides of her face were tears or more moisture deluging from the threatening storm clouds above. "Ellis, sweetie, can you hear me? Don't you take one step away, and shoot the shit outta every damn thing you see! I ain't leaving this town without you!"

The woman's soaking, coarse locks clung lifelessly to her face, neck and shoulders, most of the strands now dangling messily from the hold of an elastic band. As the light dissipated from the air around the surely damned pair, Rochelle whimpered audibly and pitifully, her spine shuddering in response to the blatant fright now attacking her body. She would have made it all disappear, oh Knights of Columbus she most certainly would have, if it hadn't required death.

O____________________________O

Nick smiled at the unofficial leader of the group as he charged forth into what was now a monstrous, frenzied horde. The deafening sound of thunder melded with the collective shriek of the zombies, though the only sound that truly unnerved the gambler was the screams for help erupting from the center of the crowd. With a worry-riddled sigh that Nick was almost too relieved no one was able to hear over the pandemonium, the man slipped a formerly discarded cricket bat from its suspensor on his back. Using the blunt object to smack astray only enough zombies to reach Rochelle and Ellis, cringing only slightly at the familiar crack of bones breaking and the offending spatters of blood to further stain his white coat.

Thrusting one arm forward through the thinning layer of flesh hungry creatures, the far beyond irritated survivor fished around for the familiar warmth of one of his companions hands, arms, anything. All he was certain of was that the group was in danger of separation, and separation meant ultimate defeat. He hoped it was Rochelle that he'd "heroically" pull through the deadly fray and shoot and swing violently at the remaining zombies still trying to get a hold on her, mainly because she'd owe him one or two things after that, and because heroically coming to Ellis's rescue didn't seem remotely as satisfying. If it was Ellis's arm his fingers were now forcibly enclosed over, Nick would probably just swing outward, sending him to the flooded street below, and out of harm's way.

"Rochelle! Ellis! We gotta get the fuck out of here!" he tried to build his voice higher than the roar of the monsoon, but - logically - knew it'd be a small, God-given miracle if anyone could hear a word. "God dammit, get these things the fuck off me!" His free arm swung wildly behind him and to his sides, groaning in disgust as dismembered, bloody limbs tossed about in the drenched Ducatel air and the following shrill, he felt, could churn up fog.

"This is bullshit!" Coach snarled, holding his finger tight over the cold, unforgiving, and metallic trigger of the submachine gun coiled firmly in his hands. Gore flew and shrieks thundered as he slaughtered all in his path, his protective half rearing its head in a desperate attempt to shield those he was close to. "Nick!" he called over the roaring, disasterous heavens. "Goddamn, where'd he go?"

Panic surged through every ounce of Ellis's being when the warmth of the small woman behind him vanished completely and was taken over by cold, dead flesh. He wheeled about and sliced through several zombies at a time, all the while frantically searching the horde with frightened azure eyes. "R-Rochelle!" he called desperately, but upon doing so, abruptly happened upon a more human body among the swarming Infected. Relief washed over him when his eyes focused onto Nick, fighting away as fiercely as ever with Rochelle close by.

"Ro, ya left me..." Ellis chuckled a bit nervously, joining the two with his back to them, brandishing his axe high over his head and bringing it down upon several zombies. "Say, where's Coach?"

Meanwhile, powerfully hacking coughs suddenly caught the large, dark man's attention, and he swung his vision around and into the more clear fraction of the flooded streets, where a greenish smoke lingered and a tentacled figure flailed among the fogs and vapors. Smoker...? He noticed a long chord extended from the monstrous figure, confirming the thought. But, if Ellis, Rochelle, and Nick were all safely behind him, who in the hell could that Smoker have ensnared? Warily, the man crept forward, weapon aimed cautiously in the Smoker's direction as he slunk around it and more toward where its tongue was launched out. Through the haze, a group of Infected had broken off through the main horde, and gunshots reached Coach's ears from the gathering of zombies. Realization struck the older man, and he cast a wild glance over his shoulder in the general direction of his companions.

"Guys, there's more people out here! Rochelle, Ellis, Nick...!" He turned himself back toward where the Smoker had ensnared its victim. "H-hello?" he called almost tentatively.

A sigh of relief swept its way smoothly across the philandering swindler's cold, chapped lips when the familiar, delighting dark, round face belonging to whom everyone in the group was led to believe was the last woman alive. Her full, quivering lips murmured words softly to him, though they were completely washed out by the booming noise thrashing about around the small group. Hearing a small, yet recognizable country twang over the unified outcry of the freshly injured infected. Nick's exhausted green eyes gave the petite, strong willed young woman a quick survey, a disheartened scowl crossing his thin lips as a hearty trickle of blood collected at her narrow waist and continued in a maroon rill down her side and over her curvaceous hips.

His hand slipped from her arm and fell hesitantly over her wound, his eyes not meeting hers until she placed her own clammy hand on his chest, silently signaling him that there was more to be done. He smiled in response, and took a tighter grip of the paddle in his palms, though he'd keep a close eye on the woman, wanting as much to do with her pain as he did with any Witch in the vicinity.

God damn, she was the one tearing down his rough exterior, Nick realized pitifully as he brought down the thick piece of exercise equipment over a few zombies approaching the pair, thus giving Rochelle to respond to Ellis, for him if necessary. He hadn't heard a word of what the hick mechanic had said, or tried to say, and focused now on their escape to shelter. Sleep nagged at him, and successfully managed to drive his anger to an exhausted extreme; only more fodder for the unlucky few zombies trying to get to his friends. Friends? Fuck.

O_________________________O

Rochelle offered the gambler a grin in confidence as she re-situated her hold on the AK-47 in her palms, her movements tedious and sloppy with her lack of coordination, rest, and ample health. Her side ached, and she assumed she'd gotten the injury from a stray zombie's slash, unfortunately slicing into the tender, wet flesh on her side. She tried to listen to Ellis, and even lolled over what she'd heard in her mind. She heard his telltale chortle and couldn't help the comforted smile that graced her dark features, but the mention of the official unofficial leader of the team of survivors struck a nerve wracking chord in her rather small, in comparison to the three men she'd traveled across the south with, body.

"Coach?" She pushed away the hissing, gurgling infected with the butt of her gun, and delivered a few deserving shots to their faces and chests, the power of the weapon's shot driving its movement just a bit out of her range of control. "Fuck, shit, son of a bitch...Nick, Ellis, where the hell is Coach?!"

O_________________________O

Large grey eyes fled to the doorway, watching in horror as Robin's fingers grasped futilely at the decaying wood of the rather large house's entry, his hands bringing the gun upward, aiming at what could have been mistaken for Robin's remarkably comely young face. His formerly forlorn and tired eyes widened in fright, and his heart throbbed painfully against his chest as he prayed with each pull of the trigger that the bullet wouldn't stray too far off target and strike Robin, surely killing him.

"Robbie, stay calm, stay fucking calm!" Jan howled frantically, his voice wavering in near torment. His finger coiled around the trigger, his body being thrust backwards a few almost unnoticeable centimeters with each bullet's descent from the barrel.

He couldn't count how many times he shot, or how many times he was positive he'd shot Robin, but still continued to shoot until the dark, hacking creature fell limp in a cloud of ebony smoke. Immediately, though thoughtlessly, the young man took a wild leap off the staircase and dropped his gun, falling to his knees immediately and helping his fellow survivor up. His brows stitched together in worry, and he bit his bottom lip until he could tell his sister's fiance had indeed survived.

His suggestively thin chest heaved in accordance with the inane sigh that passed between his own full lips. "So, what, do you normally let guys get to second base this quickly, or is this some kind of...special occasion?" Jan drawled out while tearing the half deteriorated tongue from around Robin's waist. Despite the worried expression on his thin, pale face, and the falter in his typically velvety smooth voice, the statement was tipped off with a half-expected perverted, toothy grin.

He swore he was dead. He was absolutely certain a stray bullet had caught him, or maybe that vile creature had suffocated him. His eyes squeezed shut, nearly to the point of pain, and Robin pulled his limbs tight to his chest, burrowing his face deep into his knees once he's felt his body being released--he was sure it was death. However, senses soon rushed back to him; the drenched, heavy state of his clothes, the seeping, bloodied wounds at his arms and hands, the tightness of his throat and chest, sure to be bruised from the grip of the Infected tongue, the deafening sounds of rain thrashing the roof of the sluggishly decaying house, the throb in his head due to each and every noise... and January, crouched over him and tending to him. The younger boy was speaking, but his voice sounded distant and muffled, until an abrupt rush of sound brought back everything.

Trembling all over and sobbing for breath, Robin glanced several times between his own quaking hands and January's empathetic, heather eyes. It was all real. It had all happened, and misery bubbled to the surface of Robin's mind. A strong, dominant portion of him had hoped death certainly would come as easy as he had first thought. However, he was still incredibly grateful to January. Dry, cracked lips parted, but with no words escaping, Robin threw himself into Jan and latched his arms tight around the boy, all care toward showing weakness completely discarded.

"Th-thank you, thank you!" he cried. "Tha... th..." Icy eyes snapping open wide, realization struck him like lightening and Robin instantly scrambled away and pressed his back firmly to the thin wall, still shaking awfully and gasping, but also gazing frightfully at the taller man. O-oh my god... Jan... J-January... I didn't mean...

~~~

The singsong, manic laughter continued on amongst the mist, echoing here and there. It was impossible to tell where it came from, and so Ellis wheeled around left and right, gritting his teeth and tucking his axe close to his body, only to lash out again once an Infected approached.

"Damn, damn, where's that Jockey? Coach is out on his own..." Ellis whimpered, expecting no one to hear him over the relentless rage of rain.

~~~

Coach's deep, mahogany eyes widened when gunfire sounded several times and the Smoker he had been watching fell to the ground dead. There's definately people out there!

"Hello? Anyone need help? Hey!" He picked up a brisk jog in the direction of the house, glancing about hesitantly as he did so. It seemed impossible to see through the ever-thickening haze, and the pounding rain and thunder rendered him near deaf. A shocked gasp released from Coach's lips when a sudden cold, deathly body latched itself to his shoulders and a maddened scream blared directly at his ear, hot, putrid breath licking about his neck.

"No, no! Jockey! Help!" He lifted his arms and shot about wildly, thrashing as the Jockey swerved him about. Shattering glass indicated the breaking of a car's windows several yards away, and an alarm blared out, ricocheting off of buildings and fences, but somehow getting lost among the murk and vanishing into oblivion.

Here they come...

If January's grin could've gotten wider, he was certain it just had. He kept to as logical a solution his ravaged, warped mind would allow, and kept his arms out at his sides as the grateful young man embraced him. "Well, well, well..." January began, twirling a drenched and slightly curled few clumps of hair around his index finger, though the ominous sound of alert jolted both he and his unspoken statement to a halt.

His gaze was set immediately at the doorway, spotting a piece of junk old pick up truck with lights flashing on the inside, the only thing visible aside from the distant, rapidly dimming light of gunfire beyond the next couple blocks of houses. "Robin, people." The man's cinnamon hued hair shook along with the swift, turning movement's of January's head, and he reached around behind himself for the pump shotgun he'd let fall to the floor when he defeated the unknown would-be Robin slayer. "They need help! We've gotta help!"

A few thin, trembling fingers latched themselves around the shotgun by the safety, then swung it into his readied grasp as the lanky survivor jumped to his feet in an instant, hearing the silenced, though gravelly, wash of cries for help outside the small dwelling. Though the thought of not waiting for Robin's next thoughts, or any sort of plan, January sprinted as fast as he could from the building and out into the flooded road, his lengthy and otherwise speedy movements slowing to a mere trudge.

"Hold on, man, please hold on!!" the boy shouted distraughtly, firing a barrage of wild shots at the rapidly attacking zombies surrounding what had to be a person's body. No, not just a body, please God not just a body.

January cursed at the sloppy numbness of his fingertips as he fought to load the golden shell casings into his gun, one by one; a much too tedious process for a time so serious. He whipped around without thought and his eyes were reddened in fear, rage, and anxiety, his hands still fighting with the hunk of metal in the palms of his large, thin hands. "He needs help!!"

The car alarm rung high over the disturbing hum of the present horde, though the storm still managed to muffle the noise, even if it was only slightly. The relentless heave of water droplets let up just a bit, though January still found it necessary to wipe the blinding liquid from his eyes as he frantically shot and searched for any signs of life, aside from the desperate, carnal movements of the zombies surrounding the abandoned vehicle. The crimson liquid spewing from the nightmarish scene splattered on a nearby storefront, January's drenched shirt and face, as well as the hood of the car, and the only thing the boy could hope was that the blood was not that of the unknown survivor.

O_____________________O

Any doubts about Coach's absence were forced to the eighth layer of hell when the foreboding yet familiar siren sounded in the damp, frigid country air. Any breath Rochelle had been trying to inhale halted in its place and she could feel the painful sting of tears at the corners of her eyes, that were certainly widened in horror at that point. The rain and blood and ever gelid gusts of wind that invaded her vision stopped being an agonizing tug at her already very tired honey brown eyes, and her grip on the heavy artillery in her grasp was nearly unnoticeable with the loss of feeling in her hands and wrists completely. Nothing but fatigue would stop her from fleeing the group and coming to their leader's aid, wading as quickly as the rising, murky hurricane water would allow.

"Coach!" the producer wailed as she fired violently at the vicious, unmerciful crowd of infected surrounding the alarmed, rusty truck. "Can you hear hear me?! Coach!"

She hadn't expected a response, nor the horde suddenly becoming any less dense with her wild, angry shots and desperate, bloody screaming for her friend. The hot tears formerly pooling at her eyes were streaming freely down her dark, gentle face now, blending in with the pouring rain as they dripped from her jaw and chin. Her screams echoed in a voice not nearly as rhythmic and soothing as the one she'd used with the other two men in the group--what Nick had dubbed the Four Riders of the Goddamn Apocalypse. In her desperation and haste, her voice broke with sobs and fear, though the spray of bullets jetting out of the AK's barrel were unfeeling and cruel.

The slight joy Rochelle gained from watching the lifeless husks fall to the ground in sure defeat would never keep her happy for long, only until she could see Coach was alive and well. She didn't want to lose him, not only because he was a loyal fellow survivor and friend, but because she knew their team - any team - was useless without its Coach.

O____________________O

"Wait, what?" Nick inquired whilst swinging his cricket bat over the blood drenched bodies of the final remaining zombies in the horde. He hand't heard much of anything between Ellis and Rochelle, but inwardly panicked at the constant mention of Coach. He hand't heard his triumphant laughing, or his tough raspy voice going on about how many zombies there were, or how much longer the group had to hold out against the bloodthirsty onslaught. "Rochelle! What the hell is going on?!"

No response. The warmth of her small back against his own was gone, and the only comfort he had in knowing the woman was alive was the sound of her shrill, pitiful cries. They weren't comprehensible enough for the gambler to make words of them, but he recognized the small trace of her voice left in them, though distorted in utter terror. Coach was in danger, and Rochelle went after him. That left he and Ellis to put an end to the final few stragglers left of the horde, and then to follow the sound of mortified screaming and guttural growling to the truck, where hopefully both Coach and Rochelle had managed to hold them off.

"Alright, Overalls, can ya hear me?" Nick shouted over the rising noise, smashing in the face of one final zombie and treading through the thigh high floodwater stretching all the way over to the newest, remarkably largest horde in front of an open doorway. He saw two figures looming about the safer perimeter of the mass attack, one certainly Rochelle, while the other went unknown. "Keep out of the way, and shoot as carefully as you can, got that? If you got any pills, take 'em. I'm giving mine to Ro, she's got a nasty gouge in her side."

"No, J-Jan, don't lea--" Robin's frantic words were cut short once the taller man, without a second thought, bolted from the slight sanctuary of the open doorway and into the bellicose, rampant swarm of brain-dead zombies. The car alarm struck fear, spiking tidal waves of horror throughout the young man, reduced to fetal position against the wall of the old, abandoned, Ducatel house. He strongly debated whether to race after January, or instead flee back upstairs to his beloved Helena and hide away from the petrifying fiasco of the storming realm outdoors. But of course, he knew that January would be in need of aid, and whoever else was trapped out there, too, if there were, in fact, living survivors left over.

Robin struggled to his feet, drained of energy, still heaving for stinging breaths, drenched in rain, sweat, and blood, a lot of which being his own. Reloading shells into the shotgun still gripped close to his torso, he swore beneath his breath, hesitated, and charged into the hectic, flooded streets.

~~~

Within the horrifyingly massive riot of Infected, a Jockey could be visible, holding a single body in place as the rest clawed and bit, screaming cries of victory as they did so.

Ellis bared his teeth with a heartless grin as he slipped a syringe from a strap in the belt at his hip. "Grabbin' adrenaline!" he announced, wincing at the bite of the needle, though instantly feeling exhilarating jolts of energy surge over him. Wired and ready to go, he shook his head, laughed, and let his axe bite into whatever it could manage. "Die, die, my darlings, die, die, die!"

As the next bolt of lightning impelled the ebony early morning sky, all but the sound of gunfire and the sickening slice and crunch of heavy melee weaponry colliding with the haughty, dying flesh of zombies remained. The car's alarm died down slowly, probably fading with the power that had once charged it, and with it did the vicious infected. They flashed their shimmering white eyes at the survivors, shrieking and gurgling incoherently as the blinding illumination came to pass, then escaped into the cover of darkness. After a few moments of complete, deadly silence, the ominous crackle of thunder rung loudly in each and every one of the survivors' ears.

"Coach? A-are you all right, honey?" Rochelle whimpered timidly, flicking on the switch of her flashlight to get a better look at her friend through the thick haze of wind, rain, and debris. She could feel a shared gaze upon her, unnerved slightly by it, but stepped slowly, carefully over the heap of lifeless bodies surrounding the car. "Coach...?"

The man's body, torn and injured and grisly, lay limply on the hood of the car. There were deep gouges etched across all the flesh that were presented to the elements, uncovered by his F. High School football jersey, cut-off leather gloves, and pants. His face was still, eyes closed and mouth partially opened with fresh crimson liquid still exuding fluidly from either corners of his large, chapped lips. Rochelle's breathing grew heavy again, and nausea she'd thought had subsided came back at full swing as her tender copper gaze swept over the dead man's body. Once, twice, in disbelief, did she survey.

Coach was gone, and she -- and her fellow survivors -- had had every opportunity to save him. "Sweet Jesus...Nick! Ellis! Oh God, no! We fucked up, we fucked up bad!"

Nick was at the woman's side in an instant, flashlight blaring a meek trail of light ahead of him. He first looked to Rochelle's waist, still bleeding tumultuously, and pondered whether or not he should wait to inspect the wound for fear of it getting infected. Then, his hardened emerald eyes wandered to the cause of the young woman's distress and scowled in hurt. The body wasn't what he'd expected to see, per say. The situation could've played out in any other way; Coach certainly wouldn't have been laying lifeless among the equally defunct corpses there on some damned old hillbilly mobile.

As unlikely as the notion was, the gambler truly expected to see the man crouched down in front of the vehicle, gun smoking in his hands with a hearty grin spread across his face. Any of the three remaining survivors would've helped him to his feet and he surely would've gotten straight to worrying about everyone else's status. He would have helped Rochelle into the building and told her to apply pressure to the wound, he would've told Ellis to "look alive" and that he'd done "damn good out there", he'd have given Nick that comforting clap on the shoulder complete with a "You okay? Let's get movin'", and he certainly wouldn't have gone and died.

Nick bit his bottom lip idly and slipped the wooden plank back into the sling on his back, just between the heavy gasoline tank and an extra health pack. "Shit, Coach..."

O_______________O

January's thin shoulders fell in disappointment, a heavy, sympathetic sigh gracing his full lips. His gun swung from the heavy strap suspended from the young man's chest, having been clipped to it when he had initially picked it back up from the grimy, blood stained wooden floor on the inside of the house, and the barrel's front soaked in the slovenly flood water threatening to lick at his waist.

Glancing between the mourning three unknown survivors, wondering what their next move would be. He prayed they'd be friendly, and have some sort of way out of the town, but the odds of that -- and just about anything even remotely "positive" -- were substantially low. He didn't want to be left alone to die in the bedroom upstairs, even if he was to so alongside Helena, but the prospect of attempting to leave Ducatel in the middle of a hurricane, occurring in the very early morning wasn't quite as appealing either.

As he watched the dejected faces of the strangers, all crowding slowly near the dead man, Jan knew they'd not be leaving the town that evening. Their eyes -- green, blue, and hazel respectively -- were dull in sadness and an exhaustion so great, it was a bit intimidating. He could easily make out the heavy dark circles rounding out beneath each of the strangers' eyes, and Jan ultimately decided without parlaying with either his sister, or her future husband that they'd be staying long enough to rest in the reinforced bedroom with their group.

"...He's gone, then? If anyone stays out here too long, they'll end up just like your friend. Why don't you come inside? My girlfriend's in the bedroom, there should be something of interest in the kitchen, but we're mainly holding up in there. I'm January, by the way. The cute bastard back there's Robin, don't mind him. He's kind of an asshole."

Well. Crap. Posted twice. Impossible. Then again, this is L4D2 we're playing, so nothing's completely impossible. Hot damn. I guess I'll just fill this space with amazing quotes of awesome!

"Bring me NIIICK!!"

"Nicholas...don't you be ridiculous..."

"You...are the best thing I've ever sat between...I love you..."

"HOLEH FREAKSHOW."

"Dracula don't bite! He scrape, then lick!"

And finally,

"Kill all sons'a'bitches, that's my official instructions."

Pwned. Mission accomplished.

Robin's facial muscles spasmed in what could only be recognized as an eye twitch as he halted several feet behind January. The fact that there were three others and a corpse within twenty feet of him hardly even put a dent in his mind. Oh, no, all that struck him were January's words. A scorching calm washed over him, heating his face, his ear tips, and his hands. The anger, however, lay dormant just beneath the sizzling composure.

"... What?" he choked out through roughly ground teeth. "Wh... what did you just say, you little dumbcunt?" The fury swelled, but didn't quite crack the impassive shell. He couldn't help but lash out and coil his shaking, wet fingers firmly around a clump of January's wrinkled and sopping shirt. For the second time in roughly half an hour, he jerked the boy around to face him, but this time put the barrel of his shotgun pressed harshly to the soft flesh of January's throat. "What did I tell you?" he hissed, drawing on the younger man's clothing tighter so as to pull him closer to the weapon. "I swear to god, January--" He spat his name in contempt. "--when will this stop? She is not your girlfriend, she is your fucking sister! Get it through your thick, disgusting skull that she's my love and your own goddamn blood, you sick, little whore! Why, oh why don't I just fucking blow your brains out already and get it the hell over with?! I cannot believe what passes through that demented, fucking head of yours!" With that, Robin wrenched his arm and sent January into the murky, flooded puddles beneath them, tucking his weapon to the strap on his back and not even sparing a single glance more at the accursed blight of a boy.

"The things..." he sighed, sounding far less angry and much more exhausted. "The things you put me through..."

Having gotten it all out of his system, Robin finally took the time to size up the three before him, sparing little vision to the older man comatose and lifeless at the head of the truck. Pity stabbed at his chest, but he brushed it aside and took a deep, shaking inhale--he'd seen enough death, and this was just one of the rest.

Aimlessly combing his angular fingers through his dark hair, he cast an icy gaze toward the baracaded window upon the second story of the house at his back.

"We should get back to Helena," Robin murmured. The rain had subsided for the time being, leaving the pitter-patter of light sprinkling and gifting each being with audibility once more. He looked out to the three strangers and addressed them. "Are you all coming or going?"

~~~

Ellis froze, petrified with unadultrated horror. A shaken, shocked appearance overcame him, and he let his arms fall limp at his sides, the axe he once held so mightily now fallen to the swampy street below. His previously bright and vivid blue eyes fell blankly to Coach's ravaged body, a deathly gloom glazing them and rendering them without hope; without life, even. Staggering from his place--he somehow found much difficulty in walking--he collapsed into a sitting position on the sidewalk at which the truck was parked, folding his knees to his chest and hugging his arms tight around them. Not a word from his comrades reached his ears or registered in his mind, and not a word slipped from his thin, motionless lips. Just nothing; nothing at all.

At his hip, the walky-talky connecting them to Virgil buzzed with a muffled voice at the other end, but Ellis took no notice and only held his eyes fixed on his fallen friend.