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684 No. 684
Captcha: contagion ousword. How fitting.

I'm dumping this here, if it's not allowed, please tell me where I SHOULD post it, mkay? WIP.

“Come on Nick! We're almost there!”

“Yea yea, don't get your panties in a bunch, I'm coming.” I'll be damned if CEDA is actually at that mall, every single poster we saw made has only told lies so far, and we haven't seen a single survivor besides that loony gunstore guy. The saferoom is small and stuffy, but I have never been more relieved to get into a confined space with two sweaty guys and a whiny woman. The very moment I'm inside, Coach slams the door behind me and slams a metal bar in front of it. Safe, finally. I slump down against the wall and let out a groan.

Coach and Rochelle pull a big sofa in front of the saferoom door, and then lets themselves fall onto the dirty cushions. The room is large for a saferoom, with a bathroom to the side and a few sleeping bags crumpled up in a corner. The sofa had obviously been used as barricade material before, clear drag-marks over the floor. We all catch our breaths while the infected bash their fists uselessly against the steel door.

“You did good out there people. Made me proud.” I don't have the energy to make a sarcastic remark about how Ellis almost murdered me with that grenade launcher of his, so I just stay silent and try to clear my headache while I root through the remains of my medpack. I feel damn awful, and the boomer bile staining my white suit is making me feel like a hobo. I guess I should be thankful that that nasty puke got into my clothes and not into my wounds, but still.

With a frustrated grunt I pull off my jacket and shirt to expose the numerous scratches on my torso. Oh great. The puke did get into my wounds. I gag at the rancid stench that drifts up when I lift my jacket, and try my best not to look at the scratches as I pull it off me. I throw it onto the small radiator in a corner, and it makes a nasty wet smack, soaked in things I don't want to think about.

“Dayum, Nick, that smells some damn bit awful man!” Good thing Ellis is always there to state the obvious, or we'd never have gotten this far.

“I'm impressed you notice things like this Ellis. Really.” I try to live up to my normal sarcastic tone, but it comes out monotone and tired, and Ellis takes no mind.
“Looks real bad...Want me to patch you up?” I quickly shake my head. God no. I'll be damned if I let that idiot anywhere near me. Last time he healed himself we practically had to save him from his own bandages! Before I can let an unflattering remark fall from my lips, Rochelle pulls the hick away.

“Ellis honey, I need to take a little break, can you watch the food? Take it off the fire when it starts steaming.”

At least someone in the team has somewhat of a brain, even if she doesn't always use it right. I see her shooting a questioning glance at me, and I purposely ignore it. I try to stand upright, but the world spins before my eyes and I almost land in coach's lap before I manage to stand without blacking out. He gives me a worried look, thumbing a few shells into his shotgun. “Nicholas, you alright? You don't look so fine now... You sure you don't need any help?”

I grumble under my breath by way of an answer and drag my way over to the small bathroom and its sink. I close the door behind me and click the lock on occupied. An old, unfitting mirror hangs crookedly above it, giving me a perfect look of my wounds after I peel away the last layer of clothing covering it.

It barely looks like a wound anymore. Vomit, acid burns and scratches seem to have melted into one green-grey pit of stink and rot. It's mostly on top of my shoulder, where a hunter had bitten me. My hand trembles every so slightly as I turn open the faucet, and I splash some water onto the injury. It barely makes a difference, the skin still a frightening greenish color, and the bile still caked to my skin. I push slightly on the wound, and the skin bursts open, a thick green-yellow pus drips out of it.

I suppress a gag and avert my gaze, roughly rubbing over the wound with a ragged towel. It's infected, without a doubt. No clean wound is green with yellowish pus. I rub harder over the nasty wound until the pus mingles with blood, but after all the painful scrubbing it still looks bad.

I quickly wrap the wound with gauze, but it's more so I don't have to see the wound, because I know it won't help healing the injury. No pain pills or bandages can cure an infection, and as good as Rochelle may be in first aid, she's no doctor. I stare into the mirror and run a hand over my face. I look terrible, and it's not just the lack of sleep, the zombies and constant running. I'm getting sick. I lie my hand on the wound in my shoulder and take a few deep breaths.

Someone knocks on the door. “Nick? We got some food ready, you coming?” I pull myself away from the mirror and slip on my shirt before stumbling out of the bathroom. “Yea yea I'm here... Bathroom's all yours”

Coach still holds the shotgun in his hands, and my gaze lingers on it as I walk towards the couch. If it's not just an infection, but THE infection, it'll be Coach who puts a shotgun shell through my skull. My mouth feels dry and the scent of the warmed can-food makes me sick.
I carefully lower myself onto the sofa, next to Coach and his shotgun and pull my jacket from the radiator. It's still moist from blood and “What's for dinner? A rat? Cooked dog?”

Both Rochelle and Coach roll their eyes at the same time and Ellis chuckles, scooping a spoon full of brown stuff out of a steaming can and chowing it down.
“I got no idea, don't care. Here.” Ellis pulls the spoon out of his mouth, sticks it back into the can, and hands it to me. I move to grab the spoon, but when the smell of food drifts up, I get nauseas. Just the smell of the stuff is making me gag, and the idea of having to put it in my mouth... With a lump in my throat I hand the can to Rochelle.
“Not hungry.”

Rochelle frowns, but I ignore her and I stand up to drag myself towards the back of the room, where the sleeping bags of the previous owners lie.
“You sure son?...”
“Never been more sure in my life Coach.”
>> No. 685
I want more of this. its great! I gaged at the part with the wound and puss.
>> No. 686
Glad you like it! Workin' on more. I made sure to make the wound sound gross, hehehehehe
>> No. 688
Great!!! i cant wait til you update ^.^
>> No. 689
Hey guys, I am leaving this here. Since I am usually a perfectionist, I've decided to go "screw it all" and just throw this in here. UNBETA'D UNCHECKED AND PURE....
Critique welcomed.

It takes hour before I fall asleep, and even then my sleep is unruly, waking and sleeping what seems every few minutes. I feel more awake then asleep, but after the first time of waking it's completely dark around me, and Coach snores lightly through the night. My head is fuzzy, my body hot and cold at the same time. It has to be a cold, and there's only one cold roaming about nowadays...

I'm just about to get up and take my turn at the watch early, when I feel someone gently shaking my good shoulder. Probably Rochelle to wake me for my watch, or Ellis depending on how long I've been dying over here. I push myself up, and force my eyes open.
I'm met with slit eyes burning yellow and orange in the red room, and bloodied teeth gleaming in the light right above me. A bony hand with long claws is curled around my good shoulder, and an inhuman snarl echoes through the room, as if coming from everywhere.

I kick wildly at the horrifying creature and roll over on my stomach, my hands search over the pulsating floors trying to find a weapon, tangling my legs in the coiling sheets. The whole room spins in front of my eyes, and in the dark I can see the glowing silhouettes of more monsters, their glowing eyes barely visible in the dark. My fingers find the cool surface of my magnum, and I curl my hand around the grip, rolling on my side and aiming at the monstrosity crouching on the floor.

Rochelle stares back at me with wide eyes, the barrel of my magnum pointing right between her eyes. If it hadn't been for my shock at seeing her instead of the monster, I might have killed her. I drop the magnum in my lap and hunch over. Rochelle comes out of her daze, and forcefully shoves me away, smacking my head against the wall. “Do NOT do that again! Scared the LIFE outta me!” Her voice is a deadly hiss, but her eyes are widen open and she trembles as she retreats to her sleeping bag. As soon as my head stops spinning from the impact with the wall, I take a quick look around the room, finding everything just as stuffy as it had been before I fell asleep.

I sit still on my sleeping bag, and stare into the room, the panic sweat on my skin now a layer of frost so cool. At some moment, the darkness from the room is replaced by the darkness of my eyelids, but sleep refuses to come. I can't find the energy to keep my head up, and I lean it against the wall behind me, forcing long and ragged breaths through my mouth. It feels as if not breathing would be easier.

The gun slips from my fingers and lands in my lap, and I start.

My vision flashes an ugly orange pink colour, and my stomach flips violently. I pull myself up by the couch, and stumble into the tiny bathroom, promptly emptying my stomach on the floor. I groan, and lean against the wall. I have half a mind to rinse my mouth with water, but it's gone just as quickly, the drumming headache forcing me to stay leaning against the wall pathetically.

It feels like ages before I can move again, and I almost slip on my own puddle of vomit when I turn around. I just barely catch myself on the sink, and send a curse towards the puke by my feet.

It looks black, unhealthy, slimy and frighteningly familiar. My hand shakily rises towards my wounded shoulder, finding it burning hot and wet in all the wrong ways. The wound itself I can barely feel anymore, and when I pull my hand back it feels sticky. Coach's shotgun flashes briefly in my mind, together with images of the countless times I had blown an infected's brains out.

I slide down to the ground to hold my aching head in my hands. Infected. I repeat the word in my head, and try to keep my breathing steady as I do so. I'm infected, and far along too.

Something heavy pounds against the bathroom door, and I almost twist my neck when I jump up from the ground. “Nick, come on out now. We need to get goin', and we all need to use the bathroom before we go. Ain't got a lot of time workin' for us now so hurry it up... Ellis really needs to go.”

“Yea yea... I'm.. I'm almost done...Don't get yer panties in a bunch.” I can't tell if I actually say it or not, my heart beating too loudly to hear my whisper, and I pull the shower curtain loose to cover up the blackish bile on the tiled floor. I can't die. I won't let some stupid virus bacteria thing kill me after all the shit I've been through!

I turn to the sink and splash the water into my face, forcing myself awake. Sick or not, infected or not, as long as I can think I'll be shooting a gun at whatever stands in my way. I look up to the unfitting mirror on the wall and clasp a hand around the wet bandages on my shoulder before opening the bathroom door to let a very tired looking Coach in.
>> No. 691
This awesome please make more i wanna know how it ends.
>> No. 692
Some more for the readers. Enjoyyyy-ah.

Rochelle stops chewing on her breakfast when she sees me, and I limp over to my jacket. I force my bad arm through it with a wince, and try to ignore the awful smell stemming from the cloth.
“Want some breakfast?”

I slowly shake my head.
“Not hungry.”
I can tell by the way she stuffs a spoon of food into her mouth that she still has something say, and I sigh. Ellis slams his fist against the bathroom door impatiently. “C'mon c'mon! You've had more than enough time to take a leak! It's my turn!”

Coach grumbles something back, and the door unlocks a moment later, Ellis rushing in like his pants are on fire. Coach takes the can Rochelle holds out for him, and walks over to the couch, letting himself fall into the stuffy cushioning. I am almost about to think he's not going to talk to me, but after a particularly large bite he finally breaks the silence.
“Listen Nick. I appreciate you takin' the watch all night, but with that wound 'o yours and what happened last night-”

“I'll take watch whenever I damn well want to! I'm fucking FINE, it's nothing, we're going to find that FUCKING CEDA, and get the hell out of here! ” My vision flashes again briefly, and my own yelling makes me queasy from headache.

Rochelle jumps up from her seat angrily and slams her hands on the crate we used for a table. “You are so not alright! You almost killed me last night!” I almost crumple at the high-pitched yells she emits and I clamp my hands over my ears. Coach joins in the cacophony, and Ellis throws open the bathroom door with a loud bang to see what the commotion is about. Winning the argument is the least of my worries as both my own heartbeat and the onslaught of voices seem determined to blow my eardrums apart, and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly as the words merge into gnarled inhuman static.

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT! I'm NOT okay! I'm not fine, I'm insane, I'm sick, I'm whatever the fuck you want me to be so PLEASE just SHUT UP!”
As soon as I stop yelling, everything is silent save for the rushing of my blood in my ears, and I drop my hands in my lap.

All three of my teammates are staring at me like I'm crazy, and to be honest, I probably am.
“Can I... I need some water.” I rush past Ellis in the doorway of the bathroom, and hurriedly slam it closed behind me. I lean onto the sink again, and stare into the mirror. I can't feel my shoulder, and my arm is slowly joining in. I grasp my shoulder roughly and try to coax pain out from beneath the bandages, but nothing comes.

“Our deal still stands you hear. I'm living through this. I'm living fucking through this do you hear me!” My reflection stares back at me sternly, but his shoulders tremble and he wavers on his feet.

A few moments later I find the others already gearing up to head out. Ellis almost hesitantly hands me my magnum, and for once doesn't try to string up a conversation. Coach tosses one of the remaining med kits at me, and I grab an AK-47 from our makeshift table. It's unusually quiet in the saferoom, and I can feel my teammate's gazes burning on my back.

Coach pulls the bar from the red saferoom door and after giving each of us a small look, he pushes it open. There are few infected outside, but by now I've give up hope of a peaceful passing.

Our little troupe immediately starts moving, and my weapon hangs like a leaden barrel from my hands after only the first few steps. I lag behind the others, the sunlight stinging my eyes and every gunshot louder than an explosion. The ground seems to flicker beneath my feet, like it's continually spinning, and my ears hear things I am not supposed to hear in a zombie apocalypse.

I rest my arm against a wall and lean my head into the dark crook of my elbow so I don't have to see the world spin. I almost feel like I'm falling asleep until Coach' voice cuts through the air.“Nicolas! We're ready to throw the switch, get over here!”
Reluctantly I pull away from the wall, flinching when the sunlight blinds me. “I...I'm comin' alright...” I squint against the painfully bright light, and I stumble against something. A moment later I find out what it was. A car.
One with a very functional car alarm.

The sound seems to cut me in half, and I drop my weapon to the ground in favor of clamping them over my ears. I stumble away from the car in a daze, desperate to get away from the noise, when a chorus of howls shouts over the alarm.

I don't have time to reach for my gun, and so I run to where they were standing before I stumbled into the car like a complete idiot. Gunshots join in the explosion of noise, and the infected's gurgles ring out from behind me. I have to make it, I'm not giving up yet! I fumble my magnum out of its holster and aim it behind me in hopes of keeping the horde at bay.

Bullets from Ellis and Coach fly past me as they cover for me, but they prove to be insufficient. I'm far slower than the infected, and I fall when they catch up to me my head smashing against the concrete.

I'm so sure it's going to be over. My world makes a spin far wilder than ever before, and the colour schemes of the world seem to go through chaotic rearrangements.
I can't tell if I'm still holding my magnum at all, or if I'm being attacked or not. There's just a swirl of everything, endlessly flipping over and spinning around.

I can't feel my body, I don't know what I'm doing, and I hear nothing but the painful blaring of the car and a terrible explosion before I black out.

>> No. 693
>> No. 705
I hope you guys know that the L4D 1 and 2 protagonists are immune to the virus, right?
>> No. 706
Well, that's why it's a fanfic. It would never happen in-game, so I make it happen in my fanfic. Kinda the whole point.

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