Chapter Text
0, 1, 1.
A Boomer gurgles below you. Rusted metal stairs creak under your weight. Your shades are gone, but the weight of your katana presses firmly into your hands.
2, 3, 5. Back up the stairs. Listen for any approaching Infected.
Bro and Hal are shouting at you to “get out of the way”, that they can handle fifteen seconds without you. Of course they can.
8, 13, 21.
A wet snick and then a deafening pop as someone—Bro, most likely—bursts the gas tank like a fucked-up balloon. Gore splatters your face, neck, hands. The railing levels out beneath your palm, and you feel along the opposite wall for a doorknob or a bar. Your fingers meet cool, smooth metal, and you slam your shoulder into the door as you twist the handle. It opens without resistance.
34, 55, 89. Flashstep through the gap. Close the door. Get a fucking grip. This isn’t the end of the world all over.
Your ears are still ringing from the big guy exploding so damn close to your face. Hot chunks of slimy Infected Stew slide off of Jake’s your jacket and hit the floor with a viscosity that reminds you, regrettably, of tinned tomatoes.
144, 233, 377.
You scrub at your face with the only dry patch of shirt you can find. Your ears are still ringing, your sight still clouded with bile. It will fade, though you’ll still be the most useless motherfucker this side of humanity’s remnants. The ringing in your ears subsides slightly, and you’re suddenly aware of something odd and high-pitched in the background.
610, 987, 1597. Raise your sword a half inch with your left hand, tug a small flashlight from one of your pockets with your right. Tap it twice against your thigh when it doesn’t turn on the first time.
You raise the beam slowly and peer into the corners and crevices of the room. The sound changes drastically. It’s a low rumble now, one that you feel against your teeth more than hear. Something sinister picks at the back of your mind.
Step closer. Be ready.
The sharp ringing in your ears dissolves just as the sound changes again. It’s intense and high and disconcertingly familiar. Something moves in the black-green haze at the edges of your flashlight’s beam. You shift your feet, turn towards it with your katana held high.
2584, 4181, 67– oh fuck.
The screaming begins, piercing and gravelly and hair-raising all at once.
Flashstep back. Open the door. Swing down.
Your katana slices into her shoulder, and you feel the moment it bites deep into bone. She slams you backward before you can wrench your blade free. You hit the rusted metal railing hard, and suddenly the two of you are falling twelve slutty, slutty feet from the platform down to hard, unforgiving pavement.
Your back lands first, forcing the wind out of your lungs and shooting pain into every part of your body. You feel fuzzy and heavy, like your head is full of molasses and compression artifacts. Hal screams at you from far away to get up, I’m coming, run, run, run. You ignore him. You made this fucking mess, and you’ll take care of it without Hal’s help.
Summon a machete from your sylladex. Get to your feet. Squint through the bile in your eyes. Flashstep as the Witch lunges. Target the arms.
You swing too late. The blade glances off, useless, and you’re left wide open.
Bro taught you better than to make these mistakes. He definitely taught you not to be such a reckless dumbass.
Time slows as those razor-sharp nails reach towards your throat. You see a smear of red over the Witch’s shoulder, and now this scene is oddly familiar, though you’ve never fucked up this goddamn embarrassingly before.
The claws connect in a burst of crimson and pain. Blood bubbles up your throat and past your lips as you choke, and—