playing dead

"Ellis, I was conceived ready.”

Boyishly enthralled eyes ogle the figure of a white ash baseball bat. Crisp, polished and wiped clean, this instrument was made for cleansing. Its weight conforms sublimely to the strength of the leader’s hands, surging energetic enthusiasm through him as he tilts it forward for a more thorough inspection. The mere thought of killing electrifies him to staggering levels of psychotic nirvana, envisioning the bat’s momentum as it slices through the infection in the air, stalled only by the jolt of impact as the barrel bashes in the rotting skull of an undead bastard. Oh yeah. This partnership was meant to be. Still, somewhere in the gallons of blood gushing through this fucked daydream, his focus manages to do a double take at his companion’s choice of slang - a term that a Stilwater native can only assume hails from the deepest parts of rural Savannah. “Wait, a whi—a whirlybird?” Asks the slaughterer, eying the dixie-born survivor with a quirked brow that quickly lowers itself, lest it cause an explanation or worse, risk another anecdote about 'the time when'. His words, muffled by the crunch of a generic brand analgesic, taste like the bitter blend of medication and blood. “Forget I asked…Let’s just get to the helicopter before they leave us here again. I’ve had enough of this fucking city.” The mouth of his bat stabs between the steel bars of a bolted door, ripping loose the teeth of the soulless creature reaching through in search of flesh. The zombie drops as Boss yanks away the rod reinforcing their safety, swings open the red barrier between him and the apocalyptic amusement park, and bludgeons the toothless son of a bitch on the ground, effectively splattering chunks of dark brain matter on the wall beside them. See, with the exception of their excitement for the more destructive side of doomsday and the concern each man shared for their corresponding group, Boss and Ellis were as separate as night and day. Experienced as the ex-mechanic was in the extermination of undead, Stilwater’s king knows shit about discretion when it comes to killing. The ceaseless three-move method was safe tactics, no doubt, and perhaps the most preventive way around bites. That was crucial if in fact that was how this “flu” transferred from host to host. He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t bothered to get bit yet. But really…Shove, shoot, run. Run, shove, shoot. Shoot, run, shove. How many combos can you possibly fit in there before you wanna blow your own Goddamn brains out? In classic 3rd Street fashion, the Boss batters up against the alerted group of incoming rotters. His hands, dirtied with the residue of homemade pipe bombs and dried zombie intestines, suffocate the bat’s grip as he so voluntarily begins tenderizing the heads of groaning biters. Decaying bits of flesh crumble ferociously, erupting off whatever monstrosity remains of their decomposing faces. The detrimental force of his swings doubles thanks to brittleness of dead bone, decapitating and maiming the twitching cadavers one by one. Six, twelve, two dozen; painting the sidewalk and himself with splatters of stale clots until there is nothing but a grotesque puddle of cranial pulp left. He gives his companion a pleased grin, nodding to indicate a macabre peace with his choice of weapon. "Let’s do this."

They were high off the limitless hecatombs of zombie warfare, feeding the  inebriating fire with an abundance of slaying in eager mania unrestricted by moral norms. They greet any and every sign of undead life with whatever destructive force they've got in their hands, and nothing could appeal either of them for clemency. Well, a car stocked with gas might, but they could never be so lucky. 

In a matter of gore filled hours they happened upon the clinic's impending silhouette. There was no figuring how many tax dollars went into crafting the Grecian architecture responsible for making it the town's landmark as well as the preferred spot for medical aid. The peripteral style was practical as well as aesthetic. Each of the two columns framing the front facade of the hospital were spun in opulent wraps of the finest flowers; time dried, curled, and faded petals hinted that they were once of pink and blue hues, signifying reverence to the tattered banners hanging about in combined commemoration of Mother's Day and breast cancer awareness. The hospital building is as derelict as it is abandoned by survivor and infected alike, but the irony of that is lost on Ellis, if only doing a disservice to his current boredom. The listless zombie slayer began to wander toward those skyward deathbeds for reams of botanical decor to pick at its flaking hide with naive arbitrary. Grimy palms wipe against mucked coveralls tied safely round his waist, adding anew ash of crumbled blossoms to the coagulated, god awful mixture already there. "M'agine how nice this all useta look... I'm gunna check out that CEDA tent ov'r there," designates it with a rifle end point. His impulsiveness resonates in the quick boot falls away from his ally, trust cultivated by many times his savior that he might come to his aid at any signal of distress. Besides, Ellis knew better than to tromp off more than a few yards distance. 

When he peels back the door flap he's met with the stench of sterilized latex and the hint of gunpowder, the latter he cannot quite place midst the pure air assaulting his unaccustomed nostrils. A shock of red burlap tucked in the underside of a steel table draws in the supply deprived survivor, reaching heedlessly for palliate allure. The foolhardy stretch jerks back in a startle, then he sucks a breath in so quick he's pretty sure he got a cramp in his lungs based on his knowledge of anatomy, sweeping out the other arm in an erratic peppering of ammo into the flesh toned hunchback curled up in the shadowed corner. What Ellis had failed to notice were the bullet holes in its corpse beforehand that had already put it down.

----

He burst from the tent shrieking, and not cackling somehow, with the dead lump misleadingly wrapped about his shoulders with some crude zip ties and some intrepid humor.

"Get it off me!"

The "Jockey Backpack Prank", patent pending.

blergh, just wanted to draw some zombie killing

Everybody loves Ellis

   Managed mumble of “Wh-wha…” died with the other man’s dash and shouted warning— the charger? The Lieutenant didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but it sure as hell didn’t take him long to realize, picking up on the bulky, deformed outline in the distance. It seemed to be wailing, inhumanly, and rushing a huge, thick arm at either one of them— but mostly at him, for being slower than the smarter guy.

"O-oh, damn!”

   A quick shove to the handgun, and its weight on the hand was replaced with a much heavier girth in the long rifle, shots aimed at the thing—the best way to describe it now— tied boots running.

"Hey, what the hell is that thing?!"

   "Uh-- dude who's lookin' to bash you ta shit!!"

The informal outcry of a reply strained by jagged panting, so laborious that it stifles his motormouth in favor of avoiding the aforementioned. A ghost ache washes over his body as the reel of suffering a Charger's abuse burns fresh in his mind, and it lightens his hurried steps even more until he's unwittingly pulling ahead of the other.

  Nature's prints are all over him; every rushed-by twig staining their marks in faint red scratches across exposed skin-- his face and arms littered with them. In his haste, he had to suck down a breath to steady burning lungs so that he might project over the close range gunfire and share his little wisdom. "Just strafe to--!" His final word's but a yelped, fading SHIT!; cut short by a clumsy misstep over a divot of brush, sending him plummeting into a makeshift boobytrap likely the work of a survivor's proximity protection left forgotten. 

   The zombie's blaring alarm and a meaty thud from on high sent him scrambling to get out. Ellis just hoped that the bastard hit a tree or something... and not the first sign of life he'd seen in miles.

She watched with a slight smirk, nodding in agreement. “So big that if you were to turn, you might be a tank or a charger.” She teased with a light chuckle as he took a seat next to her. Her expression quickly hardened when she got a good look at his neck. Looks like that tongue got a tight grip on him. Just looking at the injury almost made her neck sting; she knew all too well how painful it could be. “That bastard got you good  " She trailed off as her gaze drifted down to the heath kit.

"Here, these will help." She popped off the cap of the pill bottle and placed two blue pills in his hand. "I haven’t found any strong painkillers yet, but I do have some Aleve. It’s all I’ve got for pain and at least it’s stronger than Tylenol. It’ll help.” She stole one more glance at his neck before grasping the third bottle of water and a clean cloth from the kit. First, she wet the cloth with the water and carefully rubbed it over the raw skin to remove the dirt and grime. 

"Now I’m no sniper, but maybe you’ll see some of it tomorrow? Or the next day, depending on how well rested we are." She offered a smile as she tossed the dirty cloth aside only to seize a new one from the kit. "You don’t have to call me Miss, I doubt I’m any older than you are." She laughed, shaking her head slightly. She found it hard to believe that he still managed to remember his manners even in during a zombie apocalypse. Must be that Southern hospitality that she had heard about. "It’s nice to meet you Ellis, I just wish it could be under better circumstances. And don’t mention it, survivors need to look out for one another. After all, there aren’t many of us left    Now, this might sting a bit.” After wetting the cloth with an off brand disinfectant, she gently dabbed and rubbed it over the raw skin. “Sorry…” She muttered as she continued; she could feel the slight sting over small cuts on her hands so she could only imagine how painful it might have been for him. 

"Anddd done!" She nearly chime tossing the cloth elsewhere, scooting back to give him some personal space. "After that dries, I’ll put some antibacterial cream on you just to be safe."

   He wanted to seem civil, but with dirtied hands as they were it might leave the opposite impression. Logically, before taking the pills, as a civil person might in Ellis' opinion, he wiped his palms on an equally filthy shirt, and only then proceeded to dry swallow meds. That latter part was habitual. Certain that the act kept the title of a degenerate off of himself, shoulders eased from taut position as much as his conscious would allow. His head was kept in an awkward angle for uninhibited access, lashes fluttering back a stinging dampness behind them compelled by the disinfecting process. Occasionally he'd mutter an 'It's alright' in response to her frets.

   Chin dropped to his chest, tentative fingers hovering upon the treated wound as he remarks, "That feels 'a helluva lot better already. Thanks, ma'a--" Correcting stammer of, "--Harper. Heh. Harper. That name suits ya!" The repetition of her moniker tests its pronunciation with his southern tongue, its syllables striking some giddy from its speaker. "Where're you headed? I'm used to 'a bigger travellin' group, but two s'closer ta four than one! Maybe we'll meet some more folks on the way to wherever yer goin'. I hear there's a supply place way down the road, but I ain't ever found it..." Nor will he humor the idea of it being just a cruel rumor to ward off eagerly trusting survivors. He must have just not as strong an eye for searching without others to watch his back. "We can go lookin' fer that, if you got nowhere else to be."

@ellis

   By this time, the first lieutenant would’ve been promoted. Getting stuck on an alien ship sort of skews priorities, but he’s the fellow who’s not the type to complain. Hard work shines through, he might remind himself form time to time. Still. It was a hopeful sigh that escaped hypocritical lips.

   And idle hands being the Devil’s playthings, he was set about cleaning his Beretta. Cleanliness may be next to Godliness, but Lieutenant Scott knew damn well to give care to his arms for performance and not to be saved. He was no preacher, but he tried to be a long time ago.

   A sound near him put him on defensive, and he quickly compiled the handgun again and aimed it to the general vicinity of the noise. Not a fear in him; just a wary curiosity for the sneaky. Not that he would know why anyone would need to be quiet and stealthy.

   So he shouted.

"Hey, show yourself!"

   A faint noise that turned clamorous in seconds. The careful crunch of dried leaves now a rushed crack of every dead twig and brush, footsteps disregarding grace for maximum propelling. From the tangled web of branches came barreling a young man in the would-be gear of a mechanic worse for wear. In the rush he had caught a tree limb to the crown, sending signature cap flinging to his backside but unable to yield his speed, between strides managing a breathless outcry which followed the thunderous, bull-like roar plowing in the vegetation yards behind.

        "Shoot the charger, man! SHOOT THE CHARGER!!"

   The request to split up in search of supplies was heeded for all of, oh… two minutes or so. Jame’s vocalized determination should have clued in Ellis that just maybe it was a silent way of asking for some alone time. Oblivious to what lie behind door number one, in barged the southerner with a prized canned of yet-expired chili; eager lilt arriving long before he did. 

    "Yo, James! JAMES!! I found us somethin t' eeeaauggh--"

       ”Neeeeevermind then... Guess ya found yer own, err… dinner."

In spite Ellis tended to his own arguably more desirable foodstuffs in the corner, at the very least keeping him company.

Welllllll these would look better bigger. But at the moment i’m not sure how to fix it and i’m tired… so YEAH

ELLIS DOODLES, EVERYONE!

(Pencil sketches, coloured on sai)

"Hold on there, cowboy. I put mine down if you put yours." He said, making a show to put his precious rifle down. "I just think I took the wrong turn to home sweet home and… where are we?"

   The unknowing grip slackened at its mentioning, perturbed crease in his brow softened to an apologetic slope. While ballistic dipped down, it would drop for no one.

        "Woops," A laugh. "Last sign I saw said somethin 'bout Mississippi, reckon that's where we're standin'. Where are ya from? I don't got a map or nuthin', but I've been around..."

Left Behind, but Not Alone

Being the ever so blunt man he will always be, Francis couldn’t tell the kid a lie. “You look like shit.” A smirk, proud and egotistical. “Any longer, you’d be probably dead in the dirt. You’re welcome.” Francis let his eyes glance back towards the bridge and the ladder that he had brought when he jumped down off the bridge.

He did need a way back on the bridge himself right? “Good thing I was here to help you outta that scrape…say…didn’t you have the suit wearing asshole with you the last time we met up?” A curious question, but his mind quickly changed course. “And that pretty woman in the pink shirt? The big man?” More curious questions, but then he figured now wasn’t the time to ask. The kid had just been freed from Death’s hands!

He finally gestured to the bridge, all calm-like. “Let’s getcha up on the bridge…patch up your wounds. Getcha in, getcha out. However soon you want to be out of here.” His head reeled backwards, seeing the abandoned car the hick had left. “Fucker must have scared ya pretty badly to go hurdling through a fucking window.” A sniff, followed by the biker glancing back at the other with a confused glance. “Fuckin’ crazy vampires…”

   Seldom to reveal with his emotions with anything less than absolute candor, this rare case of embarrassment from getting caught in such a helpless situation by the biker-- whom Ellis' regarded with stereotypical hero-like adoration as a consequence of the badass archetype styling-- had sapped some sincerity from his wounded movements. He managed to right himself, conspicuous strain in the effort hard-pressed to appear nonchalant. He sniffed, mocking the lackadaisical habits of his fellow survivor, and roved his shoulders. Big mistake, he hissed internally as the clawed carvings to his back fiercely stung in reprimand, making a mess of would-be decent composed facade. 

   Ellis gave up on the endeavor as quickly as he was once assured he could accomplish it, instead abashedly conceding with his sincerest gratitude after Francis' assessment. 

"Thank ya." 

"Guess I got a li'l freaked out..."

   Index scratches a spot on his cheek, smile falling simultaneously with eye connection, preferring the latter mentioned topic for the time being as he was harboring a certainty that the clamor of the busted vehicle would call reinforcements. Higher ground sounded good right about now. He took a breath, thankful every time he could do so, and peered over towards the bridge; which, to his surprise, seemed devoid of any other human life. "Crazy seein' you here. Where's--" Right, higher ground first. 

"Let's get'a move on, then."

L4D2 Intro Loadings by xtermination