Hello and welcome to my first fanfic! I've been writing for a while but have never published my work. Please let me know what you think by writing a review!

Disclaimer:

Left4dead is Valve's property.


Chapter 1- Run

"You dumb bitch," he said, coughing up blood from his lungs. "I told you to run."

The small girl clung to him, grasping his hand with a pitifully weak grip. "No," she started. Tears pooled in her eyes. She hated that he was right. Hated the thick pool of dark blood that she kneeled in- his blood. "I can't-"

"You can," he said. The howl of a tank sounded in the distance. With the last of his strength, he yanked the dog tag from his neck, then pressed it into her palm. "Don't look back."

She hesitated.

"Melia. Go."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she obeyed. The roar of a horde echoed behind her, and she hated herself more with every step she took. But she did as he asked.

She ran. And she did not look back.


The worst thing to be in a zombie apocalypse was alone.

It took her a while to realize her situation. She hadn't thought while she ran- hadn't been able to afford to think. If she thought, she'd stop, she'd turn around and go back for him, and she could never survive that way. She was a few miles away before aching muscles and a sharp pain in her lungs caused her to stop and lean on a nearby building.

"Fuck," she whispered to herself. There were no heavy breaths beside her. No running footsteps behind her. She closed her eyes for a moment so she could pretend...

They were all gone.

The teen had no time to mourn. Again, she knew she couldn't think, lest she be rendered unable to continue on. She had to get to a saferoom, and fast, before something found her. It wasn't the regular infected she was worried about. As small as she was, her short legs carried her fast enough to outrun tanks and even hunters. But if she were to get roped up up by a smoker, or carried by a charger...

She was screwed.

Not that she had much time left anyways.

Sighing, the girl pulled at the worn hospital discharge band that encircled her wrist. Out of all of them, she'd be the least likely to survive, and she was the only one left. What a waste.

The howl of a hunter and the rumbling of a boomer echoed off of nearby buildings. Melia quickly regained her bearings, turning away from the wall and picking off nearby infected with her pistol.

She was small. She wasn't very strong. Her aim sucked, and she had no idea where she was or where she was going. The only advantages she had were her intelligence, now inaccessible due to the recent tragedy, and her speed, which was pretty much spent after her sprint from danger.

Still, wanted to stay alive for as long as possible. She had to keep moving. It was her only chance.


It seemed like an eternity before she found a saferoom. Sandwiched in between a gun shop and a grocery store, it was a pretty good location. There were two tables inside the room. One was stockpiled with dry foods, while the other held an array of ammo and guns that she vaguely recognized as AK-somethings.

Screw it all. She wasn't cut out for a zombie apocalypse. Whenever her friends wrote apocalyptic fanfics, they always included her. And she was always the first to die.

She stuffed a box of crackers into her backpack and grabbed another to munch on. How ironically wrong her friends had been.

Her friends. God, help her. She knew she'd never be able to think of them again. Not until she was safe, really safe. She could not mourn without immobilizing herself.

There were so many of them.

She suddenly noticed that notes in white chalk had been scrawled on the wall. She scoured the floor for a piece and found one stuffed in a corner.

The names came out faster than she could process. She didn't look at them she just wrote. She kept her mind blank and let her subconscious do all the work.

She signed the end with a curly goodbye, then cut her hospital band of and stuck it under the note with a piece of gum. A makeshift signature. Still not looking at the wall, she put the chalk away and settled down on the ground, munching on more crackers. After all that had happened today, she figured she deserved a good rest. She needed time to wrap wounds, get food, water, medicine..maybe even sleep.

The girl opened her bottle of pills and swallowed one. It wasn't along until she felt the drugs side effects (drowsiness and slight nausea) kick in. She closed her eyes and leaned into the wall, arms folded in front of her. Sleep, she decided, was absolutely necessary at this point.

After all, soon she'd have to go back into the apocalypse.


She woke up to a scream.

"GET THIS THING OFFA ME!" a female voice yelled. Various other shouts, accompanied by machine gun shots, sounded in the near distance. Melia grabbed a few more boxes and cans of food before opening the saferoom door and sprinting in the direction of the voices.

She would not let anyone else die today.

She knew she was close when she saw a horde of infected surrounding a group of survivors. There looked to be about four of them, two of which had been boomered on. The resulting horde kept them all occupied, preventing them from saving their colleague who had been pinned to the ground by a hunter. Somehow, Melia was able to aim well enough to knock the thing off of the woman.

Melia then turned her attention to the horde, but her gun was immediately knocked out of her hand. Gasping, she reached to pick it up, desperate to have something to defend herself with before she was pulled away.

The smoker's tongue jerked her away before she could reach it. "NO!" she screamed, squirming the best she could. The tongue wound its way from her waist to around her neck, strangling her as it pulled her towards the angry smoker. She clawed at the tongue, kicking in a desperate attempt to get free.

It was no use. The smoker pulled her close enough to begin scratching her, digging its claws into her sides. She couldn't breathe.

Then there was a puff of smoke, a dying wheeze. The tongue went limp and she fell to the ground, sputtering. As soon as she could stand, she did, helping to eliminate the last of the infected. They came in slower now, the smell of boomer bile far less pungent. Soon the horde was dissipated enough for her to see the rest of the survivors.

She rubbed her neck as she made her way over to them, still catching her breath. She caught sight of blood dripping from the woman's arm, most likely from the hunter.

"Are you alright?" she wheezed. The woman nodded, pulling her pink shirt away from the wound.

"A bit scratched up, but I'm fine, thanks to you," she replied.

"Consider it even, since one of you..." Melia wagged her finger around, pointing at the various members of the group.

"Yeah, no problem," one of the men replied. He wore a white suit with a blue undershirt, which seemed far too hot for the weather, even though the sleeves were rolled up. His voice was slightly accented...something like you'd hear in Chicago.

"Name's Rochelle, you?" the woman said.

"Melia."

"Nick," the suited man said.

"I'm Ellis," a young, muscular man drawled in a southern accent, "but some people call me El. But I prefer Ellis cause El kinda sounds like a girl's name." The boy tipped his hat to the young girl.

"Folks call me Coach," the last man replied. He was the eldest of the group, and the largest. Yet somehow, he had a fatherly aura about him. Melia immediately took a liking to him.

"I don't s'pose yer with anybody else?" Ellis asked, peering over the girls shoulder. She almost said yes- before biting her lip and looking to the ground.

"...no," she said, just above a whisper. "No. I'm alone."

Rochelle placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry. You won't have to travel alone anymore. We could use an extra set of hands." The others nodded their agreement. Melia brightened.

"As long as it's alright with all of you..." She grinned. "Thank you."

She had a feeling she was going to like this group very much.


Thanks for reading guys! This is my first fanfiction so please don't forget to fave/follow or review and tell me what you thought!