Fanfic: Howl : Chapter 1
Title: Howl
Author: DJ/Totschafe
Fandom: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Drama / Horror
Rating: T
The Hunter could not remember what his name had been, nor what his life had been like. The only inkling to a past life was flickering memories of the Infection beginning and plaguing him in a slow, steady crawl to ravage his nervous system. He remembered feeling like he was burning from the inside out, and feeling scared of anything that was offered to cool him down. Coldness meant death, whereas the heat was life. The Hunter had once wanted to live, and that want had not been fulfilled. The heat within him had destroyed him. The memories ended at his destruction, and now his life was completely dedicated to being a Hunter.
He moved with his brothers, perching on corners of buildings like French grotesques, snarling with bloody mouths, awaiting another victim ever unready to be destroyed, just as they had all been. They did not devour their victims like wolves, but instead satiated their hunger by tearing the life from their victims, hooking their long claws into the skin, under ribs, and into organs. The blood in their mouths was often their own, as they vomited or fought one another for territory. They were wolves without purpose; moving like dogs, living like monsters. They could still feel the thrill of a leap and the excited state of a kill, as hearts furiously beat under their claws and beneath their mouths, fluttering like caged birds before dying out.
The Hunter was like all the rest, marked with tape and blood. He could understand the living when they spoke, and his brothers could do the same. They were smart creatures, not empty-headed like a Tank, and not one-track-minded like a Charger. The Hunters knew their purpose and knew how to pin their prey in such a state of hopelessness by using their own intelligence against them. When the Hunter heard someone mention his presence, he would fall silent and attempt to blend in with his surroundings. He would snarl at being berated, screech when beckoned, and howl in vengeance when one of his brothers would fall. Before the living would fall, many of them would exclaim their surprise at the intelligence of the Hunter, of the agility and flexibility, and curse him with their final breaths for being what he was. Tearing into those who cursed him felt like a fruitful thing, and there was no more pride in what he did than when he destroyed those who would scorn him.
His hunting grounds were expansive, being the smoldering remains of what was once a thriving town. The sickness had reduced the town to a stinking corpse, with signposts and girders decomposing to the state of rotting ribs, simmering in a cesspool of corpses and blood that flowed into the sewers. Sickly-sweet odors of death and decay always alerted the Hunter of where home truly was, and he thrived among the morbid landscape. Wandering Survivors would walk among the streets, their eyes wide and their breaths hitched as they held guns tightly with shaking hands, wondering if this was the correct route to safety. As far as the Hunter was concerned, the route to safety had rotted away as well, and the wanderers were as helpless as mice among snakes. Their screams would echo throughout the buildings as he tore them apart, piece by piece. A cacophony of stray and useless bullets would ricochet off some of his favorite perches as Survivors attempted to ward him off. However, he was territorial. They were unwelcome as much as they were the main course to his feast of welcome. The sounds they made were sustenance enough.
Nevertheless, the life he lived sometimes encroached on the infection-riddled remains of his mind. His home of choice was once an old furniture store, and he made a nesting area of discarded blankets and a worn faux-suede couch, though anything served as comfortable. As he would lay in his den, his subconscious would sometimes return with fervor and deploy the flickers of his past in quick succession before fading away before he could grasp what he had seen. The heat that would wax and wane within him would sometimes torture him deep into his rest, leaving him exhausted and unwilling to hunt when the time came. His brothers would come into his den and smell the sickness on him, stronger than what they smelled like. Like dogs, they would nudge and paw at him, beckoning him to join, but he would roll onto his side, his back to them, and refuse without a sound. Within a day, he would return to his pack and his grounds, claws flexing and muscles rippling as he awaited his prey. His brothers did not have the mind to question, but simply appreciated his help when they tore down another slew of the living.
He remembered one man-around thirty or so with a healthy face and a determined expression-who came through with another hefty group, their blood singing with fear while they walked under the flickering, dying lights lining the streets. The Hunter moved, and so did the man, holding up a shotgun that shone like silver and blasted out a round like a mythical dragon breathing fire. It was the only weapon to ever wound the Hunter, and he retreated to the shadows, mouth moving furiously while he gnashed his teeth to pick the shimmering bullet from his shoulder. When his self-surgery proved to be a bloody success, he stalked the group's trail once again, but his movements were crude and clumsy. The man must have known he was there, because the shotgun was once again centered on him, and for the first time in his existence as a beast of the shadows, he felt helpless.
But the man did not fire. Instead, he gazed into the tangled brush the Hunter hid in, his eyes focused on the very spot the Infected sat. The Hunter knew the man saw him and knew he was there, but he only shook his head and proceeded without another word. For a long, hindered moment, there was nothing but silence as the Hunter sat concealed in the comforting darkness. Suddenly, he heard a chorus of screeches and screams of those who were once living. One of his brothers let out a howl of victory-a howl that the Hunter was accustomed to hearing. However, he did not respond, nor approach the sight of the massacre. Even in his mind plagued by the feverish disease and decimated by animalistic instinct, he couldn't shake the dull, throbbing feeling of the bullet wound in his shoulder, nor erase the image of the man gazing at him before turning away. What had the man thought of the Hunter? Why did he let that one go when he knew his life would be short?
Those thoughts swam in tandem with the usual cluster of murderous thoughts, rendered to basic terms like 'kill', 'rip', 'claw'. He hobbled back to his den, growling at almost every step before he finally leaped onto his familiar perch in front of the upstairs window where the couch was in easy reach. However, when he heard another victory howl of his brothers, he was suddenly compelled to respond. Just like the bastardized wolf he and his brethren were so often compared to, he tilted his head back and let out a different sort of howl. Instead of being clear with triumph and almost raw with pure excitement, his came out as more of a wail, raspy from his rotted vocal cords and somehow mournful. When the sound echoed down the streets, he sat there just a while longer before slipping inside to the dank room and curling onto his couch, the only sounds now coming from his bleeding shoulder as it creaked in its socket and dripped onto a growing puddle.