Equestria: Left 4 Dead

Forty-eight hours since the first infection.

♠ ♠ ♠

"Do you take any medication?"

"No." Replied the moss-colored unicorn.

"How about smoking—do you smoke?"

He glared at the doctor, his grin nearly concealed by his gruff white beard.

"Just protocol, Mister Overbeck, you and I know good and well you can't go a day without smoking a twelve-pack," the doctor chuckled. His floating pen checked a box as he exited the room. A nurse entered the room the very next second, her green left wing had a blood pressure cuff coiled tightly around it, and her scrubs wreaked of that terrible stench he could only describe as "hospital." He would have preferred going to Mercy Hospital, but given the circumstances with the flu outbreak, he'd rather not risk entering what could very well be ground zero.

At least this hospital was the closest to his small home in District Eighteen.

She smiled at him, her rounded glasses nearly falling off the edge of her muzzle. "I'm just going to take your blood pressure, sir. The doctor will be back with you shortly."

He grunted. He was here to check on his hip, not his blood.

Her mouth slightly opened and her brow raised. She was slow to unwrap the wire; she very nearly let the blood pressure cuff slip off the tip of her wing and onto the floor.

She nervously chuckled to herself, cautiously stepping toward the old stallion. She made the mistake of trying to converse with him. "So," she read the nameplate on his green army jacket, "Bill? What happened to your horn?"

His glare intensified on the young mare.

"S-sorry, it's just that–"

"Grenade."

"R-right. My apologies Mister Overbeck, I-I shouldn't have asked!"

"Just take my damn blood pressure before it gets too high."

The mare hesitantly strapped the blood pressure cuff to the base of his tail. To him, this was the embarrassing part of coming to the doctor for a checkup, and it didn't help that she had already begun to annoy him within twenty-three seconds of knowing her.

Cksss.

The compressed gas was released from its constricting grip. He breathed a sigh of relief as the mare hurried out the room. Overbeck's right hoof raised to touch the empty air where his horn would've been; all that remained was the base, which only came up to the first ring.

Through the cracked door, he saw a blue pony wearing a blue patient gown keel over and projectile vomit across the floor. Nurses were quick to pick him up with their magic. He saw two cops run down the hallway to assess the situation. Was that also a CEDA agent?

One of the officers grabbed his stomach and fell to the floor in a vomiting fit. He found himself no longer alone, as some nurses, doctors and patients alike began hurling over. His eyes widened, he went to the medical cabinet just above the sink and opened it. Bill grabbed a surgical mask from the cabinet and threw it on.

THUD!

A nurse burst into the room, her mouth and scrubs covered in red vomit.

Bill ducked under her initial swing, or better to say, jump. The mare crashed into the cabinet sink and groaned in frustration.

If he was young, he could have capitalized on the mare's drop in guard, but the sudden jerk of his hip to slide under the mare's lunge sent a familiar feeling of pins and needles down his right flank.

The mare lunged once more. Already preoccupied with his hip, he couldn't even begin to make his escape.

The two crashed against the hospital bed; mare on top.

They traded blows with each other. To Bill's annoyance, the mare was shrieking and spraying blood into his eyes. She was making him deaf and blind. Wasn't it enough he was a unicorn without the horn?

His hip back in place and his anger refueled, he brought his back hooves up and pressed them against her stomach. With all the force he could muster, he bucked her as far back as he could.

Bill heard the crack of bones before he saw it. She was dead, the back of her neck had slammed against the corner of the cabinets.

He calmly trotted out into and down the chaotic hallways. His trot turning into a painful gallop as more stallions and mares looked toward him with white luminescent eyes. Their pale fur was an interesting sight, what type of flu was this?

Bill burst out the door and into the streets. He carved a path through ponies both content on surviving and killing. It had been a while since he'd seen devastation like this before. It was only one time when he had served in the Griffon-Pony War. When Twilight Sparkle, "The Last Princess," had ordered a napalm strike on a village supposedly housing hundreds of Vietclaw griffons.

That was neither here nor there, all that mattered to him was action. It had been so long and civilian life had grown tiring nearly half the time ago.

He was well into his house when he saw through the window a blue-furred pony, shotgun flinging at their side, being chased down the streets by more of those greyed psychopathic ponies.

He let them past. He had to focus on fitting as many M16 magazines as he could into every individual pocket on his jacket.

He pulled a green beret hat over his head. The fun was about to begin. He brought with him, in his pocket, a speaker. New technology he'd thought he would never use. Turns it, it'll make for some good music to listen to. He turned on his favorite song: Fortunate Son. One of the greatest hits of his favorite minotaur band.

'Let's go see how the neighbors are doing. 'Bout time I tell them to trim their hedges correctly.'

SLAM!

He kicked the door open with his back hooves., quickly swinging around to meet the nasty snarls of the ponies in his yard with his own.

TACKTACK! TACK!

Two bodies fell at the foot of his steps. He calmly trotted over them to plant himself in the dead center of the road.

"Heh, 'dead center.' It kinda sounds like a trip to the mall I'd actually enjoy."

The howling, unpony-like screams echoed around him. Greyed ponies began pouring out of buildings through windows and doorways, where doors once stood. He was surrounded by them. Gone were the screams of the innocent; entered was the shrieks of the enemy.

And Bill rejoiced to those battle-cries with one of his own.

TACK! TACKTACKTACK! TACKTACK! TACK!

His muzzle lit up at different angles. The brief tick of emptied cartridges filled any gap he had between firing.

TACKTACKTACKTACKTACK! TACKTACK!

He whirled around to butt the jaw of the reared unicorn behind him. The sickening crack made any pain in his twisted hip nullified as the satisfying spoils of war washed over him.

TACK!

Forty-eight hours and seven minutes since the first infection.

He sat alone atop an abandoned cart that used to be full of fruits and vegetables. The contents now chaotically littered across the blood-soaked streets. He was used to the blood being soaked up; not it endlessly flowing down the sides of the streets and into gutters. The haunting distant screams of still-living creatures haunt the urban wasteland. No inch of concrete is left without a story of a struggle between desperate prey and ruthless hunter.

A griffon perched itself against the cart and attempted to reach Bill. He laughed, pulling out his trusty old KA-BAR and plunging it deep into the griffon's skull; simultaneously dropping down onto the blood-soaked concrete below him.

He grabbed a red carrot off the ground and bit into it. Hopefully, it was rich in iron, and not blood.

"Get away!" a distinct mare voice cried. Bill whirled around to spot the source of such a loud, and potentially hazardous, squeal. Already, he saw enraged ponies scrambling out of broken-windowed shops and houses. One pony spotted him and shrieked.

"Whoever you are, you've just made my day."

TACK! TACKTACK TACK!

The ungodly growls chased behind him as he galloped full pace down the crimson street. Not missing a beat, he slid to a stop and gripped his rifle. Whirling around, he butts the closest pony with his stock and pins them down with his back hoof. He aims at the charging foe barreling down the street.

TACK!

"Boom! Headshot!"

TACK! TACKTACK!

Ponies from stores further down the road leap through windows and cut themselves on the loose glass. Bill mentally swears to himself and slams his stock into the brains of the pony beneath him. He lets his weapon fall to his side and he makes for the nearest shop to him.

Two ponies lie pinned under a large shelf. A few others hurl themselves over the counter to get to him. He needs a holdout.

That door behind the counter will do. He aims up to clear the two ponies blocking his entry.

Click.

"SHIT!" he dropped his weapon to his side, pulling out his knife to defend himself.

BLAM! BLAM!

The two ponies collapsed mere inches from his hooves. A pink earth pony was revealed behind the counter.

"Get in!" was her greeting; almost a dozen greyed ponies were to thank for that. With haste, he pushed him and the mare through the doorway. He slammed the door closed onto a changeling's already caved in muzzle. He panted as she wiped her eyes and made herself look somewhat presentable. Her mangled fur did not help achieve that goal.

The two spend their next few minutes in silence waiting on Bill to catch his breath and let his hip cramp go away. Well, to say it was completely silent would be incorrect, as there were plenty of unpleasant noises coming from the other side of the door.

But the mare made him uncomfortable, her silent sobbing just faintly adding to the noise of hooves slamming against door.

At long last, she broke from her fit and hiccuped an attempt of politeness to him. "Bill, huh? T-that's a nice name."

"Thanks. I got it for my birthday." Bill replied, thinking cheering her up would be the best way to approach her.

She chuckled a bit herself. "Mine's Zoey. Welcome to my humble abode." She smiled, her hoof scanning the room.

Bill smiled and sat the heel of his M16 on the ground. Using the gun as a balancing tool, he reached his forehoof down and pushed the charging handle as far as he could get it. He peered into the side chamber, groaning at the fact he had forgotten to count his remaining bullets before the fight.

He slowly released the charging handle, ensuring he wouldn't let it slam against and potentially damage his gun. He flicked the rifle to safety and ejected the empty magazine onto the floor. Bill grabbed a fresh magazine from his pocket and slowly slid it into the well of his gun.

shhh-click.

Bill looked up to the mare, who was pawing the ground. "Wanna come with?" he suggested. It was a stupid idea and could very well become the death of the mare—she doesn't look like the fighting type. Then again, locking herself in a storage room wouldn't do her any favors either.

Zoey's pupils dilated as her head shot up, she exclaimed, "Will you let me? I have no place—" she looked back down "—and no pony to go to."

"Woah, woah, if you're coming with me, you can't do any of that crying you're doing now." He let his M16 drape to his side as he stood up and trotted to the mare's side. He placed a hoof on her shoulder and assured, "I don't know what happened to you, and I never will want to know. That's not me being rude; it's me being resourceful. Save your breath for running—forget those you've lost." He paused before adding, "It helped me, that's for sure."

Zoey wiped the forming tear from her dampened eyes. "R-right. It won't happen again, Bill, I swear."

"Good."

She sheepishly looked away and whispered, "Oh, and Bill?"

"Yea?"

"Those were my last two rounds."

Bill closed his eyes, drawing in a long, deep breath. He exhaled just as slow. "Not a great start."

Zoey stared aimlessly at the door. The banging had halted, but the loud and obnoxious sound was replaced by the equally terrifying moans of the infected. She peered at Bill, his pure-white beard slightly elevated. He's smiling? she thought. It was great having a companion and all, but he doesn't seem very mentally stable.

She erased the thought. "Ahem," she called, "how are we gonna get through that?"

Bill looked over, his smile stretching well over four miles. "Stay behind me and you'll see," he grabbed his empty magazine from the floor and tucked it into one of his cramped pockets. "Getting you some ammunition is my top priority, right now that pistol is just a glorified club."

"What about escaping?" she asked.

Bill froze. He had come into the city to fight the enemy. Zoey isn't the mare he'd expect to hold her own, so he can't do the one thing he'd actually enjoy. Then again, what's stopping him from leaving her? They had only just met, after all.

Bill tucked the thought into the deep archives of his mind. This young mare needs his help and, since she can't fight, he'll get her to a safe place.

The question is: where?

"I know the military is evacuating ponies over at Mercy Hospital, perhaps we can go there once we load up?"

"I like your thinking, Zoey." he agreed. "Now, get ready to kick open the door and immediately run behind me."

She obliged, turning her flank to the door and nodding to him. "Ready when you are."

"Ready."

WHAM!

Zoey bucked the door open. The dozen infected snapped to the noise and erupted into frenzied shrieking. Zoey hid behind Bill as the room became a show of blinding flashes and gore. Many of the infected ponies rolled onto the floor as they tossed themselves over the counter, giving Bill plenty of breathing room to aim. He picked off the ones who were on top, their weight pinning the ponies at the bottom of the pile.

Two infected slid into view, they had opted to go around the counter rather than over. The smaller mare slammed into the stallion, who then, in turn, slammed into the side of the doorway. The crossfire they had only taken out the mare's right foreleg. The stallion charged into Bill, collapsing them both onto the hard marble floor, with Bill's gun wedged uncomfortably under his back and out of reach.

Zoey had her hooves tied up as well. The mare in front of her, even though she was limping, was on her in a second. The infected mare reared up to try and swing down on Zoey, but Zoey took the initiative and headbutted into the mare's exposed stomach.

The mare fell onto her back. Zoey grabbed a pickle jar off the shelf and slammed it into the mare's head. Her head and the jar along with it shattered into pieces.

"Get it off—get it off!" Bill screamed, the stallion's forehooves were pinning Bill's hooves down to his side. The stallion bit into Bill's exposed neck.

Zoey galloped and reared herself up, her two forehooves catching the stallon's side and tumbling them to the ground. Bill slung his rifle around and took aim at the two ponies.

TACK!

The stallion collapsed onto Zoey. She grunted in frustration as she attempted to push the stallion off of her. Bill limped over, placing a hoof on the side of the corpse and rolling it off the mare.

"Thanks," she half-heartedly chuckled.

Bill extended his hoof and helped the mare up. "Let's get out of this cesspit."

"What about your bite?"

"If I start turnin' then shoot me."

"Then we might only have a few minutes left."

"I doubt it. You can't kill Bill," He laughed.