Last Man on Earth

Left 4 Dead 2
Warning: Blood, gore, swearing



He was alone now. Walking with a limp as blood spread from an opened wound in his right calf. It was warm, sticky. Not unlike the warmth he felt down the side of his face and down his mangled arms. If he licked his lips he would have tasted that pain too—but he didn’t dare. He didn’t dare taste that coppery red that could have very easily belonged to someone else.

Oh, and how that white suit had played so well as an empty canvas. Yes, yes, the white made a marvelous blank and empty canvas. So paint me, my friends. Paint me! Paint me! PAINT ME!

Oh and alone, alone… that’s where he was. What he was, what had become of him…

Rochelle had died first. In the darkness of Whispering Oaks a flash of fleshy tongue had come from the blackness, hooked around her ankles and knocked her onto her face. She had screamed and screamed, clawing and grasping at the rooftop as she was drug away. And how they had tried to save her, throwing down their weapons, trying to spring after her, trying to grab hold of her desperately clawing hands—but they had failed.

A Boomer had come out of nowhere—like the fucking Infected had planned it—vomiting its putrid nastiness all over them, blinding them. In the chaos the sound of her screams had been impossible to follow. They had scrambled for their guns, shoving and pushing, tearing and slicing through Infected as they tore mercilessly into them. And when they had finally cleared their vision—finally killed off the rest of those slobbering Infected—their eyes had frantically searched for the woman.

It was Nick who spotted her first. He had risen one hand, pointing dejectedly across the expanse of the two buildings side by side. She hung upside down from the Smoker’s tongue, while below her dozens of Infected had stripped her flesh, making her entrails spill down her in fleshly coils… The blood had been immense. Like a cascade of water… only red.

They had moved on without her—but only after Ellis had fired into those feasting Infected, just shot into them, mowing them down as screams of rage left him. Just screaming, screaming, screaming… helplessly screaming. Nick remembered how he had rested his hand against the top of Ellis’ gun—how those bursts of bullets had ceased, how Ellis’ horrified eyes had met him, how the kid’s face had been so twisted with torment. And all Nick had done was lower the guns barrel to the ground as if to say; “That’s it kid, it’s over.” His lingering touch on the man’s shoulder had been his only way of saying he was sorry… and that he understood how painful it was—but there was nothing more any of them could do. And so they had moved on.

Coach had been next. His death hadn’t been much easier to bare—maybe even worse. In the heavy rains and thunder his voice hadn’t even been heard—at least not until it was too late. They had been stumbling forward, shooting through Infected, knocking them back and trying so desperately to return with that god damned diesel that now occupied their minds to the point of obsession. The obsession, that need to return to Virgil had blinded them.

And God, the rain. The thunder. The lightening. It had dulled their senses—or maybe heightened them. It was hard to tell. It wasn’t until Ellis had glanced back and by chance—by absolute chance—did his eyes catch that gray flesh, those sharpened claws. It was because a strike of lightening had lit up everything wet with a glint of white, sent everything metal shinning. It had drawn his eyes to that glistening gray, to that almost metallic flesh.

And underneath those clawed hands, those screams that they suddenly realized they were hearing—was Coach. And how she just tore into him; ripping away chunks of flesh and complete limbs. How blood had gushed upwards in a fountain, clashing against the rain from above. How it had pooled around him in crimson, almost like the ocean at dawn. And how he had screamed—at least until her nails had caught under his jaw—ripped open his chin—then down came her other hand, slicing his throat open. A gurgle must have left him—and his eyes must have been so terrified. It was when he had stopped struggling, stopped his useless flails that her mouth had descended on him with vile teeth leading. She had ripped into him, devoured him in strips of flesh.

Nick had grabbed Ellis’ arm, just dragged him, dragged that white-faced, hollow-eyed man behind him. Ellis had followed him in a daze, tripping over his feet, reaching out with his free hand blindly—like he couldn’t see a damn thing. Like the horrors had blinded him.

Nick had tried to tell Ellis that everything would be okay. He had tried to slap some sense into him and he had even held him when that had failed, but still the man—no, that kid, had just stared with eyes lost of sanity. He had sat there, shaking, trembling, rocking himself with a gun pressed into his chest, blubbering and weeping.

You’re going to be okay, Ellis. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get out of this. He had said the same thing to the kid as he laid broken and bleeding in his arms—his mouth working, hands touching at the awful hole in his stomach that left his intestines spilling away like ribbons. His eyes had been terrified, so god damn terrified. And when he had looked up—when his eyes had met Nick’s, the kid had tried to speak—but whatever he wanted to say simply came out in a spatter of blood that painted his lips red. Eyes still opened, still locked with his, Ellis had died. And all the while Nick had told him everything would be okay. He continued to lie to him for several more minutes afterwards. He had just knelt there, just reassuring that lifeless body in his arms over and over that everything was going to be okay.

In the distance, in the fucking horizon, so fucking close he could see the bridge. That god damn slice of Heaven in this godforsaken hell hole. He could see it. He could fucking see it. But he knew his feet would never touch that bridge. He would never be safe. He would never find sanctuary. Never find peace.

The ground shook, sending him off his badly wounded legs and onto his scraped knees. His eyes lifted and he could see that monstrous Infected coming at him, throwing cars across the street as though they were cardboard cut outs. It thundered after him, bellowing at him with a growl that left his lungs quivering.

But then he shifted back onto his knees, arms outstretched, smiling wide, laughter on his lips. His gun fell from his bruised fingers to clatter useless beside him. He laughed still as the Tank came before him, both arms lifted in a fist right over his grinning face.

Eyes shinning with tears, blood wet on his face he smiled—that’s right, that’s right, paint me red. Paint me that lovely fucking red. Making me fucking beautiful.

Those massive fists came down, crushing into his head, snapping his neck in two and ending him. His lifelessly body crumpled to the dirty ground and the Tank’s arms lifted again, pummeling him over and over, almost as if it enjoyed the feel of that body breaking under its will. Every bone broke and snapped under those crushing fists, splitting open his flesh and pooling blood.

What was left of that white canvas became red.

[Ramirez]


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