(Book 3) Left 4 Dead 3: Dry County

Chapter 3: Canyons

Fissured, sandy roads adorned in snow, smudged with grime and blood. The foul whiff of burnt oil and rotten flesh. And the clash between the sun’s warmth and the winter’s draw within the atmosphere. These are the peak of the morning’s highlights of a tiny little town within the deserts of Utah that goes by the name of Esco. 

She got it pretty rough. The aftermath of the war against the infected and the outlaws had easily scarred the dry town. Its people wanted Esco to be lively, but not like this. Not with zombies shambling on the streets, neither with bandits roaming the roads as if they own the place. Only for her peace to be paid in lead and in blood.

The local sheriff, along with his Indian friend, and The Dune Crusaders redeemed her, with the help of some fresh blood from the neighboring state. Or rather say, they were the ones who helped them out instead: The four-man group led by Dwain, who was just caught in the middle of Esco's affairs. 

Upon barely surviving the bloodshed, they all went to the sheriff's station. The building was a wide single-story structure with a flat, concrete roof. Its weathered walls ran on bricks, endowed with a queue of windows on its sides. Aside from its overall appearance, the only distinction of it being the sheriff's station was a lightbox sign—labels and seal printed—above the doorway. Across the station was the flagpole and the parking lot reserving the sheriff's SUV, three cruiser motorcycles, and a humvee, all in a slanted manner. 

“I’m afraid you’re not gonna be able to enjoy your stay here,” the sheriff uttered as he hung his cowboy hat on the rack near his desk. “Coz’...y’know…of the zombies, of course.”

“You don’ say,” Dwain replied as he went into the office with his team. (They didn't have to worry about infecting somebody—given them being carriers—as they had already discussed it prior their arrival at the station. The sheriff said they're going to be fine because they're immune too, and they learned it the hard way.) They were followed by the stout female biker. The Dune Crusaders (or the Cruisers), as the patches on the back of her vest indicated. 

“Yeah, you guys came at an unfortunate time,” the lawman added, plopping into his swivel chair, and couldn't resist giving it a gentle turn. Lips pouted, he gestured his hands before clenching them together. “We don’t normally have zombies and outlaw bikers hanging around in these parts.”

There were a couple of chairs facing each other across the lawman’s desk. Dwain sat on one of them. Brenan, Jess, and Daeshim on the other hand, perched together on a long bench planted by the wall. 

“There's only room for one crew in this town.” The hefty rider established as she gently stepped on the other chair and braced her arm against her thigh. Viper. That was the name embroidered on the left upper part of her vest. “We don't need some lunatic outliers coursin’ our roads.”

“Who was them bikers though?” Dwain asked. “What they want?”

The sheriff reached for the drawer under his table and pulled out a file. “Hellhounds. That's what they call themselves, apparently,” he answered, gently throwing the folder on the table. It landed by the wooden bar on his desk where his name was engraved. 

Steven Dalton

Sheriff

Dwain picked up the folder and flipped it open, revealing sets of documents which contained information about their common foes. The man fumbled through the files as he kept listening to Dalton speak. 

“They’re an OMC originally from Arizona, but ever since the outbreak began, they've been popping up throughout the Midwest…”

As he rummaged through the files, Dwain landed on the records of a familiar man. His forehead crumpled upon seeing the picture in one of the documents. It was the strange-looking man with an oval face whom they had come across earlier. Gregor O’Nally. That was his name. He stared at the picture, an uncanny caricature of lawlessness.