Not Dead Yet

We're safe ... for now.

"That was a close one, guys," Zoey gasps as she slams the abandoned farmhouse's front door closed and engages the locks.

She pushes a wayward strand of dark hair from her forehead. She takes a moment to tighten her ponytail and pull down the hem of her maroon jacket. After tossing a careless glance around the empty foyer, she saunters over to a boarded up window. Her green eyes flash as she stares out  the window through the spaces between the boards. Outside the night is still, but she knows what lurks in the dark.

"Too close," Bill mutters around his ever present cigarette, which dangles precariously from his lips. He scratches at his white beard as he studies the sniper rifle in his hands.

Louis stands in the corner, hands on knees, head bent. Sweat glistens on the slick, dark skin of his shaved head. He huffs a few times, then looks up, grinning, white teeth flashing. "Nah. We had it. That tank was no match for Francis!"

Everyone turns to Francis. He stands in the opposite corner from Louis, his back to the room. His broad shoulders are hunched protectively around his right arm, which he cradles to his chest. He grunts in acknowledgement of the statement, but doesn't turn around. Zoey moves away from the door and saunters over to the tall biker nonchalantly. She knows he hates to be coddled.

"So ..." she begins, "however bad it is, at least we know the other guy looks a lot worse."

Francis grunts again. He looks at her over his shoulder. He narrows his hazel eyes. Tawny eyebrows knit in a frown. Almost hidden within his goatee, his wide mouth turns down in the corners. Distaste is written all over his craggy, yet handsome features.

"I hate tanks," he barks.

Zoey sighs. "Yeah. Me, too."

She tries to peek over his shoulder, but he's so much taller than her that it's impossible. She leans back against the wall and slides down into a sitting position, knees drawn up. Louis and Bill both know not to say anything to Francis about his wounds as well, so they turn their attention to restocking their ammo. Zoey and Francis are afforded what little privacy can be found in such close quarters. Zoey drops her shotgun, a Remington 12GA pump action number with a chrome finish, at her side. She rolls her neck, cringing at the pops and cracks.

"I hurt all over. My aches and pains have aches and pains."

Francis snorts, rolling his own head and scratching at the buzzed brown hair there. "Tell me about it."

Zoey looks up at him, raising her eyebrows in expectation. "No. You tell me about it. How bad is it?"

Francis shrugs his broad shoulders. His black leather vest creaks with the motion. "I'll live."

"Well, I'm grateful," she snarks. "Still, let me have a look."

"I got it," he growls, pulling the injured arm closer.

"Don't be an ass, Francis," she quips, mimicking one of Bill's favorite retorts.

Francis laughs outright. "I took out that tank. I think I've earned the right to be an ass."

Zoey shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'm gonna go patch myself up as best as I can."

She stands, but before she moves away, Francis grabs her hand. She looks down, noting how her hand disappears into his big paw. The leather of his motorcycle glove is hot against her skin.

"Fine," he concedes reluctantly. "Can you help bandage me up?"

She looks at him with just the tiniest bit of a smile. "You know I can."

She walks over to Louis and Bill. They've already gathered as much first aid as they can find in the ramshackle house. Bill hands her a roll of gauze.