(Book 1) Left 4 Dead 3: First Blood

Prologue

~0839 hours
~U.S. Military installation
~Veterans Memorial Bridge
~New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A.

The survivors had finally reached the other side of the bridge where a squad was waiting for them, occasionally firing at the infected hot on their heels. 

“There’s the chopper!” Coach pointed and yelled in between heavy breaths as he sprinted with the others. “C’mon people, let's get with it!”

Nick spun around and fired a few shots at zombies closing in on them. “Relax, relax, I’m coming!” He replied as he reloaded, keeping pace with the group. 

“Rescue 7, we got the precious cargo! They're reaching the exfil point, over!” One soldier yelled on the radio as the blood-stained survivors reached them.

The soldier immediately holstered his radio and opened fire as a massive tidal wave of infected poured in from the distance behind the survivors, climbing up cars and falling off the sides of the bridge as they pushed each other out of the way. The rest of the squad crouched down and opened fire with him, except for a pair of soldiers who split up, tasked to escort the group all the way to the helicopter. 

The helicopter’s rotors whirred to life in the distance as the refueling line was disconnected. Behind them, a yell rang out.

"Hit it!”

A rhythmic and deafening stream of gunfire erupted from a machine gun mounted on the back of a military truck, cutting the wave down like grass with a scythe. 

A distinct, chilling roar was heard in the distance, clamoring with the rest of the infected. A hunk of muscle galloped towards the squad, trampling over zombies like they were butter. The ground shook as it made its way towards them, its lifeless eyes filled with rage seemed to fix its gaze on the humans, hellbent on crushing them. 

“Big guy at 12! Gun him!” 

The soldier escorting the group pointed to the helicopter, its blades cutting the air rhythmically as the deafening rotors buzzed. “Over here!” He stopped at the side of the overpass and ushered them to a ladder, frantically waving his hand. “Climb down and get to the helo, move!” 

Ellis made a dash for it, pulling ahead of the rest. “Let’s go, guys! Let’s get the hell outta here!”

Rochelle and Nick followed suit. Coach, on the other hand, stopped in his tracks and looked at the soldier with his gun on the ready for nearby stragglers. “What about you?” He asked.

The soldier patted him on the shoulder and replied, “Don’t mind us sir, we’ll hold them back for you! Now go!”

Coach solemnly nodded and slung his weapon on his back, following the rest of the group down the ladder.

As soon as his feet touched the lower ground, Ellis called out again. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Get to the chopper!” While he made a mad dash to salvation, Rochelle waited for the others to get down, gun drawn to cover their descent.

Armed CEDA agents in hazmat suits were waving their hands sideways, ushering the survivors to the helicopter. Ellis entered first, crashing into the metal floor as he struggled to catch his breath like a fish out of water. The other three were still sprinting for their lives, their lungs were burning from exhaustion.