Leaping from roof to roof, an agile Hunter kept watchful eyes (ha!) on his prey. Of course, he didn’t have eyes, shredding them to pieces when the Infection turned him into a living, breathing monster. With parts of his brain destroyed permanently from the flu, all that was left was his instincts. Smell, touch, sound, taste all aided him in killing his prey, other humans. Humans who hadn’t or wouldn’t turn, still being able to speak and shoot. Still being able to be individuals. Unlike the Hunter, who had only instincts.
He was referred to as “Special Infected.” His hearing and smell were amplified with the loss of his sight, so, when differing Survivor groups made it to the Safe House, he would sit near, always in attack position, and sometimes eating their friends. He liked to listen to them talk. He was fairly autonomous for a monster.
Once, he was doing the usual: sitting by the Safe House, chowing down on an unlucky normal human, when he heard the word “Hunter.” His ears perked up, and he listened as they described him.
“They have duct tape on their arms and legs, and wear hoodies covering their faces! Sometimes they have shoes, sometimes they don’t! They’ll eat you in ten seconds flat! Stay clear of the Hunters!” one of the Survivors whispered fervently to the rest of their team. The Special Infected touched himself all over, his clawed hands going over each article mentioned: duct tape, hoodie, taped pants, shoes. He grinned. He liked that.
Once the others left the Safe House, the Hunter quickly killed them, licking the blood off of his hands and dragging them back. He didn’t want to share any of the meat he just commandeered, so keeping it in the Common-proof room was smart. Without having to worry about hunting, he set camp up in the small space, keeping the door closed to deter the other Specials and keeping his kills out of the way of the weather. He often felt rain on his hoodie, so he naturally deduced he was in a climate prone to rain. He also was able to realise that soggy meat wasn’t the best.
He kept to himself, mostly. Only meeting up with different Specials for different reasons. He had come to know the Survivor name of each one, and he could put a name to their scent from over a mile away. The musky smell that always made him sneeze was a Smoker. They used their tongues to constrict the Immune, dragging them around. The Hunter used this to his advantage. By teaming up with a Smoker, he could easily incapacitate a Survivor and share the winnings with the other. Out of all the other Specials, he liked the Smokers the best.
The sour, nose-wrinkling stench of bile was key to tell if a Boomer was nearby, ready to puke its guts out at anything around that still had the ability to move. He didn’t like these ones. They ruined the taste of the meat. The Spitters smelled like fiery acid, considering they basically projectile vomited it on humans. He didn’t like these ones either. The acid usually melted the humans before he could eat them. Tanks were huge, loud, and annoying. There was no need to know the scent of these. They were easy to tell because of how ear-splittingly loud they were. Jockeys were the same. Witches smelled like salt from all of their tears, mixed with a haze of blood. The Hunter thought they were Survivors at first, trying to pounce for a taste, which promptly led him to having a deep gash on his face and a screaming zombie in his ears. He tried to stay away from them, rubbing subconsciously at the long gone laceration on his cheek. Chargers smelled like mud. While they were useful and helped tenderise the flesh of the unsuspecting Immune, they were greedy and took most of the share for themselves. The Hunter always stayed away from his own kind as well. They didn’t like it when there were duplicates that were smarter than they were.
His only company was usually a Smoker. Although all Specials of one class smelled the same, they all had differences, so the Hunter was able to tell different Infected persons of all the same class. This Smoker was the same Smoker he’d always team up with, as he always smelled a slight muskier with an aroma of a certain cigarette brand. They had mastered a certain plan that almost always led to a meal for both parties: Smoker constricts Survivor. Hunter pounces Survivor. Survivor dies. Hunter and Smoker eat Survivor.
Although the Hunter tried to use this tactic with other Smokers, they never seemed to have caught on to how it worked so he was left with the one he had always been with, which didn’t really bother him. They understood what the other wanted simply using differing grunts and other sounds. Soon, the Smoker moved in with the Hunter, always following him to take down their prey.
They eventually figured out what they liked. The Hunter preferred the organs, enjoying the spurt of blood in his mouth with every puncture of each. He also enjoyed stripping off the skin to eat. The Smoker liked the meat most. The sinewy fibres of the blood vessels being crushed between his teeth always made him let out a satisfied noise. When the other made a kill alone, he would always save the favoured parts of the other for him.
Other, more complex emotions reared their ugly heads as time went by between the two. They were both young adult males no matter what Infection afflicted them, so naturally they seeked the ability to release themselves in other ways. The carnal need for sex was quite apparent.
Their animalistic need left each other wanting something, anything, to mount, to claim. With no other individuals close to them, they enjoyed their company together. The first time was filled with so much passion that they screamed, attracting the Commoners to their commotion.
The Hunter and Smoker were finishing a large meal when the smell of the blood was too much. They growled at each other, swiping out like cheetahs in the savannah, fighting for dominance. The smaller of the two, the Hunter, lost, being crushed against the Safe House wall as they both fumbled with the pieces of fabric separating them. The Smoker ripped off the other’s clothes, met with yelps and snarls as he tore the Hunter’s taped down hoodie, leaving the skin under raw and irritated due to being compressed so long.
His long, slow tongue ran up the smaller’s back, over his neck, down to his stomach and crotch. The Hunter panted, tense at the fact that the slick, strong appendage was also used for killing but enjoying the feel of it on his hot skin. He dug his claws in the wall as his hood was ripped off.
He had short, shaggy brown hair that was longer on one side. Before he had turned he had the other half shaved. His bloodied eye sockets were empty, his mouth in a snarl. Blood dripped from his mouth, his tongue sometimes flashing out to lick it back up. He could smell the Smoker’s own need as he rutted against him.
Said Smoker then took off his own clothes, tossing the tattered remains aside. Gripping the other’s backside with his claws, he leaned down and gave his hips a quick push. The Hunter screeched, seeing white in his head though he had no eyes. The pain was almost intolerable, and he breathed through set teeth as the Smoker’s hips met with his ass.
Subconsciously, the taller knew what to do. He snaked his hand under the Hunter, gripping his cock in his palm and rubbing his length, throbbing with pained pleasure. He then settled at that rhythm, until he felt safe enough that he wouldn’t be killed when he started moving his hips again. Thrusting in and out slowly, he let out loud grunts, replacing his hand with his tongue.
The Hunter groaned, enjoying the feeling of the cool, slimy organ working his dick so nicely. The pain in his backside was everpresent, but was left to a dull throbbing with a smattering of pleasure at each thrust. In the back of his mind, he recalled the sight of fireworks from a long distant memory. He quickly compared those to the pleasure he felt, fireworks dancing and smashing and exploding over and over and over and fuckhewasaboutto-
He screamed, his mouth wide as he came hard with the other’s tongue still wrapped around his dignity and his dick buried deep in his ass. He shuddered, drool sliding down his lips and falling to the floor. The owner of said tongue took it back into his mouth, savouring the taste of the smaller’s semen. Angling his hips, he slammed against the inner walls of the Hunter, letting out a more guttural, raspy scream at his release.
They both fell to the ground, exhausted, barely aware of the sound of Commons coming up and looking through the Safe House doors. The Smoker wheezed in the Hunter’s ear, his arm wrapped around his lean stomach. They both were swept onto a wave of unconsciousness as quickly as their romp ended.
Soon, this was a usual escapade. They tried different positions, the Hunter on top of the Smoker, his powerful legs propelling him up and down the other’s cock, leading quickly to their shared release, or the Hunter sandwiched between the floor and the Smoker, his back on the ground and his stomach exposed, despite his mind telling him he was in danger. The taller would grip the other Special’s hair tight as he rocked his hips back and forth inside him. Their mouths would crush together, wandering tongues exploring the hot crevices, usually including all of the Smoker’s. Because that was kinda hot. And no matter what, both were left satisfied, their bellies full, and the Hunter’s usually full with something else as well.