Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all, hello and welcome back dear readers. Secondly, due to FanFiction's rule prohibiting the use of Author's Notes as a form of bumping/updating a story, I find myself using fragments of Chapter Nine as a way to work past said rule. This document has been sitting on my hard drive for…let's just call it 'a while,' shall we? Thirdly, this is being done for readers of The Red Tide as an update from this is more likely to be seen than anything I do on my Bio page.

After a rather lengthy hiatus away, stemmed mostly from attending to some personal issues, I now find myself in a much, much better place than where I was a year ago. It was during this time away that I have decided to discontinue The Red Tide. Now to any fans of this story, don't fret. I may have stopped this project, but only so that I can reboot it.

The Red Tide will be revamped under its new title On Sanguine Shores. I plan the rewrite the whole shebang from the very beginning, using notes and published chapters from The Red Tide as references. Furthermore, I plan to write up to 'Luck of the Irish' in the new version before I begin posting chapters as to give me some breathing room. More information about On Sanguine Shores can be found on my Bio page (including a WIP of its cover art).

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you guys for your patience. I know it's not much, but please enjoy the last remnants of The Red Tide.

Chapter 9: Luck of the Irish (Part 2)

Welcome to Sanctuary, built by Carriers, for Carriers.

E pluribus unum…out of many, one. You are a part of me now, my puppet to use as I please.

Gulf of Mexico

21 Days After First Infection

Oswald Daekem glanced up from his notes upon hearing the familiar whir of his office door sliding open. A man in his mid-thirties stood in the doorway, garbed in a white lab coat identical to his own. A mop of onyx-colored hair sat on his face, unkempt and looking alarmingly like a bird's nest. Two bloodshot, grey eyes stared at the doctor from behind a pair of thin glasses. The ID badge – rendered pointless by recent events – attached to his coat read 'GREENE.'

"Ah, Spencer," Daekem greeted while swiveling around to face his guest. "I see you still lack the courtesy to knock."

The younger man frowned, resisting the growing urge to roll his eyes. "And I see you still have memory trouble."

The doctor's wrinkles creased as he lifted an eyebrow. Spencer's face flushed, "Sorry, sir…it's just that I have the results that you were wanting."

Daekem accepted the folder that was handed to him without taking his eyes off of the younger man. "You always did have a quick mind, Spencer. It truly is a shame that it was always slower than your mouth."

"If you're still sore about me calling you 'Professor Ozzy' back in college, I'm really sorry about that."

The elder man chuckled, "That was five years ago, my boy, and you were still a student then."

The room fell silent as Daekem read through the folder's contents, a smile tugging at his lips. "This is excellent news, Spencer. I knew I could count on you."

"Thank you, sir."

"How are the tests for Cain coming?" The doctor inquired nonchalantly.

Spencer shifted his weight onto one foot. "Going as well as can be, given the circumstances. I've finally managed to isolate the error that kept popping up."

"And how many did we lose this time around?"

"Three, and two more are currently in critical condition."

Daekem at last glanced up from his notes. "What was the duration of the trial?"

The younger man shifted more nervously this time around. "The experiment lasted a total of 3.72 seconds, sir."

"Four seconds and he took out that many? Remarkable," Daekem breathed. "Even more remarkable is that you were able to zero in on the problem in such a short and frantic window of time. I knew I had chosen the right man as my protégé."

Spencer stood in pensive silence, refusing to acknowledge his mentor's praise.

Daekem quietly observed the younger man for a moment, "Something on your mind?"

"It's," Spencer began softly, as if searching for the proper words. "Why was Cross' team sent out to the mainland?"

The graying doctor swiveled his chair around to fully face his apprentice, "With luck, I'm hoping that they'll be able to acquire the final piece of the puzzle."

Spencer once again chose to remain silent, a troubled expression flitting across his face for the briefest of moments.

Daekem bridged his hands together, "Are you having doubts about our research, my boy?"

"No!" Spencer hastily answered with a wave of his hands. His shoulders sagged as the panic left his veins, "I know how important our work is; trust me, I do. It's just that…our methods in conducting our research…"

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Daekem extracted a handkerchief while simultaneously removing his glasses. Methodically, he began to clean the lenses while addressing his young colleague in a slow tone, "You, above all others at this point, should be aware of the innumerable controversies and questionable tactics used in science to uncover the world's mysteries and solve its problems."

"But—"

"Polio, the Spanish Flu, the Black Death," Daekem continued while giving his pupil a sharp glance. "All of these pale in comparison to the Green Flu. It won't just be a mere one or two hundred million affected, it'll be all seven billion of the world. Our work in invaluable! We have realized what the other cells of CEDA fail to acknowledge. We are doing the only thing that can be done in order for humans to persevere. We will mold it, shape it to benefit us in some way.

Mobile, Alabama

21 Days After First Infection

If it wasn't for the fact that he had to keep up his 'tough guy' appearance, Francis would have cried tears of joy as he shoveled yet another spoonful of seasoned hamburger into his mouth.

"Unspoiled meat? Where on Earth did you find this?" Louis exclaimed between mouthfuls.

"Peanut butter's got nothing on this!"

Francis nodded in agreement with Zoey, "Yeah, never thought I'd get to eat red meat ever again!"

Cassie grinned at the three newcomers while stirring up another batch on a small, portable stove. "The church was always having community dinners and block parties before things went bad. To make things easier, my husband had a walk-in freezer installed out back and hooked it up to a generator in case the power went out."

Louis swallowed his food with a confused stare, "A place this small needed something that big?"

The older woman nodded with a knowing smile, "I know it may not look like much, but this place has – had – a pretty big congregation in its hay-day." A pained expression flittered across Cassie's face, "And now we're all that's left."

"Where is your husband?" Francis inquired, but upon receiving a stern glare from the brunette sitting beside him, he hastily added, "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"He passed away," Cassie explained with a fondness in her eyes. "Seeing the sorry state this place is in now, he'd probably throw a fit."

Louis allowed his plastic spoon to rest inside the empty bowl in his lap, "Was he…?"

Sensing the question, the older woman answered with a quick shake of her head, "No, he died of cancer three years ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Louis murmured, ashamed with himself for even trying to bring the question up.

"We've all lost loved ones, my boy…and frankly, I'm glad he's not alive to see what the world is coming to. When he closed his eyes, the world was still normal…still good." Cassie emitted a sigh before recomposing herself, "Look at me, prattling on. I doubt the story of a housewife is very exciting for you."

"No, no! If anything we're sorry if it seemed like we were prying!" Louis answered quickly.

Cassie smiled, "It's alright, dear."

Finished with his bowl, Francis allowed his gaze to sweep across the large, open room before settling on the blonde-haired medic, Alex, and the dark-haired girl who sat in her lap. "I know everyone has a story," the biker ground out while looking up at Cassie. "But that kid hasn't spoken the entire time we've been here. Do we scare her or something?"

"I've wondered about that too," Zoey added softly, her oceanic eyes flitting across the child. "She seems like a sweet girl, though."

"Her name is Bridget, and indeed she does have a story," Cassie informed the trio quietly. "A tragic one, in fact. You need not worry though; the three of you are not the cause of her silence. She doesn't speak to anyone."

"No one?" Louis questioned in bewilderment.

The older woman offered a sad shake of her head. "The cause…" Cassie trailed off and bit her lip in thought. "Perhaps it's best if you speak with Father Mickey first? He looks like he's wanted to ask you about something since you settled in. Isn't that right, Father?"

"Quite right!" A jovial Irish accent answered from behind the trio of survivors. Mickey offered the group a warm smile before plopping down onto one of the spare folding chairs huddled around the stove. Graciously accepting a filled bowl from Cassie, the clergyman removed his straw hat and rested it on his knee. Turning to face three newcomers, Mickey's expression quickly turned somber. "Earlier, after the lot of you regained consciousness, you mentioned something about being in a trap, correct?"

Zoey tilted her head to the side in thought, "I vaguely recall that, yeah."

"If you don't mind, could you elaborate on it, please? What exactly happened?"

After Zoey recounted what had happened in the parking garage – Louis and Francis chiming in for the parts where she was unconscious – Mickey leaned back in his chair with a troubled expression. "I see, so you came into contact with the Puppeteer…"

"The what?" Francis asked incredulously.

"It's what we've come to call that damned thing, given its abilities. Did you manage to get a glimpse of it?"

Francis and Louis exchanged looks before the businessman shook his head, "Briefly, and even then it was a little hazy, what with everything going on. The other Infected were crowding around it."

"I see," Mickey murmured with a stroke of his chin, a troubled expression momentarily filling his emerald eyes. The clergyman turned at the waist and called over his shoulder, "Bridget, my child, could you come over here for a second?"

The dark-haired child obediently complied, shuffling toward the group while hugging a sketchbook close to her chest. She hovered near Mickey, looking up at the elderly man with wide, questioning eyes.

The clergyman rested his hand on top of Bridget's head, "May I please borrow your drawing of the Boogeyman?" The child stiffened while the trio of survivors merely frowned in confusion at the name. Bridget hesitated, but obeyed with a meek nod of her head and quickly extracted a piece of folded paper from the book. Mickey accepted the parchment and planted a chaste kiss on the child's forehead, "Thank you, I promise to return it safely."

Taking that as her cue, Bridget nodded and scampered back to where Alex was sitting.

"Boogeyman?"

Mickey offered Zoey a bitter chuckle, "It's what Bridget sees the Puppeteer as." Unfolding the paper, the clergyman displayed its contents to the trio of newcomers.

Francis' jaw dropped, "Holy…"

"She drew that?" Louis asked in utter amazement.

"Incredible," Zoey breathed.

Sitting there on the paper, in perfect quality and rendition, was the Puppeteer. It had a hunched, scarecrow-of-a-figure with a bloated cranium and a number of tendrils growing from its back.

"Quite good, isn't she?" Mickey chuckled. "Unfortunately, this is the only image of the blasted thing that we have. Every one of our groups that have encountered it could only report a vague description or growing sense of dread before we lost contact."

"Wait," Louis murmured while fixing the clergyman with a stare. "Then how did Bridget draw this?"

The priest's shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh. "The poor lass' parents fell victim to it when the infection hit her home. She was forced to watch from a hiding spot as it took them from her; not just killing them, but parading them around like twisted marionettes."

When none of the survivors commented, save for their shared looks of astonishment and disgust, Mickey added, "She wasn't always a mute…she was—is—a member of this church. She was always bubbly…always in such a joyous mood and wasn't afraid to give it like a gift." A fond expression caused emerald eyes to crinkle briefly before sobering. "That night has been permanently burned into her mind for the rest of her days. It stole away everything from her…even in this place of familiarity and safety, it still haunts her. I'm afraid that Bridget subconsciously fears that if she makes a sound, then the Puppeteer will somehow hear and come find her…just like on that night."

Mickey smiled grimly. "Although it's true that we're supposed to love thy neighbor…even if that neighbor raises their hand against us, I do not see these creatures for what they once were. These things are demons."

"…A shepherd must protect his flock." The priest murmured.

"He can't save and guide his flock from the wolves by embracing the fangs, now can he?"

Francis snorted. "Guess not."

"So with my crook in hand," Mickey gestured toward his shotgun, earning a smirk from the biker. "I shall defend my flock…and fight off the wolves."

A brief silence passed over the two men.

"I don't know if my choice of actions will seek the Lord's favor…I won't know until my time comes…but regardless," the clergyman paused and glanced around the room, taking in the members of his shelter. "I will protect them."

"Take it and go, lad," Mickey commanded firmly while gripping his shotgun tightly.

Francis watched as the clergyman's eyes skittered around the open area of the chapel, focusing for fleeting moments on the occasional bobbing flashlight. "We can stay…we can help!"

As the words left his mouth, Francis could hear Zoey's voice repeating them, his mind briefly taking him back to a time that felt like months ago. Oceanic eyes torn between a glare and a plea as they sought out Bill's stormy blue. Is this what Zoey had felt? The desperate urge to protect something that…that simply couldn't be protected?

Where Bill had remained firm with a stern, authoritative frown, Mickey smiled gently up at Francis, placing his hand on the biker's leather vest. "You're a good man, Francis. Despite what choices you may have made before all…this happened, you've risen above it all and shown who you really are."

Refusing to admit that he was touched by the praise, Francis animatedly began to wave his hand, "But…!"

The hand on his shoulder squeezed tightly, stopping the biker's indignant retort. "You have your flock to protect…and I have mine."

The biker could only numbly watch as Mickey placed a set of car keys in his outstretched hand, still hovering in midair. The clergyman gently forced Francis' fingers to curl around the gift before giving them a warm squeeze. "My flock is too big to move at a quick pace, and I refuse to let any fall behind if I can help it. Yours though, yours is small…quick…it is not meant to be merged with others, I can see that now. Even if…when…you lot make it out of this, no matter the number, be it with a hundred or even a thousand, the three of you will stay united.

"And that, boyo…is a strong flock."

Francis swallowed the lump in his throat.

Mickey jerked his head toward the church's back door. "Go, your place is elsewhere…while mine is here, fighting off the wolves."

The tattooed survivor couldn't help but match the grin that spread across Mickey's face. "We'll…we'll come back for you. We'll find you, all of you."

Neither man fully believed the words. "I appreciate it, lad…now get going before you miss your chance."

Zoey turned around upon feeling an insistent tug on her jacket and glanced down to find Bridget standing before her. Crouching down, Zoey worriedly stared into the child's eyes, "What's wrong, sweetie?"

The child merely shook her head and held up a folded piece of drawing paper, offering it to Zoey.

"For me?"

A nod.

Zoey reached out and gently took the offered parchment. Tucking a finger into the crease, the former college student began to unfold her newly acquired gift, but was stopped when tiny hands placed themselves over hers. At Zoey's questioning gaze, Bridget shook her head again and pointed behind the lithe survivor at the doorway where Francis and Louis were waiting for her. With her other hand, Bridget began pushing at Zoey's bent knees.

The young woman couldn't help but scoop the child up into one final hug, "I get it, and I'll open it later. Thank you very much."

When her feet once more touched the ground, Bridget beamed up at Zoey, flashing the survivor a toothy smile.

Cyle reached down and helped his brother to his feet, allowing Erik to lean against him when the boy's bloodied leg gave out.

"So this is how we go out, huh?" Cyle muttered while staring down at the throngs of Infected that were quickly surging around the large fuel truck. The former humans directly below the twins' feet didn't even seem to notice the gasoline as it poured from the tank and splattered into their gaping mouths and eyes.

Erik gripped the flare gun tightly and let out a painful chuckle, "Least we'll go out with a bang."

"Anyone ever tell you that you suck with puns?"

"You do," Erik admitted after a moment. "Every damn day."

Cyle snorted, but his mirth quickly sobered as he glanced over his shoulder. "Might as well get this over with, I think we've bought Mick and the others all the time we can."

Erik voiced his agreement with a pained groan.

"Man…Cass' gonna be pissed," Cyle muttered.

"Hey," Erik growled weakly. "Cass' pissed off face is not the last thing I want to be thinking about before I die."

"Heh…right."

Erik weakly raised his arm, aiming at the pool of gasoline that formed beneath the feet of the horde of Infected. With a tired grin, he glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye.

"That Zoey chick had a nice ass, didn't she?"

Cyle released a choked laugh, his grip of Erik's shoulders tightening as he attempted to hug his twin from the odd angle. Tears were streaming down his cheeks when he offered a matching grin to his brother.

"Oh yeah."

A brilliant flash of orange and yellow lit up the night sky of Mobile.

"What's that in your hand?" Louis asked. His voice was hollow as he momentarily broke his gaze from the glowing sky in the distance to glance at Zoey. The young woman blinked and opened her palm, startled in discovering the folded piece of paper residing there. In the urgency of their escape, Bridget's gift to her had briefly slipped from Zoey's mind.

"Bridget gave it to me before we left. She said I had to wait before I opened it."

"Said?" Francis questioned while shutting the double-doors in the back of the van.

"You know what I mean."

"So what is it?" Louis inquired, his curiosity overpowering the unease that had been gnawing at him.

Zoey carefully began to unfold the slightly smudged piece of paper, moving so that Francis and Louis could get a better look over her shoulders. With one final tug the creases gave way and, like a blooming flower, the paper opened up. The trio froze simultaneously as they drank in the black and white image sketched onto the page. Small tremors slowly began to travel up Zoey's arms, causing the paper to shake ever so slightly. Bowing her head, the brunette felt her eyes water painfully.

Bill's face stared up at the survivors with flawless likeness. A cigarette was perched in his mouth and his beret was fixed purposely atop his balding scalp. While his mouth was set in his trademark frown, the slight crinkling around his eyes betrayed the gruffness and gave way to the fatherly expression that the trio had come to know.

"Thank you…Bridget."

I cannot give you guys an ETA as to when On Sanguine Shores will be up and going, but I truly do hope it will be soon.

-Con