Gordon Freeman

He is. He's just taking a little longer to rip a radiator off the wall with the gravity gun. Something's got to serve as a shield behind them.

The moonlight reaching the Ravenholm streets reveals something scrambling about with a bizarre four-legged gait, at a speed the zombies Dinah's seen so far can't hope to match. It's making braying noises like some sort of wild ass- at least for a moment; then it pauses and lets out the same soulless howl as before.

The howl is cut off by a sudden WHAM!. Gordon made it onto the roof in time to be profoundly disturbed by the same sight. No sense carrying the radiator all this way and not using it.

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And then comes the laughter, from the building across the way; Father Grigori, looking somewhat the worse for wear, holds up a hand in greeting. "Well done, brother!" he calls. "But I have a more suitable gun for you. Come closer."

For all his faults, the priest has an excellent pitching arm. Something black and silver flashes in the moonlight, arcing across the distance. Gordon catches the tossed shotgun out of midair.

"Good," says Father Grigori. "Now keep it close. My advice to you is... aim for the head."

The drainpipe nearest Gordon starts to rattle. Grigori hisses. "They come!" he says. "There is no rest in Ravenholm! Move on and I will meet you at the church."

He makes a vague gesture towards an onion-domed building in the distance before darting off into the shadows of the other building.

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Dinah draws back and to the side to let the radiator do its work, then starts forward again.

"OK, what was that?"

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"I think..." Gordon shakes his head slowly. "I think we need to back up right now, Dinah."

And as he does so, the howl sounds again. The pipe shakes- and two things out of nightmare leap up onto the roof in front of them. One never completes its arc, because Gordon, for all his other flaws, can take advice very, very well.

He likes that shotgun, oh yes.

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Dinah still doesn't want or need a gun. She advances on the other zombie as fast asit moves itself, landing kicks and strikes in rapid succession before she can throw it back off the roof.

"We should move."

Obviously.

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Gordon nods. "You heard the padre," he says. "We head for the church."

It's in the direction they were headed before, anyway, so why not? Besides, old churches tended to be sturdy buildings, right?

"I'd ask how far you can jump from roof to roof but I don't think either of us would like the answer." Gordon glances around. "If we can make it along that ledge there, on the warehouse, we'll get past a couple of fences below. The town square's on the other side- we can make a run for it there. You take point this time. I can hear more of those things coming."

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She feels an idiot for falling like that, and scowls. But she doesn't object to the idea, and instead runs along the ledge, her determination helping to keep her centred.

Constantly looking back for him, she keeps alert all the way.

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The course is really probably for the best. The alternative route involved diving into that cistern at the end of the street, climbing its ladder, taking an elevator down to street level, and having to jump a fence to escape a trapped, angry thing swollen with black headcrab bodies. This route crosses both the fences and brings Gordon and Dinah around to a boarded-up window overlooking the square...

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... into which what remains of the population of Ravenholm is beginning to pour. Two, three, four at a time, they come, shuffling and wailing their horrid, muffled cries. And they just. Keep. Coming. The only real mercy here is that none of them seem to have been any less than full adults when they were still alive.

Gordon's throat moves convulsively at the sight, and he begins reloading the shotgun from a box of shells he snagged along the way.

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A square of light opens in the wall of a large building diagonally opposite their current position. "How came you here, brother?" calls Father Grigori. "You have lost your way at the last! Did I not tell you to seek the church?"

As he points to a side alley that's still relatively zombie-free, he adds, "Mend your ways before it is too late!"

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Gordon doesn't know whether to thank the man or punch him. "Think you can sprint that far once we're at ground level?" he asks Dinah.

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"Yeah," Dinah says, eyes not leaving the square. "I'm a fast runner, don't worry about me."

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"Good," says Gordon, and checks the shotgun one last time. "You're probably faster than me. I'll clear us a path."

He's had more nerve-wracking descents before this. They involved hundred-foot cliffside drops and lurking Marines. This isn't nearly so far to fall, but it's right up there.

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Dinah's just glad she's in sneakers and not her Mom's high heeled boots for this.

She glances at him to makes sure he's ready with the gun, before crouching and dropping the distance easily, landing in a deep crouch.

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Gordon's not on the ground yet, but he's very, very good at holding onto tiny little grips while using a firearm. He could probably keep his position on a ladder using only his knees and still handle the shotgun's kickback.

BLAM.

As the zombies fall back on either side he drops to the ground himself. Whatever the suit might have to say about that is drowned out by Gordon's distraction of choice: the sound of what happens when a shotgun shell is fired at a barrel full of oil. (Or whatever the hell Father Grigori's been filling the barrels with. Oil doesn't explode like that, does it?)

NOW Gordon runs.

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Dinah's just ahaead of him, sprinting into the alley. She checks only just enough to make sure he's OK, and heads forward.

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A piece of shrapnel got him across the forehead- stupid splash damage- but overall Gordon's all right. He's used to running over precarious ground when he can barely see.

There're a couple of headcrabs roaming the streets up ahead, but the zombies are, for the most part, simply attempting to give chase. Gordon has no love of either, so it's a matter of priorities: what can get in our way? matters more than what's behind us?. As long as Dinah doesn't suddenly swerve when he's shooting at one of the headcrabs (or shooting twice, in the case of the one that made the hissing, catlike sound), the way ahead is mostly clear...

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Dinah keeps a fixed straight line, not even flinching as he shooting around her and pounds on ahead. She looks around for something vaguely church-like, but the only thing she really sees is a gap between the buildings further up, beyond which there appears to be a more open space.

"Think we should head down there?"

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"Better than where we are now," says Gordon. "Wait-"

There's enough breathing room for him to yank his crowbar free and offer it to her.

"Headcrabs like dark, narrow spaces. Don't let one catch you by surprise."

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"Thanks," Dinah says, taking the crowbar with one hand and testing its weight shortly.

She glances around quickly and heads through, into a wider, open plaza.

With a zombie in it.

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And not just any zombie, either. The ones pursuing them had been still sort of human-shaped, for all their missing parts. The skinless ones were... well, about what you'd expect for a moving corpse with neither skin nor much muscle mass left. This one is bent low, its knuckles nearly brushing the cobblestones. What little of its skin is visible is a repulsively bloated reddish-purple, mottled like a livid bruise. And the black thing covering what used to be its head isn't alone; there are at least three or four more of them clinging to the creature, studding its back like pustules about to erupt.

With a wet snuffling noise it turns in Dinah's direction and tears one of the black headcrabs loose from its torso.

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Dinah moves fast, bring the crowbar up to bat the incoming crab away like a baseball.

But not fast enough. The bar misses entirely amnd the crab lands on Dinah's upper arm. She inhales sharply through her teeth, drops the crowbar and yanks the crab off to throw it away.

She doesn't need a helpful voice to tell her about neurotoxins, though. She crumples to the floor, gasping in pain.

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"Dinah!"

Gordon hasn't got the time to run over and check her yet- the zombie's pulling another crab free. Thankfully, Father Grigori has excellent taste in shotguns; this one holds six shells at a time.

Plus it fires two shells at a time if Gordon pulls the appropriate trigger. Which is good, because that purple-and-black son of a bitch takes no less than three direct hits before it staggers and plummets to the ground, facecrab first.

It might be Gordon's imagination, but it sounded like the thing chuckled right before it died.

Now he runs over to Dinah's side. "Can you hear me?" he asks, and reaches to her neck to see if she still has a pulse.

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Dinah's pulse is raising, fortunately enough. She's curled up in a foetal position, sweat and tears pouring down her face as her breaths come in gasps.

When he speaks to her, she gives a shallow nod and tries to move - to get up.

Her entire body feels like it's peeling away from her bones, but they've got to keep moving.

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