Abandoned house. Southwest Missouri.

Gunfire echoed about the ruined stone walls of the abandoned cellar their little group had taken refuge in. They were cornered, only one way out and it was flooded with the undead. Terry gave a loud curse, tossing another improvised incendiary out into the massing crowd of walkers, a number of them lighting up, flailing around briefly, catching a few more, only for the flames to die out as they collapsed, barely making a dent in the flow. They were running low on time and ammo, and frankly, it wasn't looking good in the slightest. A shout of 'reloading!' was heard, followed by a few more. There wasn't time. The flow was coming in too strong. Terry's mind rushed, crowbar seeming to leap from his belt to his hand as the first few zeds made it to the cellar doors. The first was met with a bar of iron, skull splintering and brain quite literally flying out of the back of its skull at the impact. But more just kept coming, no matter how many heads he bashed in protection of his friends, all still firing into the horde. The pile of bodies was slowing them... But not by enough.
"Fuad! Get your ass over here!"

Fuad. He had to save that little foreign bastard, if anybody. Another few heads cracked, one behind him exploding into bone and brain as the man he sought blew it to pieces with his shotgun, already making his way over.

Fuad looked back, shaking his head and fighting down panic as he watched Terry lighting the undead. He told him a few times to make EXPLOSIVES, because last Fuad checked, fire could kill HIM too. And he knew Terry would see it his way and stop eventually. Maybe tonight, if he died. Or whenever old age took him. But he wouldn't do it simply because something like logic came into play. Not Terry. He put his shotgun away to conserve rounds and looked about. It wasn't looking promising...

He was actually thankful for the light of the fire however, because the streams of light from various flashlights created odd affects and messed with depth perception, so a constant stream of non-LED light was actually a godsend of sorts...even it was only to see the swarms of zombies coming down. Several member had fallen and Fuad couldn't help but think to himself, as he brought his own crowbar smashing into the skull of a zombie with sickening, brutal efficiency, that they were going to die if they didn't come up with a way out. 

"I'm right next to you, you old fuck, do you have your glasses on?" he shot back, his accent having noticeable arabic tone to it, but the form of his dialogue was impeccable, almost articulate. Where Terry was bullheaded, strong and more stubborn than smart, Fuad was the opposite; dexterous, quick and thoughtful. Where Terry channeled his rage into the face of of whatever stood before him (most likely with his crowbar or fist), and he had what could only be called tunnel-vision as he looked for more things to kill, Fuad was always looking at the whole picture. Could they win? Was this a real threat? He often had to verbally drag Terry away from situations because truth be told, there were times when it was obvious to Fuad that if he weren't there, Terry would simply have fought until either all the zombies in the world were dead, or his crowbar broke, along with his hands and whatever else he could smash then broke, until he was dead. 

Fuad reached out with the metal gauntlet, grabbing another by the throat and pulling it to the ground to dispatch it a bit easier. Then he saw the window. "Watch my back guys," he said to whoever hadn't fallen still, mainly to Terry. He climbed a solid metal table and unlatched the window. Normally, this would be a serious no-no. Opening a window, let alone crawling out of it in an area that you know is crawling with zeds while unable to defend yourself was a sure way to die. 

He'd take his chances there as opposed to either being eaten and turning, or lit on fire or smoked out by Terry. He opened the latch, pulled himself up so his feet were off the table, and peeked out...

Terry gave nothing but a snort, backing up with Fuad and ensuring his back was clear- No one else was able, after all. Barely any of their group survived, excluding Fuad and Terry themselves, and all of them were cornered deeper in the cellar- They wouldn't last long.

"Hurry up, Fuad! They're hording in like flies to shit! And if I don't fit through that window, I blame you!"
Because what other sensible option was there?

Thankfully, the fields proved clear where Fuad looked out, a clean run off of the little farmhouse's land and into the main road, leading all the way to a nearby city- An admittedly very, very long journey on foot. But it was their best option by far. A number of grunts from Terry suggested the zeds were closing in, causing him a bit of trouble- And an ominous lack of gunshots came from their companions, shortly followed by screams of agony. They were on their own, now...

Fuad yelled "going up" but wasn't sure Terry would have been able to hear him between the fact that his body was on the other side of the window, and it was loud as shit in the basement. He felt a loud crash more than heard it inside the cellar, but he simply pulled himself up and focused on that. He yelled into the window, "get your fat ass up here," and then moved to the side of the building to peek around the large country house. 

He was shocked. There were easily 30 zombies that he could see, not including those cut off from his view by the house, or already inside. He moved back and saw Terry's head and arms coming out, and couldn't help but chuckle. "At least if you get stuck, you'll die and the house will burn down around them as they eat your old, fat ass." With that, he moved to help Terry up.

The old man huffed, having only a slight bit of trouble fitting through the window before climbing free, kicking a zed or two in the face on the way. He snarled over his shoulder at the house, gesturing for Fuad to move away and rummaging in the satchel at his side a moment, tossing something.... ominous, in the window behind them. With a flick of his wrist, a match followed it in, and he set to hauling some serious ass away from the farmhouse.

As they ran, Fuad couldn't help but look over and tell Terry, "I was joking about the fat ass thing. I can tell you've been counting calories."

Terry simply flipped him off on the run. The two barely made it out of range in time before flames flickered in the basement of the farmhouse behind them- shortly before they apparently found something explosive. With an air-rending blast, the house pretty much exploded. Must have caught a gas main... Wood, glass, chunks of earth, stone, and zombie bits flew everywhere, almost entirely on fire. The wall of heat and pressure hit Terry and Fuad full in the back, sending Terry flat on his face, and no doubt sending the smaller Fuad flying. Poor guy.

Fuad hit the ground and found himself face first in the cold, wet October dirt. He spat some out and rubbed his lips, giving a few little spits before turning around. It was a fucking disaster. Most of the home was gone except one sliver of a wall and fire was everywhere, illuminating the night brilliantly. Some of that fire appeared to be moving or walking around, shambling aimlessly as if alive. And it was. Well, it was undead. The zombies were ablaze but still focusing on the sights and sounds. Fuad couldn't guess for sure if they were actually confused, so much as the sheer volume of sensory information had them reacting to too many things at once. Hopefully, they just burned out. Sometimes, they would live after being set aflame and simply be disfigured and reek of burnt flesh. The fire had to be long and intense to really "kill" the infected. 

Fuad wasn't really religious, but he gave a quick moment of silence and paid respects to those that didn't make it out. 

Terry groaned, getting back to his feet and cracking his neck, rubbing at his shoulder and grinning wickedly at Fuad.
"Not so proud of your damn walking bombs now, are ya, my little hajji friend? You people need a vest for something like that, right?"
Terry you racist shit. But oh, the humor.

"You redneck piece of shit. I'm not Iraqi. Sure as hell not a terrorist. And then the Shiites--you know what. Nevermind. I know you're not too fond of syllables and words other than fuck, shit, kill and," he went on to make a series of several animalistic grunts and growls. "So here: fuck off. And what do you know about Iraq, weren't you fighting the Krauts in World War 2 anyway?"

Despite the content of the conversation, both men found themselves smiling...but neither of them would admit it. 6 or so months of surviving together, living through disaster after disaster and wave upon wave of undead, and constantly battling and avoiding human bandits had developed into a unique relationship between the two.

From the outside looking in, the two could almost be viewed as bad people. Heartless. Cold. They showed almost no remorse after losing several other people in a manner of minutes. The truth of it is that both stopped feeling anything for new people many months ago. Somehow, it seemed that no matter what, those around Terry and Fuad died. Both saw it, realized it and had come to terms with it in one way or another, but they never talked about it. They'd talk about anything BUT that. 

It seemed that laughing at one another, making light of the death and misery around them that came in so many forms, the only thing they had to stay sane were things like that: the joking, ribbing and making light of everything. Well, they also had each other, but good luck convincing THEM of that.