Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New York City, New York

April 23rd, 2014

8:49pm

"Yes, of course, Mr. Van de Sandt," Kurt rattled off into his headset as he rushed down the corridor toward his boss's office, dodging a few other employees and struggling to keep the latte in his right hand from spilling. "Absolutely. I'll have Ms. Wright send you the finished spread ASAP."

Ending the call, Kurt ducked through Isabel's office door, finding her amidst a chaotic sea of random splashes of color and fabric swatches, her hair slightly disheveled and her forehead deeply knotted.

Both he and Isabel were so hard at work that neither took any notice of the staggering view out of Isabel’s office window.  Here on the 41st floor, there was a practical ocean of light spread across the world beneath them — high-rises glowing against the backdrop of night, bridges spanning the Hudson in the distance, and traffic streaking through the streets far below.

"Van de Sandt's getting impatient," Kurt said, pressing the warm latte into her hand. "He wants the summer design samples by ten o'clock."

Isabel clamped her palm onto her forehead, groaning in exasperation. "Well, he won't get them by ten. But I think we can do it by four." She sniffed, taking a long sip from her latte. "Looks like we're in for a long night, Kurt."

Kurt nodded, disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hoping to Skype with Blaine when he got home, but it looked like that wouldn't be happening. "I'll text my roommates and let them know I won't be home."

"Make it quick," Isabel waved him off.

Quickly stepping back out into the hallway, Kurt pulled out his phone and typed out a text to Santana and Rachel telling them that just because he wouldn't be home, it didn't mean either of them had permission to touch the slice of cheesecake he'd been saving in the fridge. He then sent a second text to Blaine:

Sorry, I'm stuck at work all night… I'll make it up to you, promise ;)

He didn't wait for a reply before sticking his phone back into his pocket and returning to Isabel's office. He'd check his inbox later.

Lima, Ohio

8:52pm

Blaine smiled at the text from Kurt, sending a simple No problem Xoxo and dropping his phone back onto his desk, turning back to his calculus homework. As much as he'd been looking forward to Skyping with Kurt, it was cool that Kurt was living an adult life, where he could get stuck at work all night and have to play their Skype schedule by ear. It was nice to be a little bit unscheduled.

It was getting late, and the brightest light in Blaine’s bedroom was the soft glow from his desk lamp.  Little lights twinkled around the room behind him — his alarm clock, the indicator lights on his stereo and Playstation, the tiny winking green bulb on the smoke detector.  His iPod, plugged into the stereo system, played Billy Joel softly in the background to help Blaine concentrate.

Concentration seemed to be out of reach so long as Cooper was home, however.  There was a knock at the door and Cooper leaned in, making Blaine look up from his textbook. "Hey, Bee, you want to go get some pizza or something? I'm starving."

Blaine laughed. "What, is the kitchen not full enough for you?"

"Come on, I'm only in town for a couple days," Cooper grinned. "Spend some time with your big bro."

"I have homework to do."

"You're such a nerd. Come on.  Pizza is calling!"

Blaine set his pencil down on his notebook, teasingly rolling his eyes. "Alright, alright, fine, I'm coming." He stood up, grabbing his jacket from his closet, and shoved his phone into his pocket.

"Well, if it's such a chore —"

Blaine lightly punched his brother in the arm, pushing him out of the way. "Shut up, Cooper. Let's go."

Lima, Ohio

8:54pm

Burt yawned, his fingers gently squeezing Carole's shoulder as she rested against him on their living room couch. They'd settled into a somewhat new tradition of watching old movies after dinner, which Burt enjoyed even though he was mostly sure it was because ever since Finn had passed Carole didn't seem to know what to do with herself in her free time. She was always the one to pick the movies since Burt didn't really care what they watched, and lately she'd been on an Audrey Hepburn kick. Tonight was Charade.

"You falling asleep?" Carole asked softly, her hand on his knee.

"I'm awake." Burt blinked a few times to wake himself up a little more. He wasn't anywhere near old enough to be falling asleep at this hour.

"Walter Matthau was so good-looking," Carole mused absentmindedly as Mr. Bartholomew questioned Audrey Hepburn's character onscreen.

"Yeah? Think I should gel and comb my hair like that?" Burt asked.

"If you had any hair to speak of."

"Hey!" Burt chuckled, nudging her. "I could at least grow the mustache."

Carole snorted. "Yeah, you do that."

On the television, Audrey Hepburn shook her head, scandalized. "Mr. Bartholomew, if you're trying to frighten me… you're doing a first-rate job!"

Burt jumped as an abrupt clicking noise rolled through the room and the television screen glitched and went black.  The lamp by the couch and the light in the ceiling fan flickered and went out in the same instant.

Carole sat up in confusion.  “What the hell was that?”

Burt sighed, unwinding his arm from around her to stand up. "I'll go check the circuit breakers." 

Glancing out the window when he reached the kitchen, he saw that every house down the street, and even the streetlamps, had gone dark. "Looks like it wasn't just the circuits, Carole," Burt called over his shoulder, fumbling for the drawer where they kept the flashlights. "I think the whole town's out."

"Burt, my cell phone isn't turning on," Carole replied from the other room.

Finally pulling open the right drawer, Burt picked up a flashlight and clicked the On button, but the flashlight lay dead and useless in his hand. Frowning, Burt reached for the spare to no effect; even the spare was unusable. Carole stumbled into the room, nearly hitting the kitchen table in the shadows.

"Flashlights are dead," Burt said.

"Is your phone working?"

Burt fished the phone out of his pocket, pressing a few random buttons. The screen remained dark. "What the hell? I just charged it."

Carole made her way carefully to the front door, stepping out onto the porch to peer down the street. Burt followed suit, leaning over the porch railing to see a couple of cars that looked like they'd coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, their drivers standing confusedly next to them.

And far, far in the distance against the darkened sky, the lights of airplanes traveling miles away began to drop, falling like shooting stars.

"Burt," Carole hissed, grabbing his arm as the sound of a whistling, whining engine overhead.  Burt’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"Oh my God…"

A massive commercial jet careened through the air above their house, coming down far too fast as it passed.  Its engine sputtered and growled and went quiet, one wing dipping too low and forcing the plane to veer downwards.  It vanished over the tree line in the direction of downtown Lima.  Burt’s knuckles were white, gripping the porch railing, and Carole’s fingers dug into his arm.

Seconds later, the sky burst into orange and red, the roar of the explosion deafening even from where they stood.

8:54pm

"Okay, Pizza Hut or Domino's?" Cooper asked as he steered the car towards the center of town.

"Ew to both," Blaine replied. "Can't we have good pizza?"

"Pizza Hut is good—"

Cooper didn’t get to finish his sentence.  Every single light on the car dashboard winked out at the same moment, the engine sputtering to a stop.  Blaine flinched and seized the door handle as the car swerved; Cooper hissed through his teeth as he stomped on the brake.  The foot brake did nothing to slow the car, and Cooper quickly yanked the emergency brake lever before they could crash into the cars parked by the sidewalk.

The next instant, they were hit from behind by another vehicle, the back of the car crunching as they skidded forward.  Blaine’s head slammed backwards against his seat, and the nose of their car plowed into a sedan parked at the curb.  The hood crumpled like an aluminum can in a compactor.  Blaine almost choked as his seat belt dug into his chest, and at last, they jerked to a final stop.

"What the hell just happened?" Cooper snapped, turning in his seat to look at the vehicle that had hit them.  “God damn it!”

Blaine's eyes widened and he slapped Cooper's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Coop. Look."

Through the windshield, the two of them watched in stunned silence as traffic came to a screeching halt.  Dozens of vehicles collided noisily with each other, and the lucky few that didn’t crash coasted to a stop.  Headlights and taillights winked out and streetlamps died one after the other.  An eerie whine passed through the air, making Blaine’s ears ring.  The blackness swept over them in a wave and continued to spread through downtown Lima, an unseen tsunami, lights vanishing from windows and bars and storefronts.  People on the sidewalk looked around in confusion or frustratedly punched numbers on their phones.  A few drivers stepped out of their vehicles in bewilderment.

"Jesus…" Cooper breathed.

Blaine pushed his door open and got out of the car, hoping he'd see a police officer or, at the very least, someone who looked like they knew what was happening.

"Hey, Bee, is your phone working? Mine's not."

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Blaine tapped it a few times to no avail. He squinted at his watch, noticing that the second hand had stopped spinning. "No, and my watch stopped too."

"The hell is going on?" Cooper muttered, jiggling the key in the ignition.

Blaine's head snapped up as a scream echoed down the street from a couple blocks away, quickly followed by another, then another and another. People were beginning to run, all in the same direction — towards Blaine and Cooper. There was an odd whistling sound from above, and Blaine's gaze flew skywards.

An airplane was headed straight for them with a terrifying groan, its windows dark as it hurtled through the air in a freefall.

"Cooper!" Blaine yelled, but Cooper had already jumped out of the car and seized Blaine by the arm, dragging him away from the car. They bolted in the opposite direction, falling into step with the tide of screaming people rushing away from the falling jet. There was an awful metallic screech, and Blaine glanced over his shoulder as he ran, seeing briefly that one of the plane's wings had torn off halfway.

"Come on!" Cooper shouted, grabbing Blaine's wrist.

Blaine couldn’t hear anything above the whistling wind and the screams surrounding him.

The roar of the wind was deafening, and Blaine suddenly felt the earth rock beneath his feet as the plane collided with the ground, crushing buildings and cars and people beneath it. A split second later, the plane's fuel tank exploded, and Blaine was thrown into the air.

8:54pm

Kurt was in the middle of helping Isabel choose whether teal or cyan was more fitting for July when the lights in the office flickered and went out, Isabel's computer whirring softly as it shut down unprompted. Isabel bolted upright. "That did not just happen," she said. "That did not just happen!  We do not have time for this!"

Kurt’s stomach twisted.  That was easily four days’ worth of work, gone.  He only hoped Isabel had an external hard drive.  At the very least, maybe with a power outage Mr. Van de Sandt might be more inclined to extend their deadline.

A strange, almost-inaudible whine rolled through the room like a passing mosquito, the windows shaking in their panes ever so slightly.

"Isabel," Kurt said softly, staring out the office window at the city spread out beneath them.

Lights were disappearing from every building, every street, every bridge… Traffic screeched to a halt and then vanished into the dark, headlights and street lamps winking out.  Boats on the Hudson were lost to the blackness of the water, falling away into nothingness.  The black spread in a massive tidal wave across Midtown, then Manhattan, and then the city beyond.  Every borough, drowned in darkness.

"Whoa," Isabel breathed, standing beside Kurt with her jaw slack.

"Do we have flashlights?" Kurt asked.  His fingertips had gone cold, his palms sweating.

"Just my iPhone," Isabel replied, already fiddling with it. "…But it's not working. Are you kidding me?!"

Kurt was about to try his own phone, but movement outside caught his eye, and he flinched back away from the window. "Oh my God."

A tourist helicopter that had been passing by was falling, spinning downward like a maple seed.  The blades had stopped.  It careened toward the ground so quickly, far too close to their building for comfort, that Kurt could hear it whistling through the glass.  It vanished behind a building a couple of streets away, and half a second later a massive explosion lit up the block.

Isabel yelped and jumped back. "What the hell is happening?!" she shrieked.

The window panes rattled, the shockwave from the crash reaching them after a few seconds.  There was a scream from down the hall in another office, and far off to the right another explosion burst somewhere near Central Park as another helicopter fell to the earth.

Kurt's heartbeat was thudding in his ears, his stomach twisted into knots. "I — I don't know."

8:55pm

At the Spotlight Diner, the darkness hit quickly.  Rachel was halfway through taking a patron’s order when the lights went out and the music playing over the loudspeakers went silent.  A number of shouted expletives could be heard from the kitchen, where every single appliance had ceased to function, leaving half-cooked food to cool on the burners.  Customers around the diner stopped eating, silverware clinking onto plates and mutters of dismay.

Outside, traffic came to a halt, a few vehicles rear-ending others in quick succession, headlights flickering for half a second before going dark.  Streetlights winked out.  Santana and Dani stepped out from behind the bar, watching through the window as the street beyond faded into shadow.

“What’s going on?” Rachel asked, her notepad hanging by her side and her table forgotten.  Her voice was hushed, directed at nobody in particular, heartbeat thudding in her ears.

Across the restaurant, customers stood, though they had no particular place to go.  Some leaned closer to the window, trying to get a better view of the street, and some remained seated while still others meandered out onto the sidewalk to see if there was some explanation out amidst the halted traffic.

“Is anyone’s phone working?” called a man from the corner booth.

A scattering of “No”s from every direction was his answer.  Rachel pulled her phone from her apron pocket and found it refusing to turn on no matter how many times she pressed the home button.

"This is the weirdest blackout I've ever seen," Dani remarked after checking her own phone for a similar result. "Do you think the whole city was shut down?"

"No idea," Santana replied, peering through the glass at the front of the restaurant with her hands cupped around her eyes. "Looks like it, though. I don't see any light coming from anywhere else."

"I'm scared," Rachel admitted, wringing her hands and nervously smoothing her apron.

"It's just a blackout," said Santana, still leaning against the window. "New York's had them before."

Rachel shook her head. "Something just doesn't feel right. I don't—"

"GET DOWN!" Santana suddenly screamed, whipping around and running to grab Dani and Rachel. She dove to the ground, yanking the two of them down with her just as there was a huge roar from outside and the windows all shattered in the same instant, bursting inwards as a fireball erupted in the street outside. There was a cacophony of screams, coming from seemingly all directions, and thousands of tiny shards of glass rained down on them.

Somewhere to their left in the light of the explosion, Rachel saw a man hit the ground bleeding, his wife shrieking beside him.

Rachel's breath heaved, her hands shaking as she pushed herself back up, trying and failing to avoid the glass on the floor. "W-Was that a bomb?" She could barely hear herself speak over the ringing in her ears.

Santana shook her head, her eyes wide. "Helicopter."

8:57pm

Blaine coughed, spitting out dirt and pieces of gravel as he grabbed the sidewalk curb he'd landed beside, attempting to pull himself up. His ears felt blocked, a high-pitched whining the only thing he could hear. All he could smell was smoke and fuel and… blood. He could smell blood.

The pavement felt unstable beneath him, and he nearly fell sideways when he tried to stand. He ended up sitting on the curb, hoping the dizziness would subside. There were people still screaming and running around him, but they were all muted beneath the ringing in his ears. Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion.

Blaine clenched his fists, trying to regain the feeling in his fingertips, and realized his hand was wet a moment before a stinging jolt shot up his arm. Looking down, he saw that nearly all the skin was gone from his right palm, the wound clogged with gravel and bleeding sluggishly. His left forearm down to his elbow was also scraped raw, the skin left with patches missing.

He blinked, trying to clear his head. He must have hit it; he couldn't think clearly.

Cooper.

Where was Cooper?

Swallowing the nausea building in his throat, Blaine pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the rear end of the nearest car. His hand left a bloody smear.

Blaine finally tried to actually look at the chaos surrounding him, his eyes searching for his brother's face. There were people running, cars tipped over, and the gargantuan body of the crashed plane lay ruptured and burning two blocks away in the town square. The towering flames were the only thing illuminating the town.

Bits of burning debris scattered across the pavement.  The shadows of bodies.

"Cooper!" he screamed, his voice sounding muffled in his own head. He gritted his teeth and walked unsteadily into the road. "Cooper, where are you?!"

Staggering through the ruined cars and flaming pieces of wreckage littering the street, Blaine screamed his brother's name again and again.

He screamed until his voice echoed back.

Chapter Text

Rachel hugged her chest, sitting on the floor behind the restaurant counter and listening to the shouts from countless people outside. Santana and Dani were crouched next to her, Dani gently dabbing at a cut on Santana's forehead with a napkin. The patrons were long gone, all running into the fray like lemmings.  The wall above them glimmered in the firelight from the burning debris outside, punctuated by shadows as people darted past.

"Do you think this is a terrorist attack?" Rachel asked, staring at her shoes.

Neither Santana nor Dani answered her.

"You know we can't stay here," Dani said quietly.

"I don't want to go out there," Rachel shook her head.

Dani dropped the napkin onto the ground, rolling back to sit on her heels. "We can't just hide back here forever. We don't know what this is. The safest place to be is home."

"You live in the opposite direction from us," Santana said.

Dani shrugged. "So I'll go home with you guys. I'd rather be there than in my shoebox apartment with my deodorant-hating roommate anyways."

"How are we supposed to get home?!" Rachel demanded, fighting tears. "All the cars stopped, a helicopter crashed literally right outside, and our phones won't turn on! I don't think the buses or the subway are an option!"

"Then we'll walk," Dani insisted flatly.

"That'll take hours!"

"Well, what do you expect to do?!" Dani snapped, throwing her hands up. "Just sit here until help arrives?"

"Be quiet, both of you," Santana ordered. "Rachel, Dani's right. We need to go home."

"So now you're just going to side with your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, because she's right," Santana spat. "Listen, compared to a lot of people out there, we're okay. When the ambulances come, they're going to have more people to worry about than us. We can walk, so let's walk."

Rachel huffed. "It's dangerous."

"Then stay here if you want." Santana brushed off her knees and stood up; Dani followed suit.

"We should take the Williamsburg Bridge," Dani said, tugging nervously on her hair. The light from the burning wreckage outside flickered off of her and Santana's skin, leaving Rachel in the dark on the floor. "It's a little further but I don't want to take the tunnel."

Santana nodded and turned to Rachel. "Are you coming?"

Rachel sighed, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I wonder if Kurt's okay," she said softly.

Santana pressed her lips together. "Rachel, please come with us."

After another moment's hesitation, Rachel gritted her teeth and stood up with them. She didn't want to be outside, but she really, really didn't want to be alone. "Okay," she said. "Okay, let's go."

The broken glass crunched beneath their high-heeled boots as they made their way to the front of the restaurant, Rachel gripping Santana's hand like a lifeline. Dani was the first to step outside, cautiously looking up and down the street for any signs of immediate trouble. The remains of the helicopter lay diagonally in the street, nearly upside down and in flames, so hot that they could feel the waves of heat rolling off it from where they stood. One of the blades had broken off and spun through the air, stabbing straight through the windshield of an empty car just a few feet away.

"I think everybody's cleared out of the block," Dani said over her shoulder. "Come on."

The three of them ducked out of the restaurant, leaving the shattered windows and spilled salt shakers behind. Too afraid to let go of each other's hands, the three of them meandered through the stopped cars, overturned buses, and debris littering the road, and together they headed southeast.

Blaine's vocal chords felt as though they were scraped as raw as his hands and arms, and the dizzying nausea had anything but subsided. But the ringing had faded from his ears now, and his brain was scrambling to make sense of the clamor of people shouting and running in the opposite direction or frantically calling for help.

"Cooper!" Blaine screamed again, wincing in pain as his throat protested. Maybe Cooper had answered, maybe he hadn't; Blaine wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to hear it if Cooper responded.

The smoke rolled away from the wrecked plane fuselage, clogging the air and turning it foul. Blaine coughed, his eyes watering, and called for Cooper. There was no response beyond the roar of the burning plane.

He stopped short in his tracks, suddenly recognizing Cooper's leather jacket a few yards away in the darkness, lit only by the fire in the fuselage. The air rushed out of his lungs in half a second, and he broke into a run, dropping to his knees. Cooper was lying unmoving on the pavement, one arm limply stretching out in front of him like he was reaching for help. From the ribs down, Cooper's body had been crushed by a car thrown away from the explosion, and a trail of blood was idly dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"Cooper?" Blaine said as loudly as he could muster, his voice cracking. He shook Cooper's shoulders. "Coop. Cooper, wake up!"

Panic squeezed into Blaine's chest, his ribs almost cracking under the pressure. He jumped back onto his feet, throwing his entire body weight into the exposed underside of the car in an attempt to make it roll off of Cooper's legs and torso.

"It-it's okay," Blaine promised aloud, slamming his weight into the car a second time. "I'll get you out, and we'll go home." He slammed the car again, and again, and again. "Somebody help me!" he screamed over his shoulder, his muscles straining to push the car away.

No one heard him, and Blaine desperately beat the car until his knuckles had bled all over his hands and his shoulders were bruised black and blue.

Santana's feet were aching with every step by the time they reached the Williamsburg Bridge at the south end of Manhattan. They'd gotten lost three times (it was difficult to navigate in almost total darkness) and narrowly escaped several lootings — people taking advantage of the power outage, chaos and lack of law enforcement — and all the walking and running had set Santana's feet on fire. She was sure Rachel and Dani felt the same way, though neither of them complained beyond a slight wince every time they took a step. After all, they'd been traveling for almost two hours (Santana thought so, at least, but couldn't tell for sure) and they were only about halfway to Bushwick.

Stepping onto the bridge, Santana shivered in the cold breeze wafting up from the East River, and felt Dani and Rachel instinctively huddle closer for warmth. Santana craned her neck for a moment to look through the bridge's rails at the black water below, reflecting nothing, and saw the faint outline of a motorboat floating aimlessly downriver.

"What I wouldn't give for a heated blanket right now," Dani muttered, her teeth chattering. Santana wished she'd brought a sweater with her to work that morning.

"My feet hurt," Rachel remarked faintly, sounding as if she didn't expect anyone to hear her.

Santana had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes as she reached up to rub warmth into her arms. Rachel would be the first to whine about it.

But holy hell, Santana's feet really did hurt.

The breeze buffeted their clothes and hair as they trekked across the bridge, making their shoulders shake in the cold until they stepped onto the solid ground of Brooklyn. Rachel stopped suddenly, forcing Dani and Santana to halt as well.

"Okay," Rachel said, leaning down to unzip the red fake leather boots. "I can not walk in these for another mile."

Santana held up a hand. "Whoa, so you're just going to walk through Brooklyn with no shoes at all?"

"I already have massive blisters and I'm pretty sure I also developed plantar fasciitis in just the last hour," Rachel countered, balancing on one leg and lifting her foot to yank the boot off. "No shoes is better than these."

"Well, then no crying when you step on a rusty nail or some junkie's old syringe," Santana shrugged.

"I'll be fine," Rachel insisted, tugging off her other boot.

"Burt, you've been trying to turn on your phone for the last two hours," Carole said, stepping out onto the porch with a burning candle in her hand.

"And I'm going to keep trying until I can get ahold of Kurt," Burt replied flatly from where he sat on the porch steps.

Carole sighed and sank down to sit next to him. "Burt, this is probably just a fluke that happened here. I'm sure New York is fine."

"I'll believe it when I see emergency services from Columbus drive into town."

Carole pressed her lips together, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders in the chill. She set the candle on the step beside her.

Burt let out a huff, giving up on his phone for the time being. He rubbed a palm over his forehead in agitation.

"I bet Kurt's just fine." Carole reached over to consolingly squeeze his knee.

"There aren't any planes, Carole," Burt said quietly. "I've been watching, and not a single plane has flown over. There's no cars, no planes, no phones… This is more than just Lima."

Carole swallowed audibly. "Do you think it's a terrorist attack or something?"

Burt shook his head. "I don't know. It just… it feels wrong. It's not just a blackout."

Carole stared up at the blackened sky, lit only by the stars. At least the stars were still there. "Everything will be better tomorrow," she said. "I'm sure of it."

Blaine beat the car until his muscles were numb and he could no longer lift his arms, then sank to the ground, his chest heaving. Cooper didn't move. Blaine leaned back against the underside of the car, exhausted, and he looked upwards at the stars, praying for a rescue helicopter. He wasn't that far from home, but he didn't want to leave Cooper behind.

"Blaine?"

Blaine's head snapped up so quickly that it hurt his neck. Will Schuester was standing a few feet away, his face streaked with soot and his clothes dirty.

"Blaine, oh my God, are you okay?" Will knelt next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I-I, uh…" Blaine blinked, suddenly feeling like he was about to cry. "I'm fine."

Will looked down, seeing the open wounds on Blaine's hand and forearm. "Come on, we need to get you home."

"I'm not leaving."

Will's eyes flickered to Cooper, his mouth pressing tightly shut when he recognized Cooper's face. "Blaine, you need to get home. Come with me, I'll take you."

"No, I — I can't—" Blaine shook his head. "I'm staying."

Will's hand tightened around Blaine's upper arm, pulling him to his feet. Blaine dug his heels into the pavement.

"Let go of me!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I'm not leaving!"

"Blaine, it's not safe here—"

Frantically, Blaine beat his hands against Will's chest and arms, leaving sticky, bloody prints all over his teacher's shirt. "Let go!"

Will seized Blaine's bruised shoulders, looking him directly in the eye. "Cooper's gone, Blaine! There's nothing you can do!" he shouted. "You need to go home!"

"SHUT UP!"

Will refused to let go, still pulling him away from Cooper's body. "Blaine, I promise, someone will come and get him, but for now you need to go home."

Blaine screamed as Will dragged him along the road, fighting him every step of the way. He scratched and hit and kicked as much as he could, but his limbs were already fatigued and his teacher was much bigger than he was. Eventually, Blaine couldn't scream anymore, his throat feeling torn to shreds, and Will pulled him out of town and into the dark.

As the three girls headed deeper into Brooklyn, it only grew darker around them. The moon wasn't up and the only lights they could see were the stars overhead and the occasional candle or kerosene lamp in a window. They huddled close to stay as warm as possible, but the cool spring night raised goosebumps on their exposed arms and legs and even though their breath wasn't fogging, their skin was icy to the touch.

"I'm fr-freezing," Dani said through chattering teeth.

"Where is everybody?" Rachel asked, clutching her boots in her hand.

"Probably looting or hiding at home," Santana replied absentmindedly, squinting at the street signs. "Come on, this way." She turned down a smaller street in the vague direction of Bushwick.

"Screw it," Dani said, stopping in her tracks. "I can't wear these anymore either." She reached down and unzipped her boots.

"Told you," Rachel muttered. Dani ignored her.

"Holy crap, the ground's cold." Dani gave herself a shake as her bare feet pressed into the pavement. "Still, better than before." She tucked her boots into the crook of her arm so that she could hold them while blowing warmth into her hands.

"God, this city is so creepy in the dark," Rachel said as they resumed walking.

"Everywhere's creepy in the dark," Santana remarked. "Especially when you're surrounded by abandoned cars."

"I feel like we're in the beginning of The Walking Dead."

"Dani, don't say that!" Rachel gasped. "I'm freaked out enough as it is."

"If there are redneck zombies on their way to eat us right now, I'm going to be pissed," Santana drawled. "I do not need to fight off Hungry Boo-Boo from eating my brains."

Rachel grimaced at the mental picture. "Where do you think Kurt is now?"

"He's probably on his way home," Dani assured her. "Just like us."

"He'll be there when we get—" Santana was abruptly cut off as Rachel shrieked, lurching forward and barely catching herself on Dani's shoulder.

Dani pulled Rachel upright. "Whoa, you okay?"

"I — I…" Rachel stammered, her teeth gritted and her voice shaking. She was putting all of her weight on her right foot, holding the left a few inches above the ground and clutching Dani for support. "I think I stepped on a piece of glass."

Santana swore under her breath, resisting the urge to say I TOLD you this would happen. She reached over and gripped Rachel's other arm to support her. "We're not going to be able to see anything here."

"I don't feel good…"

"Shut up," Santana snapped, glancing around the street for anything to help. A little further up the block, there was a convenience store with its windows smashed in. "There's a store up there that might have bandages. Come on."

"What, are you going to steal bandages for me?" Rachel asked through clenched teeth, trying to breathe evenly as Dani and Santana supported her weight. The three of them hobbled up the road, weaving around the abandoned vehicles.

The front of the store was wide open, the windows and door destroyed. "Santana, we can't steal from—" Rachel started as Santana left her clinging to Dani, stepping through the window.

"Hey, people have been looting beer and TVs and iPods all damn night," Santana argued, already inside the store. "I think a little First Aid won't be such a big deal."

"Get some water too," Dani said, shifting Rachel's weight against her. "Okay, Rachel, I need you to sit down for a minute so I can put my boots back on."

Rachel nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath as Dani lowered her to the sidewalk. She whimpered as her injured foot lightly scraped the concrete. Dani brushed her feet off and quickly zipped her boots back on, then helped Rachel work one of her boots back onto her undamaged foot.

"What do you want to do with this one?" Dani asked, holding up the right boot.

Rachel shook her head, wincing. "Just leave it. After tonight, I don't want to ever see these things again."

"The feeling's mutual," Dani agreed, tossing the boot to the side before turning to call over her shoulder. "Santana, you find anything?"

"Yeah," Santana replied from the depths of the shop, invisible in the shadows. "People are idiots; all they ever steal is booze. Plenty of good stuff left. I haven't found any First Aid though."

"My foot really hurts," Rachel said, her jaw held tight. She was trying not to cry. "I think I hit a tendon or something."

"You'll be fine," Dani promised. "Once we get home we can light up some candles and treat it."

Rachel let out a pained huff of a laugh. "A candlelit medical treatment? How romantic."

Santana re-emerged from the shop then, carrying two full plastic bags. "I couldn't find any bandages, Rachel, so you'll have to wait until we get home," she said. "But I got water and pretty much the entire stock of Power Bars, so who's hungry?"

For ten minutes, the three girls allowed themselves to sit on the sidewalk and rest, eating energy bars and re-hydrating. They silently watched the sky above, all three of them hoping a plane would fly past, signaling that they hadn't been left completely alone.

Chapter Text

It took the girls another two hours to make it all the way back to the loft, and by the time their apartment building stood looming and dark in front of them, Rachel had nearly passed out.

"You doing okay, Rachel?" Dani asked, tugging on Rachel's arm as she and Santana half-carried her to the building's front door.

"I… I f-feel dizzy…" Rachel stuttered, sounding almost like she was falling asleep.

Santana hefted Rachel's weight up. "Come on, Berry, quit being such a drama queen and keep your foot up. We're home. Two more minutes and we can put a Band-Aid on it."

Dani wrenched the door open, holding it back with her shoulder as they struggled to maneuver the three of them inside all at once. The door swung shut behind them, plunging them into absolute and total darkness, without even the stars to light their way. Santana led the way up the stairs, familiar with the curve of the wall and the height of each individual step. With some difficult navigation and a lot of muscle power, Dani and Santana were able to pull Rachel up the stairwell to the loft door.

Fumbling for her key in the dark, Santana finally unlocked the apartment and rolled the door back. "Let's get her onto the couch," she said, Rachel's arm tightening around her as they crossed the threshold. Santana heard Rachel's foot drag on the floor for a moment and felt her flinch, but Rachel didn't make a sound.

They eased Rachel onto the sofa, Santana immediately leaving Dani to help Rachel prop her injured foot up on the coffee table. Setting the bags of water and energy bars they'd carried for the second half of their journey onto the kitchen table, Santana rummaged through the kitchen drawers in search of matches.

"I think I'm bleeding on the carpet," Rachel commented quietly.

"Bleed all you want," Santana flapped a hand over her shoulder. "I've been begging Hummel to get rid of that ugly rug for ages." Her fingers closed around the box of matches they kept in the drawer by the stove. "Rachel, where does Kurt keep that kerosene lamp he got at the flea market?"

"Um… in his room somewhere, I think," Rachel replied.

Santana ducked behind Kurt's curtain, striking a match and holding it up to light the space as much as possible. She spotted the old-fashioned lamp sitting atop Kurt's bureau as decoration and quickly walked over to light it. Gently placing the glass chimney back over the small flame, Santana turned up the wick and smiled to herself in relief as, for the first time since the power vanished, light washed over her.

She carried the lamp and the matchbox back to the living room, setting them on the table beside Rachel's foot so that they could see the damage.

"Holy…" Dani exhaled, her eyes widening at the wound in Rachel's heel.

Santana felt her stomach twist at the sight of it, and she swallowed the urge to throw up.

"Is it bad?" Rachel asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

"Well," Santana paused. "The good news is you weren't overreacting."

Letting out a heavy breath and steeling her nerves, Santana knelt by the coffee table so that she could examine the injury more closely. Rachel's heel was slowly dripping blood onto the tabletop, and a jagged piece of glass as long and wide as Santana's thumb was protruding from the torn skin.

"Okay, Dani, can you run to the bathroom and grab a couple of towels, and get a bottle of water," Santana requested, pulling the lamp closer. "And the vodka from the fridge." Dani nodded once and did as she was asked.

"Kurt's not here," Rachel said faintly, her voice wavering almost imperceptibly.

Santana sighed. She'd been so preoccupied with getting Rachel's foot treated that she hadn't even noticed their third roommate wasn't there. "I'm sure he's fine."

Dani returned with the supplies before Rachel could say anything further. Santana carefully placed a folded hand towel under Rachel's heel and poured a small amount of water over the wound, making Rachel hiss through her teeth in pain.

"Relax, I'm just rinsing it off before I do anything."

"What are you going to do?"

"The piece of glass has to come out, then we'll wrap it up as best we can."

"Do you have a First Aid kit?" Dani asked.

"Yes," Rachel answered.

Santana shook her head. "No, we have a box of Band-Aids. You need stitches. We'll go to the hospital as soon as we can. Rachel, hold your foot back," she directed, pushing on Rachel's toes. She twisted the cap off the bottle of vodka and splashed a bit over the blood-flecked glass, making Rachel's leg jerk up. Rachel yelped.

"Okay," Santana said, brushing her hands off on the skirt of her uniform. "Okay, Rachel, I'm going to take the glass out now. On the count of three."

Dani quickly went to sit beside Rachel on the couch, wrapping her hand around Rachel's fingers.

"Deep breath," Santana said, taking the shard of glass between her fingertips.

Rachel clenched her jaw, humming a shaky, tuneless note under her breath.

"One." In a single fast movement, Santana gave the glass a sharp, forceful tug, and it came loose with an awful, gut-wrenching squelch.

A scream ripped from Rachel's throat.

Will kept a firm hand on Blaine's shoulder as they trekked through the dark outskirts of Lima, only speaking up occasionally to make sure they were going in the right direction to Blaine's house. Blaine had stopped fighting a while after they'd lost sight of the plane wreckage, and had resigned to quietly walking beside Will with his arms hugging his abdomen.

The entire time, Will didn’t speak.  If there was something he could say to make the situation better, he didn’t know what it was.  His mind reeled, nose still clogged with the smell of burning fuel and blood and smoke.  He knew Emma was at home and likely wouldn’t leave, and all he wanted was to run back to their apartment as quickly as he could.  But first, he had to return Blaine home.

They reached the bottom of Blaine's driveway and saw a few candles burning in the front window, though the rest of the house was dark. "I'll walk you up," Will said, steering Blaine onto the path leading up to the house.

"Blaine?!" called a voice from the door. "Oh, God, Blaine!" A woman rushed down the steps to meet them, throwing her arms around Blaine the moment he was within reach. "Are you all right?  Your father went out to look for you!" She squinted at Will in the shadows just long enough to see that he wasn't Cooper. "Blaine, where's your brother?"

"Mrs. Anderson, I'm so sorry…" Will started. "Cooper, he—"

"Tell me he's okay."

Will pressed his mouth shut, at a complete loss.

"Mom," Blaine said softly.

Mrs. Anderson's body began to shake, the movement barely visible in the darkness, and she pulled her son closer to her side. "Thank you," she said, "for bringing Blaine home."

The night dragged on for ages as Santana and Dani sat at the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp set between them and Santana's aching legs resting in Dani's lap. They'd wrapped Rachel's foot tightly in strips of cloth torn from an old but clean exercise shirt, then let Rachel drink a couple shots of vodka and fall asleep on the couch, her foot still propped on the coffee table.

It was disturbingly quiet, apart from Rachel's light snoring. There were no sirens, no sounds of traffic, none of the typical noise of nighttime in Brooklyn, and neither Dani nor Santana felt much like sleeping. Santana had changed out of her uniform and lent Dani a set of clothes as well, the both of them huddling under oversized sweatshirts Santana usually had reserved only for days when she didn't leave the apartment.

Dani looked over at Rachel's sleeping form hidden under several blankets. "You think she'll be okay?"

Santana glanced over her shoulder for a moment. "Yeah, sure. I mean, we stopped the bleeding and cleaned it out as well as we could. We'll take her to the hospital once the power comes back." She rested her chin in her hand, gazing out the blackened windowpane. "I wonder what time it is."

Dani peeked at her wrist. "Almost five in the morning."

"How is your watch still working?"

"It's a wind-up," Dani replied, tapping the watch's face with a fingernail. "No battery." She stretched her legs out beneath the table. "Man, my legs are sore."

Santana made a noise of agreement in her throat, reaching for a bottle of water from the bags they'd carried back.

"Santana, aren't you worried about Kurt?"

"Why?" Santana frowned. "You think something happened to him?"

Dani shrugged with one shoulder, leaning back in her chair and intertwining her fingers. "I don't know. A lot of stuff happened to a lot of people; it's hard not to think about, at least."

Santana shook her head. "I'm sure he's fine," she said, wondering in the back of her mind how many times she'd said that exact phrase in the hours since the blackout.

"Look," Dani changed the subject, nodding towards the kitchen window. "The sun's coming up."

Sure enough, the stars had faded and the sky was gradually growing lighter. Santana lifted her sore legs out of Dani's lap and crossed the kitchen, pulling the window up and swinging herself over the ledge onto the fire escape outside. She reached back to give Dani a hand through the window as the sky above them slowly turned pink.

Leaning their elbows against the rail, the two of them watched the sunlight silently and steadily flood the city. Neither of them said a word, both grateful and reassured that the sun was still there.

The sun had swung high in the sky by the time Rachel came back around, and Santana brought a bottle of water to where she sat on the couch. "How's your foot?" she asked, sitting in the adjacent armchair as Rachel took a long drink.

Rachel swallowed half the bottle before she replaced the cap and set it to the side. "Hurts," she answered. "But better than last night."

"Good."

"Thank you," Rachel said, "for taking care of it."

Santana shrugged dismissively. "I have a lot of siblings; I'm used to people getting injured."

"Well, thanks just the same." Rachel glanced around the apartment, her eyes scanning every lamp in sight. "Did the power come back on?"

"Nope, not yet. Probably will at some point today."

"Is Kurt back?"

Santana shook her head.

"Where's Dani?"

"Crashed in my bed."

"Didn't you sleep?"

Santana shrugged. "Wasn't tired."

Rachel quirked an eyebrow. "We walked like ten miles last night, if you count all the times we got lost. How are you not tired?"

Santana only gave another shrug in response.

Rachel let out a long breath. "I hate to ask this," she started. "But… I have to pee."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Fine." She stood up and leaned over to wrap an arm around Rachel's upper back, letting Rachel hang onto her neck as Santana pulled her upright. "We've got to get you some crutches or something, because I will not help you with this every time you need to tinkle. You are not allowed to be a diva right now."

Rachel only chuckled, clinging to Santana and limping alongside.

They were halfway to the bathroom when the front door suddenly gave a loud rattle, and the girls froze in their tracks. It was quiet for all of two seconds before the door rattled again, rocking back and forth slightly on its rollers.

"Someone's trying to get in," Rachel whispered, her limbs rigid.

There was a massive reverberating bang! as whoever was on the other side gave the door a frustrated kick. Santana swallowed and helped Rachel to sit in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, then made a beeline for the drawer where they kept the knives.

"You're going to stab them?!" Rachel hissed, her eyes wide.

"It might be looters," Santana insisted under her breath as the door banged again. She walked to the door, leaning her ear close to try to hear anything distinctive from outside.

Dani came into the living room from behind Santana's curtain, her hair and clothes disheveled from sleep. "What's going on?"

Santana pressed a finger to her lips, one palm on the door handle and the other clutching the knife, holding it poised at chest-level.

"Rachel?" called a muffled voice from the other side. "Santana? Hello?"

The three girls in unison let out a heave of breath in relief, Santana dropped the knife to her side and hurried to unlock the door, quickly yanking it open.

"Jesus, Hummel, don't—" Santana stopped short, her jaw going slack.

Kurt stood just outside the door, out of breath and his clothes dirty, the entire side of his head, neck, and shoulder caked with dried blood. His eyes flickered down to see the blade gripped in Santana's fist.

"...Were you just about to stab me?"

Chapter Text

"What the hell happened to you?!"

"Why were you going to stab me?!"

"I thought you were a looter!" Santana insisted, dropping the knife onto the kitchen table.

"Looters don't knock!" Kurt argued.

"You didn't knock!"

Dani finally cut in sharply, raising her voice. "Hey! How about you stop squabbling and actually deal with the problem?" She pointed to Kurt's head injury.

There was a badly bruised laceration on his temple, and the hair surrounding it was caked with blood in a wide streak down the side of his neck. Kurt lightly prodded it with a slight wince. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said.

"Kurt, you look like you lost a gallon of blood," Rachel deadpanned.

"Head wounds bleed a lot," he waved her off, still out of breath. "I'm fine." He made a beeline for the kitchen table, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging the entire thing in a few seconds. "Please tell me we have food; I haven't eaten since yesterday lunchtime."

Rachel handed him a Power Bar. "That's all we have that doesn't require the stove or microwave." He didn't seem to care, gratefully tearing it open. "What happened?"

"Got caught in a minor riot back near the Gershwin Theater, which is where I lost my keys," he replied, taking one of the chairs at the table with Rachel. Dani dumped the contents of a few water bottles into a large mixing bowl and retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom as he spoke. "People were looting like crazy. I was just trying to get past them, but someone kind of hit me with a baseball bat."

Dani frowned, sitting in the chair next to him and soaking the washcloth in the bowl. "A baseball bat gave you this cut?"

"The bat was broken when it hit me."

Dani made a face, wringing out the cloth. "Okay, lean back." She began to gently scrub the dried blood from Kurt's skin and hair.

"Where were you all night?" Rachel asked. "We were worried sick."

Kurt flinched and hissed through his teeth when Dani brushed over the cut. "Isabel convinced me to stay the night in the office," he explained. "I wanted to leave right away, but she said it wasn't safe, I'd get hurt, et cetera. Long story short, I left first thing this morning and I still got hurt— Ow!"

"Sorry," Dani said, pressing a little too hard on Kurt's wound.

Kurt huffed and forced himself to stay still as Dani scraped the dried blood away from his skin. "Do you guys have any idea what happened to the power?"

"If we could watch the news we might," Santana said flatly. "But no. Any theories?"

Kurt shrugged. "Terrorist attack?" he suggested. "I keep thinking I should Google it, but that's obviously a bad plan." He coughed, his throat sounding hoarse and dry, and reached for another water bottle.

"Careful, we have to ration that," Dani said.

"I'm sure the power will be back before we have to worry about rationing anything," Rachel countered.

Kurt took a long swig. "Did you guys run into any trouble on your way back?"

"We didn't get caught in any lootings," Santana said, "but Little Miss Genius over here took off her shoes and stepped on glass." She nodded pointedly at Rachel, who indignantly slapped Santana's arm with the back of her hand.

"Those boots were killing me!" she protested.

"And how'd the glass treat you?"

Kurt glanced down at Rachel's feet, noticing the bloodstained improvised bandage wrapped around her left heel for the first time. "Jesus, Rachel!"

"It's fine, Santana got the glass out.  And we’ll go to the hospital once the power’s back."

"I'm a full-on Army field medic," Santana declared.

"By the way, Santana, I still need to pee."

Santana rolled her eyes and stood to help Rachel to the bathroom.

Los Angeles, California

Mercedes wiped sweat from her face, peeking through the Venetian blinds covering the window to her tiny apartment, feeling more grateful than ever that her door had two locks on the inside. Since the power had gone out, she'd managed to stay safe inside the apartment, but her roommate had never come home and without the electricity to run the air conditioner, the building was quickly heating up, baking under the sun. The faucets wouldn't work (the pumps were long dead) and Mercedes had already run out of water.

This kind of crap would happen during an April heat wave, Mercedes thought bitterly.

She swallowed nervously, chewing on her lip as she scanned the area outside through the gap in her blinds. She hadn't seen anyone in the street below for a while — at least, no one alive. A man's corpse lay on the pavement sprawled across the yellow line, just beginning to bloat under the sun's glare. Mercedes hadn't actually seen him die, but from the condition of his limbs, he had probably been trampled.

For what had to be the thousandth time, Mercedes pulled her phone from her pocket and pressed the power button, her lips pressing together when it did nothing in response. She tried not to think about what Ohio might look like now, or where her parents and brothers might be. She wasn't an idiot. She knew the blackout wasn't exclusive to Los Angeles. Planes had crashed in the streets, dropping from the sky in almost perfect unison. Cars and buses had stopped, the lights across the city went out. Since then, she'd not seen anything electronic work.

There were no Army Humvees plowing down the streets, carrying the National Guard to rescue people from their own homes.

There were no police officers, no ambulances, no Red Cross helicopters.

There was a dead man already rotting in the street right in front of her apartment building, and she swallowed and turned away from the window as a black crow swooped down and perched hungrily on the corpse's chest.

There was no one coming to help.

The sky began to grow dark again over New York as Kurt and the girls sorted through the contents of the refrigerator, food spread out over the kitchen table in a half-organized chaos.

Rachel paused to stare out the window at the bright gold and pink streaks across the clouds, the corners of her mouth turning down in disappointment. "I was hoping the power would be back on by now," she sighed.

"Midtown's probably in shambles," Kurt added, dropping a no-longer-frozen package of ground beef into the quickly filling trashcan at the end of the table. The blood had been scrubbed from his skin, his bloodstained shirt thrown out and exchanged for a hoodie, and his cut had been taped over with three large Band-Aids.

Santana abruptly dropped the cans she was scrutinizing for expiration dates back onto the tabletop with a solid thunk. "Does anybody else think we're being a little too casual about this, or am I the only sane one here?"

Dani and Kurt exchanged a wary look. "About… what, exactly?" Kurt prompted.

"Uh, this entire city's gone up in flames in less than twenty-four hours," Santana said slowly, her eyebrows sharply pulled down. "And none of us can call home. And we're just sitting here sorting the food that'll keep from the food that'll go bad like we've done this before."

Rachel swallowed, her hands pressed flat against the table. "Santana, it's just a power outage," she said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as Santana.

"No," Santana shook her head, her voice growing harsher. "No, a power outage is when the power grid goes dead. Are we just going to ignore the fact that all of our phones died simultaneously? Are we not going to talk about the helicopter that crashed right in front of the diner?" She pressed her lips together for a moment, and for half a second Kurt saw her chin tremble. "This is not a power outage."

"Well, what do you expect us to do about it?" Rachel asked, throwing her hands up.

"I don't know, maybe panic just a little ?"

Kurt paused, leaning forward with his arms braced against the back of a chair. "Santana, we're all terrified," he said gently. "What good is panicking going to do?"

Santana let out a heavy huff of breath, backing away from the table and raking her fingers through her hair. "You're right," she acquiesced. "Sorry. I'm just tired."

Dani stepped around Rachel and took Santana's arm. "Come on, let's go to bed," she urged quietly. "You haven't slept since yesterday morning."

"Kurt and I can finish up here," Rachel offered, gesturing to the pile of cans and various food products strewn across the table.

Santana rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. "I need to change Rachel's bandage."

"I'll do it," Kurt cut in. "Go get some rest."

Dani nodded gratefully to Kurt and Rachel as she guided Santana out of the room, one arm looped around Santana's middle back.

Kurt grabbed the rest of the cloth strips Santana had torn and set on the kitchen counter, then swung a chair over closer to Rachel and sat, patting his knee. "Okay, Rachel, let me see your foot."

Rachel leaned back in her seat, wincing as she raised her leg to rest her foot on Kurt's thigh. Kurt delicately unwound the cloth strips from around her heel, his lip curling at the smell of old blood as he dropped the soiled makeshift bandages onto the table and muttered something about it being highly unsanitary. He lifted her ankle up to get a better view of the wound in the diminishing evening light filtering in through the window.

"Rachel, this looks… really nasty," he said grimly.

Rachel leaned her head against her fist, propping her elbow on the table. "Yeah, I know."

"You'll need stitches."

"I swear to God, Kurt, if you sew me up post-apocalypse movie style, I will kill you," she said in what was probably supposed to be a joking tone. Kurt could hear her voice shake.

"Relax, I don't have the stomach for that," he replied, wrapping a strip snugly around her heel (Rachel flinched, letting out a small whimper at the renewed pressure).  “But we really should get you to a hospital.”

“I’m sure they have a lot more people to worry about who are worse off than me,” Rachel said as Kurt finished bandaging her foot, carefully tying it around her ankle so that it wouldn't slip. As he finished, she spoke so softly that for a few seconds Kurt wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her. "I miss my dads."

Kurt swallowed, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around her hand. He knew how she felt; the question of whether or not his parents (and Blaine) were all right had been hanging heavily in his chest for a long time.

"They'll be okay, Rachel," he said, mostly to reassure himself. "Promise."

Blaine watched the pavement pass under his feet in a daze, his mother gripping his hand as they walked toward downtown Lima. Any other day, he'd probably tug his fingers out of her grasp in embarrassment, but at this point he didn't really care. His dad strode silently beside them, pushing along a collapsible gurney that they'd stolen from a capsized ambulance a mile back. The air still carried the putrid stench of burning fuel and leaking engine lines, even several blocks away from the crashed plane, and it made Blaine's stomach churn.

Under the sky alit with bright orange streaks in the sunset, Lima had been turned into a ghost town. Storefronts had been smashed and gutted, cars left crooked in the street, and the few people that they saw carried themselves furtively, like mice darting for cover. The blackout seemed to have caused an almost literal shift in the earth.

"Blaine, do you remember where he is?" his mom asked, her fingers squeezing slightly as her voice cracked.

"Pamela, for God's sake," said his dad, maneuvering the gurney around two cars that had collided in the middle of an intersection.

Blaine swallowed his nausea and turned down the adjacent street. Up ahead loomed the mangled and half-blackened shell of the airplane, casting a skeletal shadow over the block. The fuselage was on its side, one wing stretching up into the air like a steeple. The other wing, ripped from the hull mid-air, protruded from a building two blocks in the other direction, half-buried in the brick wall.

Pamela's shoulders dropped, the air rushing from her lungs. "Oh, C-Cooper, baby," she cried, letting go of Blaine's hand so that her fingers could cover her mouth.

Cooper was just where Blaine had left him, and Blaine wanted to scream at the top of his lungs until they withered away inside his ribs.

Timothy set the gurney aside and placed a hand on Pamela's back, wrapping an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "Come on," he said gently, his voice thin and hoarse. "Let's get him out of there."

Without a word, the three of them pushed against the underside of the overturned car, their muscles straining to roll it just a foot or two away. Blaine gritted his teeth, throwing his body into it as much as he could and ignoring the sting of the scabbed-over patch of skin on his hand. 

The silence was broken by a sob from Pamela as she clenched her jaw and pushed on the car with all her strength.

Slowly, the car gave a small groan and tipped back until it rolled onto its roof, its windows shattering as the weight suddenly shifted, and it lay there upended and slightly rocking back and forth. Cooper's blood had been smeared across the side.

Timothy squeezed Blaine's shoulder. "Help me get him onto the stretcher," he said, retrieving the gurney and collapsing it so that it lay flat against the ground beside Cooper.

Blaine felt the air tighten around his mouth and nose like he was in a vacuum, and his chest constricted until he could barely breathe, but he clenched his fists and stepped forward to do as his father asked. They carefully turned Cooper onto his back, then Blaine gripped Cooper's mangled legs and helped Timothy lift him onto the gurney.

"Where are we…" Blaine trailed off for a moment. "Where are we taking him?"

Timothy pulled the gurney up so that it stood back on its wheels, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Cooper's upper body, covering his face. "We'll find a nice place for him to be buried. Away from all this."

"The cemetery?"

Timothy shook his head and swiped a palm over his eyes, his voice thick. "Somewhere nicer."

Mercedes wasn't willing to venture out into the city until nearly sundown, an empty backpack on her shoulders and a pack of matches in her pocket. Hugging her chest, she worked her way through the streets as the light gradually bled out of the sky, leaving burning red streaks of clouds behind it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heartbeat was practically all she could hear as she walked. Her mouth had been dry for hours, her tongue feeling like sandpaper, and she decided that for the rest of her life she would always keep a well-stocked supply of water in her kitchen.

At last she came to the large supermarket where she normally bought her groceries and half-jogged across the parking lot, disliking the feeling of being so out in the open. The automatic doors were no longer functioning, but she stuck her hand between them and wrenched them open with a grunt of effort.

Inside was dark, and it was nearly impossible to see anything beyond a few feet away from the door where she'd come in. Luckily, she was familiar enough with the store to remember where most of the sections were, and she headed straight for the aisle where they kept the bottled drinks. She struck a match, cupping her hand around it to protect the flame as she fumbled through the shelves in search of bottled water, feeling like she'd struck gold when she found it. She twisted the cap off a full two-liter bottle and drank greedily, swallowing as if she'd not had water in a year.

Mercedes splashed a little on her face and the back of her neck to cool herself down, kneeling to shove a couple bottles into her backpack. She yanked two one-gallon jugs off the shelf as well.

It had been barely a day since the blackout, and Mercedes would never again take water for granted.

Her backpack was nearly full — canned goods, granola bars, anything long lasting and calorie-heavy — when she ran out of matches. She mentally berated herself for not stocking up on matches before food, but she managed to fumble her bag closed in the dark, already looking forward to heading home.

There was a resounding click behind her, and something cold and metal pressed into the small of her back.

"Whatever money you have on you, give it to me," snarled a man's voice close to her ear.

Mercedes froze, the air in her lungs turning to ice. "I-I don't have—"

"Now!"

The shout reverberated into the void of the empty and massive room, and Mercedes quickly lifted her hands. "I don't!" she swore. "I don't— I don't have anything. Please, I just want to go home. Please."

Mercedes yelped, flinching as the man's hand was suddenly touching her, roaming quickly over her body as his other fist kept the gun kept pressed firmly to her back.

"Please—" she repeated.

The man's hand finally lifted away from her, and there was another click from the gun. "Go on, get out of here," he said gruffly, sounding almost apologetic.

Mercedes didn't pause to think on it. She quickly slung her backpack onto her shoulder, grabbed her jugs of water, and blindly ran for the door.

Miraculously, she made it all the way back to her apartment before she broke down into heaving, wracking sobs. She couldn't stay here.

Chapter Text

DAY 3

More than anything, Rachel was bored.  Although she learned she could briefly hobble around the loft using only her toes and the ball of her foot, while keeping her heel away from the ground, it was difficult to stand for more than a few minutes, and so she had no choice but to spend the majority of her time sitting either on the couch or at the kitchen table.  With every kind of clock they owned gone dead, it was impossible to tell how quickly the hours were passing, and the minutes dragged on in a hellish stretch.

Lunch for Rachel consisted of canned pear halves eaten straight from the can with a fork, the juice messily dribbling down her chin.  Dani, Santana, and Kurt had gone out to hunt for supplies early that morning and hadn’t yet returned, and the worry that something had gone wrong sat uneasily in her gut.  She supposed that they were probably fine, but the shouts of looters were still heavy on her mind and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something would go wrong sooner rather than later.

She didn’t know what was going on — where the power had gone or why she couldn’t call home to make sure her dads were unharmed — but she wished she could be doing more than sitting at her kitchen table eating canned pears.  At least the others were able to go out and search for supplies.

Finally there was a small commotion from the corridor outside, and the door rolled open.  Kurt stumbled in, his arms weighted down with a poorly balanced load of cumbersome objects, including a set of crutches and what looked like a miniature camping stove.  Santana and Dani followed behind, each carrying plastic bags full of food and water.

“Honey, I’m home,” Santana said dryly, dropping her load onto the table and collapsing into the chair next to Rachel in exhaustion.  “The power had better come back before we have to do that again.”

Dani flipped the light switch on the wall a few times, her shoulders slumping in disappointment.

“Did it go okay?” Rachel asked.

Kurt pulled his fingers through his unkempt hair.  “We found these for you,” he said with a forced cheerfulness, handing the crutches over the table to Rachel.  “They’re cripple-chic.”

“Thanks—”

“I’m going to go lie down,” Kurt cut her off abruptly, not meeting her eye.  He strode stiffly away from the kitchen and disappeared behind his curtain.

Santana and Dani exchanged a look as they unpacked the bags, and Rachel turned to them in confusion.  “What’s up with him?” she asked.

Dani swallowed.  “There were a lot more bodies out there than we expected.”

For as long as it took the three girls to unpack and organize the supplies, not one of them said a word.

The small garage attached to the Hudson-Hummel house was cool and damp since the radiator sat uselessly in the corner.  Burt, desperate for something to do besides drive himself crazy worrying about Kurt, pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves and reached into the engine of his truck.  No matter how many times he turned the key in the ignition, the engine refused to turn over.  His fingers were stained black with oil, and he’d found not a single thing wrong with the car no matter where he looked.  It was simply and inexplicably dead.

He’d pulled the garage door up all the way to let as much sun in as possible, but it was foggy and grey outside and the light was minimal.  A few people had passed the street over the past couple of hours, skirting by like shadowy ghosts in the mist, most likely heading into downtown Lima to scavenge for food and supplies.

“Burt?”

Burt jumped, the back of his head slamming into the truck’s hood.  “OW!”

“Sorry,” said Carole, stepping into the garage and pulling her sweater tighter around her torso.  “You okay?”

Burt rubbed at his skull with the unstained heel of his hand, wincing.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ve done that so often that I think I have a permanent dent.”

Carole prodded the back of his head.  “Seems fine to me,” she said through a smile.  She looked down at the exposed truck engine.  “Any luck with this thing?”

Burt sighed, clicking his tongue against his teeth.  “Nope.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the truck, but it just won’t start.  I tried everything with your Volvo too; same thing there.”

“Sandra from across the street visited earlier to make sure we were okay,” Carole stated.  “She says that it might have been some kind of electromagnetic pulse or something that knocked the power out.”

Burt flapped a hand.  “I’m no good at physics.”

“She said it’s the only thing that could kill all the batteries.”

“Well, then maybe she’s right.”

Burt had no clue what could cause an electro-magneto pulse or whatever Carole called it, or where the hell it might come from, but in any case he thought the strangest thing was that it had been three days and nothing had changed but the weather.  With the fog muffling all the sound from outside, slowly drifting by and chilling the air into an eerie stillness, Burt thought it seemed like the town had dropped from the face of the earth into some kind of strange limbo.

All things considered, Burt supposed it was entirely possible.

Mercedes’ heart thudded at a terrifying pace beneath her ribs, the pen trembling in her hand as she shakily scrawled a letter to her roommate.  She didn’t want to think about the possibility that Erica was lying dead in the street somewhere at the mercy of the sun and the crows, but since Mercedes had heard gunshots going off in the distance at random intervals it was difficult not to entertain the idea.  She didn’t know why anyone was firing guns at one another, but she wanted nothing to do with it.

So she finished her note briefly explaining where she was going and wishing Erica the best, and she stuck it to the now-useless (and empty) refrigerator and prayed that Erica would eventually come back to find it.

Hefting her heavy backpack onto her shoulders, Mercedes took the handle of her tightly packed suitcase and wheeled it along behind her as she made for the door.  A bead of sweat dripped down the side of her face, and she couldn’t tell if it was just from the heat or from the panic clawing at the inside of her stomach.

She drew a long, deep breath in through her nose and gradually released it, feeling like she should be rationing her oxygen in addition to her food.

It’s not too late, Mercedes’ thoughts prickled in the back of her brain.  You can just stay here and hide until all of this blows over.  You'll be safe.

Another slow breath, her blood roaring in her ears.  Despite the heat, her fingertips were ice cold.

No.  She had to leave; she knew that.  Staying in Los Angeles would mean being alone, slowly baking in her apartment until she was no longer able to find food outside.  She’d already had a gun to her back once.  She hated to think what another encounter like that would result in.

Staying was not an option.  It had never been an option, and she was doing herself a favor by realizing that now rather than later.

Mercedes swallowed, her tongue feeling too big for her mouth.  She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, pausing before letting the door shut to pull her apartment key out of her pocket.  She stared at it for a long moment, debating whether or not she needed to bring it with her.

Then, in the spirit of refusing to allow herself to turn back, Mercedes tossed the key into her empty apartment, and let her front door lock behind her.

“Do you have any… eights?” Dani sighed boredly from her seat on the floor by the coffee table, opposite from Rachel on the couch.  She idly mixed her cards up in her hand, wondering how the hell anyone had ever survived without electricity for more than twenty-four hours.

“Nope,” Rachel replied.  “Go fish.”

Dani pursed her lips, drawing a card from the pile on the table.  “Your turn.”

“You know, you don’t need to play just to keep me occupied,” Rachel said.  “This game isn’t that much fun with only two people anyways.”

“I’m not,” Dani promised.  “I’m trying to keep myself occupied.  We’ve already sorted and rationed the food, we’ve gotten the supplies we need for the time being, and I’m not tired enough to take a nap, so it doesn’t seem like there’s anything else to be done.”

Rachel shrugged.

“I don’t suppose your bandage needs a change?”

“You sound a little too eager to get your fingers on my gross foot wound,” Rachel remarked with a light chuckle.  “And no, I changed it an hour ago.  You could go see if Santana needs help with dinner?”

Dani glanced over to the kitchen window, where she could see Santana cooking with the camp stove out on the fire escape landing.  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

Rachel waved a hand, sitting up to gather up the cards.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ll play Solitaire or something.  Go on.”

Dani nodded, pulling herself to her feet.  “Call if you need anything,” she said over her shoulder as she went to join Santana on the fire escape.

“Hey,” Santana greeted her as Dani swung her legs through the window.  “This is actually working like a charm.”  She stirred the small pot resting on the camp stove, the water near boiling.  “First time we’ve gotten hot water since the blackout.  Let’s just hope we don’t get sick of ramen.”

“I’m sure we will, if the power doesn’t come back,” Dani said.  “You need any help at all?”

Santana shook her head.  “No, it’s kind of a one-person job.”

Dani sat on the stairs leading up to the roof of the building, her hands between her knees.  It was a bit strange seeing Santana dressed so… unimpressively was probably the appropriate word.  She wore plain jeans and a thin sweatshirt, and her hair was in a half-hearted twist bun, carefully brushed but unwashed.  Dani could hardly blame her for that; with the pumps for the building’s plumbing long dead, none of them had been able to bathe beyond rinsing off their armpits over a bowl of soapy water in the sink.  Dani didn’t think she’d ever even seen Santana without makeup.

Santana looked at her askance for a moment.  “What are you staring at?”

Dani blinked, straightening up.  “Nothing, sorry.  Spaced out.”

Santana ripped open a ramen package and dumped the contents into the boiling water.  “If you’re bored, you can go see what Kurt’s up to.  He went up to the roof like an hour ago.”

Dani stood up, eager for the chance to do something rather than just sit and feel useless, and quickly ascended the steps up to the ladder at the top of the fire escape.  Scaling the handful of rungs and carefully climbing over the raised edge of the roof, Dani saw Kurt standing at the far side of the building, looking out across Brooklyn toward the river and Manhattan beyond.

“Hey,” Dani called as she approached, not wanting to startle him.  He turned around and gave a small wave, allowing Dani to walk up and lean on the short wall beside him.  “What are you doing?”

Kurt squinted into the sun, which was just beginning to touch the skyline in the west.  “I’ve never seen the city this quiet,” he said.

Dani made a noise of agreement in her throat, musing aloud, “More than eight million people, and none of them making a sound.”

Kurt was silent for a long time, apparently deep in thought as the sun inched lower in the sky.  There was a light breeze that buffeted their clothes, and Dani spotted a flock of pigeons swooping up from a park several blocks away.

“We should leave.”

Dani’s gaze snapped back to Kurt, not sure she’d heard him correctly.  “What?  Why?”

Kurt straightened his back, tracing an invisible pattern on the wall with his finger.  “Santana was right,” he said, and it almost sounded like it pained him to admit it.  He gestured to the empty skyline.  “There’s no planes.  No helicopters.  I was up here last night too and I didn’t even see any satellites.”  He bit his lip, shaking his head.  “There were riots in Manhattan, and no one’s come to help.”

Dani didn’t know what to say, and a cold heavy rock was settling into the pit of her stomach.

Kurt scratched at his forehead nervously.  “My point is, it’s not just New York,” he continued.  “It might be the whole country.  It might be everywhere.  I don’t know.  Either way, we can’t just sit here and wait until someone breaks into our apartment to steal our food — which, by the way, we will run out of eventually.” 

He let out a heavy breath, and Dani wondered how long he’d been running over this in his head. 

“I need to know my parents are okay.”  He swallowed, his voice cracking.  “I’m sure Santana’s just as worried about the same thing, and Rachel too.”

“Kurt…” Dani started carefully.  “That means walking.  To Ohio.  Rachel can’t even stand.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“It’ll take weeks.”

“If it means knowing our families are okay, then it’s worth it.”  He chewed on the insides of his cheeks, looking over to her and meeting her eye for the first time since she’d climbed onto the roof.  “Are you going to go home?”

Dani’s stomach abruptly twisted painfully in her abdomen, and she shook her head, biting back an unexpected sting in her eyes.  “No,” she said.  “No, my parents kicked me out of the house.  I don’t think they’d want to see me even if I did walk all the way back to Tennessee.”

The look in Kurt’s eyes was something akin to pity.  “You’d be welcome to come with us,” he said.

Dani nodded wordlessly in gratitude.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head back in the direction of the fire escape.  “We can all talk it over during dinner.”

Chapter Text

"I think we should leave."

Simultaneously, Rachel and Santana stopped eating, their forks clinking against their bowls as they stared at Kurt, the light from the kerosene lamp in the middle of the table flickering over their faces. Dani straightened in her seat, bracing for what she predicted would be a passionately loud debate.

"And… go where, exactly?" Santana asked.

"Back home."

Santana put her bowl down, leaning forward with her hands flat on the table. "Kurt, I don't know if this particular detail escaped your attention," she said, "but transportation's a bit dead right now."

"I know," Kurt replied.

Rachel's eyes widened slightly. "You mean… walk?"

"People walk across the country all the time."

"…No, they don't," Santana argued.

"Look, all things considered, Ohio isn't that far," Kurt countered. "We'd only have to make it through New Jersey and Pennsylvania. That's what, two hours by plane?"

"Yeah, by plane, Kurt!" Santana cried. Dani couldn't decide if Santana looked more pissed off or astonished that the idea had even entered Kurt's head. "Do you have any idea how long that would take on foot?"

"Probably weeks."

Santana blinked, her jaw clacking shut as if she'd just realized Kurt was actually serious.

"Kurt, why would we leave?" Rachel asked.

His jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands for a moment. "I don't think the power's coming back," he admitted. Rachel swallowed, glancing nervously at Dani. "At least, not for a long time. And if it's not, then I don't want to be stuck here."

Rachel chewed on her lip for a moment, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "Kurt, we'll be okay here," she said. "We can get food and water from the stores, we're inside, we have beds."

Kurt's response was measured and even, but Dani could still hear a touch of trepidation beneath his voice. "There are millions of people in this city. Do you really think that supplies are going to last?"

Rachel's mouth clamped shut.

Dani swallowed, unsure if she should take part in this conversation. Honestly, she had no idea if she agreed with Kurt or not. On the one hand, it was ridiculous to assume that just because the power had been out for a few days that it wouldn't come back; plenty of places had several-day blackouts all the time. But on the other hand, she'd never seen nor heard of a blackout like this before, and she couldn't think of a single thing that would cause all electricity to be wiped out regardless of whether it was connected to the power grid. And the uneasiness settling heavily into the pit of her stomach wasn't a great indicator that everything would soon be all right.

"Kurt," Santana rejoined the debate, her voice quieter than before. "It makes absolutely no sense to leave. Okay, yeah, it's not entirely safe here, but why the hell would it be more safe for us to walk from New York to Ohio?"

Kurt yanked his fingers through his hair. "Santana, there is nobody coming to help," he snapped. Santana sat back abruptly in her chair. Kurt sighed, scratching at his forehead. "It's been three days, and we haven't seen anyone coming in from anywhere else — no military, nothing."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Santana demanded.

"I mean that it's happened to a lot more places than New York. You were saying the exact same thing two days ago, Santana," Kurt insisted. "And you were right. This isn't just a power outage."

Santana pursed her mouth, shaking her head.

Dani finally worked up the courage to interject. "Kurt, maybe it would be better to take a few days and think this over."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. "I thought you agreed with me on this."

"I never said I agreed with anything."

Kurt glanced at both Rachel and Santana. "Am I really the only person who thinks it would be worth it?" he asked in disbelief. "I mean, aren't you worried about what's happening back home?"

Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear, speaking hesitantly. "Kurt, it's just — we don't know what this is. We don't know what's going on, and we really don't know that no one's coming to help. I mean, what if the power comes back in a week and we're suddenly stuck in the middle of Pennsylvania?"

"Not to mention the fact that Rachel can't even walk ," Santana added harshly. "Did you factor that into the equation?"

"I thought about it, yeah," Kurt snapped.

"Where would we sleep? Are there any motels still open? How would we deal with the weather? Can you promise that we'd have food when we needed it?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know that we won't be robbed?"

"I don't."

Dani reached forward and put a hand on Santana's arm. "Come on, Santana, ease up a bit."

"Kurt, it's just not a good idea," said Rachel.

Kurt huffed. "Fine," he spat, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "We'll just sit here, then. Fine."

Blaine and his parents buried Cooper's body in the soft loam at the lower end of the wide grassy slope behind their house, close to Pamela's flower garden. There was no coffin and no headstone, only a patch of not-quite-settled soil and a few gardenias Pamela had planted at the head of the grave. It hadn't even occurred to Blaine that the spot was pretty, and he hadn't yet wrapped his head around the idea that anything that had happened in the past three days was anything other than a horrifically vivid and elaborate nightmare. His upper arm was bruised a deep purple from repeatedly digging his fingernails into his skin, attempting to pinch himself awake. And he wasn't sure why, but Blaine found that his hands would not stop shaking.

There had been no funeral for Cooper — not even just for the three of them. Pamela only shook her head and brushed it off when Timothy suggested they have a small service.

"Pamela—" Tim tried to argue, but his wife quickly cut him off.

"We'll have a service," she insisted, "when all this mess has blown over and we can have a proper memorial at the church." Her lips tightened, and Tim's shoulders slumped.

Blaine swallowed, staring out the window to the back lawn at Pamela's garden and the plants drooping in the damp. It had been two days and the fog blanketing Lima still refused to lift. Blaine picked anxiously at his fingernails, frustrated that they were still clogged with dirt from digging the grave. His stomach clenched in his abdomen, briefly reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast, nor dinner or lunch the day before.

"Blaine." Tim's voice snapped Blaine's attention away from the window. His father nodded his head towards the front door, picking up two backpacks from the coat rack in the foyer. "Come with me. We need to pick some things up from downtown."

Blaine really didn't want to go out there again, but he didn't have the energy to argue and the thick air inside the house was suffocating him, so he took one of the packs and followed his father to the door without a word.

"Be careful," Pamela called after them.

It was quiet out in the fog, and the mist hugged close and clung to Blaine's hands and hair and clothes. Blaine regretted leaving the house almost immediately — it wasn't any easier to breathe out here — but at least the cool air was beginning to slightly soothe the nausea resting in the bottom of his gut.

"What are we getting?" Blaine asked, his voice stifled in the murk. He shifted the empty pack on his shoulders. It was strange to be using the backpacks for anything other than school.

"We need to pick up some food and a few other supplies," Tim replied, staring ahead into the haze as they walked along the road towards central Lima. "Matches, charcoal for the grill, that kind of thing."

"Are we going to steal it?"

Tim's expression was grim. "If the stores are still shut down, then yes."

Mercedes jolted awake at the screech of a falcon somewhere overhead. She scrunched up her eyes, the harsh sunlight shooting daggers through her eyelids, and gingerly sat up. She let out a pained hiss through her teeth as her muscles were stretched, her legs screaming in protest. It felt as though every muscle fiber under her skin was burning up, sore from a full day of nothing but walking through the deadened city and then sleeping on a hard bench all night. She hadn't reached the hills to the northeast of L.A. until late evening, and she'd slept on a bench alongside a hiking trail overlooking the sprawling city all the way out to the ocean.

Groaning as she pulled the kinks out of her neck and her back and carefully extended her legs, placing her feet back on the ground and sitting straight up on the bench, she grumbled that her choice of camping spot had been a lot nicer last night. Which was true, of course — she'd gone to sleep watching the stars in the sky, listening to the sigh of the breeze and a few night birds cooing in the sparse trees further up the mountain — but now in the blinding sun it was just brownish and rocky and bright.

Coughing to clear her dry throat, Mercedes pulled out her ponytail and wrapped her already-frizzed and tangled hair into a bun as tightly as possible to get it off her neck. Stifling a yawn, she pulled a water bottle out of her pack and downed half of its contents before chiding herself for not thinking of saving it for later. There's got to be a gas station or something eventually, she thought reassuringly. I should get a map too.

For a few minutes, Mercedes sat on the bench and watched the unmoving city spread out below. After only a few days of dead cars and buses and A/C units, the haze of pollution had noticeably cleared, not quite gone but already allowing for more of a view. There were no sounds at all wafting up from the streets on the wind, leaving the whole of the city lifeless and achingly silent. She could see a few single plumes of smoke at different points several miles away, signaling the fires in looted stores and homes.

She suddenly was slammed with an overwhelming sensation of gratitude that she'd had the sense to leave before her apartment was raided. The image of the trampled corpse lying in the street outside, a crow pecking at his bruised and bloated face, flashed across her brain and she had to fight a wave of nausea.

She drew another sip of water, careful not to take too much this time.

Blaine and his father had to walk almost to the opposite side of Lima before they were able to find a grocery store that hadn't been completely gutted yet. Only about a third of the shelves were still full, and Blaine briefly wondered in the back of his mind how many people were actually just taking the things they needed and how many were hoarding as much as they could. He then wondered which category he and his father fell into.

As they quickly packed their bags with as much as they could carry, it was very gradually beginning to dawn on Blaine that, as surreal as their entire situation seemed, all of this was in fact happening and absolutely none of it was just his imagination. The realization was causing an awful sense of motion sickness, as if the ground was swaying under his feet. He grabbed the edge of the nearest food shelf to steady himself.

"Blaine?" Tim said, pausing where he was picking up a shrink-wrapped hock of ham to place in his bag. "You all right?"

Blaine nodded wordlessly, his skull feeling like it was stuffed with cotton.

He swallowed, looking away as a rock settled into the pit of his gut. The phantom smell of gasoline mixed with blood and smoke weighed on his senses, and the image of Cooper's glazed-over eyes and crushed limbs stabbed into the back of Blaine's mind. He didn't even realize he'd bitten his lip until he tasted blood.

Tim's eyebrows pulled together slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he studied his son. Blaine shifted to his other foot in discomfort, hoping that Tim wouldn't try to talk about it any further.

After an agonizingly long, quiet minute, Tim finally let out a heavy breath and took his gaze off of Blaine. He picked up his bag again, slinging it over his shoulder, and Blaine's shoulders slumped in relief.

"Come on," Tim nodded his head in the other direction. "Let's get back to your mother."

And yet, as glad as Blaine was that Tim wasn't pressing, there was an awful gnawing in his stomach — an unpleasant feeling that reached all the way to his brain and the tips of his fingers. His nerves were all suddenly screaming at him, his skin abruptly too small for his body.

"Dad?" he started, his throat going dry so quickly that the word came out as a croak.

Tim stopped again, turning around. "Yes?"

I'm so sorry I didn't save him. It should have been me.

The words bottlenecked in Blaine's mouth, choking him until he was forced to breathe, shake his head, and say, "Nothing. Let's go home."

Chapter Text

DAY 6

Mercedes staggered slightly, fighting a wave of dizziness as she dragged herself along the road. A hot, dry wind blew past her, making her cracked lips burn. She could taste blood on them, although she wasn't exactly sure why her lips were bleeding. She'd been following the Angeles Crest Highway for almost four days, and she had badly underestimated how much water she would need. Whatever water she drank she was losing too quickly through the pores in her skin, unable to keep it in her body long enough to stay hydrated. The rolling suitcase she'd filled with water and food had been emptied much faster than she expected, and she'd dropped it on the side of the road somewhere several miles back, left only with the supplies in her backpack.

She had, of course, passed several gas stations and a couple of small towns, but every store she peered into had already been gutted and left empty. Most of the gas stations had water fountains, but with the power still dead none of the pumps were working and the fountains yielded nothing but a slow trickle for a few seconds before they were dried up.

Was it just her imagination, or was the air rippling around her?

Every breath she drew into her chest felt like it was burning her from the inside out. Her skin ached every time she moved, blistered from sunburn and sweat.

She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

There was a loud screech of a bird echoing down from the hills above — was it a falcon? A vulture?

And dear God, she was sore . She wasn't unhealthy, but she wasn't in the best of shape either and walking for nearly four days straight had set every one of her muscles on fire.

Mercedes coughed, willing herself to keep going. "I hate California," she grumbled.

A cool wind rushed down the empty streets of New York, whistling through the abandoned cars and shattered windows and raising goosebumps on Kurt's skin. He shivered and tightened the straps of his empty backpack, his eyes scrutinizing his surroundings for shops, cars, trucks — anything that hadn't yet been emptied of usable goods. He and Santana had volunteered to go on the supply run on their own so that Rachel wouldn't be left alone and instead would have Dani for company, but even though the two of them had been walking through the city for close to two hours, they hadn't been much company for each other. Kurt wondered briefly if Dani should have gone with Santana instead of him, but as they were now somewhere in the vicinity of Brooklyn Heights, there was hardly any point in deciding differently.

"You're quiet," Santana observed as they rounded a corner near Columbus Park, passing the TD Bank.

Kurt watched a stray cat dig through a trash can on the sidewalk, hissing at them as they passed by. "Is there something we should be talking about?" he asked, keeping his voice aloof.

"You're just usually such a chatty Kathy." Her hair was about to fall out of its bun, hanging lopsidedly from the back of her head. There was a smudge of dirt on her temple.

"We've all been stuck in our apartment without electricity for a week. There's not exactly a lot to talk about," Kurt replied, lifting his head to watch a large flock of swifts swoop through the air between the high rises overhead.

Santana gave him a pointed look. "You're still mad at me, aren't you?"

"For what?" Kurt sighed. He peered through the broken front window of TD Bank, finding it eerily vacant.

She made a face at him. "For disagreeing with you, dumbass. You still think we should leave."

Kurt finally looked her in the eye, pressing his lips together for a moment before responding. "Santana, we're four miles from home and we haven't found a single store that hasn't been completely emptied. It's been one week . Do you really still think that the power is coming back soon?"

Santana was quick to counter. "And do you really think we're going to find food any easier outside the city?"

Kurt pulled his fingers through his hair, mentally grimacing at how dirty it felt. None of them had had a proper shower in a week, and it was driving him mad. "I don't know," he admitted. "But at least we wouldn't be stuck ."

Santana abruptly stopped short in her tracks, giving Kurt a glare that fell somewhere between earnestness and fury. "Okay, Kurt, I'm not going to argue that the power's coming back tomorrow. But you know what we have here?" she demanded. "We have protection. We have a place to live and we know that we're safe there."

Kurt shook his head solemnly. "Santana, we're not safe," he said. "Nearly every building we passed on our way here was broken into. Half of those were apartment buildings. We saw at least a dozen people lying dead in the street and most of them looked like they'd been shot. What the hell makes you think we're safe from any of that?"

Santana's jaw twitched, and she crossed her arms.

"So no, I can't promise that we'll be okay if we leave, but I can promise that we won't be okay if we stay here."

Santana frowned suddenly, turning her head in the direction of the Columbus Park greenery. "Wait, be quiet," she said.

"What?"

"Shh!" she snapped, moving to the left and craning her neck to look at the park. "I thought I heard something weird."

Kurt scowled in confusion, but said nothing, instead following her gaze and attempting to see what she'd heard.

Then Santana slapped a hand against his chest to stop him, staring straight ahead with her eyes wide in terror. "Kurt," she hissed under her breath. "Don't move."

Kurt froze, the pit of his stomach tightening in anxiety and the hairs on his arms standing on end. "Where the hell did those come from?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Santana spit through her teeth. "What do we do?"

"J-just back away. Back away."

Pacing across the lush green grass of Columbus Park, ears twitching and noses sniffing the air, yipping back and forth to one another, was a pack of three huge spotted hyenas.

The sun beat down on the back of Blaine's neck as he forced his aching shoulders to swing the axe down on a section of the tree he and his father had felled at the edge of their property. He'd been out here on his own for a long time, chopping wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and so his mom could cook. They'd never actually used the fireplace before, and until the power had vanished Blaine had actually believed that it was only decorative.

A bead of sweat dripped into Blaine's eye, making him stop and put down the axe for a moment, digging the heel of his hand against his eyelid. He paused to draw a deep breath into his chest, brushing his hands off on the seat of his pants (and for God's sake it had been a week — why were his fingers still shaking?). He glanced over toward his mom's flower garden, his stomach twisting at the spot where Cooper was buried, marked only by a few gardenias that hadn't yet bloomed.

Swallowing the sudden nausea building in his chest, Blaine picked up the axe again and chopped a thin cross-section of the tree's trunk as smoothly as he could. He hefted it up and laid it flat on the ground, crouching over it to brush the excess splinters from the uneven surface. Taking the sharp corner of the axe and using it as a chisel, Blaine laboriously carved a few letters into the wood:

C.A.

1987 — 2014

Blowing the dust away from his work, Blaine stood and carried the cross-section over to Cooper's grave, pressing it into the not-quite-settled soil in front of his mom's gardenias.

"What are you doing?"

Blaine jumped, just noticing that his mother had walked down to the slope from the house to join him. She was hugging her middle, a pale blue cardigan hanging from her shoulders, and she wasn't wearing her usual heels and stockings. She looked down at the grave marker Blaine had made, then knelt down on the grass beside him.

"I know it's not permanent, but I figured it would do until everything gets back to normal and we can get a real one," Blaine said. He rolled off his knees to sit cross-legged on the ground.

"It's lovely, sweetheart."

Blaine watched a robin hop through the grass several yards away in silence, pecking at the dirt for worms and bugs, and for the first time in a week, he felt calm. He didn't know what would happen in the next few days, or if everything would ever go back to the way it was before the blackout, or if Kurt was safe and sound hundreds of miles away in New York, or if his own family would be able to continue living normal without his brother, but for the moment it seemed like none of that mattered. The earth and everything on it would go on, regardless of what happened to them, and even if it felt like Blaine's world was ending, his world was so very small.

Kurt could feel his heartbeat in his temples, adrenaline pumping from his chest to the tips of his fingers as every cell in his body frantically screamed at him to run . There was a war raging between the walls of his brain, a hundred different shouted thoughts and all of them conflicting. Don't move, run for your life, scream, don't let them see you, I wish I had a gun, WHERE THE HELL DID HYENAS COME FROM. Kurt had never even seen hyenas except at the zoo.

"…Oh, crap," he breathed.

"What?" Santana whispered, still frozen to the spot next to him.

"If there's no power, the zoo's backup security isn't working."

"Seriously, Kurt?!" she spat, her voice high-pitched and stretched in terror. "That's what you're trying to figure out right now?!"

Across the street, the hyenas barked and cackled at one another, short tails flicking back and forth. Kurt wanted to throw up.

"Wait, wait, wait," Santana said, her words shaking. "Hyenas are scavengers, aren't they? They don't hunt.  They only eat dead stuff."

"I-I think so," Kurt whispered back.

"So… if we just walk away, they won't come after us. Right?"

Kurt's heart skipped as one of the hyenas lifted its head, sniffing curiously until its beady eyes landed on the two of them. "I hope so," he said. "We need to go, now."

Santana swore under her breath, all three hyenas now staring directly at them.

Kurt wordlessly reached down and grabbed Santana's hand, his fingers clenching around hers tightly. "Run."

In unison, Kurt and Santana spun round and bolted, their empty backpacks swinging back and forth uselessly on their shoulders as they dashed through the cars strewn chaotically through the street. Kurt heard a loud snarl, and he glanced over his shoulder for half a second to see a hyena jump onto the hood of a car a hundred feet back, its teeth bared as it closed in on them. He couldn't see the other two, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that they weren't far behind.

Santana screamed as another hyena reappeared to their right, driving them left. Her fingers gripped Kurt's so tightly that they were likely cutting off circulation.

"There!" Kurt shouted, pointing to a large eighteen-wheeler standing abandoned a few hundred yards up ahead. If he and Santana could make it to the truck and climb into the cab, they'd be safe. At least, he hoped they would.

Suddenly, some unseen debris on the ground caught the toe of his sneaker, and Kurt felt Santana's hand rip out of his as his arms flailed and he slammed into the pavement, skidding and badly scraping his elbows. Santana shrieked and whirled back to help Kurt up just as the third hyena leaped into view behind her, between them and the truck.

Oh God, we're going to die.

Grasping Santana's hand like a vice, Kurt scrambled back onto his feet, the adrenaline in every vein setting his skin on fire. "This way!" he ordered, heaving himself onto the hood of the nearest car and pulling Santana with him. Together, they jumped onto the next vehicle — a gigantic black SUV that burned their hands with the heat it had been absorbing all day from the sun — and climbed up to its roof.

They just barely managed to straighten up as the first hyena to reach them launched itself at the SUV, its teeth bared in a loud snarl as it lunged. Santana swung her leg out with as much force as she could muster and kicked the beast squarely in the jaw, knocking it back and making it yelp in pain.

Kurt's mouth dropped open. "Whoa," he said.

Santana panted, her chest heaving. The other two hyenas had already closed in on either side of the SUV, and the one Santana had kicked was already back on its feet.

Kurt felt his heart squeeze into his throat as the hyenas circled, all whooping in an eerie, wild and definitely unfriendly chortle. The eighteen-wheeler was only fifteen feet ahead, but the space between them and the truck seemed to stretch and pull, growing until the truck was miles away. It suddenly occurred to Kurt that he didn't even have any idea if the truck's doors were locked.

"Kurt!" Santana snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Stay with me! We gotta go!"

A hyena reared back on its hind legs, pounding its front paws against the side of the SUV and rocking it beneath Kurt and Santana's feet. Another jumped onto the hood, its throat bobbing in a loud cackle. Santana seized Kurt's wrist, and they quickly vaulted from the SUV to the roof of a sedan stranded a few feet away. The hyena on the SUV bounded after them, nipping at their heels as they jumped down from the sedan and broke into a flat-out run, bolting for the truck.

Please don't be locked, please don't be locked, PLEASE—

Kurt rushed to climb the side of the cab and yank the door handle, a wave of relief cascading over his body when it easily opened. He threw himself into the driver's seat, wheeling around to grab Santana's outstretched hand as she scrambled up behind him, but Santana shrieked as a hyena's teeth snapped at her calf and managed to tug her down by the denim of her jeans. The other two had caught up and were eagerly screeching as they closed in.

"Come on!" Kurt shouted, pulling hard on Santana's arm.

She gritted her teeth, growling under her breath, and suddenly there was a pained yip from below her as she smashed her free foot into the animal's nose, forcing it to release her leg. Santana hopped into the cab, knocking Kurt over, and slammed the truck's door shut.

For several seconds, the two of them sat there catching their breath, listening to the hyenas hoot and cackle outside as they circled the truck. Kurt grunted and pulled himself off the floor and into the passenger seat, looking down out of the window as one of the hyenas raised itself on its hind legs, sniffing and attempting to find a way into the cab.

"Are you okay?" he finally mustered the energy to ask.

Santana lifted her leg to show him where a large piece of her jeans had been ripped away, leaving exposed her uninjured leg. The hyena's teeth had just barely missed her flesh. "I think half an inch closer and I'd have a pretty nasty scar to show for it," she said flatly.

"Jesus," Kurt breathed, his lungs still heaving.

"So… what now?"

"I… I think we just wait them out."

"Fine by me," Santana said, nervously eyeing the hyenas below. "I am never watching The Lion King again."

The Angeles Crest rest stop to Mercedes appeared like an oasis in the desert, and when she pushed through the dusty doors and found the coolers by the cash register only half-emptied, she felt so happy she nearly cried. Muttering repeated thanks to God or Allah or whoever the hell was in control of whether she ate or starved, Mercedes pulled open the door to the cooler and grabbed the largest bottle of water on the shelf. She sank to sit on the floor, letting her sore legs rest as she gulped down a third of the bottle's contents, not even caring that the water was warm.

Letting out a long, calming breath and leaning her back against the cooler, Mercedes took her time rehydrating and enjoying the shade inside the rest stop. A couple of sparrows chirped overhead, probably having flown in through a broken window somewhere in the building.

Setting the bottle of water aside, Mercedes reached down to untie her shoes, hissing through her teeth as she pulled her sneakers off and peeled her socks away from her blistered soles. Maybe the rest stop had some First Aid supplies she could salvage.

For now, Mercedes stocked up on water and Gatorade, shoving as many bottles as would fit into her backpack. Forcing herself to stand (and oh God her feet were killing her), she sifted through the maps sitting in the counter display by the cash register, road maps and hiking trails cutting through the state of California in a massive spider web. Squinting at the network of roads, she finally found her own location, a tiny black tick mark indicating the rest stop where she was currently standing, and measured how far she'd come.

"Eighty-one miles," she sighed. That was barely anything. It was going to take her months to get home at this rate, and she could only pray that the electricity would come back before then.

She was so absorbed in plotting out how she would cross over to Nevada that she almost didn't hear the footsteps outside. At the sound of boots crunching on gravel, her head snapped up and she saw the silhouette of a man walking up to the rest stop's front doors. She sucked in a terrified breath, her heart in her throat, and she ducked behind the cash register. For a brief moment, she was back in the supermarket near her apartment, with a gun to her back and a stranger demanding her money.

The door opened and clanked shut as the man entered the rest stop, casually whistling as his clunking footsteps neared the register's counter. Mercedes held her breath, a hand over her mouth and nose.

"…the hell?" she heard him mumble, kicking at her discarded shoes. She sent a quick prayer skyward that he would leave her backpack alone.

The man's footsteps drew closer, circling around the counter and heading toward the vending machines at the back. For a split second, Mercedes saw a large baseball bat hanging from the man's hand, and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to contain a small gasp.

The man's footsteps stopped, his boots scraping slightly as he turned in her direction.

He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her and take her water and her backpack and there was nothing she could do about it.

"…Mercedes?!"

Mercedes jumped at the familiar voice, her eyes snapping open. "…Puck?!"

Chapter Text

Mercedes theorized that it was entirely possible that she was vividly hallucinating and the image of Puck standing in front of her with a baseball bat in his hand was nothing but a mirage, but at least he looked just as stunned at their meeting as she was.  She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him (probably around the time they graduated from McKinley — they had never been that close as friends, after all) and frankly, he looked so different she was surprised she could recognize him at all.  He was sunburned and he hadn’t shaved in days, and he’d let his old Mohawk disappear, allowing his entire head of hair to regrow evenly.  Maybe it was just the stubble all over his jaw, but Mercedes thought he looked strangely older.  If this was a hallucination, she was pretty sure her brain wouldn’t have added the beard.

“What the hell were you hiding for?” Puck demanded.

“I thought you were going to shoot me!” Mercedes protested.

He made a face, glancing sidelong at his bat.  “With what?  I don’t have a gun.”

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” she countered as Puck reached down to help her up.  She winced as the blisters on her bare feet were stressed, then brushed a loose strand of frizzy hair away from her face.  “Puck, what are you doing here?  I thought you joined the Air Force.”

Puck scratched at the back of his neck.  “I did, but I had like a month before I actually had to start and the base was in California anyways, so I figured I’d spend my last days of freedom in the City of Angels,” he said, shrugging.  He let the tip of the bat clunk solidly against the floor, leaning on it like a cane.

Mercedes brushed the dust from the seat of her pants.  “Well, it’s not the city of anything anymore,” she muttered.

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Trying to head home.”

Puck’s eyebrows shot up.  “On foot?  Seriously?”

“…Aren’t you on foot?”

He shook his head.  “No, I stole a horse.”

Mercedes blinked.  “You— what?”

A prideful grin spread across Puck’s face.  “Yeah, I found him in a stable in Pasadena,” he said.  “Some kind of rich-people farm for professional riders or whatever.  Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Give me a second.”  Mercedes propped an arm against the counter as she pushed her aching toes back into her shoes.

Puck eyed the massive (and frankly disgusting) blisters on her feet with concern.  “You okay?” he asked.  “Those don’t look so good.”

“Well, it’s either this or go barefoot,” she replied dryly, wincing as she re-tied the laces.  “Since when do you know how to ride a horse?”

“I used to take my sister to her riding lessons,” Puck explained, carding his fingers through his hair (and man, it was going to take awhile for Mercedes to get used to how he looked with it).  “I mean, I never actually rode with her – I just remember a lot of what her teacher said.  I’m not great but the basics were easy enough to figure out.”

“You never paid that much attention in high school,” Mercedes joked as Puck led her outside.

Groaning as her eyes were suddenly forced to readjust to the cruelly bright sun, Mercedes followed Puck along the edge of the tiny parking lot and around the corner of the building, nearly laughing out loud when she saw the animal Puck had so proudly claimed as his own.

The horse was tied to a tree at the edge of the lot, a huge bay mare with a rich brown coat and a black tail swishing back and forth.  It was obvious the mare had been well-groomed for the duration of her life, although her coat was dusty from the road, and the bridle and saddle that Puck had presumably stolen along with the creature herself were both polished.  Puck had tied a rope to the handles of two large canvas bags filled with food and water and slung them across the horse’s back, creating a set of makeshift saddle bags.  What made Mercedes choke back a laugh, however, was the fact that her mane was tightly and ornately braided.  Puck had stolen a dressage horse.

“My motorcycle doesn’t work, so meet my new ride — Mr. T,” Puck said, striding up to the mare and rubbing a palm over her nose.  “He’s got one horsepower.”

Mercedes stared at Puck blankly.  “You named your horse after Mr. T?  Really?”

Puck cracked a smile as the horse gently butted him in the chest.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Looks like him, doesn’t it?”

“You do realize it’s a mare, right?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a mare,” Mercedes repeated.  “Female.”

Puck’s grin vanished abruptly.  Mr. T snorted.

A week without power and Carole was fairly sure she was about to lose her mind, although she wasn’t entirely certain whether her restlessness stemmed from apprehension of the world’s current circumstances or just sheer boredom.  Burt was spending most of his time trying to get the cars in the garage to turn on (he had made absolutely no progress, but Carole wasn’t about to discourage him since at least he had something to do ) and she had been finding small, mostly pointless tasks around the house to occupy herself, like re-organizing their photo albums or alphabetizing the books on the shelves.  She almost wished the hospital was a block away so that she could still go to work, but there was no way she could walk the thirty-five miles northeast to Findlay and back.  And besides, she had no idea if the hospital was even operating at the moment.

She didn’t even want to think what must have happened to the patients whose life support had suddenly vanished along with the power, or those who might have been in the middle of surgeries.

At the present moment, Carole was trying to keep her hands occupied by dusting all the surfaces in the living room with a rag — a menial task she normally detested, but at least it was something .  When the power finally came back, the house was going to be cleaner than she’d ever had the energy to keep it before, she thought bitterly to herself.  And dear God , she hoped the power would come back.  She missed her showers, her stove, her car, her movies, her radio, her phone, and most importantly, her job.  She was tired of being afraid to go into town because of what she would see.  All the wreckage and debris wasn’t part of a world she was familiar with.

So she cleaned, and fixed, and organized, and tidied, and kept herself busy, and she pretended everything was somewhat all right.

As Carole dusted the shelves by the now-useless TV (which still had Charade stuck in the DVD player), working her way around the picture frames and various other knickknacks, she paused on an old photo of herself and Finn at the beach.  She let out a slow breath, gently picking up the photograph and cradling it in her fingers.  It was nearly fifteen years old, and in it she was kneeling in the sand, hugging Finn in her lap with her hair — much longer and curlier back then — blowing in the wind.  Finn was maybe five years old, in bright blue swim trunks and streaked with sunscreen, squinting in the sun and grinning.  Carole felt a rock press into her throat.

“Honey?”

Carole flinched, looking over her shoulder to see Burt standing in the doorway from the kitchen.  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, her fingertips tightening slightly around the picture’s frame.  “Any luck with the cars?”

“Nope,” he admitted with a shake of his head.  There was a streak of oil on his forehead.  “Pretty close to giving up, honestly.  What’re you looking at?”  He came over to stand next to her.

Carole placed the photo back in its spot on the shelf, letting out another sigh.  “I miss him,” she said softly.

Burt wrapped an arm around her back, squeezing her shoulder in consolation.  “Yeah, me too,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head.  “Listen, we’re almost out of food.  We need to go pick up some more stuff from downtown.”

Carole’s heart sank in her chest.  “I’m not sure I want to go,” she said.  “Not again.”  Images of the bodies sprawled across the ground near the wrecked airplane, left to rot out in the open, flashed across her mind and made her shudder.  She’d been an ER nurse for almost twenty years, but nothing could have possibly prepared her for that.

Burt pressed his mouth shut for a moment, then kissed her forehead again.  “It’s okay,” he said.  “I’ll go.”

“You know, I was thinking that I could go to St. Rita’s tomorrow and see if there’s anybody working there,” Carole changed the subject.  “They’ll probably need an extra pair of hands.”

Burt frowned.  “I think the worst of the damage is done, Carole,” he said.

She shrugged.  “People are still going to get hurt or sick, and there should be somebody to help out when they do.”

He nodded, pride flickering across his face.  “Okay.”  He squeezed her shoulder one last time and turned to go back into the kitchen.  “Well, I’m heading out.  Is there anything in particular you know we need?”

“Just the essentials,” she called after him.

“Water, ramen, and a working generator?”

“You got it.”

She heard him chuckle in the kitchen.  “All right, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Be careful.”

The sound of the door shutting behind him was loud in Carole’s ears, and she swallowed, rubbing her hands over her arms as she abruptly felt a phantom chill.  It was far too quiet now.

Running her fingers through her hair (she really did miss that shower), Carole shivered and circled around the couch to the staircase, the steps creaking harshly under her feet as she climbed to the second floor hallway.  Normally she’d walk straight from the stairs to the end of the hall, where her and Burt’s bedroom was, but this time she stopped at the first door on the left — Finn’s room.

The pit of her stomach turned cold as she stepped inside.  The room still smelled vaguely like Old Spice and grilled cheese, though it had mostly faded by now.  The majority of Finn’s things had been packed away, donated or thrown out, but Carole had never had the strength to get rid of everything.  She’d kept all the furniture, most of the pictures on the walls and his books from school, his backpack still with jumbled and disorganized notebooks tossed inside.  His bed was neatly made and untouched.

Forcing herself to swallow the boulder in her throat, Carole shivered and fought the goosebumps on her arms, pushing open the door to Finn’s closet.  A few boxes rested on the floor inside, mostly clothes that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to dispose of.  She knelt on the carpet, lifting the lid to the box labeled JACKETS & SWEATERS in Sharpie.  The box’s contents were neatly folded and stacked, except for the white and grey striped hoodie on top, which had been unfolded and refolded so many times it was now badly wrinkled.

Carole picked it up, shaking it out once before pulling it over her shoulders.  Her arms were far too short for the sleeves, and the hem hung far past her hips, but she immediately felt warmer as she pulled it tighter around her chest.  It had always been her favorite out of all the hoodies Finn owned (and he’d owned a lot , though she had no idea why he thought he needed more than one or two), and since his passing she’d worn it whenever she felt like the world was about to crash down around her again.  It was baggy and too big and it made her feel safe, but she wasn’t entirely sure why she only wore it when Burt wasn’t at home.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud clatter from downstairs, and Carole nearly jumped out of her skin.  Quickly shoving the box back into the closet, she strode out of the room and descended the stairs, mentally preparing herself in case someone was breaking into the house.  She realized as she reached the living room, though, that the noise was not someone inside the house, but instead frantic knocking on the door from someone outside.

Her heart skipping, Carole tiptoed toward the kitchen, not sure if she wanted to open the door for whomever was standing on the other side and rattling it in its frame with their incessant knocking.

“Carole!  Burt!  Hello?!  Is anybody home?!”

As soon as she recognized the voice, Carole stopped tiptoeing and rushed to the door, yanking it open.  “Hiram!” she cried, ushering him inside.  “Oh my God, are you all right?!”

Hiram was out of breath and sweaty and reeking, one lens of his glasses cracked and his clothes badly in need of a wash.  There was dirt smudged on his face and a scabbed-over cut on his arm, the ripped sleeve stained brown with old blood.  “Please tell me you’ve got water,” he said.

“Yeah, of course.”  Carole sat him down on one of the chairs at the little kitchen table, and retrieved a water bottle from the refrigerator (it wasn’t keeping anything cold, but it still functioned as a storage space).  “What happened to you?!”

Hiram leaned back against the wall behind his chair, sucking down half the bottle’s contents in just a few gulps.  “I got stuck in Cleveland when the blackout happened,” he said, placing his glasses on the table and rubbing a palm over his face.  “I had to walk back.”

Carole stared at him.  “You… you walked?  From Cleveland?”

He nodded, still out of breath.  “I was going to just try to make it home in the next hour, but I felt like I was going to pass out and you guys were only a block away.  I am too old to be doing this.”

“Hiram, how long have you been walking?”

“Four days.”  He drew another long swig of water, wincing as he swallowed too much at once.  “Where’s Burt?”

“He went downtown to pick up supplies,” Carole replied.  She shook her head abruptly, as if coming to her senses.  “I’m so sorry — are you hungry?  Can I get you some food?”  It was funny how even in the worst of times, traditional routines of hospitality still remained.

“If I could have just a snack — a granola bar, orange, I’m not picky,” Hiram flapped a hand.  “I’d be grateful.”

“You sure you don’t need more than that?” Carole asked skeptically, handing him two apples out of the nearly empty fruit bowl on the counter.

“It’s enough to get me home,” Hiram said, hungrily digging his teeth into one of them.  The juice dribbled down his chin as he chewed noisily, barely stopping for breath.

Carole sat down in the chair opposite from him.  “You know, Hiram, you’re welcome to stay the night.  You could get some rest before heading home.”

Hiram shook his head, chewing thoughtfully.  “That’s alright; there’s a few good hours of daylight left and I don’t want to leave Leroy in the lurch for any longer than I already have,” he declined politely.  “It’s not right that all three of us were separated.”

Carole’s stomach lurched for what felt like the thousandth time as anxiety about Kurt’s conditions stabbed through her chest.  “Have you heard anything from Rachel?” she asked, expecting nothing.

Hiram was silent, shaking his head.

Carole then became keenly aware of the wound in Hiram’s arm, a wave of guilt washing over her since she — an Emergency Room nurse — hadn’t asked to see it.  As Hiram continued to eat his apple, she reached over and pulled his sleeve back where it had been torn.  “What happened?”

A shadow passed over Hiram’s face.  “I got attacked by a group of guys outside Norwalk,” he said darkly.  “I think they wanted my wallet, but I’m not sure.  They had knives.”

“Oh my God,” Carole breathed, holding Hiram’s arm straight across the table so that she could study it more closely.  “How did you get away?”

He didn’t respond for a heavy, pregnant moment.  “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said at last.

As night rapidly swept in over the city and plunged them into darkness, Rachel yawned, pulling her sweater tighter around her torso and pressing herself deeper into the couch cushions in the hopes of warming her body up a few degrees.  April had never been the warmest time of year in New York, and without the building’s central heating the loft was stuck at a temperature several degrees below comfortable, especially at night.  Rachel shivered and yanked a blanket off the arm of the couch, draping it over her legs and hissing in pain as her injured foot was jostled slightly.

“You okay?” Dani asked.  She was curled up in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, wrapped up in a blanket of her own and reading by the light of the kerosene lamp.  She was the only one besides Rachel who was still awake.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rachel waved her off, yawning again.  It felt like it was midnight already, but the sun had vanished barely two hours ago and it couldn’t be any later than eight-thirty.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Dani suggested.

“I’m fine,” Rachel repeated, choosing not to explain that she hated lying in the dark all by herself.  If she fell asleep here, at least she wouldn’t be alone.  Besides, with her inability to walk she’d been spending so much time on the couch that it was starting to feel like her bed anyways.

“Well,” Dani said, sitting up and clapping her book shut.  “I’m exhausted, so I will head to bed.”  She dropped the book onto the coffee table and stretched as she stood up.

“Can you leave the lamp?” Rachel requested.

Dani shrugged and bid her a good night, heading past Rachel and disappearing behind Santana’s curtain.

Rachel sighed, watching the lamp’s flame flicker inside the glass chimney, and wondered why she’d never found shadows so intimidating before.  They scared her now — dancing and distending and twisting across the walls of the loft — and she felt like a child.  The loft was much too large now, the walls too far apart and leaving too much room for her fears to sneak in and crowd the place.

It was almost laughable how hell-bent she’d been on coming to New York, and now it seemed like the city had swallowed her up like some beast that preyed on young girls and their dreams of stardom.  She never thought she’d say this in a million years, but after this past week she’d decided that New York was her least favorite place in the world.  She missed her dads and her house and her suffocatingly familiar town, and she ached for the safety of her childhood bedroom and her insignificance.  She’d come to New York to be someone noteworthy, and the rug had been ripped out from under her feet, throwing her into the shadowed pit with everyone else in the godforsaken city.  Being stuck on the couch, unable to walk without crutches and even less able to contribute by going out to scavenge for provisions, had shattered her importance.

Their plan to take Rachel to the hospital had quickly been abandoned days ago — Kurt and Santana had passed by the closest one during a supply run and had found it overwhelmed, crammed wall-to-wall with more severely injured patients and not nearly enough staff.  The generators for the hospital weren't working, either, so the entire place was running purely by sunlight.  No light, no hot water, no incoming medical supplies.  Rachel was certain there was no point in going.  She'd be low on the list of priorities, and had a feeling that she might be just as likely to walk away with a nasty infection as a healed foot.

Rachel shook her head, forcing her thoughts to subside for the time being, and reached over to grab Dani’s book from the table.  She wasn’t tired, and her lack of fatigue combined with her over-abundance of boredom made her much more interested in literature than she’d ever been before.  They didn’t have many books around the apartment, but the few books they did have at least provided entertainment — even The Coffee Table Book Of Coffee Tables, which Burt had given to Kurt while under the mistaken impression that Kurt actually liked Seinfeld.

Dani’s book was well worn and the spine had been bent backwards so many times that it didn’t stay closed on its own, and it was difficult to make out the title in the dim light of the lamp, but Rachel was able to squint and read the two words printed in large font on the cover: Cat’s Cradle.

She quickly put the book back on the table, feeling sick.

There was a rustling from behind her, and Rachel turned her head to see Santana’s silhouette brush past her curtain and walk slowly through the kitchen.  Rachel frowned, worry tugging at the back of her mind.  Santana pulled the window to the fire escape open and bent to slide through, disappearing out onto the landing.

Rachel swallowed, not sure if she should see if Santana was okay.  She and Kurt had returned an hour before sunset, shaking and terrified with nothing in their backpacks.  Kurt had managed to explain that there were animals on the loose from the zoo, but Santana had been eerily quiet all evening, mostly staying behind her curtain and avoiding conversation.  Being attacked by a pack of hyenas would have traumatized anyone, but Santana seemed like she’d lapsed into shock.

Screw it.

Rachel snatched her crutches from where they rested against the arm of the couch and heaved herself up, hobbling away from the lamp and the warm light it provided.  Limping through the kitchen, she leaned down to squint through the window, barely able to see anything outside.

“Santana?” she called softly, and saw the vague shadow of Santana’s head turn.  She was sitting on the stairs leading up to the roof.  “Are you okay?”

Rachel heard a sniff.  “I didn’t know you were still up,” Santana replied, her voice thick.

Rachel decided not to comment that the lamp still being lit was more than noticeable, and instead leaned her crutches against the wall next to the window.  Balancing on her good foot and the toes of the other, she carefully wormed her way through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, immediately feeling a shiver shoot up her spine as her bare feet met the cold air.  Once she was on the landing outside, she gripped the railing and sank down to sit next to Santana, blinking repeatedly as she tried to force her eyes to adjust to the dark.

“What’s wrong?”

Santana sniffed again, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.  “I just… I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” she confessed.

Rachel’s heart twisted in her chest, and she wrapped one arm around Santana’s shoulders, hugging her tightly from the side and fully expecting Santana to push her off.  To Rachel’s surprise, however, Santana instead leaned into the embrace, using Rachel’s shoulder for support.  Rachel could feel Santana’s body shuddering and she wished she could give some advice, but even if Rachel had always thought herself to be smarter than most of her friends, Santana had always been wiser.  Rachel had nothing to offer.

Rather than try to give some clichéd pep talk that she knew would sound completely hokey and not at all honest, Rachel instead reached with her other arm to complete the hug, clasping her hands around Santana’s shoulder.  Santana collapsed against her, silently crying in a way Rachel had never seen before.  This wasn’t Santana being upset over yet another relationship falling apart, or whimpering to manipulate a teacher into giving her a higher grade.  This was grief, pure and simple.

“I miss my mom,” Santana choked.

“I miss my dads,” Rachel agreed softly, tightening her arms around Santana’s frame.  She ran a hand over Santana’s hair, not knowing what else to say.

Before she could even try to come up with some other words of sympathy or comfort, however, the earsplitting noise of a gunshot cracking harshly through the air made the two of them jerk upright, pulling apart.  Rachel gripped Santana’s hand tightly, her eyes wide in the dark.  Santana had gone rigid, and Rachel felt Santana’s skin run cold.  The shot couldn’t have been more than a block away.

A second later, a woman screamed somewhere out in the darkness, and another two shots rang out, cutting the scream off abruptly.  Santana flinched, her breath shuddering out of her lungs.

Rachel tried to fight back a sudden wave of tears, but failed and instead gritted her teeth to keep a sob from escaping her mouth.

“Kurt was right,” Santana whispered, her voice trembling.  “We can’t stay here.”

Chapter Text

Although he would never admit it aloud to Mercedes, Puck didn't have a vocabulary versatile enough to describe just how glad he was that he'd run into her. As the rest of the world had fallen into shambles, he'd managed to get out of Los Angeles relatively unscathed (plus he was rather proud of his own street smarts in seeking out the stable in Pasadena to get a horse), but ultimately, this past week had been without a doubt the most terrifying period of his life. Of course, he'd never admit that to Mercedes either. But amidst all the chaos and confusion of the blackout, now that there was a familiar face to travel with everything seemed a little less unmanageable.

Since they'd met up, Puck had let Mercedes ride in the saddle to let her blistered feet have some relief — not to mention give his own ass a rest from being numb. His legs were sore after riding for three days, and it felt good to be walking again, even if now he was traveling much slower. He strode alongside Mercedes and Mr. T (well… Mrs. T, as Mercedes had pointed out, even though it completely killed the badass-ness of the name), guiding the horse along by the reins while Mercedes watched the scenery go by.

"I think I've gone bowlegged," Puck remarked, stretching his knees as he walked.

Mercedes laughed from her perch on Mr. T's back. "Already? After what, three days?"

"Maybe," he chuckled. It had only been a week, but it felt like much, much longer since the last time Puck had felt safe enough to laugh at a joke. It was refreshing to do so again.

"Hold on, pull over," Mercedes said. "I have to pee."

Puck tugged gently on the reins, letting Mr. T come to a standstill before reaching up to give Mercedes a hand down from the saddle. She landed next to him with a slight oof , cringing as she stood again on her blistered soles.

"If I'm not back in five minutes, send a search party," she joked dryly as she limped off the shoulder of the road, disappearing behind a clump of shrubs.

As Puck waited with Mr. T, he watched a small lizard zigzag across the pavement, it's tongue flicking out to scoop up a few ants as it went. A soft breeze rustled through the sparse trees lining the road, and in the distance there was the high-pitched screech of a falcon. A few sparrows twittered nearby.

"Hurry up!" Puck called. He scratched at his shoulder where his sunburned skin was beginning to peel.

"Shut the hell up and let me do my business," Mercedes shouted back.

Puck laughed to himself, patting Mr. T's nose as she nuzzled his chest. "Nice for you to have some girl company, huh?" he said to her. She blew a heavy gust of air out of her nostrils in response, chewing noisily on her bit. "Yeah, I thought so." He reached up and brushed his palm over her neck to give her a scratch, his hand coming away dusty and covered in dirt. He'd have to find something to give Mr. T a good brushing with when they set up camp later.

"Okay, seriously, how long does it take you to pee?" Puck yelled.

There was only silence in response. The falcon called again somewhere overhead.

"Mercedes!" Puck called, frowning. What the hell was taking her so long?

There was then a low rumble reverberating through the air from the west, almost like thunder but with a deeper, lower echo. The earth under Puck's feet shivered, and his gaze snapped upwards as a cloud of birds suddenly took flight from the trees, all screeching and flapping in a frenzy. Mr. T snorted and sidestepped nervously, pawing the ground with her hoof.

"Mercedes!" Puck shouted again, his palms beginning to sweat. "Come on, we need to go!"

There was another roll of thunder from under Puck's feet, and the earth began to shake in earnest, nearly making Puck lose his balance. He barely managed to keep his grip on Mr. T's reins. The mare let out a shrill whinny, her eyes wide enough to see the whites, and Puck desperately tugged on her reins in an attempt to keep her steady. The ground continued to buck and shudder underfoot.

"Puck!" Mercedes was standing over by the bushes, her hands out to the side as she tried not to fall.

"Come on!" Puck bellowed, quickly circling around Mr. T to grab the saddle and hoist himself up. Mercedes began to run towards them, staggering and stumbling this way and that as the ground rolled. Puck reached his hand down for her to grab.

There was a tremendous cracking boom as a tree nearby lost its grip on its roots and crashed into the ground, branches snapping and scattering across the road behind Puck. Mr. T shrieked, rearing up on her hind legs and forcing Puck to lurch forward and wrap his arms around her neck to keep from falling off. The heavy tree trunk rolled downhill and away from them, and the ground roared .

"Puck!" Mercedes lost her balance and landed hard on her side.

"Mercedes!" Puck steadied himself on Mr. T's back, reaching out again. "Come on, get up! Get up!"

"Help me!"

Another tree collided with the earth, groaning as it was ripped out of the soil.

"COME ON!" Puck held his hand out further as Mercedes tried and failed to stand.

There was a terrifying, deafening bellow from underneath the ground, drowning out Mercedes' screams and Puck's shouts. Trees began to drop in a horrific domino effect, collapsing one after the other.

And then the earth wrenched open, tearing apart in a massive rift swallowing trees and rocks and half the road. The pavement cracked beneath Mr. T's hooves and Puck had to scramble to hold on as the horse bolted in a full gallop.

"No, no, no!" Puck cried, grappling for the reins. But no matter how hard he pulled and screamed for his horse to stop, she refused to slow. Puck twisted to look over his shoulder, where the road had disappeared, sucked downwards into the bowels of the earth.

Mercedes had managed to get back on her feet and was racing after him, the dry soil cracking and splitting underfoot. The ground shifted, tilting back into the gaping hole behind her, and in an instant, she was gone.

Puck sat bolt upright, his chest heaving and his skin drenched in a cold sweat. It was dark except for the flickering light of the campfire, and the few embers floating upwards into the night air. Puck coughed, his lungs burned and dry from hyperventilating, and tried to calm himself down with a few deep breaths (only succeeding in making himself cough again).

"Are you okay?"

Puck sighed, avoiding Mercedes' gaze. "Yeah, I'm all right."

"You were mumbling in your sleep," she said flatly. "Something about an earthquake?"

"I'm fine," he insisted, still slightly disoriented. He gave his head a shake. "Just a nightmare."

Mercedes raised an eyebrow at him from her seat on the other side of the fire, but didn't press him further. She was sitting cross-legged, staring into the flames and looking mildly bored.

"Can't you sleep?" he asked, brushing some dirt off of Mr. T's saddle, which Puck was using as a (very uncomfortable) pillow. Mr. T herself was currently tied to a tree behind Mercedes, munching on some blades of grass growing around her hooves.

Mercedes shrugged.

Puck sat up a little straighter, twisting to face the fire and wrap his arms around his knees. Mercedes threw a few more sticks onto the charcoals. They were both quiet for a minute, watching the flames eat away at the new fuel, until Mercedes broke the silence.

"So… where were you?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"When it happened," she clarified, toying with a small piece of kindling between her fingers. "Where were you? What were you doing?"

Puck swallowed. "I was leaving a bar downtown," he said reservedly. "I'd had a couple of beers and I thought the world was ending." He scratched at the back of his neck, not wanting to explain any further, and shifted Mercedes' attention. "What about you?"

"I was on a bus."

"How'd you get home?"

"I walked. I was only a couple blocks away from my apartment."

"Lucky you," Puck said.

The kindling snapped in two in Mercedes' hand. "How did you make it home?" she pressed.

Puck's jaw clenched. He stared at his feet. "I didn't."

DAY 8

All things considered, Rachel supposed she should probably be more bitter about this entire situation than she actually was. After all, if the power hadn't gone out, then right now she would be at rehearsal for Funny Girl, possibly picking up an extra shift at the diner or maybe even doing a photoshoot, rather than trying to figure out how the hell she was supposed to pack for walking across three states on crutches. And yes, okay, technically there were only two states between them and home, but Lima was on the wrong side of Ohio, and Ohio was by no means a small state.

"Why couldn't we have been from Rhode Island?" Rachel grumbled to herself as she hobbled around her curtained-off bedroom, shoving clothes into the backpack she'd borrowed from Kurt. She felt bad for anyone in New York who was originally from Alaska.

"Rachel, hurry up!" Santana shouted from the kitchen. "We're losing daylight!"

"Hey, some of us only have one good foot," Rachel retorted.

That was another thing she should be angrier about. An injury like this would have automatically given her job to the understudy for weeks. Now, though, there was no show for her to even miss out on, and after being stuck in her apartment for more than a week with no sign of life returning to normal she was too frightened to be angry.

Dani stuck her head past Rachel's curtain. "You need help packing?" she offered.

Rachel shook her head as she pushed her thickest sweatshirt into the backpack and zipped it shut. She let out a heavy sigh, her hands squeezing the bag's straps (she was afraid to pick it up).

Dani sidled up beside her. "Are you all right?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Rachel admitted, a rock pressing against the walls of her throat.

"Me too," Dani replied, and Rachel was about ninety-nine percent sure she was only saying so to make Rachel feel better. She patted Rachel's shoulder. "Come on, we need to go."

Rachel released a huff, as if to say screw it, let's just do this and get it over with, and grabbed her crutches from where they were leaning against the foot of her bed. Dani picked up her backpack, already making a beeline for the kitchen where they were piling all the luggage to take with them. Rachel hung back for a moment, casting a dispirited glance over her (cozy, comfortable, decorated, safe) bedroom. It was weird to even think about leaving all her non-essentials behind, but everything had changed and now only the essentials belonged. There was no room for extra baggage.

She reached over to pick up a picture frame from her bureau, of herself and her dads at her eighth birthday party, all with face paint and party hats. There was confetti in their hair and Rachel had gold star stickers covering her cheeks as she gave a sparkly grin to the camera. The photograph was non-essential, but at the thought of leaving it Rachel's stomach gave a painful twist, so she slid it out of the frame and folded it in half, tucking it into the breast pocket of her jacket. It wasn't edible and it wouldn't keep her warm, it wouldn't help her survive — but then again, maybe it would. She refused to look at her empty bedroom a second time, instead limping out of the room and yanking the curtain shut behind her.

In the kitchen, there were backpacks and shoulder bags piled on the table and Dani and Santana were hurriedly tying their hair up to keep it out of the way. Kurt was running yet another check-through of the contents of his backpack, making absolute sure he had every necessity and muttering lists of items to himself as he did so.

Rachel frowned at the table. "There are seven bags."

Santana looked at her askance. "And?"

"And there are four of us."

"We're each carrying two," Dani replied, pulling the drawstring on her tote shut. "You're taking one."

"Benefits of being the cripple," Santana quipped.

It was probably supposed to be a joke, but it only made Rachel feel useless and crappier than she had all morning. "I'm not a cripple," she said.

"Rachel, you're carrying one bag," Kurt insisted, sounding like Rachel was the last thing he had time for. "That's the way we're doing it. Here." He picked up her tightly stuffed backpack and pushed it over her arms.

Rachel only gritted her teeth and struggled to tighten the pack's straps without dropping her crutches.

"Kurt, you've got the stove in your bag, right?" Dani asked.

He nodded, almost absentmindedly as he tried to manage a thousand tiny tasks at once. "Yeah, I got it." He patted his pack anxiously. "Okay, we might be good to go."

Rachel's stomach clenched. This was all abruptly becoming very, very real.

Kurt, Dani, and Santana all heaved their luggage onto their backs and shoulders. Rachel swallowed, fighting back tears as she looked over her shoulder at the rest of the apartment. The living room was still full of their possessions — their movies, their books, their blankets and pillows and chairs — and they were only material things, but Rachel had always been materialistic and it felt wrong to be leaving everything behind. She wanted nothing more than to scream that they couldn't just go, that they needed to stay and wait for everything to get better, but they'd been through that conversation too many times already.

"We ready?" Dani asked, hooking her thumbs into the straps of her backpack.

The group fell silent for a few long seconds, glancing around the apartment that was too empty and not empty enough all at once.

"I think so," Kurt sighed. "Let's go."

As the four of them closed the apartment door with a resounding, final thunk and descended the curving stairwell to the street, Rachel trailed slowly behind, shuffling down the stairs as best she could without jostling her bandaged foot within her shoe. She found the others waiting for her outside the front door and she immediately felt another wave of tears prick her eyes. They'd barely even left the building and they were already waiting for her to catch up.

"Are you ready?" said Kurt. Rachel had lost track of how many times that question had been asked today, but every time she heard it, it sounded a little more like whoever was asking just wanted a reason to stay.

"Yes," Rachel lied.

"We'll go slow," he promised. He stepped off the curb, heading across the street with the girls in tow.

"Aren't you at all nervous about this?" Rachel finally got up the courage to ask, hobbling quickly to keep up.

"Well, yeah," Kurt replied over his shoulder, squinting in the sunlight. "But I'm more nervous about staying, so…" He trailed off.

"Keep your eyes peeled for hyenas," Santana remarked bitterly. (Dani suddenly looked furtively over her shoulder, as if she'd forgotten until now about Kurt and Santana's run-in with the zoo escapees.)

A chill ran over Rachel's skin as she craned her neck to gaze ahead, past Kurt and Santana and Dani, to where the street looked so much longer, so much wider, and so much more treacherous than it ever had before. She shivered, goosebumps erupting over her skin as a warm spring breeze rustled by.

"Crap!" Dani suddenly cried, turning on her toes and racing back down the block to the apartment.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?!" Kurt shouted after her, his voice ricocheting off the buildings and down the deserted street. "Dani!"

"I forgot my watch!" she called, not even slowing down to answer.

Kurt frowned, throwing his arms out to the sides in annoyance as she disappeared back inside. "She forgot her watch," he muttered.

"Shut the hell up, Kurt," Santana snapped. "You late for a job interview or something?"

"No, but I'd like to be in New Jersey by sunset," he retorted, carding through his dirty hair with his fingernails.

Rachel huffed. "I always wanted to avoid New Jersey."

"Didn't we all?" Santana agreed flatly.

Dani reappeared from the door, clutching her watch in her hand and dashing across the road.

"You run like Cary Grant," Kurt remarked as Dani bounded up to them, out of breath and with strands of hair already falling out of place.

She glared at him, panting as she buckled the watch around her wrist. "I'll take that as a compliment," she countered evenly. "Okay, come on. Let's go."

Rachel's palms began to sweat around the handles of her crutches, but she managed to limp along behind them as they walked. The four of them meandered through the streets clogged with abandoned cars, trash, and debris from looted storefronts. And as the wind whistled between the quiet skyscrapers overhead, they headed west.

Blaine grunted slightly as he pushed the no-longer-automatic supermarket door open, gritting his teeth at the harsh scraping sound of the door's ball bearings screeching against each other (it was sitting too crookedly for the bearings to work properly), and then ducked through the gap he'd made. His mother, in jeans and a t-shirt instead of her regular pencil skirts and cardigans for the first time since the blackout, followed suit and wrapped her hand around his upper arm nervously.

"Are you sure there won't be anybody else in here?" she said under her breath. The supermarket was quiet and dark, the shelves almost entirely emptied, and there was an eerie quality to the air inside — almost like a graveyard.

"No," Blaine replied. "But I don't hear anything. I think we're okay for now."

It was odd, Blaine thought, how the moment disaster struck, the first thing to disappear from people's grasp was trust. Everyone was afraid of everyone. He wondered what purpose that could possibly serve for survival.

As Blaine and Pamela walked deeper into the supermarket, the air slowly turned thick and foul. Blaine grimaced and began to breathe through his mouth, which didn't help much and only made his breath taste sour and rotten.

"Ugh, what is that?" Pamela whispered, her hand clamped over her nose.

"I don't know," Blaine replied, gagging. "Come on, let's just get what we need and head back home." This place was beginning to feel less like a graveyard and more like a coffin. It was making him nervous, and he wasn't sure if it was the awful rotting fetor or something else a little less tangible that was causing his stomach to churn.

Unzipping their backpacks, Blaine and Pamela gradually zig-zagged through the aisles. They collected anything on the shelves that hadn't been taken already — a few cans of soup here, a couple boxes of granola bars there, a jug of nearly expired grape juice — and as Blaine dropped the items into his pack he tried not to think about what would happen once everything truly ran out for good. Maybe the power would be back by then.

"Blaine," Pamela hissed to get his attention. She nodded her head toward the rear of the store. "Let's check the back."

Blaine quickly closed his bag and followed her down the aisle toward the dairy section, but slowed as a low, buzzing hum reached his ears. "Hold on, do you hear that?" he whispered, a hand on Pamela's shoulder.

Pamela nodded, swallowing audibly. The hum almost sounded electric, like power lines or an old air conditioner, and for a moment Blaine was hopeful that they'd somehow stumbled onto a tiny pocket of the world where the power hadn't completely vanished. But then they rounded the corner, and Pamela let out a gasp of disgust as a wall of stench slammed into them. The buzzing sound swelled to almost deafening (or maybe it was amplified in Blaine's ears), and he gagged again, fighting the urge to vomit.

Clouding the air surrounding the butcher's counter was the largest swarm of black flies Blaine had ever seen. The butcher's display case was full of rotten cuts of meat — steaks crawling with squirming maggots and filets turned to unhealthy colors and secreting white slime. The flies were so numerous that Blaine could barely see the wall behind them, with the large sign in cheery white letters: FRESH DAILY! To the left of the butcher's, the seafood counter was in even worse condition.

"…I don't think I'll be eating again this week," Pamela said.

"I'm going vegetarian from now on," Blaine agreed, his lip curled. He now felt a very strong need to take a hot shower. "Come on, let's see if we can find anything in the frozen food section."

As they quickly skirted away from the decomposing meats and fish and left the flies to their feast, the hairs on the back of Blaine's neck abruptly stood on end — something was different. He gently gripped his mother's arm, stopping her in her tracks, and held a finger to his lips, listening as best he could. He wasn't sure what exactly made him think they were no longer alone, but his suspicions were confirmed when there was suddenly a loud crash down an aisle a little ways ahead. Pamela flinched, grabbing Blaine's shirtsleeve.

Blaine edged past the next couple of aisles, having absolutely no idea of what he was going to find, and stopped short when he saw what had caused the noise. Behind him, Pamela let out a whispered "Oh my God…"

A young girl was standing in the aisle, dropping items into a shopping cart that was too large for her to be pushing. She couldn't have been older than eleven, a thin wisp of a child with her dirty brown hair pulled back in a sloppily tied braid and a few brightly colored hairpins stuck asymmetrically on her head. The crash had presumably been caused by her accidently pushing her cart into a small cardboard stand for displaying razors and had knocked it over, leaving it keeled on its side with its contents scattered across the floor.

"Um, excuse me—" Blaine started. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, the girl's head whipped up to see him and his mother. Without any hesitation, she abandoned the cart and made a run for it, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she dashed down the aisle and disappeared around the corner. "Hey, wait!" Blaine called, running after her. "We're not going to hurt—"

He skidded to a stop when he saw that the girl wasn't on her own and had run straight back to her partner. Blaine's jaw dropped open.

"…Artie?!"

Artie jumped, gripping the wheels of his chair like he'd been ready to make a run for it too before Blaine had appeared in front of him. "Oh my God, Blaine—"

Blaine didn't wait for Artie to finish his sentence, crossing the last couple of feet between them and leaning down to engulf Artie in a hug. "I'm so glad you're okay," he said once he pulled back.

"You too," Artie said, coughing to clear his throat (he sounded like he was about to cry). "Uh, sorry, this is my sister Caitlin," he added, gesturing to where the girl was standing rigidly behind him, staring warily at Blaine and Pamela.

Blaine gave an awkward wave. "Hi," he said. "Sorry I scared you."

Caitlin didn't reply.

Blaine studied Artie, realizing that the last time he'd seen that haunted look on Artie's face was when they'd been trapped in the choir room, thinking there was a gunman in the school. Artie's eyes were reddened and bloodshot, though Blaine couldn't tell if it was from crying or exhaustion — or both — and there were bruises on his cheek and forehead. His lip had been split (and now that Blaine noticed, there were some nasty-looking bruises on Caitlin's face and arms too). There were streaks of dirt on all of Artie's exposed skin, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose.

"Where have you been since the blackout?" Artie asked, picking at a scab on his knuckles.

"At home, mostly," Blaine replied, scratching at the back of his head and noticing for what probably the first time how dirty his own hair was. Now that he was in the presence of people other than his parents, he was suddenly self-conscious again. "Just trying to stay safe."

"Same," Artie nodded. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and Blaine saw that Artie's fingertips were shaking. "Um, Caitlin, can you go check the pasta aisle and see if there's anything left there?"

Caitlin gave Artie a questioning look, not moving.

"It's fine, I'll be right here," he assured her.

She pursed her mouth, but did as he said, brushing past Blaine and Pamela and walking away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Artie spoke. "Has your house been broken into?"

Blaine glanced at his mother in confusion for a second. "No."

"Ours was," Artie said, his fingers nervously tapping on the arm of his chair. "This group of people just… broke our front door down. They ransacked the place. We couldn't stop them."

"Oh my God, Artie, I'm — I'm so sorry—" Blaine said, but Artie cut him off again.

"Caitlin's been having nightmares, and neither of us can sleep. We're not safe at home," he continued, his voice tinged with desperation. "I can't — I can't make Caitlin stay there, but we have nowhere else to go, and—"

Blaine realized what Artie was asking before he said it, and quickly nodded. "There's plenty of room for you at our house. Right, Mom?"

Pamela bit her lip, clearly hesitant about inviting almost-total strangers into her home. "Well, um… how many of you are there?" she asked.

"Just me and Caitlin, nobody else. We don't even have a dog."

Pamela blinked, taken aback by the statement. "Where are your parents?"

Artie swallowed, his jaw twitching for a moment, and Blaine's heart sank. "They're not here."

"Oh," Pamela said. "Then yes, of course, you can come stay with us. You're more than welcome."

Blaine didn't know how he was expecting Artie to react, but he definitely was not expecting Artie to begin crying. Artie took off his glasses to quickly swipe at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Thank you," he said brokenly. "Thank you so much."

It took Kurt and the girls a little more than three hours to walk from Bushwick, cross the East River, and eventually make it to the west shore of Manhattan. There, the four of them stood atop the concrete bank and looked out across the Hudson to New Jersey, all feeling much further from home than they really were.

"I don't suppose there's a ferry running?" Rachel spoke up nervously, more out of breath than the rest of them from limping the entire distance from home on one leg.

"If by ferry you mean rowboat," Dani said dryly, squinting across the quiet, empty waters. "But that's a big maybe."

Kurt turned away from the river, his eyes scanning the road signs within view. "We'll have to take the Holland Tunnel," he said. "Come on, this way."

A flock of seagulls screeched overhead, and Rachel paused, still searching the water for any signs of a boat. "That's two miles underground…" she said quietly.

Santana rolled her eyes. Now was not the time for claustrophobia. "If you want to swim across the Hudson, be our guest," she declared brusquely.

Rachel bit her lip, but turned and limped down from the curb as the group crossed back across West Street, heading for the underground ramp descending into the Holland Tunnel five blocks away. For several minutes, none of them talked; the only sounds were the repeated clunking of Rachel's crutches on the pavement, the seagulls swooping and calling out over the water, and the spring afternoon wind blowing in from the river. But then a shout from behind them made all four of them stop in their tracks.

"Hey!"

All four of them exchanged bewildered glances — they'd passed plenty of people already that day, but every stranger they encountered was nervous and furtive, hyper-aware and suspicious, and absolutely no one had spoken to them. In unison, they turned to see who had shouted, and spotted a police officer half-jogging toward them.

Santana almost wanted to laugh. First sign of government authority since the blackout, and it was one measly cop all on his own who looked like he'd barely graduated from the police academy a week ago.

"Hey!" he shouted again. "Where do you kids think you're going?"

The officer was way too young to be calling them kids.

"…Sorry?" Kurt said, hefting his backpack on his shoulders as the officer stopped in front of them.

"I've been instructed to encourage everyone to stay indoors where it's safe," announced the policeman, resting his hands on his utility belt. "You should head back home and wait for rescue."

"Rescue," Kurt said, his voice and his expression equally flat. "Uh-huh. Sir, it's been a week and there's been absolutely nothing outside except for looters and animals that got out of the zoo. All due respect, but this city is a death trap."

The officer's face faltered for a second, but he took a breath and recited again, "I've been told to encourage you to stay in your homes."

Santana grimaced, fed up with the policeman already. "Told by who?"

"Mayor De Blasio."

"Well, I didn't vote for him," she snapped. "We're leaving."

"Hey!" the officer called as they immediately began walking in the opposite direction. "You need to go home!"

"Or what?" Santana retorted over her shoulder, refusing to even slow down to speak. "You'll tase us? Haul us off in your cop car? Have fun with that."

As the four of them headed to the Holland Tunnel and left the young police officer stunned in his tracks, Santana could have sworn she saw a savage smile cross Kurt's features. Perhaps they'd be okay after all. They were tougher than she'd thought.

The sun was beginning to set as Puck and Mercedes (and Mr. T) rounded a bend in the highway and stopped short as the hills previously blocking their eastward view dropped away, leaving them to stare at a vast expand of brown, empty land stretching out so far they could almost see the curve of the earth on the horizon. The sun was sinking low and blood red behind them, leaving the sky a blaze of oranges and pinks and blues with not a cloud in sight. Mercedes half-expected to see abandoned cow skulls and rolling tumbleweeds like there were in old Warner Brothers cartoons.

"Is that…?" she started.

Puck nodded grimly, letting out a heavy breath as if he was readying himself to jump off a cliff. "Yeah," he said. "The Mojave."

Chapter Text

DAY 9

Artie woke up before sunrise to the sound of rain pounding the windows of the Andersons' living room. He propped himself up on his elbows, adjusting the few couch cushions he was using as pillows, and wished he could see something — anything. There was no light inside (they'd had a few candles lit earlier, but had extinguished them before going to sleep) and with rain clouds obscuring the sky outside, there was no moon or starlight to cast even the slightest shadow. Artie waved his hand in front of his face, feeling it brush his nose, but was unable to see it in the pitch black.

He sighed and laid back into the couch again, restlessness tugging at his bones but knowing that without any light he wouldn't be able to get up and into his chair. He let his hand fall off the edge of the sofa and reached down to fumble in the dark for Caitlin, who was sleeping on the floor next to him in a borrowed sleeping bag, and felt her shoulder. Pamela had offered the second-floor guest bedroom to them both, but Artie wasn't able to get up and down the stairs and Caitlin absolutely refused to leave his side, and the living room was the most convenient option. Once he was satisfied that Caitlin was still breathing beside him, he drew his hand back under the covers.

Artie's stomach churned and twisted and he fidgeted incessantly beneath his blankets, hating the fact that he was trapped on a couch in the dark. Even with his handicap, he'd still always been active and had never thought of himself as restricted. And now, he was confined to a single piece of furniture in an unfamiliar house, left to imagine all sorts of dangers closing in on him in the dark.

Stuck in this state of constant anxiety was how Artie stayed for hours while the rain battered the house and the windows slowly, finally grew lighter in the dreary dawn. As the sun rose unseen behind the thick cloud cover, the living room gradually filled with hollow grey light, and a chill ran over Artie's skin. He shivered and pulled the blankets more tightly around his shoulders, watching the rain pour down the window panes in torrents. He thought about getting up, but his chair was on the other side of where Caitlin was sleeping and he would have to wake her up in order to reach it.

Eventually there was a rustling behind him — the sound of slipper-clad feet on hardwood — and Pamela walked through the living room, heading toward the kitchen. She glanced down at Artie and Caitlin to check on them, and stopped when she realized Artie was awake.

"Good morning," she whispered, adjusting the tie on her robe. "How'd you sleep?"

Artie gave her a thumbs-up, not wanting to disturb Caitlin, but his sister stirred and lifted her head anyway. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"Morning," Pamela repeated, no longer whispering. "You guys want some breakfast? We have Pop Tarts and I think some cereal, but no milk. Caitlin, would you like a Pop Tart?"

Caitlin didn't speak.

"She's shy," Artie said awkwardly, knowing full well that shyness had very little to do with it. "Pop Tarts sound great, thanks."

Pamela smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Hey, Cait, can you bring my chair over?" Artie requested once Pamela was gone, patting Caitlin's shoulder. Caitlin yawned and stood up, pushing Artie's chair close to the couch and helping him sit up and swing his legs over the edge. From there, Artie heaved himself into the seat, then grabbed his glasses off of the coffee table that had been moved back to make room for Caitlin's sleeping bag.

A heavy clumping noise made Artie look over toward the stairwell by the front door, where Blaine was putting on a pair of rain boots and a raincoat. He gave Artie a wave in greeting.

"What are you doing?" Artie asked.

Blaine zipped up his coat, tugging the hood up over his mussed hair. "We're running low on water, so I'm going to get some buckets from the tool shed," he explained. "We can collect some rain."

Artie nodded. "Smart."

"See you in a bit," Blaine said, and ducked out into the downpour. The door thumped shut behind him.

Artie grabbed his sweater from where he'd draped it over the arm of the couch and pulled it over his head, rubbing his arms to get rid of a wave of goosebumps. "Are you cold?" he said to Caitlin.

She shook her head wordlessly.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, brushing a few dirty strands of hair away from her forehead. Caitlin's hair had been pinned into a braid with the same barrettes for almost a week straight — it was his own doing, but he'd never had to braid anything before and it was mediocre at best. Either way, it had to be so tangled at this point that he was beginning to wonder if he should just cut it off her head entirely.

She only shrugged, her lips tightening for a second before she looked away.

"Caitlin, please talk to me," he pleaded, reaching up to grip her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye again. "Come on."

Caitlin said nothing, only staring at him. She hadn't said a word since their house had been raided five days ago.

"We're safe here," he told her softly. "I promise, we're safe."

She still remained silent, but there was a grumble from her stomach. He sighed, his head dropping for a second, and he squeezed her shoulders one last time before letting go.

"Okay, let's get you some food. We can talk later."

In the kitchen, Pamela laid out untoasted Pop Tarts and dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch, wishing that they had hot water readily available so she could make coffee. But with water in short supply and the stove not working, it didn't seem worth it to heat up the little water they did have over the fireplace just for a caffeine fix.

Craning her neck to peer out the window over the sink, Pamela could see Blaine stomping out of the tool shed with a few buckets in hand, the hood of his raincoat shielding his face. She suddenly felt a wave of pride swell in her chest — so many horrible things had happened in the past nine days and she barely knew how to function any more, but Blaine was so unbelievably strong. Much stronger than she'd expected.

She looked out the other window, peering through the rain down the grassy slope behind the house to where Cooper was buried, and had to release a long, slow breath in a weak attempt to rid herself of the knot of pressure coiled in her lungs. So much had changed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and Pamela realized that she was grateful she didn't believe in God. If she had spent her life putting her faith into an omnipotent being from above, she probably would be full to the brim with nothing but rage and fury — because really, how could any of this be allowed to happen if it were in the hands of some omniscient singularity? But without anyone watching over them and without anyone to blame, Pamela was left only with her grief for one son and her pride for the other.

It was… freeing.

The sound of Artie's wheels squeaking softly on the kitchen tiles finally made Pamela turn away from the window, forcing a smile. "Pop Tarts and cereal," she said. "As promised."

Artie pulled himself up to the edge of the table, gently patting Caitlin's shoulder as she followed his lead and sat in the chair beside him. Pamela briefly wondered if she would ever hear Caitlin speak.

"Thanks, Mrs. Anderson," Artie replied politely as he poured a bowl of dry cereal for Caitlin.

For half a second, Pamela instinctively opened her mouth to tell Artie to call her by her first name, but the words caught in her throat. She heard the front door open and shut out in the foyer as Blaine came back into the house, and Pamela watched Artie giving his sister her breakfast and only one thought passed through her mind, almost startling her in its harshness:

This boy is not my family .

Blaine walked into the kitchen then, having ditched his galoshes for wool socks, and shook the rain out of his hair. "I got the buckets all set up," he announced, plopping into a chair across from Artie and grabbing a blueberry Pop Tart. "Hopefully the rain will keep up for a while."

Pamela reached over to ruffle her son's damp hair. "Thanks for doing that, sweetie."

And then, for one blissful moment, a wave of calm washed over her as the knot in her chest faded away, leaving her with only a fleetingly wonderful sense of normalcy . She wasn't sure where it came from, but her heart almost broke when Timothy leaned into the kitchen with a severe expression etched into his face and asked to speak with her privately. The calmness was shattered on the kitchen floor.

"I'll be right back," Pamela said, swallowing as she left the kids at the table and followed her husband into the living room. "What's going on?"

Tim ran a palm over his face, clearly hesitant to speak but still determined. "Pamela, when you brought Artie and Caitlin back with you yesterday…" he started, scratching at the underside of his jaw.

"What?" Pamela prompted, already suspicious of where this conversation was heading. No, she had not consulted Tim before bringing the Abrams siblings back with her and Blaine. But they weren't stray dogs she'd rescued from some alley, so surely Tim couldn't really be struggling with her decision?

Tim let out a huff. "Pamela, how much do you think we can really spare, feeding those two?"

Pamela's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"It's just that it's difficult enough to feed three people right now, we can't—"

"Those two?" Pamela echoed, drawing herself up to her full height with her spine ramrod-straight. " Those two are incapable of protecting themselves on their own. He is in a wheelchair, and she is a child ."

Tim pressed his mouth into a thin line, his jaw twitching. "I understand that—"

Pamela cut him off a second time, refusing to hear any more. "How could you even consider throwing them out?"

"Pamela, we can't…" Tim trailed off, his words catching in frustration. "Look, I know you miss Cooper, but having two more mouths to care for isn't going to—"

"You know, you're right," Pamela snapped lowly. "We should just get rid of somebody and make it easier on everyone else. So how about you walk out the front door and go fend for yourself?"

Tim held up his hands, his brow furrowing. "Now, wait, Pamela—" he stammered. "You know that's not what I meant."

Pamela crossed her arms, glaring. She had never been so angry with her husband in almost thirty years of marriage, and her outrage was boiling hotly in her stomach. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Tim huffed through his nose, carding his fingers through his hair (and were there a few more grey hairs on his temple than she'd noticed before?).

"Those two are staying," she insisted, then turned on her heel and walked back to the kitchen to join the kids, leaving Tim to his own thoughts.

They are not my family, but I won't throw them to the wolves.

The first thing Kurt was aware of through the haze of exhaustion was that a woman was shouting, loud but indecipherable and muddled to his fatigued brain as he struggled to wake up. God, his muscles were sore, and he really, really didn't want to move just yet.

An arm slapped him on the back suddenly, jolting him awake and forcing him to sit bolt upright. He didn't recognize the room he was in, and he felt dizzy and out of place. Maybe he was still half-asleep.

"Kurt, get up!" Rachel slapped her arm against his shoulder a second time, and Kurt abruptly realized that the woman he'd heard shouting at first was not, in fact, in his head and instead was standing in the doorway to their motel room, yelling profanities at the four of them.

Oh. Right. That's where they were.

"The hell makes you think you can just break in and sleep here without paying?!" the woman cried, her finger jabbing at Santana threateningly. "I don't care if you all ain't old enough to vote; I'm gonna call my boyfriend and he's gonna come here and beat you with a tire iron! Get your asses out!"

"We're going, we're going!" Dani protested, her hands held up placatingly as Rachel and Santana quickly shoved the few things that had been unpacked the night before back into their bags. "Kurt! Get UP!"

Kurt blinked, finally snapping into motion and grabbing his backpack.

The motel owner seemed hell-bent on spewing threats and curses at them constantly, barely stopping for a breath as they rushed out the door and past her. "You come back again and I swear to God Almighty, I will call the goddamn police and I will sue your asses!" she screamed after them as they ran (or limped quickly, in Rachel's case) across the motel parking lot, heading back for the road.

"Jesus," Santana muttered as the motel owner continued to yell from the doorway even after they could no longer make out what she was saying. "And people wonder why I hate New Jersey."

Kurt had to agree. Yesterday they'd made it to the western side of Newark — all the way to Morristown — but even imagining the city lit up by electricity, he hadn't seen a whole lot to impress. New Jersey sucked.

Dani squinted at her watch, her eyebrows knitting in surprise. "It's eleven o'clock already," she said. "How the hell did we sleep that long?!"

Kurt shielded his eyes from the sun, still adjusting to being awake. He was sure there were dark circles underneath his eyes, but at this point he figured personal grooming was one of his lowest priorities. "Walking for an entire day straight tends to take it out of you," he answered dryly. "Plus, it took us a long time to find the motel. We didn't get to sleep until almost midnight at least."

"Well, we need to be getting up earlier," Dani insisted. "We can't waste this much daylight again."

Rachel's crutches suddenly scraped loudly against the pavement and she nearly lost her balance, quickly catching herself by landing on the toes of her injured foot. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, wincing.

"You okay?" Kurt asked, stopping to wait for her.

"Yeah," Rachel insisted, wiping a couple drops of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. "I'm good. Just sore. Let's keep going."

She hobbled past him, catching up in a couple of steps with Dani and Santana. Kurt followed, but something was inexplicably nagging at the back of his mind. He frowned at Rachel's back, studying her and trying to figure out what was bothering him. After a minute or two, though, he saw nothing he could identify as wrong, and he shrugged it off. Everything was fine.

Carole had spent nearly all of her working life in hospitals, and she had seen plenty of crazy, horrific, and unusual things, but nothing had ever unnerved her quite as much as working in a hospital without electricity. It was dimly lit and quiet, with an oppressive hush like a graveyard that almost made Carole want to whisper every time she opened her mouth to speak. Nearly all the staff was gone, and the hospital was empty and barren on most of its floors. Carole and the four other doctors and nurses who were still coming to work despite lack of pay had laboriously carried all the remaining patients to the first floor for easier care. In the entirety of St. Rita's, there were barely thirty patients left. The rest had either been just barely well enough to go home or had been too ill to live more than a day or two without the support of machines, leaving the upper floors — mainly the ICUs, ORs, and coma wards — littered with corpses.

Sitting behind the nurses' station, Carole was reviewing the handwritten file for Mr. Prescott, the elderly man in room 10 who was slowly dying from pancreatic cancer, and trying to think of another way she could make it easier for him without taking the risk of giving him too much morphine. She wasn't coming up with anything, though, and without an electrically monitored IV drip Carole was forced to return to Mr. Prescott every couple of hours and administer another injection herself.

She sighed, wondering if she should make another round to check on the patients residing on the first floor, despite having checked on them only fifteen minutes ago. Being a nurse within the current state of things was very, very different from before, and Carole found herself obsessively checking and rechecking even the smallest of tasks. With less to keep her busy, she was left feeling jittery and restless, but at least she'd made good friends with Mary Khouri, an immunologist several years younger than Carole and one of the only two doctors still working. Social interaction was something Carole would never again take for granted.

"Well, Mr. Prescott's developed a rash," Mary announced as she approached the counter, circling around the corner and dropping into the chair next to Carole. "It's probably just a mild allergic reaction, but I need you to keep an eye on it."

"No worries," Carole said, shutting Mr. Prescott's medical file. There was nothing else she could do for him right now. "Hey, listen, I was thinking…"

Mary looked up from re-pinning her bun. "Yeah?"

"Maybe we could make signs," Carole suggested. "You know, post them up around town and let people know the hospital's still open."

Mary nodded in agreement. "That's a good idea. There's got to be some stuff in the supply closets we can use."

"We'll have to figure out a way to laminate them or something, to keep them safe from the rain."

"Hm," Mary's brows knitted and her mouth pursed in thought for a moment. "Oh! We could get a few wooden boards from the hardware store and use those."

Carole smiled. "Perfect," she said. "My husband has some spray paint in our garage — I'll bring it tomorrow."

She wasn't sure why this seemingly trivial conversation was suddenly making her so happy — after all, they were stuck in a horrible situation that actually required them to put up signs around town just to let people know there was somebody here to help — but a moment later Carole realized that it was exactly because it wasn't trivial. Yes, they were trapped in horrific circumstances that had left the top floors of the hospital a virtual graveyard of unclaimed corpses and there was no sign of anything changing soon, but the conversation itself was a small change. They were trapped, and left without help, and they were beginning to figure things out. New systems were beginning to take shape, coping with the new world and catering to their survival.

Maybe, just maybe, they'd be okay even if the power never came back.

Carole was yanked out of her thoughts as a loud bang made her and Mary jump in their seats. A man was standing on the other side of the glass door at the front of the lobby, frantically pounding it with his fist. Clutched in his other arm and clinging to his torso was a small boy.

"Is there anybody in there?! Please, I need help!" the man screamed.

Carole and Mary both leapt up from their chairs and ran toward him, yanking the sliding doors apart to let him in.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Mary demanded.

"He — he's having an asthma attack," the man pleaded. "You have to help him, please, I — I can't—"

"Sir, what's your son's name?" Carole asked as calmly as possible, leading him over to the waiting area. "Can you sit him in this chair for me?"

The man set his son down in one of the visitors' seats as Carole directed. "His name is Ph-Phillip," he said, brushing the boy's hair back from his flushed and sweaty face. The boy was wheezing terribly, his mouth open as he fought to draw air into his chest.

"I'll go find an inhaler," Mary said, sprinting out of the room.

Carole unwound her stethoscope from where it hung on her neck. "And how old is he?" she asked.

"Eight." The father wrapped his shaking fingers around Phillip's hand. "It started two hours ago, and-and his inhaler ran out last week, please tell me he'll be okay—"

"Dr. Khouri's getting him an inhaler now, it shouldn't be more than a minute or two," Carole said, sticking the eartips of her stethoscope into her ears. "Until then, I need you to help me keep him calm. Okay, Phillip, sweetie, can you hear me?"

Phillip nodded, panting and unable to speak.

"Everything's going to be just fine," she promised. She lifted the boy's shirt and pressed the stethoscope diaphragm to the side of his torso. She could hear the air hissing thinly through his lungs, choked off and tight, and even louder, his heart was racing like a rabbit's. His ribs were desperately expanding and compressing as much as they could while his lungs refused to open.

"His heart rate is fast, but I don't hear any arrhythmia," Carole said, dropping her stethoscope onto the chair next to him.

"Is that good?" Phillip's father asked shakily.

"It's a good sign," Carole answered. She placed her palms flat against Phillip's bare chest. "Sweetie, Dr. Khouri's coming back very soon with an inhaler for you, but right now can you just try to breathe with me? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just try to breathe as slow as you can."

Carole drew a deep breath in through her nose, coaching Phillip as he struggled for oxygen. She pressed on his ribs with every exhale, and gently forced his ribs to squeeze the breath out to make room for new air.

Mary came rushing back into the waiting area then, an inhaler clutched in her hand, and she dropped to her knees next to Carole.

"You're doing great, Finn," Carole assured him as Mary held the inhaler to his mouth. "Just take a deep breath, you're going to be okay."

As Mary helped the little boy inhale short bursts of medication and his breaths gradually slowed, deepening until he was breathing normally, Carole brushed his hair back and held his other hand. She didn't even notice that Mary was watching her out of the corner of her eye with a frown.

"You feeling better now?" she asked, smiling reassuringly.

Phillip nodded, his fingers tightening around hers. "Yeah," he said, his voice tiny and thin and hoarse. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"Thank you so much," his father said.

"We'll give you a few more inhalers to take home," Mary told him, standing back up and adjusting her doctor's coat. "Use them as sparingly as you can. We don't know when we'll have the chance to get more."

The little boy and his father stayed in the waiting area for a short while, waiting for the attack to fully subside. Phillip's father thanked Carole and Mary again and again as he carried his son outside, and Carole swallowed, trying not to think of what might have happened to Phillip if they hadn't come to the hospital.

"We need to make those signs as soon as possible," she said to Mary as they closed the doors again.

"Carole, who's Finn?"

The question sent a cold spike shooting through Carole's chest, radiating out to her fingertips. "What?"

"You called him Finn," Mary said, her brows furrowed.

Carole blinked. She hadn't even noticed. "…Oh."

"Are you all right?"

Carole's lips pressed together tightly for a moment, but she managed a nod. "I'm okay," she forced herself to say.

"Who's Finn?" Mary asked again.

Drawing a deep breath into her lungs — this time because she actually needed it — Carole attempted a swallow to dislodge the boulder nesting in her throat. "He's my son."

"I didn't know you had a son," Mary said carefully, her hands resting in the pockets of her white coat. "Where is he?"

Carole looked away, out through the glass door. "He died."

"Oh, Carole, I'm so sorry—"

Carole shook her head, holding up a hand to stop Mary from saying any more. "It was before the blackout," she explained, as if that made it any better. "There was a bleed in his brain, and he was just… gone."

"I'm so sorry," Mary repeated. Carole really didn't want to hear that, but she couldn't really blame Mary for saying it either. There was nothing else to say.

Despite having absolutely nothing to occupy his time other than making sure he and Carole had enough food and water each day, Burt couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped. He felt like a caged animal, pacing back and forth between home and wherever he could scrounge for supplies in Lima. His fingers constantly itched for some more challenging task, but it was clear that his mechanic skills would go to waste so long as none of the cars would work. Whatever the problem was, it wasn't limited to vehicles and it went deeper than a few faulty spark plugs. Carole at least was able to go into town and offer her nursing services at the hospital, which left Burt feeling all but useless. And lonely too.

The house was far too quiet to begin with, and it was even worse when Carole was out. Burt found that he was talking to himself aloud more often than not, and he wondered if this was what it looked like when a person began to go insane.

So finally, Burt left the house on his own, walking towards the center of Lima with the intention of finding anything that he and Carole could use – ropes for clothesline, containers for water, hammers and axes and anything else that might come in handy for even the most trivial jobs. On one of the roads leading into town he found a truck left by the side of the road with a flatbed trailer hitched to the back, and after he'd managed to detach it he dragged the trailer behind him. The metal wasn't meant to be pulled by a person, and it cut into his hands and hurt his palms, but he knew he couldn't carry nearly as much without it.

He reached the center of town sometime around three o'clock, if the sun's position in the sky was any indication. He'd crossed the Spencerville Road bridge over the Ottawa River (which was really barely more than a stream) and over McClintock Lake, and made a mental note to start drawing water from there instead of trying to find bottles in the stores. He'd have to get a water filter too.

When he rounded the corner and stepped into Kinney Square, he stopped in his tracks, the air rushing out of his lungs. The destroyed plane was no longer a new sight, but it still sent a chill down Burt's spine every time he saw it. The fuselage of the Boeing 747 had stopped burning a week ago, but the metal siding remained blackened and sooty, still carrying a strong odor of smoke and spilled oil wafting off the wreckage in the breeze. The one wing that was still attached stretched up into the air and cast a long shadow across the grass in the middle of the square like a gigantic sundial. Burt could hear the wind whistling slightly through a few of the plane's broken windows, and it made his stomach turn to think of what might be inside.

But then again… there had to be luggage inside the fuselage. Luggage meant supplies, and whoever owned it was unquestionably deceased. It wouldn't be quite the same as stealing.

Burt swallowed the nausea that had suddenly welled up in his stomach, and began to drag the trailer on its squeaking wheels toward the wreckage. As the fuselage loomed overhead, eventually covering Burt in its shadow, Burt's heart began to race.

He left the trailer on the pavement close to the plane's side, next to where someone had anonymously left a bouquet of flowers and a couple of candles as a sort of memorial. The flowers had long since wilted and the candle had burnt out, but it still caused a small wave of guilt to wash over Burt.

Some people respect, and some people reap.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Burt edged toward a spot closer to the tail of the plane, which had been partially ripped away from the whole and left a huge gap torn through the plane's side. As Burt stepped through the gap, he was suddenly slammed with an awfully overpowering stench of decomposition, and if he had eaten within the last couple of hours he would have turned around and vomited. Instead, he stifled a gag, and lifted the collar of his t-shirt over his nose and mouth. It did little to abate the smell.

Burt held his breath as he reached up to grab the armrests of the nearest seats and hoist himself up and into the fuselage, carefully bracing his feet against the seats' bases since the floor was tilted almost at a forty-five degree angle. It wasn't as dark inside as he thought it would be, since there was sunlight coming through all of the windows, and as soon as he looked down the slanted aisle toward the front of the plane, his heart stopped.

Nearly every seat was occupied.

"…Oh my God," he whispered, not realizing he'd spoken aloud. It took him a minute to unlock his muscles, all of which had gone rigid.

His chest felt tight, and he wasn't sure if it was due to the putrid air he was now breathing or if the reason was some unseen force screaming at him to GET OUT . But he managed to draw a slow inhale and forced himself to reach up and open the overhead compartment on one side of the aisle.

There were zero pieces of baggage that were undamaged by the fire, but Burt managed to find a handful that seemed only singed on the outside, leaving their contents still useable. Refusing to waste time inside the plane rooting through the passengers' luggage, he only pulled out the suitcases and briefcases and totes and threw them from where he stood to the gap in the wall, letting them land on the ground outside. He'd sort through them in the fresh air that didn't reek of charred putrefaction.

As he worked his way down the aisle, slowly opening each compartment as carefully as he could, the nausea in his gut only worsened. The stench grew stronger the closer to the front of the plane he got, and the air was thickening in his throat. He stopped to catch his breath next to Row 17 and felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Sitting in 17A, next to the window, was the burned and rotting body of a child. He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it couldn't have been older than five.

An abrupt shock of panic coursed over every nerve cell in Burt's skin, and a dull roar filled his ears.

What if Kurt was lying somewhere dead in New York, a thousand miles away and with no one to take care of him? What if something had happened to render him as unrecognizable as the child in 17A, so that even if Kurt's friends were alive and well, they wouldn't even know it was him?

What if Kurt was gone?

A sob wrenched out of Burt's throat, startling him with its loudness. He hadn't even realized he was crying.

He clenched his jaw, fighting a second wave of tears, and made a quick decision. The corpse in front of him was somebody's child, and he had no way of knowing whether the two adults in 17B and C were the parents. If his own son were in a place like this, he would give anything to keep his little boy from being left to the crows.

Burt searched the floor of the plane until he found an undamaged blanket tucked underneath one of the seats, and carried it back to Row 17. Leaning over 17B and C, he draped the blanket over the child's body and tucked the edges underneath the torso. The seatbelt had been burned away, and so it was easier than Burt expected to lift the child out of the seat and cautiously maneuver back into the aisle.

With the small body wrapped in the blanket and cradled in his arms, Burt slowly made his way back to the gap he'd come through, struggling to step back onto the ground without the use of his hands. Rigor mortis had set in a long time ago, and the child's body didn't move as Burt laid it on the bed of the trailer. He pulled the corner of the blanket up to cover the child's face.

He would come back for the luggage later. Right now, he would find someplace far away from all this where he could bury the nameless child and leave a marker of some kind — a cross made of sticks, or carved into a tree, or a pile of stones, anything — to make anyone who passed by realize that a life had been lost.

Because, God damn it, someone should be screaming to the heavens and anyone who would listen that this — all of this — was wrong.

Chapter Text

DAY 12

Kurt, Dani, Rachel, and Santana had nearly made it to Hampton before setting up camp for the night in a field a little ways away from the road. It was their first time sleeping outside since leaving Bushwick, and for the most part Kurt tossed and turned, barely dozing throughout the long hours of the night as he couldn't help imagining all sorts of creatures hiding in the dark (not the least of which was simply other people , carrying guns and knives and who knew what else). And he was sleeping on the ground. He doubted his spine would ever fully recover.

In the morning, the air was thick and muggy and dense with cloud cover. Kurt woke with a start from his light sleep when a mosquito bit his neck and his hand flew up to slap it. "Ow!" He grimaced, wiping the dead bug off his fingers onto the grass near his head and forcing himself to sit up. Dani was already awake and (unsuccessfully) trying to build up a fire with damp kindling, but Rachel was still shivering underneath her blanket. Kurt glanced at their surroundings, past their little campsite toward the empty road several yards away, and the trees lining the edge of the field. Frankly, it didn't look much different in the misty daylight than it had last night.

"I hate New Jersey," Kurt grumbled, tugging at the damp collar of his shirt. He would give anything for a bath.

Dani looked up from what she was doing. "Morning."

Kurt groggily rubbed his eyes with a yawn. "Morning." He rested his elbows on his knees, watching her try to light the sticks in the tiny fire pit she must have dug with her hands (judging by the amount of dirt under her nails). "Why aren't you just using the stove?"

"I don't want to waste the gas."

"So instead you're wasting matches," Kurt retorted.

Dani huffed, dropping her fistful of not-kindling and brushing off her palms. "Sorry for trying," she snapped.

Kurt sighed. "No, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't sleep well."

Dani raised her eyebrows. "I can see that."

"Don't," he winced. "I don't even want to know what I look like right now." He scratched at the scruff under his chin and imagined how great it would feel once he was back home and able to shave again. "Where's Santana?"

"She went to find a tree," Dani replied.

Kurt frowned, turning to look over his shoulder at the woods. "How long ago?"

"A couple minutes, Kurt, relax." Digging into their food bag, she pulled out a granola bar and tossed it to him. "Eat up; we should get going soon."

Kurt yawned again, tearing the wrapper. He wasn't really hungry — which was weird, considering how much energy they'd been spending while traveling — but he forced himself to swallow the dry and distastefully crunchy breakfast. A few minutes passed in silence (except for Rachel's noisily chattering teeth — how was that not waking her up?) before Santana came back from the woods, brushing off the knees of her jeans as she sat cross-legged next to Dani.

"I am so damn tired of using leaves to wipe my ass," she snapped. "I tripped over a stupid root on the way back."

"You poor thing," Dani said, giving Santana a quick peck on the cheek.

"Why the hell is Rachel still asleep?" Santana demanded, glowering at Rachel's back as she tugged the blanket tighter around her hunched and trembling shoulders, her knees pulled up to her chest. Only her hair, dirty and clumped where it was tied into a braid to keep out of her face, was visible.

Dani checked her watch. "It's only eight-thirty."

"Yeah, and she's waking up later every day. We need to get going earlier."

"She's only got one leg to walk on," Dani reminded her. "She's working harder than we are."

Abruptly, loudly, and seemingly without any reason at all, Santana burst out laughing.

Kurt and Dani exchanged a confused glance before staring sidelong at Santana, each wondering what the hell had suddenly prompted her to lose her mind. Kurt was fairly sure she was laughing at him since she was pointing directly at him, but he couldn't figure out what she was seeing. If he'd had something embarrassing on his face, Dani would have said something already (unless she'd drawn a penis on his cheek while he was asleep, but he was pretty sure nobody had brought a Sharpie).

"Is… there something funny?" Dani asked as Santana clutched her sides, almost shrieking with hysterical giggles.

Santana's finger was still pointing at Kurt. "He has a beard! Oh my God!" she managed to choke out between chuckles.

Kurt's mildly worried expression immediately faded. "Santana, I haven't shaved in almost a week. This cannot be the first time you've noticed," he snapped.

"It is, and you look like Amanda Bynes!" she guffawed. "I had no idea you were even able to grow a beard!"

It wasn't the first time someone had made a She's The Man reference at his expense, and he was less than amused. "Did you think that the men's razors in our bathroom belonged to Rachel?" Kurt deadpanned.

"Yes!"

Dani only dug back into the food bag for another granola bar, calmly saying over her shoulder, "You've got to breathe at some point, Santana."

Mercedes woke up before Puck did, shivering on the cool linoleum floor of the gas station where the two of them had spent the night. She winced and forced herself to sit up, feeling her skin tighten painfully around her shoulders where it was badly sunburned. There was sunlight, harsh and white, coming in through the windows of the gas station, and outside the only view was a flat expanse of sand and rocks and low-standing shrubs, with a line of electrical towers dotting the horizon and a small range of jagged brown mountains far off in the distance.

Puck snorted in his sleep where he lay on the floor a few feet away, using his balled-up sweatshirt as a pillow, then mumbled something incoherent and settled again.

Mercedes sighed, debating whether she wanted to grab a water bottle from their supply bags now or save it for later when they resumed walking across the desert, following the Barstow Freeway. She sighed, hating that it was even a question she had to consider.

Wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on her hands, Mercedes stared out the front windows to where Mr. T stood tied to the nearest gas pump in the shade. Mr. T's tail swished and flicked flies away from her hindquarters. Mercedes frowned, studying the horse. Mr. T seemed to be standing with her head hanging lower than usual, as if her own body were too heavy for her to carry.

Mercedes glanced over her shoulder at Puck, still snoring away on the floor. She stood up despite her protesting muscles and walked outside, pushing through the station's front door. Mr. T barely lifted her head as Mercedes approached and ran a palm down the horse's nose. The animal's coat was damp with sweat and caked thick with dust from the road, and her eyes would only blink very slowly, her movements sluggish if she moved at all.

Mercedes sighed, squinting out across the desert through the rippling air. In all honesty, she didn't care about Mr. T nearly as much as Puck did. He was attached to his pet, and that was fine, but she wasn't as keen on considering the horse to be a pet at all. However, Mr. T was a means to an end, and Mercedes knew that they wouldn't make it out of the desert nearly as quickly without her. Mr. T's health was clearly not at peak, and Mercedes couldn't say she was surprised — there was barely any vegetation out here for a horse to eat, let alone enough water, and she didn't have any idea what kind of diet a dressage horse was used to. Either way, if Mr. T was going to survive, they would have to figure something out to keep her fed and hydrated.

For now, though, Mercedes thought as a wave of sand blew across the empty pavement at her feet, the least she could do was give Mr. T some proper shade. Untying the reins from the gas pump, Mercedes clicked her tongue and led Mr. T toward the station. It took a great deal of awkward maneuvering to keep the door open long enough for Mr. T to squeeze through, but Mercedes at last managed to guide her inside and out of the heat. Well, it was still warm inside, but at least it wasn't sweltering, and linoleum was a hell of a lot better to stand on than hot pavement.

As Mr. T's hooves clopped noisily past the cash register, Puck sat up, squinting in the sunlight from outside with his hair matted from sleep. "What are you doing?" he grunted.

"Your horse is practically dying from the heat," Mercedes said sternly, reaching up to unbuckle the bridle from around Mr. T's head. She realized that she probably sounded like Puck's mother, but didn't care quite enough to change her tone. "We can't leave her outside any more."

Puck at least looked guilty, seeing Mr. T's unhealthy coat and slightly shaking legs.

Mercedes began taking large bottles of lukewarm water from the no-longer-functioning coolers at the back of the station. "Go see if you can find a bucket or something we can use as a trough before Mr. T dries up completely," she ordered, half expecting Puck to snark something back about her being bossier than Rachel ever was. Instead, he immediately got up and pushed through a door at the back marked Employees Only, returning a moment later with a large wheeled mop bucket.

"Will this work?"

Mercedes nodded. "More or less. Come over here and help me."

Mr. T huffed loudly through her nose and butted Puck lightly in the shoulder as he passed her.

"You see?" Mercedes said. "She's pissed at you."

"Shut up," Puck grumbled as he helped her open liter after liter of water and dump them into the bucket. "It's not like I've ever had a horse before. I had a cat when I was like three, but that's it."

Mercedes chortled at the mental image of Puck with a kitten. "Didn't peg you for a cat person."

"I'm not; it was my mom's but she was always out with Bill so I had to take care of it."

"Who's Bill?"

"My dad."

Puck fell abruptly quiet, and for a while the only sound was the loud slurping as Mr. T gulped down as much water as she could stomach. After a minute or so, Puck sniffed, scratching his nose, and grabbed a Nature Valley granola bar from the nearest shelf. He tore the wrapper open and let Mr. T eat the treat from his palm, wordlessly rubbing his other hand over her forehead like he was intentionally avoiding eye contact with Mercedes.

Mercedes sighed, leaning back against the soda cooler. "You miss them, don't you?" she said. "Your family, I mean."

Puck shrugged, gently pulling a snarl out of Mr. T's mane with his fingers. "Dad, not so much."

"Your mom and sister, then."

His mouth tightened, and he scratched at his nose again. "It was what, nine o'clock in Ohio when the blackout hit?" he said, his jaw tightening. "Around nine, anyways."

Mercedes frowned, not sure where he was going with this, but nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"That's when my mom drives my sister back home from our Nana's house. Every day, once she gets off work." Puck swallowed, glancing out through the front of the gas station at the flat expanses of barren and unfamiliar sand and rock. "If they were in the car when everything stopped, they could have crashed. And even if they weren't, maybe they've run out of food. Or they've been attacked. I saw some nasty crap in the streets before I left L.A. and I'm sure Lima's not any better off. For all I know, they could both be dead."

Mercedes felt her chest tighten. As much as she could, she'd been avoiding thinking about her own family for precisely this reason. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to make the situation better. "I know how you feel," she added lamely, and even as she said the words they sounded forced.

A grim, pained smile twisted Puck's mouth. "No, you don't," he retorted bitterly. "You've got, what, five brothers?"

"Four."

"And they're all older than you," he continued. "Even if they're not with your parents, they can fend for themselves." He gritted his teeth, yanking his fingers through his hair. "My sister is ten years old ."

"I'm sorry," Mercedes said again, simply because there was nothing else she could say, no lies she could invent to make him feel better. The two of them were stranded in the middle of the desolate wastes of the Mojave, thousands upon thousands of miles from home. No protection, no ready supply of food and water, no trees to shield them from vultures and the pounding heat of the sun. Out here in the burning sand, there was nothing to hide behind.

Puck's shoulders slumped and he released a heavy breath, patting Mr. T's neck as the horse continued to drink from the mop bucket. "You're right," he said. "We can't leave her outside anymore."

"Maybe we can find some more bags around here," Mercedes suggested. "So we can carry more water." She was glad for the change of topic, but the pressure in her chest was still there.

Puck blinked. "Holy crap. We're idiots."

"Huh?"

"There's no way we can carry enough water for Mr. T, let alone us too," he insisted. "But what if we just travel at night? At least until we get out of the desert."

Mercedes eyebrows shot upwards. She wasn't too keen on the idea of being out there in the dark, with all sorts of sand creatures — poisonous snakes and lizards and spiders — lurking in the shadows.

"Think about it," Puck continued. "It won't be as hot and we won't sweat so much. Plus, no sunburn."

As much as the idea of finding their way across the desert in the pitch black made Mercedes feel queasy, she had to admit he had a point. Mainly about the sunburn — her skin was peeling away from her back and shoulders where it had blistered, and there was already another sunburn developing on her new skin. After a week or so, she'd learned to just tune out the constant throbbing, but it would be nice to get rid of the feeling altogether.

"So?" Puck prompted, leaning on Mr. T's flank as the horse sucked at the last few drops of water clinging to the bottom of the bucket. "What do you think?"

Mercedes scratched at the back of her neck, flakes of dead skin coming away under her nails. "Okay," she agreed. "Looks like we're camping here the rest of today. We'll get going again at sunset."

DAY 13

Kurt watched the sky anxiously as a clump of fat rainclouds rolled overhead, casting him and the three girls in shadow for several minutes. He hadn't mentioned it aloud and he didn't know if Santana or Dani had noticed this yet, but since leaving Bushwick behind, they had slowed down exponentially. The first day they had covered almost thirty miles, if the road map Kurt had stolen from a Newark gas station was accurate, and then the second day they'd only covered twenty-five. In the past two days combined, they had barely made it over twelve. Kurt hated to even think it, but he knew the reason why.

He glanced over his shoulder briefly to check on Rachel, like he'd made a habit of doing every five minutes or so. She was lagging behind, slowing the group to a snail's pace. She needed to stop and rest far more often than the rest of them, and Kurt knew it wasn't her fault, but on the same token… her dragging feet and glacial speed were driving him crazy.

He just wanted to get home as soon as possible. Was that so bad?

For the most part, they'd been passing by expanses of farmland and patches of woody areas. There wasn't an excess of inhabited areas — not many towns where they could find stores to raid for supplies – and even though they had only encountered a few people on their journey, every house they walked by looked presently lived-in. This meant that their bags of food and water were growing ever lighter, a factor that Kurt was sure was contributing to their decrease in stamina.

Kurt pulled his shirt away from where it was sticking to his chest, adjusting the heavy packs on his shoulders. Ignoring the fact that his back and knees were killing him from carrying a load more than half his body weight, he hadn't had a shower or even a sponge bath since they'd left Bushwick five days ago, and he reeked. Every pore in his skin felt sticky with sweat and travel grime, and the amount of dirt underneath his fingernails was horrific. And to top it all off, his whole jawline constantly itched underneath the scruff that had grown over his chin.

A few small raindrops landed on the back of Kurt's neck, and he sighed. The air was already thick with moisture (as well as more than enough mosquitos) and the last thing he wanted was to be walking for hours in the pouring rain.

Although maybe, if he was lucky, it would feel enough like a shower to make him relax.

Behind him, Kurt heard the sound of Rachel's crutches scraping suddenly on the pavement, and a small oof. "You okay, Rachel?" he asked, stopping for a moment to let her catch up. She had staggered and almost lost her balance.

She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, wiping a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "My foot just hurts; I'm fine." Her face was flushed bright red, her eyes glassy.

"Why don't we rest for a bit?" Dani suggested.

"I'm fine," Rachel insisted, her wrists trembling where she was gripping her crutch handles.

"Rachel, just rest for a minute," Kurt ordered gently. As much as he wanted to keep going, Rachel was clearly having a very difficult time. Pushing her any harder would be unfair.

Rachel huffed, clinging to her crutches where she stood, resting her bad foot on the tips of her toes and carefully keeping her heel away from the ground. Her whole frame was quaking.

Santana put a hand on Rachel's shoulder and gestured to a fairly large boulder seated in the soil by the side of the road. "Sit down," she directed. "Let me look at your foot."

Whether Rachel actually wanted to rest or she just didn't have the energy to argue wasn't clear, but with a shiver she did as she was told, sinking onto the rock and letting her crutches drop to the ground next to her. Santana knelt in front of the rock and lifted Rachel's leg up, propping it on her knee as she gingerly removed the shoe. Almost immediately, a sharp and putrid odor attacked Kurt's nose, and he had to fight against the urge to gag.

If Santana was bothered by the smell, she didn't let on. Her face was expressionless as she carefully unwound the bandage from around Rachel's heel. She was silent for a disturbingly long moment.

Kurt's eyes widened. Rachel's injury didn't look like it was healing, or even growing smaller. If anything, it looked slightly bigger. Her entire heel was red and puffy, and there was a distinct yellow tinge around the edges of the wound.

"Rachel, has this been hurting more than usual?" Santana asked, her voice perfectly level and calm.

Rachel rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. "I don't know, maybe a little."

"Rachel," Santana said sternly.

"Yes. Okay?" Rachel snapped, scratching at her neck where the sweat had been pooling in the dip between her collarbones. "It's been hurting more."

"Like a throbbing?"

Rachel paused, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. "Yeah."

Santana reached up and pressed the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead. "Have you been feeling sick at all?"

The smaller girl made a face. "What? No."

"Santana, what's going on?" Kurt interjected.

Santana ignored him, still talking to Rachel. "Answer me honestly. Have you had any fever?"

Rachel pushed Santana's hand away. "No!" she protested. "Why?"

"Your foot's infected. It's making you sick."

"Okay, so… the next pharmacy we see, we'll get some meds," Rachel replied with a nod.

Santana didn't argue, but she didn't voice an agreement either, which made Kurt nervous. Instead, she retied the bandage around Rachel's foot in silence (despite the fact that it was the same one Rachel had been wearing for at least the past two days — they just didn't have anything else to use) and then helped Rachel back onto her crutches. Dani quickly came over to make sure Rachel didn't lose her balance again, walking with her along the road as Kurt hung back with Santana.

"Is she okay?" Kurt asked under his breath.

Santana's expression was severe. "We need to find a pharmacy now."

Kurt swallowed, feeling like he might throw up. A few more raindrops pattered against the pavement around their feet. "What if… what if we just sew it up ourselves?"

Santana only glared at him. "Are you insane, Kurt?" she hissed, still making sure Rachel couldn't hear their conversation. "You can't sew an infected cut closed. All that does is trap the infection inside and make it harder to treat. It would just go into her blood faster."

"It was just a suggestion."

"It was a stupid suggestion."

DAY 15

Two weeks. Two weeks of silence. No traffic, no buzzing hum of streetlamps at night, no thumping bass from someone obnoxiously blasting music three blocks away, no sign that any kind of familiar order was still in place beyond Burt's own doorstep. At night, it was all but impossible to sleep, listening to the nothingness outside the safety of their walls, punctuated only by the occasional call of some nocturnal bird or a far-off gunshot out in the darkness. Everything was empty, not just the streets. People were in hiding, like it was the aftermath of some horrific nuclear fallout. Frankly, Burt wasn't sure the comparison was at all inaccurate.

He hadn't made another supply run into town for the past four days, even though he and Carole were by no means well-stocked. It wasn't that he was in hiding too, not like his neighbors, nor was it that he was afraid to face the plane wreckage in Kinney Square again, with its hundreds of charred corpses entombed inside. It was only because of the emptiness, in every place he'd thought to check. There was simply nothing left to take.

If he was being honest with himself, Burt would have to admit that he was a little surprised that food had even lasted this long. But circumstances were different now, and honesty was a terrifying thing.

Today, as Burt stood on his porch watching the road for any sign of life beyond the occasional stranger passing by on their way to and from town, it was even quieter than usual. It was like Lima's population had slowly vanished, person by person, leaving their houses and cars behind without so much as a whisper. Burt didn't know if they had actually left town or had just backed deeper into their own homes, but either way, the emptiness was spreading.

He took a long gulp from the glass of water he held in his hands, leaning with his elbows braced on the porch rail, and swallowed with a grimace. He'd had to build a fire pit in their back lawn so they could boil the water from McClintock Lake before drinking it, and even though it was clean it still tasted vastly different from the tap water Burt was used to. He supposed, though, that a detail as small as the taste of his drinking water shouldn't be a big deal given why they were taking water from the lake in the first place.

What he'd give for a cup of fresh coffee. Or a cold beer.

Across the street, Burt saw their neighbor Sandra peering out through her front window between the curtains. She glanced skittishly up and down the street, like she was cowering from gunfire, and when her gaze landed on Burt he raised his arm in a tentative wave. There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then Sandra gave a short, nervous wave and vanished again behind the curtains. Burt sighed; he didn't actually know Sandra all that well anyways. She was barely more than an acquaintance to Carole, let alone him. But he couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed by Sandra's avoidance. Maybe he was too optimistic, but he'd hoped that their neighborhood would work together a little more after the blackout. Instead, they hid from each other. What had been suburban potlucks and neighborhood barbecues only a few weeks earlier was now mistrust and isolation.

Movement further down the road caught the corner of his eye, and Burt felt a small surge of relief as he recognized his wife's silhouette walking down the sidewalk several houses away. She was home much earlier than usual; she hadn't gotten back until after dark most nights since she started at St. Rita's, but now the sun was just barely grazing the treetops toward the western end of the street and there had to be at least another three hours before sunset.

He smiled to himself, glad she was home, and walked out to the sidewalk to wait for her. He waved a hand over his head in greeting, but she didn't wave back. She must not have seen him yet. Burt abruptly felt a strange tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. He squinted through the sunlight, realizing with a start that Carole wasn't walking quite right; her shape was tensely bent and her movements rigidly fearful. She was hugging her stomach, and Burt's heart jumped into his throat.

When she'd left the house that morning, her shirt had been light blue. Now it was red.

Burt broke into a run, dropping his water glass and not realizing that it shattered on the sidewalk. He rushed toward his wife, meeting her almost halfway down the street. "Where are you hurt?" he demanded. "Where are you hurt?!"

Carole shook her head, her bloodstained hands trembling. "I'm okay," she said, her voice cracking.

Burt gripped her by the shoulders, looking her up and down and desperately searching for an open wound. The front of her shirt and cardigan had been soaked red, her jeans stained and her neck and shoulders smeared all over. There was even blood on her shoes, but Burt saw no cuts, no lacerations, not even tears in her clothing. "What happened? Where are you bleeding?"

"Burt," she said, raising her voice slightly to force him to meet her eye. "It's not mine."

He released a heavy breath. She was still standing. She had made it home on her own. He wrapped his fingers gently around her wrists. "What happened?" he asked, more calmly this time.

Carole's face contorted, her chin quivering, and she looked down. "Th-there were some people who-who…" She sniffed, her fingers clenching into fists in Burt's hands. "They just broke down the doors a-and started sh-shooting— I don't—"

Burt didn't wait to hear any more. He wrapped his arms around her and clutched her to him as tightly as he dared, running his fingers through her hair. "You're sure you're okay?"

She sobbed once into his chest. "I just want to go home," she choked out.

"All right," Burt said softly, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. "Okay, come on, sweetie." He looped an arm around her shoulders and guided her off the sidewalk, back across the street toward their house. Her whole frame was shaking, and Burt was amazed she'd made it back home by herself on such unsteady legs.

Navigating their porch steps carefully with his wife clutched to his side, Burt quickly walked her inside and let the front door swing shut behind them with a heavy thunk . He let go of her momentarily to lock it behind him, but when he turned around again, Carole was already out of reach and heading for the stairwell.

"Honey?" he called, but she didn't stop, forcing him to rush up the stairs after her. "Carole, what are you doing?"

Burt wasn't sure where he'd been expecting her to go, but when he saw her push through the door to Finn's room, a shock jolted his heart. Finn's door had been kept closed for months; as far as he knew, nobody had been inside since they had packed up some of Finn's things.

"Carole?" he repeated, more gently this time. The door to Finn's room had swung halfway shut again, and Burt slowly pushed it open, completely unsure if he should be going in to make sure she was okay or giving her some space.

Carole was sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. The closet door was open and she'd dragged out a box labeled JACKETS & SWEATERS in Sharpie, tearing open the top and leaving it by her feet. She'd taken out a white and grey striped hoodie and wrapped it across her shoulders, pulling it tight around her torso. She had her knees folded up to her chest and looked like she was having trouble breathing.

"Oh, sweetie," Burt trailed off, kneeling next to her.

"I can't… I can't do this anymore," she said through gritted teeth. Her voice was thin and strained, like it was nearly impossible to push the air from her lungs.

Burt didn't know what to say. His wife — who, for the record, had always been much stronger than him — sat covered in someone else's blood and crying and clinging to her dead son's hoodie like a lifeline, and he just… had no idea what to do. Wishing that there was some magically simple cure-all he could invoke to fix everything that was causing Carole pain — bring the electricity back, bring the other doctors from the hospital back, and hell, bring Finn back too. Carole deserved none of this.

He reached forward and carefully brushed a few strands away from her forehead, her skin burning up under his fingertips. He had no idea if the fever was from sickness or sheer adrenaline. A fresh stream of tears leaked from the corners of Carole's eyes, and she hid her face behind her hands, leaving small streaks of blood on her brows and cheeks.

"Carole," he said gently, taking her arm. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

A broken sob escaped her chest, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She looked down, tightening her fingers around the fabric of Finn's hoodie. "I—," she hiccoughed. "I got… I got blood on it. I can't—"

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. Look at me." Burt quickly got her attention, brushing a hand over her warm forehead again. "I'll wash it, alright? I'll take care of it, I promise." He kissed the top of her head, slipping the hoodie off her shoulders. He folded it, painstakingly keeping the bloodstained parts of it hidden, and placed it on the foot of Finn's empty bed.

"Burt—"

"It's okay," he assured her again. "It's okay. Come on." Letting her grip his hand like a vice, Burt helped Carole to her feet, looping his arm around her back. She leaned into his side, relying on his weight to guide her from the room (finally, since she'd carried her own weight nearly four miles from the center of town). Burt held her as tightly as he could. He couldn't revive any of her losses, but he could take care of her now.

So he let the door fall shut behind them, sealing inside Finn's empty bed, empty clothes, and empty room.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Mercedes could not have been more wrong about traveling through the pitch black of the desert at night.  Not because it was any more dangerous than daytime, but because at night the desert was simply anything but pitch black.  No clouds blotted the sky.  There were no tall trees or nearby mountains to block the view, and so overhead was nothing but space.  Even with only a half moon there were billions upon billions of stars illuminating the vast expanse of sand and rock and dust.  The sweeping brushstrokes of the Milky Way painted a glittering river low along the horizon, the constellation Cygnus pointing downwards to the edge of the earth while the Big Dipper hung suspended close to the zenith.  The stars showered an astounding amount of light onto the desert, lighting up the road ahead as well as any streetlamps, and it was easy to see the road signs informing them that they were now crossing the southern tip of Nevada.

Mercedes and Puck were both walking alongside Mr. T, as they had agreed to leave more space on the horse’s back for carrying supplies.  It had been four days since they had begun traveling at night, much to their collective relief — their sunburns had begun to fade, they no longer felt constantly dizzy with dehydration, and even Mr. T wasn’t perpetually covered in sweat. 

But it was strange to travel in this place.

While the desert was more hospitable beneath starlight, it was filled with an ageless oppressive silence, like far-off thunder.  There was an unending soft breeze echoing hollowly across the sand as it whispered through the leaves of the sparse Yucca trees, and having such a boundless view of the universe condensed into what Mercedes could see with her own eyes made her feel strangely claustrophobic.  She had the odd sensation that she was trapped between the knitted layers of earth and space, suspended in limbo, stuck between two dimensions.  Above, an infinite sea of almost-tangible light, and below, the shadows of countless lizards as they slithered onto the warm pavement from the sand.  Neither side felt real.  The silence was seeping into her very pores, and it seemed almost criminal to break it.

And so, as the hours after hours of walking passed, she and Puck didn’t speak.  The only sound was the steady clip-clop of Mr. T’s hooves on the highway pavement as they followed it east.  Each night they waited for the soft line of the horizon to glow from the impending sun before they would retreat into the first gas station they came to for the day.  Once they and Mr. T were inside and protected from the scorching sun, they would sleep and stock up on whatever was left on the station shelves, waiting once again for dusk.

It was a stable enough routine, but the lack of conversation left Mercedes’ mind to wander unhindered.  This in turn left a ball of anxiety sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach, imagining all sorts of nasty fates that could easily have fallen onto her family members back in Ohio or her two brothers who were off in college.  If she could have had God listen to only one of her prayers, it would be to know whether her family was safe and sound, a thousand miles away.  She didn’t even need to see them — she just needed to know.

She supposed that there had to at least be a reason for the blackout.  After all, God worked in mysterious ways and it wasn’t as if she’d never had hard times in her life.  Nothing quite like this, to be sure, but Mercedes’ mother had always said God never dealt out anything a person couldn’t handle.  Considering how many corpses Mercedes had seen just lying in the road since leaving Los Angeles, though, she wasn’t sure she still believed that.  She wasn’t sure she still believed in anything.

But maybe — just maybe — this was happening simply because God felt like destroying everything.  It certainly would fit the biblical canon.  The great flood of Noah’s ark, the plagues of ancient Egypt, the blackout of 2014.  It all had quite a terrifying continuity.

And still, as she trekked eastward across miles of desert beneath an immeasurable heavenly display of celestial bodies, her faith was slowly trickling away like sand through an hourglass.

DAY 17

Artie and Caitlin had been staying with the Andersons for a little more than a week now, and it… wasn’t bad.  Blaine was usually good company, and his mom was hospitable.  Tim seemed like he would go out of his way to avoid talking to his guests, though, and Artie was feeling more and more every day like Pamela’s hospitality was only surface-deep.  Add to that the fact that Caitlin still hadn’t spoken a word and that he was unable to help out with grunt work like chopping wood, and Artie was beginning to sense that he and his sister were gradually becoming unwelcome.

On top of all of this, the worst part was the boredom.  The last time he’d been to Blaine’s house before the blackout, the two of them had stayed up until midnight slaughtering each other in Call Of Duty IV, but obviously that was no longer any source of entertainment.  Everything Artie enjoyed or was good at — video games, movies, music, everything — relied on electricity and that had been stripped from his grasp without warning or recompense.  Now, he was unavailingly lacking in skills that provided any sort of purpose, and therefore he felt completely and utterly useless.  He was just a lonely parasite, taking up space in the Andersons’ home and leeching off their resources.

As useless as he felt, however, it was actually the loneliness that at last pushed Artie to ask Blaine if he could go out on one of the routine supply runs into town.  Artie immediately felt his stomach twist as Blaine stared at him for a moment in hesitation.  It wasn’t hard to see the question written across Blaine’s face: are you really able to help, or will I have to watch your back in addition to mine?

“I can carry a ton of stuff on my lap,” Artie added quickly before Blaine could awkwardly decline.  “And — and we can always hang a couple of extra bags on the back of my chair.”  He swallowed, praying Blaine would accept.  God, he really needed something to do.

Blaine considered this, and then nodded.  “Yeah, man,” he said, shrugging an empty backpack onto his shoulders.  “I could use the company.  It’s creepy being out there by myself.”

A wave of relief washed over Artie in an instant.  He then realized that he hadn’t felt such an urgent need to prove his abilities since the first year or so after his accident.  The pressure was familiar and entirely unwelcome.

Blaine handed Artie a few canvas bags and a backpack, letting Artie stack them in his lap before they headed outside.  Blaine shouted a quick goodbye to his parents, letting the door swing shut behind them.  Artie shivered for a moment; it was bright and sunny but still unusually cool for May.  A crisp breeze wafted past them, making the hairs on Artie’s arms stand erect.

“So where are we going to go?” Artie asked.  He carefully rolled his chair down the makeshift ramp Blaine had constructed out of a wide slat of plywood, nailed over the front steps so that Artie could make it to the outdoor latrine without assistance.  (Artie hated plenty of things about this new version of the world, but not having working toilets was close to the top of the list.)

“There’s an abandoned truck from Target over on Yoakam Road that I saw last time I was out,” Blaine said, tightening the straps of his backpack around his shoulders.  “I’m hoping there’s food in it, but even if there’s not we might find some useful stuff if we can get it unlocked.”

Artie nodded.  “Sounds good,” he agreed, ignoring the tugging in his stomach telling him that Yoakam Road was a little too far.  He kept his mouth shut instead.  He had to pull his weight, wheelchair or no.

It took nearly an hour to cross town southward and make it to Yoakam Road, mostly because Blaine had to walk slowly to allow Artie to keep up.  Artie hadn’t been through Lima since the day he’d gone home with the Andersons, and he’d hoped that things would look at least a little better by now.  Instead, nothing had changed (and really, he shouldn’t have been surprised).  The streets were littered with abandoned cars, some just sitting in the middle of the street, others overturned or blackened and burned.  Occasionally, the driver’s seat was still occupied.

Was it just Artie’s imagination, or were there twice as many crows in Lima as there had been before the blackout?

Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue, blotted with thick rolling rain clouds that cast slow-moving shadows over the road ahead.  A flock of crows flapped up from a clump of trees by the road’s shoulder, squawking and swooping into the air and making Artie jump in his chair.

“I feel like I’m in 28 Days Later,” Artie muttered bitterly.  His arms were killing him — he had impressive upper body strength thanks to his wheelchair, but he was pretty sure he’d never had to make it this far without a car or someone pushing him.

“Tell me about it,” Blaine agreed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack.  His gaze ceaselessly jumped from place to place, scanning their surroundings for anything — mostly people — that could be a potential threat.

Artie didn’t like living with this level of anxiety.  He wondered briefly if this was what it was like in places on the other side of the world that had been leveled by war — Iraq, Afghanistan, Rwanda…  Maybe it was just America’s turn to be brought down a few pegs.

“Well, if zombies show up, I’m tripping you,” Artie joked nervously.

“That’s fair.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“We’re here,” Blaine announced, lightly grabbing Artie’s shoulder to direct him to the right turn onto Yoakam Road.  “There it is.”

A few hundred yards ahead, sitting diagonally across the street and effectively blocking traffic (not that there was any real traffic to block) was an eighteen-wheeler with the large Target logo printed on the side. 

Expect more, pay less! it cheerfully promised.

“What do you think’s in there?” Artie asked as they approached, dwarfed by the truck’s shadow.  The back of the trailer was padlocked.

Blaine grabbed the driver’s handle and heaved himself up to the cab, opening the door.  Artie watched from the ground.  “I’m hoping for a piping hot pizza and a chocolate milkshake,” Blaine answered, leaning into the cab to rummage for the keys.  “What about you?”

“Popcorn with extra butter,” Artie replied, grinning.  “And cold root beer.”

“Nice.”

“Did you find the keys?”

At this point, only Blaine’s feet were visible from Artie’s position on the pavement.  Blaine had climbed almost all the way into the cab to root through the glove compartment.  “No, I don’t see them,” he called over his shoulder.

“Check the sun flap,” Artie suggested.  “That’s where my mom keeps hers.”

Blaine backed up, perching on the driver’s seat to pull down the sun flap.  The keys fell into his lap.  “Got ‘em!”  He pocketed the keys, then swung out of the cab and jumped back onto the pavement.

Together they circled back around to the back of the trailer, and Blaine deftly opened the padlock.  “Fingers crossed for milkshakes and root beer, right?” he said with a smile, and yanked the doors open.

The metal hinges squealed slightly as the doors fell back against the sides of the trailer, and Artie’s jaw dropped.

“Whoa,” said Blaine, his arms falling to his sides.

Inside the trailer was a wall of boxes, untouched, unpacked, and unspoiled.  Labels printed on the boxes’ sides jumped out at them one after the other… Oatmeal.  Canned soup.  Condensed milk.  Corn flakes.  Canned vegetables.  Bagged potato chips.  Protein bars.  Flour.  Chocolate chips.  Tomato sauce.

Blaine tapped Artie’s shoulder, pointing to three boxes near the top.

Popcorn.

Artie immediately began laughing out loud — he sounded hysterical, he was sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  “Did — did we—?”

“Hit the motherload?” Blaine finished.  “I think we did.”

The further they traveled into western New Jersey, the more sparsely populated it seemed.  Kurt didn’t know if it was just that the towns were smaller and further apart, or if as the days since the blackout began to tick by, people were simply disappearing.  He didn’t want to think too deeply about it, to be honest.  It had been days since he’d seen anybody other than Dani, Santana, and Rachel.  There was nobody else on the roads — no people traveling in groups, no lone stragglers.  Every house they passed (there weren’t many out here) had been either raided, the doors kicked in and the windows smashed, or simply… abandoned.  Their food supply was running dangerously low.

For the past four days, Kurt, Dani, and Santana had all been scouting vigilantly for pharmacies, hospitals, smaller doctor’s offices — any place that would have unguarded medical supplies.  There was nothing.  Every single facility had been gutted through and through — there weren’t even bandages left behind to replace the dirty strip of cloth Rachel had been using for more than a week.

Kurt wasn’t worried anymore about their decreasing speed.  Instead, all of that worry and fear and anxiety was directed toward Rachel.  Her condition was worsening quickly.  She couldn’t keep up with the group, even at a snail’s pace, and her breaths came rapid and short even long after they’d stopped for the night.  Her teeth chattered relentlessly — not just when she was sleeping — and her sense of balance was deteriorating.  Kurt could see her repeatedly correcting her direction, veering slightly away from the road ahead only to shake her head and pull herself back on track a few seconds later, as if she was too dizzy to properly see where she was going.

It was more than enough to make Kurt wonder if they should just stop and not try to walk any further until Rachel was better, but it was out of the question.  If they stopped, it would only become certain she would never receive medical attention.

So they trudged onward, until they passed a sign reading Welcome to Stewartsville!  Population: 349.  Another tiny town that was in all likelihood left behind by all three hundred and forty-nine of its natives.

Kurt sighed, watching Rachel lurch on her crutches behind him, struggling to keep up.  He didn’t say anything; it would have been cruel to tell her that if he were walking any slower, he’d have stopped moving altogether.  Dani had shouldered Rachel’s bag, so now Rachel had no load to carry beside herself, but it hadn’t helped for very long.  Her lips were cracked and dry from dehydration despite the fact that she’d been consuming a vastly greater amount of water than them.  And it hadn’t escaped Kurt’s attention that Rachel hadn’t asked to stop for a bathroom break since yesterday.

“Rachel,” he finally said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder (she was much too warm, even through her sweat-stained cotton shirt).  “Honey, stop.”

She did as he said, hanging on her crutches by her armpits as she desperately worked to maintain her balance.  “What?  I’m f-fine,” she said through her chattering teeth.  Her eyes were watery and unfocused, not quite able to pick a spot on Kurt’s face to zero in on.  She blinked sluggishly, a bead of sweat falling from her temple.  Her bangs were plastered to her forehead.

“No, you’re not,” he countered with a shake of his head.  He shrugged off the two bags hanging from his shoulders, ignoring the way the muscles of his upper back burned.  He’d gotten used to being sore.  “Hey, guys, can you carry these for a bit?” he said to Santana and Dani.

“What are you doing?” Santana frowned.

“I’m giving Rachel a break,” he said.  “Sweetie, give me your crutches.”

Rachel’s eyes widened as she realized what he intended to do.  “Kurt, I do n-not need to be c-carried.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Her jaw clacked shut.  He hadn’t spoken harshly, but his tone made it painstakingly clear that he wasn’t going to back down.  She handed over her crutches, wobbling on her good foot and the toes of the other, and Kurt in turn gave the crutches to Dani.  Before Rachel could sway too far and lose her balance entirely, Kurt hunched in front of her and let her cling to his back.

Standing back up, Kurt was shocked to realize that she felt lighter than the bags he’d been toting previously.  How much weight had she lost?

He grunted slightly as he hefted her to a more comfortable position, allowing her legs to hang forward over his hips while her arms wrapped around his shoulders.  In any other situation, he would be embarrassed by almost having to hold her rear end in order to keep her from falling, but after more than two weeks on the road all four of them had adjusted to a distinct lack of privacy.

“Better?” he asked as he, Dani, and Santana set off again, heading into the center of Stewartsville.

Rachel’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly, her whole frame shaking with exhaustion.  “Thank you,” she said under her breath.

He smiled.  “Just get better soon, okay?  I’m not carrying you all the way to Ohio.  Only you would figure out a way to still be a diva with all this crazy stuff going on.”

Rachel giggled faintly, her chattering teeth loud in his ears.  “Girl’s g-gotta be herself,” she said, the air hitching in her chest.

As it turned out, Stewartsville was barely more than a main street and a central intersection, and almost as soon as the group had reached the crossroads in the middle of town, Kurt suddenly felt Rachel’s grip on his shoulders go slack.  She slumped, her head lolling forward.

“Rachel?” Kurt said, halting in his tracks to give her a shake.  “Rachel!”

A few steps ahead, Dani and Santana had both stopped in alarm.  “What’s wrong?” Dani called.  “What happened?”

 “I — I think she passed out,” Kurt said, trying desperately not to let Rachel fall.  It was much harder to hold her up than when she had been doing some of the work.  “Help me, please—”

Santana immediately dropped Rachel’s bags, rushing over with Dani to help Kurt lower Rachel onto the street curb.  Kurt gently caught Rachel’s head so she wouldn’t crack her skull on the cement.  Her eyes were closed.  “Rachel?” he said, shaking her shoulders.  He held her hand and squeezed her fingers.  “Sweetie, come on, wake up.” 

A wave of guilt crashed into him abruptly.  He’d been the one to insist on leaving New York even though she couldn’t walk, he’d been the one who was annoyed when she was slowing them down.  I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard.

Santana pressed the back of her hand to Rachel’s forehead.  “Jesus, she’s burning up.”

“Where are we going to find antibiotics?” said Dani.  “Every place we’ve passed has already been emptied.”

“I don’t know, but we need to do something.”  Santana's forehead creased in a deep frown as she scanned the intersection for anything that might be of use.  Kurt tightened his grip around Rachel’s clammy hand.  “Let’s take her over there,” Santana said, gesturing in the direction of a sign reading The Snug, nailed to a small building sandwiched between a barber shop and a bakery.

Kurt blinked.  “To the bar?  Why?”

“Just help me, will you?”

Kurt looped his arms underneath Rachel’s shoulders, her head falling heavily against his chest.  Santana lifted Rachel’s legs, and together they hefted her upwards, carrying her with some difficulty across the street.  Dani ran ahead and shoved the door to the bar open, holding it while Kurt and Santana awkwardly shuffled inside.

“Is there anything left on the shelves?” Santana huffed as she and Kurt lowered Rachel to the floor.  Kurt sat down and leaned against the end of a booth, holding Rachel to his side.

“Besides the broken bottles on the floor, no,” Dani replied from behind the bar.

Santana sighed, shrugging off the bags from her shoulders with a grunt.  “Damn it.”

“Oh, wait,” Dani amended, bending down and disappearing momentarily below the counter.  “I found a couple that rolled under the fridge.”

Santana immediately brightened.  “What are they?”

Dani popped back up, two bottles in her hands and another tucked under her arm.  “Two beers and… a tequila.”

“Bring the tequila,” Santana directed, reaching down to unlace Rachel’s shoe.  “And the biggest bowl you can find.”

“What are we going to do?” Kurt asked, his heart racing.  He clutched Rachel’s shoulders a little tighter, her skin almost painfully hot through the fabric of her shirt.  He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, and could only be grateful that she was at least still alive.

Santana gently removed Rachel’s shoe, tossing it aside before peeling away her damp sock and unwinding the bandage stained through with blood, dirt, and sweat.  “We’re going to soak her foot,” she said without looking up.

“Won’t that be painful?”

“Yes.”

Kurt’s heart skipped.  There was a clatter from the back of the bar where Dani was rummaging through the storage cupboards.  Santana lifted Rachel’s foot to scrutinize it more closely.  Although the bar was too dim to see anything with real certainty, Kurt could smell the infection eating away at Rachel’s heel, and it was enough to make him suppress a gag.

Dani finally rushed over with a metal ice bowl, popping the cap off the tequila bottle and pouring it into the bowl.  “Are you sure this will work?” she asked, handing the bowl to Santana.

“No.”

Kurt’s free hand whipped out to stop Santana from lowering Rachel’s heel into the bowl.  “Wait, then why are we doing it?” he insisted.  “If it’s going to hurt her, then shouldn’t we be sure?”

“Kurt, I am not a doctor! ” Santana spat, her voice abruptly rising enough to make the hairs on the back of Kurt’s neck prickle.  “Okay?  I volunteered at the hospital in Lima twice like five years ago!  I barely know First Aid!  I don’t know if this is going to work; I don’t even know if it’s going to help!  All I can tell you is that alcohol kills bacteria, and if this doesn’t get treated, Rachel is going to die .”

Kurt flinched, pressing his lips together.  Santana’s eyes were wide, miserable and angry and terrified all in one.  She was on the verge of crying.  For the first time, Kurt saw that she was panicking, and he had no idea what to say.

Santana’s jaw twitched.  “So, would you rather she die soon, or do you want to try and buy us time to find her some real medication?” she asked, her words shaking.  “You’re the one who said we should leave New York.  You’re the goddamn leader.  You tell me what to do.”

A boulder wedged itself between the walls of Kurt’s throat, and he had to fight back tears.  He couldn’t be responsible for this.

“What…” he started quietly, struggling to keep his voice steady.  “What do you want me to do?”

Santana let out a heavy breath, her mouth tightening for a moment as she swallowed.  “Just… hold her.”

Kurt nodded and did as he was told, tightening his fingers around Rachel’s shoulders as Santana placed her foot into the bowl.  The tequila splashed slightly around Rachel’s heel and her leg flinched back, reacting even though she was still unconscious.  Santana gripped Rachel’s ankle tightly and held it so that the wound remained submerged.  A whimper worked its way out of her throat and her face contorted in pain.

“Rachel?” Kurt said, his hand on her cheek.  He kept his other arm around her shoulders.  “Rachel, sweetie, can you hear me?”

Rachel’s eyes fluttered, rolling in her head for a moment before she sucked in a gasp, her back arching rigidly.  Her eyes snapped all the way open, glossed over in fever, and she thrashed, kicking at the bowl.

“Kurt!” Santana snapped, grappling to keep Rachel’s foot where it was and the bowl from spilling.  “You need to keep her still!”

“Sweetie, look at me,” Kurt urged, raising his voice to try and get Rachel to focus on him.  He had to grab her arms and pin them to her sides to keep her from hitting him in confusion.  “Rachel!”

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut and a broken cry bubbled up from her chest, growing into a scream as she struggled to pull her leg away from Santana’s grip.  She looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap.  A small cloud of red billowed from her heel in the bowl — her wound had been torn open again by her desperation to fight Santana off.  Dani had been sitting beside Santana in shock, a hand over her mouth, until Santana finally ordered her to do something.

“I-I’m sorry,” Dani muttered, half in a daze and barely audible over Rachel’s screams.  She quickly propped herself on her knees and reached over to hold down Rachel’s midsection, making it easier for Kurt to keep Rachel in place.

Rachel’s chest was heaving, her breath coming in ragged and hoarse gasps between cries.  Tears streamed down her face, and Kurt couldn’t do anything but clutch her as tightly as possible.  Her eyes were glazed over, her skin burning to the touch and soaked with sweat.  She was delirious, and Kurt suddenly realized she had no idea where she was or what was happening or even that he was there.  His chest ached, but he didn’t know if it was from Rachel’s shoulder pressing into his sternum or if his heart had stopped.

“Rachel, look at me,” he pleaded, planting a kiss on her damp and dirty hair.  “Come on, I know you can hear me.”

Her frame was shaking, and another, quieter sob wrenched from her lungs.  “It h-hurts,” she whimpered.

“I know,” he said.  The sheer agony in her voice was harrowing, and Kurt wanted to scream along with her.  “I know, sweetie.  It’ll be over soon.  Okay?”

“It hurts,” she cried, writhing in his arms.  She was still trying to get away from the pain, but it was weaker now.  She’d already exhausted herself.

Kurt kissed the top of her head a second time, holding her as close to him as he could.  “It’ll be over soon,” he promised, and he promised her again and again.

By the time the sun dipped red and heavy along the horizon, Mercedes had already been wide awake for several hours.  As exhausted as she was, it was difficult to sleep during the day, with no way to block the blinding sunlight from spilling through the gas station’s large windows.  The most she could do was find a little shade by laying down behind one of the shelves stocked with chips and candy bars.

That was one good thing about the Mojave — thanks to the absolute isolation of the massive desert, there was nobody to loot the stations’ food stores before Mercedes and Puck could get to them.  They’d had no shortage of water and food — junk food, sure, but they weren’t in a position to be picky.  Of course, feeding Mr. T was another matter.  While Mr. T had definitely been feeling better since they had stopped traveling during the day, the fact remained that she was considerably skinnier than she’d been at the start of their journey.  Finding food fit for a horse in this environment was chancy at best, let alone finding enough of it to give proper nutrition.  At this point Mr. T had been making do with munching on the dry shrubs lining the highway, supplemented by bags of Chex Mex and trail mix from the gas stations (after Puck had painstakingly removed all the M&Ms).

On the upside, if Mercedes was reading the map correctly, they’d reach the Colorado River in a few days — maybe even less.  At last, the end of the desert was in sight.

Mercedes chuckled quietly to herself, watching the corner where Mr. T was sitting comfortably on the floor against the wall, her ears flicking this way and that as a couple of flies buzzed round her head.  Puck had slept leaning back against Mr. T’s large stomach, his head resting on her flank.  He was wholeheartedly attached to his pet; Mercedes would give him that.  He’d never been so openly affectionate to anyone in high school — and still wasn’t, at least where Mercedes was concerned — but seeing him abandon all his old male bravado in favor of taking care of Mr. T amidst all the chaos and terror and uncertainty of the blackout was reassuring.  It was a minor comfort, to see something so concretely human.

As the light outside slowly faded from rippling white to rosy pink, to soft orange and finally bloody red, Mercedes sighed and forced herself to stand.  Stretching all the kinks from her back, she felt a small surge of relief that her blisters were finally developing callouses.  “Puck,” she called with a yawn.  “Hey, wake up.”

Puck blearily opened his eyes, rubbing a palm over his face.

“Puck,” she said again, snapping her fingers.  “Come on, the sun’s setting.  We need to get going.”

“Okay, okay,” he waved her off, picking the sleep grime out of his eyes.  “Why does it always feel like we’re leaving earlier and earlier?”

Mercedes snorted, re-packing the sweatshirt she’d been using as a pillow into her bag.  “Hey, don’t blame me if you can’t sleep because you keep drinking sodas and getting a caffeine rush.”

Puck grinned.  “What?  Warm soda’s pretty good once you get used to it.”

Mercedes made a face.  “Gross.”

“It grows on you.”

“Would you get your ass up off the floor already?” Mercedes demanded.  “Let’s go.  You still need to get Mr. T’s gear on.”

“Okay, okay,” Puck repeated, finally standing up.  “Jesus.”  He gave Mr. T’s shoulder a sharp pat, clicking his tongue to urge her to her feet.  Her hooves clopped loudly on the floor as she heaved herself up.

Mercedes grimaced as she pulled her hair back into as tight a bun as she could manage.  Her hair was exasperatingly tangled, oiled and dirty from walking for days on end without a thorough cleaning, and she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she was eventually forced to cut it all off.  “Ugh, I cannot wait to get out of this stupid desert,” she grumbled.  “I need a bath, and at this point I don’t care if it’s in a tub or a damn river.”

Puck laughed, coaxing the bridle over Mr. T’s head and buckling the strap underneath her jaw.  “Yeah, me too,” he said.  “At least we both stink.”

Mercedes ran her tongue over her teeth, which were also in need of a good brush.  Her mouth was dry.  It felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of dust.  “Hey, pass me a Gatorade?” she requested as Puck grabbed the handles of their canvas bags to sling over Mr. T’s back.

“Sure,” he said.  He reached into the bag where they kept the water, and then, without warning, screamed.  His arm jerked back and he dropped the bag, bottles bouncing and rolling over the floor.

Mercedes froze, having no idea what was happening or what she was supposed to do.  Mr. T whinnied, sidestepping anxiously and probably would have bolted if she wasn’t inside, but there was nowhere for her to run.  Puck had fallen on the floor, his limbs flailing as he continued to scream at the top of his lungs. 

“GET IT OFF!  GET IT OFF!”

Mercedes’ heart jolted as she realized that, clinging to Puck’s left forearm by its jaws, was a huge orange and black lizard.  “What the—” she started, still stunned and unsure of what to do.

“GET IT OFF!” Puck screamed, frantically trying to shake the creature from his arm.  But the lizard had one hell of a grip, and its teeth were sunk deep.

Mercedes grabbed Puck’s baseball bat from where he’d left it by the cashier’s counter and rushed to his side.  “Hold still!” she shrieked, holding the bat overhead.

Puck gritted his teeth, tears streaming from his eyes as he desperately tried to keep himself from moving.  His arm was trembling, and blood was welling up around the lizard’s clamped jaws.  “Get it off, get it off, get it off,” he begged, his lungs heaving.

Mercedes held her breath, then brought the bat down as hard as she could.  There was a crunch as the lizard’s ribs were crushed, and it let out a hissing squeak as its mouth finally unclenched from Puck’s arm.  Quickly, before it could move again, Mercedes clubbed it again, and then a third time, and a fourth.  It dropped limply to the floor, its head and ribs caved in and its tail still twitching.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes panted, her heart racing.  She let the bat fall to the ground and sunk to her knees beside Puck.  He struggled to sit upright, cradling his left arm against his abdomen.  The bite mark, closer to his wrist than his elbow, was sluggishly bleeding and already badly bruised.  Little droplets of viscous crimson plopped onto the dusty white linoleum floor.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Puck choked out.  He winced, the fingers of his left hand shaking uncontrollably as he tried to catch his breath.

“It — it must have crawled inside while we were asleep,” Mercedes stammered, yanking a t-shirt out of her backpack and wrapping it tightly around the bite to try and stop the bleeding.  The lizard carcass had stopped twitching, lying crushed on the floor.  It was a heavy creature, fat and thick-limbed, with pebbly scales mottled black and bright orange.

Mercedes’ heart skipped, her eyes widening.  “Puck… that’s a Gila monster.”

“A what?”

“A Gila monster,” she repeated.  She swallowed, her fingertips going numb.  “They’re venomous.”

Puck stared at her.

Mercedes didn’t know what to say.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She let out a long breath, feeling cold at her core.  “Does it hurt?” she asked lamely.

“No, it freaking tickles,” Puck spat.  “Yes, it hurts!  I feel like my arm’s going to fall off!”

“Don’t you dare take this out on me!” she snapped back, jabbing a finger at his face.

“Am I going to die?”

The question made Mercedes’ brain jolt to a halt.  Any traces of anger she might have felt in reaction to Puck’s lashing out evaporated in an instant.  Puck’s breaths were coming more rapidly now — he was almost hyperventilating — but Mercedes didn’t know if it was because he was in physical agony or he was simply terrified.

He grabbed her wrist, reaching out with his uninjured arm.  “Mercedes,” he pleaded.  His voice cracked, and Mercedes wanted to cry.  “Am I going to die?”

“I…” she trailed off.

“Tell me!” he cried, making Mercedes jump with his sudden shout.  His hand tightened painfully around her arm. 

Her chest ached somewhere underneath her ribs.  She wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that they were going to make it home together and he was going to see his mother and sister again soon.  But she couldn’t give him anything but an honest answer.

“I don’t know.”

Puck’s hand slipped away from her arm, a disconsolate breath escaping his body.  He swallowed, swiping his palm over his face in a halfhearted attempt to hide the fact that he was on the verge of tears, but Mercedes could hear the telltale shudder in his lungs.  She had never seen him so frightened, and she was completely, utterly lost.

Chapter Text

Rachel was floating somewhere in a fog, alone. There was a distantly painful throbbing in her leg, and every time she tried to move her toes it sent a dull twinge up through her bones to her brain. She could barely feel the ground underneath her, and the only thing she could hear was the deafening chatter of her teeth.

Why was she so cold?

With shaking hands, she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, struggling to pull her legs closer to her body. She thought for a moment that maybe she could hear someone saying her name, but her limbs were so heavy and she just wanted to sleep. Lying on her stomach was somehow the only way her head wouldn't feel like it was going to burst.

Her shoulder was suddenly grabbed and shaken, forcing her to open her eyes.

"Rachel," said a voice from overhead. Was it Dani? Or Santana? Why did it sound so far away? Why was everything muffled? Why was it so hard to think? "Rachel, you need to eat something. Sit up. Come on."

Rachel shook her head, her chest tight. Chills coursed over her like ripples on a pond, gooseflesh stretching her skin until she wanted to just peel it from her body to release the pressure. Her head was pounding and she was constantly teetering between wanting to vomit and feeling so hungry that her stomach hurt. But she'd tried to eat earlier and every time the food touched her tongue, she couldn't swallow and the nausea came crashing back in.

"Rachel, please," the voice begged. The hand was still on Rachel's shoulder.

God, she was too hot now. Rachel wearily pushed the blankets from her legs and tried to roll over, feeling the sweat that had pooled on her back drip down her sides. She shuddered and gagged as her stomach seized, sending sharp stabs up her throat.

Her mouth was dry. She reached blindly for the water bottle she was sure she'd left beside her, but instead her hand found only grass.

Where was she?

She could remember being indoors last. And pain — horrible, gut-wrenching agony shooting up her leg through her spine to her fingers and lungs and brain. She could remember that.

"Rachel, please eat something," the voice repeated, only it had changed now, morphed into a sound more familiar and clear. A voice she knew and trusted and deeply missed.

"Dad?" she tried to say. Instead, the word emerged from her chest in a whimper, barely intelligible. She needed to work on her enunciation. She was an actress, after all, and her audience needed to know what she was saying.

She could hear muted applause in the distance, though — a commotion of whispers and rustles and snaps that was barely audible but there nonetheless. Or was it the wind in the branches overhead?

The roaring of the blood in her ears grew louder and drowned it out before she could decide.

There was a hand on her forehead suddenly, making her flinch and pull away. The hand was burning hot to the touch and she was afraid that if it touched her again, she'd go up in flames.

"I've never seen a fever this bad," said the voice. Her dad's tone had disappeared — had he even been here to begin with? — and she wanted to cry. "Her heart's going to give out if we don't do something."

Her heart.

Her heart felt fine. It was her head that wouldn't stop pounding, her stomach that had twisted into knots, her bones that were about to snap with any slight movement, her skin that she wanted to claw from her flesh.

If she could sleep, this would all be fixed. She just needed sleep.

The cold came rushing back into her body, making her bones tremble. She fumbled for the blankets again, but felt another pair of hands lift them over her shoulders, tucking them in around her.

"Rachel, I made you some soup. It's the last can, I'm sorry."

Something hot and steaming was held near her face, and Rachel caught a whiff of chicken broth. Immediately, her gut heaved and she retched, acid burning in her esophagus since there was nothing in her stomach for her to throw up.

"No, no," she groaned, dry-heaving a second time, and then again. Her lips felt numb. How would she be able to sing like this, shivering and almost numb and with her throat burning? Would this last forever?

"Rachel, you have to eat," the voice pleaded.

Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes — she couldn't do this! A sob escaped her throat, and she felt ashamed. She was more professional than this, surely? But she was so tired and everything hurt.

Stars danced on the backs of her eyelids.

DAY 18

Breakfast at the Andersons' was newly cheerful, for once absent of worry and carefully rationing who ate what and how much of it. Blaine and Artie had returned yesterday weighted down with bags of cereal, condensed milk, oatmeal, packaged ham and salami, dried apricots and banana chips, instant coffee, and even powdered mix for hot chocolate. The five of them sat gathered at the dining table, eating and talking and actually enjoying themselves for the first time in what seemed like years. Even Tim, whom Artie had never once seen smile, laughed at a joke Artie made through his mouthful of Choco-Crunch.

Pamela smiled as she poured hot tea into Tim's mug, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and squeezing his shoulder before returning the kettle to the counter. The image of a loving wife and husband was more than familiar to Artie, and despite the fact that yes, he felt truly safe at last, he couldn't help but feel an aching pang in his chest. He hadn't spoken to his parents or older brother since days before the blackout. And as much as this particular morning felt like he was part of a family again, Artie was reminded that it was only himself and Caitlin left.

For the duration of the meal, Caitlin stayed close to Artie's side. She was the only person in the room who hadn't joined the conversation, instead quietly and slowly eating a plateful of dried orange slices and a cup of cocoa. Artie hated to admit it, but he had gotten used to her not speaking, and it took him longer than it should have to notice that she was halfheartedly pushing her food around on her plate more than she was actually chewing and swallowing.

Artie reached over and patted her back, then brushed Caitlin's bangs back from her forehead. They were growing too long; he made a mental note to find some scissors later and give her a trim. His mom would've known how to do it properly, and how to tie her hair back so that it would keep out of her face and still be pretty. But Artie spent a lot of his brainpower these days trying not to think about all the things his parents weren't here to do.

He wished Caitlin would start talking again. For the first few days after the blackout, it had been okay. Artie had been in the middle of making macaroni and cheese for dinner, and it was scary, of course, but they were all right. They'd pretended it was like camping — both of them staying in Artie's room and keeping candles lit and playing board games late into the night. They hadn't realized the world had changed so much outside, and instead they were just waiting for the phone lines to turn back on so they could call their parents.

And then, everything was gone. Just after sunset, nearly a week after the clocks had stopped, there was a pounding on the front door. Then the windows were smashed, and then the door broken down. Artie and Caitlin were dragged from the house and tossed onto the front lawn, Artie thrown from his chair and knocked out. He could remember Caitlin screaming and clutching his neck, but nothing else until he came around to find their home eviscerated. Caitlin hadn't spoken since that night.

He leaned over and kissed the top of Caitlin's head. For now, the fact that she was safe and not starving would have to be enough. Things were finally starting to look up.

Santana's frown deepened as she held the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead for the umpteenth time that day. Rachel had been sweating nonstop and was dangerously dehydrated — her lips were cracked and beginning to peel, and her cheeks were hollowed and greyish. The skins under her eyes had deepened to a dark purple. She couldn't stop shivering, and she periodically mumbled incoherent phrases through her delirium.

"How's she doing?" Dani asked, throwing another log on the fire. She was boiling their last packet of ramen in the little pot that had come with the camping stove, which had run out of gas four days ago. They were camped barely a mile from Stewartsville, having tried and failed to keep walking for very long while carrying Rachel.

Santana shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Worse."

Dani chewed the inside of her lip. "I'm sure Kurt will find something helpful," she said, glancing upwards at the tree branches. "I'm going to go down to the stream and get some more water."

Santana waved her off. "I'll go. You stay with her."

Dani shrugged, moving to sit cross-legged next to Rachel. "What do you want me to do if she wakes up?"

Santana brushed off the seat of her pants. "Last time she woke up, she started crying because she got a bad review for her performance of Hello, Dolly," she said dryly. "My advice, just go with it."

Grabbing a few empty bottles from the side of the fire where they'd been piling up, Santana made her way down the slope about twenty yards behind their campsite. The ground was soft from layers upon layers of decaying leaves, and Santana's sneakers sunk into the soil slightly with every step. She had to clutch the bottles in the crook of her arm, using her free hand to hold onto the branches of smaller trees and saplings to keep from slipping.

It took her a few minutes to reach the bottom of the incline, where a small stream meandered through a narrow bed of branches, boulders, and pebbles, barely ten feet across. It bubbled and dipped through the rill, formed by years of erosion beneath the constant current. Santana crouched by the stream's edge, balancing on the balls of her feet and splashing a palmful of cold water onto her face and the back of her neck. She shivered, a shudder running down her spine. Even in the warmth of the mid-May afternoon, the stream was icy cold.

She glanced over her shoulder, up the slope towards the campsite. Dani and Rachel were out of view, blocked by the hill and the shady trees, but Santana knew they were close by. It was strange how comforting that thought was nowadays — just being near familiar people. Kurt had left on his own, heading back to Stewartsville to give the town a thorough search for supplies. It was the first time one of them had been separate from the group since leaving New York, and despite Santana knowing that Stewartsville was only a mile away and empty, she was still anxious for him. Still, she knew the importance of getting Rachel medication, and now that Rachel was completely unable to travel, their options were very, very limited.

Santana sighed, resting her elbows on her knees and studying the woods on the other side of the stream. It was quiet, but not silent. She could hear insects buzzing and see them zigzagging through the beams of sunlight bursting through the thin canopy, small birds chirping and flitting to and fro. Around the trunk of an old oak tree, two squirrels chattered and chased each other.

It was pretty here, she supposed. She had never been one to marvel at natural beauty — she had always preferred high-rises and the bustling flow of traffic and flashing neon signs — but she could see why a person might find a place like this soothing. Personally, she didn't like it much.

She reached forward and dipped her water bottle into the stream, letting it fill before sealing the cap and reaching for another bottle. The water here was clear and free of silt, with nothing harmful to worry about. Bitterly, she knew that if they had stayed in New York, they would have eventually been forced to boil water from the Hudson to drink — and even that would have been disgusting.

God, she missed the city. She missed the noise and the rush and the smells and the people.

A twig snapped somewhere to her left, and Santana nearly dropped the bottle in the water. Her gaze jerked up, her leg muscles tightening and immediately ready to bolt.

A deer had emerged from the brush on the opposite side of the stream, tiptoeing to the water to drink. Santana released a small, startled gasp, and the deer raised its head. Santana had never seen a deer in person, and couldn't help but gawk at it. It was smaller than she'd always imagined deer to be, with thin but sharp antlers protruding from its head, curling outwards and up over its ears. The buck remained frozen where it stood, staring back at her with its ears pointed forward, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Its tail flicked back and forth, flashing white.

Santana teetered on her toes, still crouched but trying her best not to move. She wasn't sure why she was so reluctant to scare the buck off — it wasn't like she had any sort of fondness for wildlife — but somehow she wanted this moment to last as long as possible. It was peaceful, and for once the peace didn't frighten the hell out of her.

The buck stood there unmoving for a long time, gazing unreservedly back at her. Santana wasn't sure how many minutes ticked by (Dani was the one with the watch, after all) before she couldn't keep her legs so rigidly bent any longer, and she had to stand up. The buck remained standing, only its ears moving as they swiveled back and forth on its head. It released a heavy puff of air through its nose, still watching her.

Then, there was a sudden shout in the distance, and the buck turned and fled, its hooves thumping solidly against the ground. Santana's stomach dropped, and she quickly gathered up the bottles in her arms before casting one last look toward where the deer had vanished. She then ran up the slope back to camp.

"What's going on?" she called, rushing back to Dani and letting the bottles fall on the ground beside the fire. Rachel was still unconscious, but Dani had stood and was watching the road several hundred yards away. The shout came again, and Santana turned to follow Dani's gaze.

Kurt was running towards them in a full sprint.

Santana's heart plummeted, every muscle in her body tensing. The last time Kurt had run that fast, hyenas had been snapping at their heels. Dani grabbed Santana's wrist, just as terrified of what might be coming.

"SANTANA! DANI!" he screamed, his shoes pounding the pavement.

"What's wrong?!" Dani shouted.

At last, Kurt skidded to a stop at the campsite, sweaty and dusty and badly out of breath. And… smiling?

"Nothing's wrong!" he panted, shrugging off his backpack and yanking the zipper open. He pulled out a pair of orange pill bottles and tossed them to Santana. "I found these!"

Santana squinted at the labels, bearing only long words she didn't recognize. "What is this?"

"It's penicillin," Kurt said, dropping to the ground in exhaustion. He seized a water bottle from Santana's pile, holding it to his neck to cool his skin. "It's for Rachel."

"Oh my God," Dani breathed, a smile growing on her face. "Kurt, you—"

"I found them and ran back as fast as I could."

Dani laughed, sinking to her knees to wrap Kurt in a hug. "I think you just saved Rachel's life."

After lunch, Blaine and Artie made a second run to the Target truck. Since the truck's cargo was too massive for them to bring home all at once, they had locked the trailer and kept the keys. It would be their secret reserve, and they planned to gradually move it all, load by load, back to the Andersons' house. They could store most of it in the cellar, and there were a few extra rooms upstairs that could easily be repurposed. Blaine tried not to think about how one of those rooms had belonged to Cooper not too long ago.

The walk to Yoakam Road felt shorter and less dangerous today. Even just knowing that food was suddenly something they didn't have to worry about had lifted an indescribable weight from their shoulders. Thick rain clouds rolled across the sky overhead, providing cool shade and promises of fresh drinking water.

"We should stop by that gardening center on the other side of town during our run tomorrow," Artie said, his wheels crunching slightly on the pavement. "I overheard your mom talking about starting to grow vegetables in the backyard."

Blaine nodded. "That'd be good," he said tightly.

Artie looked at him askance. "Are you okay?"

Blaine sighed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack. "Are we so certain the power won't come back?" he asked. "I mean, do you really think we need to resort to growing our own crops just so we don't starve?"

Artie's brows furrowed over the rims of his glasses. "You're asking me that question while we're walking three miles just to raid an abandoned truck for food," he said flatly. "So we don't starve."

Blaine's stomach twisted. "Fair point," he admitted.

"For all we know, the power could come back tomorrow, but I don't think it's safe to bet on that," Artie added.

"I get it."

"Okay." Artie backed off, falling silent.

Blaine knew he shouldn't be complaining. After all — they did have the truck. They had enough food to last them for months. His parents were alive. Their house was secure, not looted or burned down like so many others. None of them were sick or injured and in need of a hospital. All in all, things were good. Things should be good.

But on the same token, he couldn't shake the feeling that things would never be the same again. He always avoided looking out the back window to where Cooper was buried, and his mother and father barely mentioned Cooper's death, if at all. Hell, he had no idea what had happened to Artie's parents; he'd never asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Whoa," Artie said, slowing his chair to a stop. He was staring off to the shoulder of the road.

"What?" Blaine stopped as well, following Artie's gaze. There was an abandoned station wagon sitting diagonally with two wheels on the grass, and the decomposing corpse of a man lying crumpled in front of it, his limbs askew. Blood, old and dried, was sprayed across the car door behind him. He'd been shot three times in the chest, no doubt killed for any food or other valuables he might have been carrying.

Blaine frowned, not sure what Artie was reacting to. He had passed this spot nearly every day on his supply runs — the man had been killed weeks ago and his body wasn't anything new. In general, seeing bodies on the side of the road wasn't new. No one had the courage or the resources to collect them.

But Artie looked like he was on the verge of tears. "Is… isn't that Mr. Schue?" he choked out.

Blaine's eyes widened, his attention whipping back to the corpse. Artie was right. Blaine had passed this exact spot almost every day, seen the body every time, and never once realized it was someone he knew.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening, and turned away. "We need to keep going."

Artie didn't move. "But… shouldn't we—?"

"There's nothing we can do," Blaine said, already continuing down the road. Finally, Artie grabbed the rims of his wheels and rolled to catch up. Neither of them spoke again, and Blaine wasn't sure if the silence was out of respect for the dead, or because there simply wasn't anything left to say.

A warm breeze blew across the road, tugging at Kurt's hair as he examined Rachel's foot. The shadows were growing long in the afternoon light; it had been several hours since they'd coaxed Rachel to swallow a handful of the pills. Kurt was being impatient, he knew, but he just wanted to see some improvement.

"How's it looking?" asked Dani.

"No better," Kurt replied, letting Rachel's leg back down to rest on the makeshift pillow he'd made of her balled-up sweatshirt. "No worse, though."

"You saved her life, you know."

Kurt smiled, tugging the corner of Rachel's blanket back over her foot. "Well, we're not out of the woods yet," he said, looking upwards at the leafy canopy. "Literally."

Dani chuckled. "You're making puns now?"

"Hey, we've got limited sources of entertainment now. We should probably get our laughs where we can."

"True." Dani stood up, brushing off the seat of her pants and scouting the woods in the direction of the stream. "I'm going to go see if I can find anything edible."

"Santana already went back into town," Kurt said. "There were some places that looked like they hadn't been cleared out yet."

"Well, I'm tired of eating nothing but canned crap," Dani countered. "I want something fresh."

Kurt blinked in confusion, realizing that she wasn't talking about following Santana back to Stewartsville. "What, you're just going to forage for berries or something?"

Dani shrugged, checking her watch. "If I find some." She laughed, seeing Kurt's incredulous expression. "Look, I grew up in an uber-conservative family in Tennessee. My dad and I went hunting a lot when I was growing up — it's not like I can survive with nothing but a knife in my pocket, but I do know a few things."

"All right," Kurt acquiesced. "Just don't bring back anything poisonous."

Dani squinted up at the sun poking through the leaves, then again at her watch. "It's about four o'clock now," she said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours." She waved to Kurt over her shoulder and headed for the stream, disappearing down the slope.

Kurt tossed a few more sticks onto the fire, tucking the blankets more closely to Rachel's sides. Rachel's forehead was still beaded with sweat, but at least her teeth were only chattering intermittently now, and her delirious mumblings had grown rare. He brushed her bangs away from her forehead and out of her eyes, then self-consciously tugged at his own hair. It had been so long since any of them had had a proper haircut or even looked in a mirror, and Kurt knew he probably looked like someone out of a post-apocalyptic movie.

"What I wouldn't give for a spa day…" he sighed to himself, picking a small chunk of dirt from under his fingernail. His cuticles were in atrocious condition. He made a mental note to search for some nail clippers in the next Rite Aid they passed.

"Kurt?" came a small voice.

Kurt immediately moved to sit on his knees, his hand on Rachel's shoulder. Relief washed over him. "Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?"

Rachel's eyes were bleary and only half open. "I had a dream about Finn," she said softly.

There was an aching pang that shot through Kurt's chest, but he forced a smile, carding his hands soothingly over Rachel's hair. "Yeah?" he prompted. "What was he doing?"

Rachel's eyes closed again, and for a moment Kurt thought she'd fallen back asleep. "We were just talking," she said.

"What about?" Kurt prompted.

Rachel let out a long, slow breath. "I'm tired," she mumbled.

"You can sleep if you want."

"I've been sleeping too much."

"Does your foot hurt?"

"No."

Kurt smiled. "That's good, sweetie. You'll be okay, I promise."

If Rachel thought this was good news, she didn't show it. Kurt couldn't tell if she'd slipped back into unconsciousness or if she was simply too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

"You still awake?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You know, we're only a couple miles from Pennsylvania," he said. "If we leave tomorrow morning, we'd probably get there before sunset. And then after that, we're practically home. You'll get to see your dads."

A blue jay cried in the branches somewhere.

"I bet they're waiting for you on the front step."

Again, Rachel didn't respond. Kurt watched the blue jay swoop from one tree to another, crying a second time. A bluebottle buzzed past his ear. Santana would be back soon, and Kurt found that he was hoping she wouldn't return for a while yet. He missed having days with only Rachel, to go for joint massages or to catch dinner and a movie. It was nice here with just the two of them, even if Rachel was sick and they were miles from anywhere they considered home.

"You still awake?" he repeated.

Rachel didn't reply, her shoulder rising and falling with each shallow breath. The blue jay cried again in the distance.

DAY 19

By the time the midnight moon peeked over the ridge of the distant rocky hills in the east, Puck's arm had swollen to twice its normal size. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he clung to Mr. T's mane in a desperate effort to keep from falling off of her back. His left arm had been rendered useless — he wasn't able to move his fingers without crying out in pain — and Mercedes had been forced to fashion a makeshift sling out of one of her tank tops. He rode in the saddle with his head hung over Mr. T's neck, dried up and nearly passing out. He'd vomited too many times already and every time she tried to get him to sip a bottle of Gatorade, he couldn't keep it down. Even if the venom in his blood didn't kill him, Mercedes knew that before long, the dehydration would.

Mercedes walked ahead, guiding Mr. T by her reins and praying to the high heavens that they'd get out of the desert before Puck died from sheer agony. She was trying to move as fast as possible, but she couldn't risk making Puck lose his grip. He'd fallen once earlier and it was a hellish struggle to get him back in the saddle.

"Come on, Puck," she said for the thousandth time that night. "We're almost there."

"Stop saying that," Puck slurred through gritted teeth.

"No."

As the half moon climbed higher in the sky, spilling milky light across the sand flats and the road ahead, Mercedes kept her eyes wide and alert. She searched for signs, for tourist markers, anything that might indicate the presence of other people. But there was nothing. For all she knew, they were on the wrong highway and instead were heading south through Arizona to the Mexican border.

We're almost there, she told herself, refusing to believe she could have read the map so badly.

"Mercedes," Puck said, his chest heaving. "I — I can't keep doing this."

"Just hold on a little longer," she urged. "We'll get there soon."

"No, you're not — you're not listening."

"Puck," Mercedes warned. "Don't say anything."

"J-just cut it off, Mercedes, please," he cried, reaching down with his good arm to snatch the reins.

Mercedes' stomach flipped over. "Puck, I am not going to cut off your arm!"

"Mercedes—"

"No," she stopped him from saying any more. "No. You would bleed out. And I won't do that to you." She shook her head, yanking the reins out of his hand. "I won't."

"I'm going to die anyway!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Please, this hurts—"

"I said no!  You’re delirious, and you’re not thinking.  So no."

Mercedes clenched her jaw, tugging on Mr. T's reins to keep her moving. She refused to look at Puck, despite his continued pleading. She refused to listen.

And then, she saw it.

Barely twenty feet ahead, a smaller road bent off of the main pavement, nothing but dirt but well-packed by tire treads. Overhead was a wooden arch, the paint peeling from the sign atop the gate.

RING OF FIRE CATTLE RANCH, it read, and Mercedes was sure she'd never read anything so welcome.

"Oh, thank God," she exhaled, leading Mr. T off the pavement and onto the dirt road. They passed under the gate, leaving its long moon shadow in their wake. Mr. T's hooves thudded dully in the sand, muting their steps.

They had barely walked another hundred feet into the dark, following the tire tracks as best they could in the moonlight, when Puck fainted. His fingers let go of Mr. T's mane, and he slid from the saddle, landing in the sand with a heavy thump. There was an audible crack as his head hit a rock embedded in the dirt.

"Puck!" Mercedes shrieked, whirling to grab Puck's shoulders and shake him. Mr. T sidestepped, snorting and whinnying in distress. "Puck, come on!"

Puck didn't move, though thankfully he was still breathing. Mercedes heaved him up off the ground, but he was so heavy that she ended up on her rear end with him sprawled across her lap. She wouldn't be able to move him on her own, and she couldn't just have Mr. T drag him on the ground.

So she did the only thing she could think of, and she screamed for help.

Maybe someone would hear her, maybe God would, maybe nobody at all was listening. At this point, she didn't even care who might respond — just so long as someone did.

She screamed and screamed until her throat went dry, until it felt like she would start coughing up blood any moment.

And at last, she spotted a pinprick of orange light floating in the distance, bobbing like a cork in water as it drew nearer from a hundred yards down the road.

Then — oh God, and then — a sound came echoing out of the darkness, and Mercedes felt tears of ineffable relief spill down her cheeks without warning.

"Hello, is anyone out there?!"

Mercedes clutched Puck's shoulders with one arm, waving her free hand desperately as high as she could reach. "We're over here!" she called, her voice hoarse and burning in her throat. "We're over here!"

The orange light bounced up and down as whoever held it broke into a run, their footsteps crunching on the gravel closer and closer until the orange light grew into a flame. It was a makeshift torch.

And lit up by the torch's light was the face of a man — dark skinned, long-nosed and wearing a Stetson on top of his head. Mercedes only cried harder.

"Whoa, whoa, now," the stranger said, dropping to one knee. He held the torch aloft to better see her. "What happened?"

In the torchlight, Mercedes saw that Puck's head bore a heavily bleeding cut above his right ear where it had struck the rock. She sniffed, hiccoughing as she pressed her hand to the cut, trying to stem the bleeding. "He — he got bit," she stammered.

"Rattlesnake?"

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheek on her shoulder. "N-no, it was a — a Gila," she sobbed. She didn't even know why she was crying anymore.

The man glanced at Puck's swollen arm, then patted her shoulder. "Sweetheart, you don't got nothing to worry about," he said. "Let's get him back to the house. You both'll be just fine."

Kurt woke with a start, although he had no idea what had raised him so suddenly. The night was quiet and still, with only a cricket chirping somewhere in the brush nearby, and his internal clock told him it was the early hours of the morning. Dawn was still a long way off; the moon had set and left only the stars behind, and not even a light breeze shifted the humid air. He couldn't hear Rachel's teeth chattering in fever now, but at least she was finally getting some proper sleep. It was just… calm.

The fire was long dead, but Kurt, his eyes wide in the darkness, could barely make out Santana's shadowed silhouette as she rolled over closer to Dani, sighed in her sleep, and settled again. Kurt lay awake for a short while longer, watching the stars twinkle faintly overhead and listening for anything that might be amiss out in the dark. But the night was silent, and hearing nothing, he eventually dozed, feeling as still and calm as the surrounding air. As he drifted off, he heard the solitary cricket chirp one final time, sounding far away, and then he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

In the morning, Kurt woke again with the dawn and sat quietly savoring his last Clif bar as he waited for the girls to get up. The sunrise was peaceful and rose-colored, the pinkish-yellow sky tossing a soft net of dappled light over the grass and trees lining the road. The breeze gradually picked up, rustling the leaves as small birds — sparrows and chickadees — twittered and flitted back and forth between the branches. A light mist rose from the grass and nearby ferns as the ground warmed beneath them. Kurt wasn't sure what the exact calendar date was any longer, but he was vaguely aware that it was now mid-May. All man-made measurements of time — months, hours, minutes, even seconds — seemed to have vanished, sucked into the intangible ether along with the electricity. Now, for the four of them, the only time marker they had was Dani's watch, and Kurt wasn't entirely unaware of the fact that he was asking her for the time less and less often. Knowing the exact minute of the day had slowly become all but obsolete, and Kurt was free to enjoy the morning for what it was — a single, slow, rose-colored moment.

Just as the sun was beginning to poke through the tree trunks to the east, Santana yawned and sat upright, tugging her hair out of its loose bun to re-tie it. Her movement woke Dani, who then stood and stretched, her vertebrae popping loudly as she reached for the treetops.

"I miss my bed," she stated sleepily.

Kurt stood as well, brushing dirt and small pieces of dead leaves from the seat of his pants. "I'm going to head down to the stream to fill our water bottles," he said, collecting as many Gatorade bottles as he could carry from their packs.

"I'll go with you," Santana volunteered, and the two of them carefully navigated the loamy slope down to the little brook below their campsite. Even if it was only a few yards away, Kurt was glad for the company.

"Do you really think Rachel's ready to travel?" Santana asked as they descended the hill. "I mean, we only found those meds yesterday. She's still pretty sick."

Kurt held onto the trunk of a birch tree to prevent himself from slipping in the loose soil. "Well, she seemed okay yesterday," he said. "She's obviously not going to be all better for a couple more days, but we have the meds now, and she told me her foot didn't hurt anymore."

"Yeah, when she was lying down," Santana retorted.

"Look, we're letting Rachel set the pace, and we won't push her any further than necessary," Kurt insisted as they finally reached the foot of the slope. "But we can't just sit here for days and wait until she's doing backflips."

Santana huffed, but acquiesced. "I guess."

Before filling their bottles, Kurt and Santana knelt by the stream and splashed water on their faces, rubbing it onto their forearms to wear away the layer that had built up of travel grime and sweat.

"Jesus, that's cold." Santana gave her head a shake. "Well, I'm awake now."

Kurt chuckled, shivering slightly. Despite being just as cold as Santana, he thought the cool splashes felt pleasant. Bathing — regardless of location or method — gave a semblance of routine. Not that they could maintain much of a routine in their current circumstances, but even just splashing his face with water from the stream made Kurt feel a little more human.

After he and Santana had finished their task of retrieving water for the group, they climbed back up the short slope to where Dani was repacking her things. Rachel was still curled up underneath her blankets.

"She's still not up?" asked Santana.

"Oh, leave her alone," Dani said, stuffing her own blanket into her pack. "She's been having a rough go of it. Let her sleep a little longer."

"How much is a little?" Santana muttered to Kurt through the corner of the mouth.

As Rachel continued to sleep, the three of them quickly broke down camp. After what felt like endless nights on the road, they had become remarkably efficient in the various chores necessary for lengthy trips on foot, the setting up and breaking down of a campsite being an integral part of those chores. At this point, it was little more than muscle memory. Once Kurt had finished packing, he examined the map of New Jersey that they had been following since Newark. He was confident they would cross into Pennsylvania today — Easton was only a few miles away.

"Rachel, time to get up," Santana called at last, kicking some dirt over the little fire pit just to make absolute sure the embers were completely out. "We've got to go."

Kurt made a mental note of how far it was to the Pennsylvania border, then folded up the map and slid it into his backpack's outer pocket.

"Rachel!" Santana snapped loudly. "Okay, fine, I'm stealing your blanket." She strode over to Rachel's side and yanked the blanket away with a flourish. Rachel didn't move; didn't even flinch. Santana hesitated, a frown contorting her features. Kurt froze and watched Santana crouch and give Rachel's shoulder a shake.

"Rachel, wake up," she urged.

"Is she okay?" Kurt asked. The pit of his stomach had abruptly gone cold.

Santana was quiet for a moment, her fingers resting on the skin of Rachel's arm. Rachel was facing away from them and Kurt could only see her back and hunched shoulders, her legs folded up close to her body. Her braided hair, messy and clumped from days on the road, hung to the ground in a limp rope. Her arms were tucked to her chest, hugging her torso as if to conserve heat, but her skin had taken on a hypothermic pallor. Kurt looked to Dani, praying that she was seeing something different, but she only stared at Rachel's back with a hand over her mouth.

Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Kurt felt as though someone had seized him by the neck and was slowly, cruelly, relentlessly constricting his throat. The tips of his fingers were numb.  His knees went weak without warning, and he had to sit down.

After a heavy, suffocatingly long minute, Santana sat back. She said nothing, and Rachel still didn’t move.

Chapter Text

They were unable to give Rachel a burial. They had no shovels or spades, and so were forced to create their own way of taking care of her. It was a long time before any of them allowed themselves to speak or move, just sitting by Rachel's side and willing her to suddenly sit up and yawn, to laugh at them for worrying. The shadows grew shorter as daylight brightened into late morning, then midday and early afternoon, and at long last Dani braced her hands on her knees and softly said, "We could lay her down by the stream."

Kurt shook his head, closing his eyes. There was a boulder wedged in his throat, so tightly that he almost couldn't breathe. "We can't just leave her."

"…I don't think we can do anything else," Dani replied gently.

"This isn't fair."

Santana exhaled slow and long, pressing her forehead momentarily to her knees before sitting upright again. "I'll do it," she said, almost inaudibly, then stood.

"I'll help you," Dani offered, immediately moving to get up with Santana, but Kurt stopped her.

"No." He pulled himself shakily to his feet. "It should be Santana and me."

Dani pressed her lips together and stepped back, acquiescing.

"What are we going to tell her dads?" Kurt whispered, half to himself. The air in his lungs was too thin — he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

Santana picked up Rachel's blanket from where it had been dropped on the ground and laid it back over Rachel's shoulders. "Kurt, help me," she said, finally forcing Kurt to move.

Together, without exchanging so much as a word, Kurt and Santana tucked the blanket's edges underneath Rachel's body and lifted her off the ground. Kurt gritted his teeth, biting back tears — why was she so heavy?  She'd always been such a small person, even with her booming voice and abrasive character. Kurt had made fun of her for it before they were friends, and then teased her about it after they had finally stopped nipping at each other's heels. And now, after days and days of the infection slowly poisoning her, with her arms curled stiffly to her chest and her legs bent to her stomach, she was shrunken, wasted and withered.

Kurt couldn't help wondering if she'd looked like this for weeks and he just hadn't noticed — because surely a change like this couldn't happen overnight.

It was a laborious task to climb down the slope to the stream with Rachel in their arms, their shoes slipping on the carpet of dead leaves and damp soil. The shadows in the woods were already beginning to grow longer again as the sun passed overhead, moths dancing in and out of the sunbeams piercing the canopy. There was an inconsiderate blue jay screeching somewhere off in the branches, and the noise made Kurt want to scream back at it.

"Over there," Santana said breathlessly once they had reached the foot of the hill, the tips of their shoes grazing the edge of the gurgling stream. She gestured with her head to a spot across the brook, a clump of white birch trees that stood out from the rest of the vegetation.

Kurt tightened his grip around Rachel's cold shoulders. "There's no way to cross the stream," he said.

"You really worrying about getting your shoes wet?" Santana snapped. "It's a pretty spot, and she at least deserves that."

Guilt slammed into Kurt's chest with all the force of a bullet train — why hadn't he been thinking about that? He should have thought about that. He was Rachel's closest friend, not Santana. It was his responsibility to think about things like that.

"Kurt." Santana — gentler now and almost contrite — broke him out of his daze. She nodded again to the birch trees. "Come on."

Kurt didn't move, his fingers tightening around Rachel. "I — I can't do this."

Santana swallowed, her mouth pressing into a thin line for a few seconds, the corners of her lips turned down. "Dani's right," she said softly. "This is the only thing we can do."

"What, just — just leave her?" Kurt cried, his voice cracking. "Out in the open? We — we can't—"

"Kurt," Santana insisted. She spoke slowly, every word deliberate. "Listen to me. We can't call anyone for help. We can't take her with us." A few tears escaped from her eyes, dropping from her cheeks, but she didn't falter. "This is our only option. We'll do the best we can with it, I promise."

Kurt's knees shook, and his head spun.

"Kurt. Are you listening?"

A weak breath shuddered from Kurt's lungs, and the blue jay screamed overhead. It dropped from a tree a few yards away, flapping and swooping in a sharp turn and disappearing into the brush.

"Kurt."

Kurt flinched, his eyesight blurring. He shook his head. He could feel his eyes spilling over. "This shouldn't be happening."

Santana's expression contorted, and for a brief moment she looked like she was in just as much acute pain as Kurt. "I know," she whispered. "I know. But… Kurt, we're on our own. There's no one coming to help."

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. He just wanted Santana to stop talking.

But he knew she was right — he knew, and it hurt. In the back of his head, Kurt could still hear Rachel crying as he held her down and Santana tried desperately to make her better. None of that had worked, though. The cleansing alcohol, the penicillin… Kurt didn't think he'd ever felt so powerless.

"Come on," Santana urged gently. "We have to do this."

Kurt sucked in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for as long as he could, and finally nodded. In this particular moment, there was no room to be weak. Not for himself, not for Rachel, not for anyone.

Water flooded his shoes as he and Santana stepped into the stream, chilling him to the bone as it splashed around his ankles. They were careful not to slip on the stones, slowly making their way to the other side with Rachel cradled in their arms. Shivering and clutching Rachel tightly as they dared, they stepped onto the far bank.

The birches swayed slightly in the breeze, their white spotted trunks echoing with creaks and cracks. The whorls in the bark were black, stark against the white, and eerily resembled dozens of hollow eyes. The leaves rustled overhead, turning the sunlight dappled against the ground.

It was pretty, just as Santana had said, but Kurt couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't real. Everything felt far too intangible.

They lowered Rachel to the ground at the foot of the birches, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. The sunlight danced over her in patches as the leaves quivered in the branches, almost making her cheeks look flushed again. But it wasn't enough to erase the bluish shadows on her lips and eyelids.

Kurt remained knelt next to her for a short while, his mind unbearably quiet — maybe because he simply didn't feel capable of comprehensible thought. Forgetting that Santana was standing there in silence with him, Kurt reached down to wrap his fingers around Rachel's hand. Her fingers were rigid and cold, the bases of her fingernails a deep purple, and for several seconds Kurt failed entirely to breathe.

It was a moment before he realized there was an object clutched in her hand, and he had to swipe his sleeve over his eyes to clear his vision enough to see what it was. He reached into her palm with his fingertips and carefully pulled it from her grasp, gradually so as not to rip it. It was a photograph, folded and crumpled, and Kurt's heart nearly stopped short when he recognized it from a frame Rachel had kept on her dresser back in Bushwick.

Rachel sat between her dads at a birthday party years ago — she couldn't have been older than eight or nine — with a lively, toothy grin and star stickers covering her face. There were party hats and face paint and confetti. Cake slices on the table. Balloons in the background.

Santana's hand squeezed his shoulder, making him flinch. "Let's take that with us," she said quietly.

"We should leave it with her."

Santana crouched next to him, wrapping her arm around his back. "We'll bring it back to her dads. They should have it."

There was a small splash behind them as Dani crossed the stream, coming to stand beside them. She gripped a large bouquet of wildflowers — Queen Anne's lace, purple asters, bluebells, orange coneflowers and violets. "I — I found these along the road," she said. "Thought she'd like them."

"Thanks," replied Santana, letting Dani tuck the flowers into the crook of Rachel's arm.

Dani stood back then, reaching into her pocket to pull out her Swiss Army knife. "I, uh… I thought you guys might want to carve something in one of the trees," she said. "You know, to leave a marker."

Santana nodded wordlessly and took the knife, standing back up. She leaned forward and, in the tree directly above Rachel's head, began to carve meticulously with the knifepoint. She didn't stop until there was the shape of a star engraved in the bark, and in the middle, the initials R.B.B.

She straightened up again, folding the knife and handing it back to Dani.

"R.B.B.?" Dani asked.

"Her middle name is Barbra," Kurt answered, clutching the wrinkled photograph in his hands. "Rachel Barbra Berry."

The first thing Mercedes heard was the sound of a horse shrilly whinnying close by, and thinking that Mr. T was in trouble, she sat up with a jolt. Only half a second later, however, she froze in confusion. She was lying in a bed — a real bed — in a sparsely decorated room by herself. Bright white sunlight spilled into the room through the curtains over the window, and a couple of flies buzzed against the glass pane. Outside, she heard the horse whinny again, followed by a man's voice.

"Whoa, now," he said. "Attagirl."

Everything from the previous night came rushing back in a blur — Puck falling from Mr. T's saddle, Mercedes screaming into the dark for help… the stranger in the Stetson running to their rescue. She couldn't remember much after that.

Throwing the thin wool blanket away from her legs, Mercedes swung her legs out of bed and found her shoes sitting neatly on the floor by the footboard. Her backpack, still fully packed, was on top of the small bureau. She tugged her sneakers back on, quickly tying the laces before heading for the door.

She then found herself in a short hallway with a handful of other doors, evenly spaced along the length of the corridor. A long, dusty wool carpet with geometric tribal patterns was the only decoration. Mercedes followed the hall to the door at the end, pushing it open and squinting in the blinding sunlight.

"Good morning!" The man waved to her from the edge of a horse corral several yards away. He was still wearing his Stetson, and his long black hair emerged from underneath it in two narrow braids that hung past his chest. In the corral stood a pair of unfamiliar horses — one cream and the other a sleek chestnut — and Mr. T, her coat newly cleaned and brushed.

"Hi," she replied awkwardly, stepping out of the small building and onto the hard-packed dirt. "Um… where are we?"

The man took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve as he walked over to her. "I guess things were kinda crazy last night with your friend being hurt and all," he said, beating a cloud of dust from the Stetson before returning it to its place atop his head. "This is the Ring Of Fire cattle ranch. Welcome." He extended his hand. "I'm Carter."

"…Mercedes." She hesitantly returned the handshake. "So, where's Puck?"

"He's fine," Carter replied. "We put him up in the room adjacent yours. He'll be out for awhile yet, but he'll come around."

Mercedes' heart leaped in her chest. "He's going to be okay?"

"Oh, sure." Carter nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. "He just needs a couple days of rest. Doesn't even need stitches on his head."

"What about the bite?" Mercedes pressed.

Carter shook his head. "Gila bites don't kill you."

Mercedes' brows furrowed in confusion. "…Aren't they poisonous?"

"Yeah, they are," Carter said. "They're very poisonous. But their venom isn't meant to kill you — it's meant to make you hurt like hell. And it works, as you've seen." He pulled his work gloves from his hands, tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans. "It's enough to kill a little kid, but your friend is big and burly. His body can withstand it. Sure as hell isn't pleasant, though."

"He'll be fine? You're sure?"

"He'll be good as new in a few days."

Mercedes' heart immediately returned to leaping. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this relieved.

"How'd he manage to get bit, anyhow?" Carter inquired. "Gilas are about as slow as they come."

"It was in our water bag. He didn't see it."

"Ah. Well, that would do it." Carter tilted the Stetson back slightly. "You hungry?"

Mercedes couldn't help but nod; her stomach had been aching for days.

Carter smiled and gestured toward a modest house on the other side of the corral. "Come on, then," he invited her. "We've got beef and beans cooking."

"I don't even care what it is, so long as it's not gas station junk food," Mercedes said, already following him to the house.

"So that's what you were eating out there," Carter said thoughtfully. "Makes sense. June and me were wondering how you'd made it all the way out here, especially since you said something last night about Los Angeles. That's a long way. Where are you folks headed?"

Mercedes coughed, her mouth feeling dry. She wasn't used to being up and about during the heat of the day. "Ohio," she answered.

His eyebrows shot upwards. "That's even longer."

"Well, it's home." Mercedes scratched at a bug bite on her neck, feeling out of place. Despite spending the better part of the last month crossing the San Gabriel Mountains and the Mojave Desert, she still had not fully adjusted to being so far from a city. She may have been three hundred miles closer to home, but she only felt further away.

"Listen, um…" she started before Carter opened the door to the house. "I want to thank you. For taking us in."

Carter shrugged. "I don't see how anyone could've done anything else."

DAY 20

For the past day and a half, Artie had been suppressing a particularly awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had never really been an anxious person, but in the weeks since the blackout anxiety had become a familiar companion, perched on his shoulder and steadily crushing him bit by bit, bone by bone. He had hoped in time that he and Blaine would forget about seeing Mr. Schuester bloody and rotting in the middle of the street, but he knew that hoping wouldn't do much. The sight of his teacher's corpse was branded into his mind, and there was no getting rid of it.

With that image came an onslaught of terrifying questions — none of which Artie wanted to be thinking about in any amount of detail. It had been weeks since the blackout threw their lives into chaos and he had encountered nobody he knew and trusted besides Blaine. So… where was everybody else? Sam, Brittany, Kitty, Tina… Were any of them alive? Were they lying in the middle of the street with bullet holes in their chests? Were they sick, or starving? What were they doing to survive? Artie knew all too well that gangs were forming, prowling the streets and raiding homes — had his friends joined them?

And what about the people he knew who had moved on to bigger and better things? Kurt, Rachel, and Santana were in New York. Mike in Chicago. Mercedes in Los Angeles. He'd heard that Puck was joining the Air Force — was he stuck on a military base somewhere? It was hard to imagine there could be an Air Force with no airplanes. Artie realized abruptly that he had no idea what the larger cities in the country even looked like now — were they still standing or had they been razed to the ground? Maybe the National Guard hadn't shown up because Washington D.C. had gone up in flames. Or maybe they just didn't care about a small town in Ohio.

There were so many terrifying possibilities and uncertainties now that it made Artie's head spin.

"Artie. Hello?"

Artie blinked, straightening his back. Pamela was giving him a strange look from the other side of the dining table, and he realized he had been spacing out for several minutes. His oatmeal had gone cold and stiff.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," Artie replied, probably a little too quickly. "I didn't sleep much last night."

Pamela didn't push him further, instead turning to offer her husband more coffee. Artie cleared his throat, catching the glance Blaine had shot him from across the table. Neither of them had told anyone about Mr. Schue, and Artie was fairly sure that neither of them would. To consciously acknowledge that the bodies on the streets were people — and might have even been people they knew — would only make things harder.

What concerned him, however, was that Blaine hadn't even spoken to Artie about it in private. Artie had asked Blaine once or twice if he was okay, but his inquiries had only been brushed aside. There was no way Blaine hadn't been affected — the past two nights Artie had tossed and turned, his dreams full of gunshots and screams and familiar faces — but if Blaine was suffering from similar nightmares, he wasn't letting on.

"Are you and Artie going on a run today, Blaine?" asked Pamela.

Despite the anxiety gnawing away at Artie's stomach, he felt a tiny surge of pride at Pamela's assumption that he would contribute. It had been far too long since he truly felt useful, and Pamela's casual inclusion of him in the day's tasks was a welcome reassurance.

"Yeah, I think so," Blaine said, scraping his bowl clean.

"Would you mind stopping at the garden center out on Angel Avenue?"

"Sure."

"I'll write you a list of things to look for." Pamela stood and began to clear the dishes, turning her attention to Caitlin as she did so. "Caitlin, would you like to help me with the garden later? We have to make room in the back yard for vegetables."

Artie was unhappily not surprised when Caitlin didn't respond, slowly chewing her last bite of cereal. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder, having adjusted over the most recent weeks to speaking for her.

"I think that'd be fun," he told Pamela.

"Nothing's fun anymore."

Simultaneously, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled around to stare in shock at Caitlin, and for several seconds Artie didn't fully comprehend that his sister had just spoken for the first time since their home was attacked. She had been silent for so long that at this point, her voice sounded strange and unfamiliar — even to him.

He responded hesitantly, carefully choosing his words in his head before uttering them aloud. "…Cait, it would be really nice for you to give Mrs. Anderson some help," he said gently. He could talk to her later, privately, about what had made her finally speak again.

Caitlin only glared at him, her eyes burning.

"Artie, it's fine, she doesn't need to," Pamela interjected.

"WHY ARE YOU PRETENDING EVERYTHING'S OKAY?!"

Caitlin's shout was loud and piercing, and it made everyone at the table jump. Artie flinched, his eyes widening. He'd never seen his sister so furious.

"Caitlin!" he said sharply, but his warning made her even more irate.

"MOM AND DAD ARE DEAD!" she screamed. "AND PROBABLY ISAAC TOO!" With that, she lurched to her feet, kicking her chair back, and ran from the room.

"Caitlin, wait—!" Artie called, fumbling to yank up the brakes on his chair. "Caitlin!" He pulled himself back from the table and wheeled quickly after her, turning down the hallway just in time to see her dash up the stairs to the second floor. He gritted his teeth, rolling to a stop at the foot of the stairwell. "Caitlin, will you come down here? Please?"

Pamela approached him from the end of the hall, her brows furrowed. "Is she all right?"

"I — I don't know," Artie sighed in frustration. Everything would be so much easier if Caitlin would just talk to him.

"If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"Thanks. And, um… I think I should probably stay here—"

Pamela cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry. Tim already said he'd go on the run with Blaine instead."

Artie nodded gratefully. "Okay. I-I'm sorry about Caitlin; she just…"

"Artie, you don't need to explain. Or apologize. These are hard times for everyone. The best thing you can do right now is take care of your sister."

Artie swallowed. Blaine's mother had been so kind to both him and his sister when it would have been so much easier to leave them to fend for themselves, and he had no idea how to thank her.

Pamela straightened her sweatshirt on her shoulders. "I'm going to go get started on the garden," she said, and left Artie at the foot of the stairs.

The minutes ticked by and Artie called for his sister over and over again, but there was no reply from upstairs. It was an immature reaction, to run and hide in a place she knew he couldn't reach, but Artie couldn't say he didn't understand it. So he waited, and eventually Blaine and Tim passed him on their way out for the supply run. With Pamela out in the garden area and Blaine and his father walking to Yoakam Road, Artie and Caitlin were the only ones left in the house.

"Caitlin?" he called, his hand resting on the stairway banister. "I know you don't want to talk, but I also know you can hear me, so just listen, okay?"

There was no sound from overhead. Artie drew a deep breath and continued.

"Do you remember what Mom told us when you were getting bullied at school last year? You were upset because Alec Pickenson kept throwing rocks at you during recess, and the teachers didn't do anything because nobody ever saw him do it."

A rock worked its way into Artie's throat as he spoke. He missed the days when their problems had been as simple as bullies on the playground.

"Mom said we were a team — you, me, and Isaac — and that we had to watch out for each other. Remember? So Isaac and I skipped classes to visit your school, and we told Alec that we would beat him up and I'd run him over after, and he never hit you again. That's our job, because we're your brothers and you would do the same thing for us."

There was a beat of silence — horrible, suffocating silence — and then a rush of relief in Artie's chest. Caitlin had stepped out of hiding, appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Mom grounded you guys for two weeks after that," she said flatly.

Artie couldn't help but smile. "I know, it wasn't what she meant, but I'm still glad we did it. Plus, the look on Alec Pickenson's face was priceless."

Caitlin pursed her lips, her arms crossing over her chest.

"Look, Cait," Artie started again. He pushed his glasses up. "Mom, Dad, and Isaac aren't here, but you can't think that they're gone. They're tough — all three of them. And look at us. We're okay, so they've got to be too."

Caitlin sniffed. Her face was blotchy. "But what if they're not?"

"Hey, come down here," Artie beckoned. At last, Caitlin came down, descending until she was standing on the last step in front of him. He reached out to hold her hands in his. "I know for a fact that Mom and Dad are up all night, every night, worrying about us. They miss us like crazy, and they're going to be on the first plane back the second the power turns on again."

Caitlin's chin trembled. "But what if it doesn't and we're stuck like this forever?"

"Then they'll find a boat," Artie countered. "Sooner or later, they will be back. I promise." He brushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead. "And Isaac isn't even that far away. I bet he's on his way from Philadelphia right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely positive," he swore. He really wasn't, but Caitlin didn't need to deal with all of his uncertainties. That was his job.

The garden center and plant nursery squatted at the far end of a small shopping plaza — mostly hardware and electronics stores, plus a Starbucks — on the outskirts of central Lima, where the downtown sprawl began to give way to picket-fenced suburbia. It was only four miles from the Andersons' home, so it took less than two hours for Blaine and his father to arrive at the no-longer-automatic front door. Tim wedged his shoulder against the door, forcing it to roll back and allow them inside.

Blaine was surprised to find the interior much more intact than he'd expected. The shelves were still upright and fully stocked, and in the back of the facility he could see that the greenhouse walls remained unbroken. The sunlight filtered softly through its glass ceiling and reflected into the front of the store, keeping it well-lit and comfortably warm. The air was thick with the pleasant odor of organic fertilizer, mulch, and damp soil. Aside from the cash register at the counter, which had obviously been broken into and emptied before being knocked to the floor, there were no signs of looting or vandalism.

It seemed… safe.

"Why don't you look through Mom's list," Tim suggested, handing over the folded piece of notepaper from his breast pocket. "I'll go look through the greenhouse and see if there's anything we can use."

Blaine nodded, and Tim left him to meander through the aisles. Once he located the rack storing packages of vegetable seeds, Blaine quickly filled his backpack, only glancing at the list occasionally to make sure he was grabbing the correct items.

Then, a faint scratching noise from the stack of shelves behind him made Blaine stop where he was, warily turning to look over his shoulder. At first, he saw nothing, but a small moving shadow caught his eye behind a display of tiny ceramic flowerpots. Frowning, Blaine reached over to lift away the pot in the center. There was then a hissing squeak and a flash of bared rodent teeth, and the rat leapt from the shelf and scurried across Blaine's boots. Blaine jumped, letting out a yelp of surprise as he accidentally dropped the flowerpot. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash, seeming almost earsplitting in the otherwise quiet shop.

Tim's footsteps pounded toward Blaine from the direction of the greenhouse. "Blaine?!" he called in alarm. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine," Blaine assured him quickly, zipping up his backpack as Tim came down the short aisle to meet him. "Got startled by a rat."

"Ah." Tim calmed, his shoulders relaxing. "Could've been worse."

"I found all the seeds Mom wanted except for beets," Blaine said. He slung his bag over his shoulder. "Can't say I'm unhappy about that, though."

Tim chuckled. "You know, beets were your favorite when you were a toddler. Your teeth would get all red and you and Cooper would pretend to be vampires."

A rock squeezed into Blaine's throat without warning. Any words he might have thought of to respond with died in his chest.

Tim exhaled, glancing at the floor. He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. "I miss him."

Blaine coughed in a halfhearted attempt to clear the boulder from his esophagus. "Yeah, me too." His reply came out hoarse. "We should head out. We can probably make it to the truck in an hour."

Tim didn't move right away. Instead, he clamped a hand onto Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, I want you to know how unbelievably proud of you I've been the past several weeks," he said.

Blaine swallowed, avoiding his father's gaze. He was pretty sure he hadn't done anything worth being proud of, but Tim was still talking.

"You've done such an incredible job helping everyone — even Artie and Caitlin. Finding the truck, going on supply runs almost every day… You're helping us survive ." Tim squeezed Blaine's shoulder, and for a second Blaine thought his dad might cry. "Cooper would've been proud too."

"Thanks, Dad," Blaine said. His chest felt cold underneath his ribs. "We should, um… we should go."

"Okay," Tim said, patting Blaine's shoulder solidly one more time.

Outside, Blaine had to squint in the sunlight as his eyes readjusted. There had been a few splotches of cloud cover when they had arrived at the garden center, but the breeze had picked up and blown them westward. The days were getting warmer as summer gradually pushed spring out of its way. A flock of sparrows flitted and darted between the decorative bushes bordering the far edge of the parking lot, and over the treetops lining the road ahead, a twisting plume of smoke rose into the sky.

"What the…" Blaine trailed off.

Tim shielded his eyes, studying the smoke. "It's probably one of the gangs. Some of them have been setting fire to the houses once they're done looting them."

Blaine didn't bother telling his father that he already knew this. He'd been outside more often than Tim had, and he had seen for himself the houses that had been razed to the ground. But he had only seen those houses long after the fires had gone out; he'd never caught one as it burned.

"Should we go help them?" Blaine asked.

"And… do what?" Tim said. "We don't have any weapons to fight off other people." He sighed, then nudged Blaine's shoulder, gesturing southeast in the vague direction of Yoakam Road. "Come on, we need to make it to the truck and back home by sunset. It's already getting late."

Blaine hesitated. "Hey, Dad?"

"What?"

"My friend Sam lives near here. Could we go visit him?" Blaine requested. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

Tim turned over his shoulder for a moment to glance at the sun. "Looks like we've got about five hours of daylight left," he said. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Blaine nodded. "We're close anyway; it won't take long. He lives on Brackett Street."

"All right. Lead the way."

The edges of Puck's brain felt fuzzy, like his skull was filled with cotton. There was a dull throbbing ache in his hand and fingertips, stretching up through the bones of his left arm all the way past his elbow to his shoulder. His fist clenched involuntarily, sending a painful jolt over his skin as his eyes snapped open. His vision was blurry at first, and he had to blink several times before he could see that he was indoors – an unfamiliar room lying in a bed that didn't belong to him.

"Puck? Can you hear me?"

Mercedes was sitting in a chair by the edge of the bed, her hand on Puck's good arm.

"Where are we?" he tried to say, though it came out as more of an unintelligibly groggy slur than anything else.

Mercedes leaned back so that Puck could see that someone was standing next to her — a woman, copper-skinned and with her black hair pinned up out of her face. "Puck, this is June," said Mercedes. "She and her husband took us in."

"How does your arm feel?" June asked.

Puck winced, his fingers twitching. "Hurts like hell," he replied, managing to speak clearly.

June lightly tapped Mercedes' upper arm, making her move back to give June room to sit beside him. "I'm going to take the bandage off to look at the bite, okay?" she said, and it was only then that Puck realized a small section of his left forearm was expertly wrapped in clean white gauze. "I have to make sure it's healing. It might sting a bit."

Puck nodded and allowed June to reach over to lift his arm and move it closer to her, resting it on his abdomen. He swallowed, his tongue like sandpaper. His forearm was still awfully swollen — he could barely see the veins in his wrist — and it was sore and tender, but at least it didn't feel like it was on fire any more. June gently unwrapped the gauze, carefully coiling it around her fingers until it was completely off.

"It looks better!" Mercedes said, giving Puck a relieved smile.

The bite was deep, but it had obviously been thoroughly washed while he'd been unconscious. The dried blood that had been heavily caked around the wound was gone, and despite the pain currently sending twinges up Puck's arm and the fact that his forearm was still inflamed, it didn't look all that bad.

June was still frowning, squinting into the rip in Puck's skin. "It is better," she said. "But there's a tooth stuck in it."

Any relief Puck had experienced the past several seconds evaporated suddenly, and he jumped. "What?!"

"Calm down," June directed coolly, gently holding his wrist in place. "You need to keep your arm elevated."

"What do you mean, 'there's a tooth'?!" he exclaimed.

"It happens sometimes with Gila bites," June answered. She calmly stood and straightened her plaid button-down shirt. "I'm going to go get my tweezers from the house."

"I'm going to be sick," Puck said, his head falling back onto the pillow. He had to hiss through his teeth when a sudden pang shot through his skull, making his eyes scrunch up. "Ow!"

Mercedes reclaimed her seat beside him. "You hit your head last night," she explained. "When you fell off Mr. T."

Puck almost sat straight up. "Where's Mr. T?" he demanded.

"Whoa, relax," Mercedes assured him, pushing him back down with a strong hand on his chest. "Mr. T's fine. She's outside. June and Carter fed her."

Puck exhaled in a huff. He hated feeling so disoriented.

"I'm just glad you're still alive," Mercedes continued. "Don't scare me like that again, okay?"

"I'll try not to," Puck replied dryly, forcing a small smile. He let his eyes travel around the room, studying the sparse furniture and lack of decoration. "Where are we?"

Mercedes followed his gaze to a framed black-and-white photo on the far wall, depicting the silhouette of a man swinging a lasso. "It's a cattle ranch," she answered. "It's probably the only thing out here. June said we're just north of Laughlin — still in Nevada." She grinned, nudging Puck's side with her elbow. "But guess what."

Puck returned his attention to her. "What?"

She gestured out the window over his bed, holding back the curtain to expose a wide expanse of dirt and scant vegetation. There were a few fences in sight, forming corrals for a couple of horses. "You see that ridge over there?" Mercedes asked.

Puck squinted into the sunlight, lifting his head to better see where she was pointing. A little more than a mile away was a low range of jagged rocky hills, darker brown and rilled all over. "Yeah."

"The Colorado River's just on the other side."

Puck blinked. "Seriously?"

Mercedes nodded, a wide smile spreading across her features. "We made it! We're almost out of Nevada."

He couldn't suppress a laugh that jumped abruptly from his chest. "We should have stopped in Vegas."

Mercedes snorted. "To do what, gamble? Something tells me Las Vegas would be even worse than L.A."

There were footsteps outside the door, and then June re-entered the room with tweezers in hand. Mercedes moved back again, letting June sit in the chair next to the bed.

"Okay, let's have a look," June said, taking Puck's arm.

"Alright, I can't watch this or I'm going to puke," Puck said, steeling his nerves. Mercedes gave his leg a supportive pat from where she stood at the foot of the bed.

June leaned closely over Puck's arm, holding his wrist with one hand and carefully wielding the tweezers with the other. Puck sucked a breath through his teeth as the tweezers poked into the bite mark, and a sharp pinch jolted over his skin. And then, it was over long before Puck expected it to be, and June sat back.

"There's the sucker," she said, taking Puck's opposite hand to hold his palm open. She released the tweezers and dropped a tiny, sharp, blood-flecked white object smaller than a thorn into his hand.

Puck held it up, pinched between his fingertips to study it. "That is so gross," he stated. "I'm keeping it."

June cleaned the tips of her tweezers on the hem of her shirt. "How'd you get the Gila to let go? They're pretty strong."

"…I kind of hit it with the baseball bat," Mercedes said with a sheepish smile.

June's eyebrows shot up, and she didn't return the smile. "Did you kill it?"

Mercedes nodded. "Yeah, I hit it a few times."

"That's too bad." June's voice was cool, her words tight. She reached over and began re-wrapping the bandage around Puck's arm. "They're a threatened species. There's laws protecting them."

"Well, I don't think we have to worry about the police right now," Puck joked, still fascinatedly scrutinizing the Gila fang.

"No, you don't," June said stiffly, her mouth a steely straight line. "Maybe you can put the tooth on a necklace."

She deftly finished replacing Puck's bandage, then stood up, dragging the chair to a spot in the corner. "You need rest," she ordered. "Keep your arm up on a pillow so that the swelling goes down."

Puck dropped the tooth onto the little end table by the head of his bed and gave a two-fingered salute with his good hand. "Yes, ma'am."

Mercedes patted his leg through the blanket. "I'll be back later to bring you some food, okay?"

Puck nodded, settling down into the mattress. Even with his arm still in pain, he hadn't felt this comfortable in ages. Today was a good day.

It felt like he hadn't been to Sam's house in years, Blaine realized as he and Tim followed the curve of Gregson Lane toward Brackett Street. He was pretty sure the last time he'd hung out with Sam at the Evans' home was sometime in January. They must have been studying for a paper or something. Maybe an assignment for Mr. Schuester.

The memory of Mr. Schue sent a jab of nausea through Blaine's gut, and he quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

As they made the turn onto Brackett, Blaine and Tim watched the houses suspiciously, watching for any signs of life or movement. The hairs on Blaine's forearms were standing on end, and his hands tightened around the straps of his backpack.

The last time Blaine had been here, Brackett Street had been a calm, quiet suburban neighborhood. Most of the residents had flower gardens in their front yards, and there was always someone out walking their dog. It was the sort of place where parents would let their children play outside unsupervised. Now, it was almost unrecognizable. The quaint neighborly street had devolved into a deserted war zone.

Blaine felt his heart thud more rapidly in his chest as they passed by a pair of side-by-side houses, both burned beyond repair. There was another eviscerated house a few doors up, and nearly every home in between had broken windows and doors. There was trash strewn across the lawns and the street, debris left behind from the lootings. The flower gardens were already beginning to look overgrown.

"Where is everyone?" Blaine said under his breath. And why does it feel like I'm walking into a cemetery?

"Maybe they've gone to look for their families," Tim suggested. He didn't sound all that confident. "Which one is your friend's house?"

"It's a little further," Blaine replied, pointing a short distance up the street to where it curved just out of sight. "Around the corner."

"It's getting late. We should hurry."

It was unbearably quiet here, and Blaine jumped when a crow suddenly squawked from one of the trees overhead. It swooped downwards and flapped off in the other direction, disappearing behind an emptied house. Blaine's heart was racing in his chest, and he was abruptly struck with the feeling of wanting to go home.

"You okay?" Tim asked.

"Yeah." Blaine forced a nod.

They rounded the bend in the road, and the breath rushed out of Blaine's lungs. All that was left of the Evans' house was the charred frame and part of the back wall. The roof, reduced to scorched shingles and melted aluminum rain gutters, lay collapsed across what had been the living room and kitchen. It couldn't have burned down long ago; the air still smelled faintly of charcoal and smoke.

When Blaine's eyes landed on what remained of the front porch, he doubled over and retched onto the pavement. A blackened corpse was lying prone with its arm hanging off the edge of the singed deck. Only the arm hadn't been charred completely, instead bearing open heat blisters all the way down to the wrist. It was a man's hand.

Blaine couldn't tell if the body was Sam or his father.

Tim quickly grabbed Blaine's shoulders, supporting him as Blaine threw up a second time. His stomach twisted; there was barely anything left of his lunch.

"Blaine," Tim said firmly. "Blaine, look at me."

His chest heaving, Blaine couldn't tear his gaze away from the corpse.

Tim moved to plant himself in front of Blaine, breaking his line of sight and forcing Blaine to meet his eye. "Listen to me," Tim ordered. "Take a breath."

Blaine tried — he really did — but the air was stretched and far too thin as it passed through his sinuses. His chest felt like it would explode any second. His heartbeat roared in his ears, pulsing all the way down to his fingertips. The blood in his veins was boiling all over his body, and Blaine wanted to scream, but his lungs had closed up tight.

He couldn't breathe.

"Blaine," Tim repeated. "Hey, look at me. You're okay."

"I — I can't—" Blaine tried to speak clearly, but his voice was hitching in the pit of his throat. "I c-can't do this."

"We need to go, Blaine," Tim urged, gripping Blaine's shoulders tightly. "Come on. Forget the truck; we're going home."

"I can't — I can't—" Blaine stammered. His brain was burning up inside his skull. His eyesight blurred and his cheeks felt wet – when had he started crying?

"Look at me," Tim coached. "Slow down."

"I can't do this. I — I—"

"Yes, you can, Blaine. Come on. Let's go home."

Despite Tim blocking his direct view, the image of the charred body was branded into Blaine's eyes, and it was all he could see. Pictures began to flash across his mind in rapid succession, of the dozens of unnamed deceased he had seen sprawled on the sides of roads and out in the open at the mercy of the crows and other scavengers. Of the numerous people he knew were entombed inside the plane wreckage at the center of town but didn't have the courage to fully acknowledge. Of Cooper. Of Mr. Schue.

"I left him," Blaine whispered.

"What?" Tim frowned, worry creasing the skin between his brows. "Left who?"

"M-Mr. Schue," Blaine said. His voice was shaking so badly he wasn't even sure his father could understand him. The words began to rush out of him, almost unintelligible but demanding to be released. "He — he brought me home the night of the blackout a-and now he's dead and I left him there to rot—"

"Blaine, slow down," Tim ordered, raising his voice.

Blaine's stomach clenched, and a sob wrenched out of him. "Am I really this numb?"

Tim blinked, taken aback or perhaps confused by the question.

The lack of an answer made a hollow ache bloom in Blaine's chest, and he couldn't speak anymore.

Burt lay wide awake in bed next to Carole, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He didn't think he'd ever quite get used to his bedroom being pitch black — before the blackout, even in the middle of the night there had always been the calming glow from the nearest streetlamp out front, the luminescent alarm clock on Carole's nightstand, the tiny blinking light on the smoke detector… He'd never realized how much light they really used at night until it was all gone.

And now, he understood what it meant to be afraid of the dark.

Most nights were now spent in restlessness, tossing and turning but being far too alert to really sleep for any healthy length of time. Burt would listen to the quiet outside the house — mostly filled with the chirps of nearby crickets or the scratching pitter-patter of a nocturnal rodent running across the roof, but occasionally a far-off gunshot would make him shudder and grit his teeth. The worst part about all of this was knowing there was nothing he could do. Not without risking his own life, and he wasn't willing to leave Carole all alone.

Since Carole had come home quaking and covered in blood, she had been different. She flinched more readily, was less willing to leave the house, and routinely had nightmares bad enough to wake her up. She wouldn't complain, but Burt knew she hated being home alone too, which made it hard for him to leave her every time he went to retrieve water from the lake. Like him, Carole had been sleeping less than was healthy, but she didn't toss and turn. She instead lay unmoving and awake, facing the bedroom window with her back to him as if she was waiting for something better to happen.

And so, when the abrupt sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet from downstairs, Burt and Carole were already awake. Burt bolted upright in bed, already fumbling for the aluminum baseball bat he kept on the floor next to him.

"What was that?" Carole whispered, her voice shaking in the dark.

"Someone's in the house," Burt hissed, gripping the bat tightly as he crossed their bedroom floor, groping for the door handle. He could hear Carole throw back the covers and follow, shivering behind him as he cautiously turned the knob and pulled the door open. In the hallway, faint light from the moon spilled in through the windows and made the shadows grow long and more defined.

There were voices downstairs. Burt could hear at least two men.

"Burt, what if we just let them take it?" Carole murmured, her hand tightening around his arm. Her eyes were wide in terror.

"They're stealing our food," Burt countered, struggling to keep his voice down. "Stay here."

"I'm not letting you go down there alone," Carole spat under her breath, slapping his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand.

Burt didn't argue with her, instead holding his breath and beginning to tiptoe down the stairs. Carole followed suit, and as they edged along the stairwell, snippets of what the burglars were saying reached their ears from the kitchen.

"…got plenty in here."

"I dunno, man, it looks like this is all they have. You sure you don't want to check next door instead? That house is bigger."

"That house has kids."

"Yeah, I'm not stealing from kids, dude."

Burt halted for a moment. That was a third voice. He counted three voices so far — all male — but he could hear footsteps in the living room too. Four was too many.

"Come on, let's pack this crap up and get out of here."

"Alright, alright. Sheesh."

But if Burt just let them take everything, then he and Carole would have nothing left. They couldn't afford to let this go — they wouldn't be able to replace it, and then they would starve.

Burt drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, waiting for the footsteps in the living room to rejoin the men in the kitchen.

"I didn't see anything else worth taking," the fourth person said, coughing lightly. Burt was surprised to realize it was a woman's voice.

"Give me your bag."

There was the sharp noise of a duffel unzipping, and cans of soup clunking solidly against each other as they were tossed inside. Burt's hands tightened around the handle of the bat, raising it over his shoulder as his muscles tensed.

"Hurry up," said the woman. She sounded nervous.

"Hey, if you want to help, you are more than welcome," one of the other men snapped. A handful of cans thudded dully as they were dropped into the duffel.

"I'm keeping watch."

"For what? There's no one here."

Burt's teeth ground against each other, his fingers squeezing the handle of the bat so tightly that his nails dug into his palm. He glanced briefly at Carole, and then carefully edged out of the stairwell and through the darkened living room. There was a flickering orange light illuminating the kitchen and reflecting off the walls, and Burt caught a whiff of smoke — one of the burglars was carrying a torch.

Burt exhaled slowly, willing his heart to slow down. It was knocking against his ribs at an alarming pace, but he managed to steel his nerves, swallow once, and step into the torchlight with the baseball bat raised.

"Get out of my house," he snarled.

All at once, the four thieves jumped. The man closest to the refrigerator let out a startled cry, dropping the cans he was holding onto the floor. Burt was suddenly struck that these people were not at all what he'd expected to find. He'd thought they'd be dressed all in black like the burglars he'd always seen on TV, tough men who were obviously seasoned criminals. Maybe a prison tattoo or three. But these people… they were dressed in jeans and hoodies, with dirty hair and scrawny limbs. The man — or boy, rather — who held the torch couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"Get out!" Burt shouted before he could lose his cool, shaking the bat.

Then, Carole shrieked behind him and before Burt could react, there was a deafening click just next to Burt's ear.

"Drop the bat," said the woman, pressing the cold nose of the gun to Burt's temple. He hadn't seen her take it out of her belt.

His blood ran cold, spreading outward from his chest to his limbs. His teeth clenching, Burt dropped his arms, letting the tip of the bat hit the floor. The woman reached forward to snatch it from him, and when she did Burt's heart dropped into his stomach.

"Sandra?!"

Sandra, who had been their neighbor for the past four years and had welcomed them to the neighborhood with her homemade pecan pie and peanut butter cookies, kept the gun aimed at Burt's head. Her hand was shaking, her finger dangerously close to the trigger.

"We're taking the food," she said. A tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

"Sandra, you—" Carole started, grabbing at Burt's shirt as if she was terrified she was about to lose him. "Y-you don't have to do this."

The gun trembled in Sandra's hand. "I'm so sorry," she said, her face pinched with something akin to grief. "I'm so, so sorry."

Chapter Text

Pennsylvania welcomed Kurt, Dani, and Santana without fuss or fanfare. The metal truss bridge traversing the state border between Phillipsburg and Easton was nothing special, and as they crossed over Dani couldn't help wishing they would be met with some sign — a chorus of angels, an explosion of fireworks, anything — to show that they had accomplished something. Instead, it felt like just another day. Just more walking, more miles to cover. Their bags felt heavier now than when they had left New York, although their supplies had been completely depleted. None of them had eaten since leaving Rachel outside Stewartsville, and even then it had only been a halfhearted meal of whatever they'd had left in the bottoms of their packs. It had been more of a forced consumption than eating, and Dani was fairly sure that when Kurt had excused himself to go to the bathroom out of view behind a few trees an hour afterwards, he had only thrown up the little he'd eaten. Santana didn't seem much better — she and Kurt were barely speaking, just taking the road one step at a time and avoiding conversation. They both had an almost eerie fog over their eyes, like they couldn't shake themselves out of last night's nightmares.

As for Dani… well. She couldn't quite get rid of the rock sitting in the pit of her stomach — although she didn't know if it was from hunger or distress — and she had no idea how to handle this. They had lost a living, breathing person, and now the group felt unbalanced and off-kilter. None of them had seen this coming. Though, when Dani thought about how sick Rachel had really been over the past several days, maybe they should have. She supposed that up until Rachel's death (and Rachel and death were two words that should never, ever have gone together) nobody — herself included — had quite processed or accepted that any of this was truly real. Now, reality had delivered a ruthless blow, and they were all struggling not to collapse under its weight.

Dani wasn't grieving for Rachel the same way Kurt and Santana were — she knew that. She simply hadn't known Rachel for long enough to really feel a loss, so instead Dani was left struggling to cope with simple shock. She was more terrified of what Rachel's death meant in the grand scheme — that by attempting to make it across a distance as great as this, in the midst of what could only be described as a total catastrophe, they were risking far more than they had originally realized. For the first time, they understood that their lives were just as easily lost as anything else.

The truss bridge into Easton creaked slightly in the breeze as they crossed, watching the Delaware River surge along beneath their feet. A couple of kingfishers hunted along the riverbank, darting into the water and popping out again a moment later with tiny fish in their beaks. The trees lining the shore rustled as a strong wind rushed past, branches dipping and leaves fluttering. Dani reached up to pull her hair into a bun and keep it from blowing in front of her face, watching the kingfishers dive as she followed behind Kurt and Santana. Her stomach clenched as a hunger pain shot through her abdomen.

"We should stop and get some water," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and the gushing river.

Neither Kurt nor Santana argued, following Dani as she veered to the edge of the bridge, where the ground sloped steeply down to the river. At the gravelly shoreline, Dani shrugged off her heavy pack, stretching the kinks from her shoulders before unpacking her empty bottles. Kurt and Santana followed suit, kneeling by the water.

Overhead, the wind whistled through the metal support beams of the bridge, and Dani stared out over the rippling surface of the river as she filled her bottles. On the opposite shore, she could see a pair of dirty stray dogs stop at the edge to drink. They both wore collars. Dani wondered where their owners were. Further upstream from a bend in the river, a small empty dinghy floated along, bobbing this way and that in the water. A torn rope dragged through the water beside it, and Dani watched in silence as it slowly sailed past them, propelled only by the current.

"It's so quiet," she said to no one in particular.

Ignoring her, Kurt abruptly lurched to his feet. "Did you feel that?"

Dani frowned. "Feel what?"

Before he could respond, the ground shook beneath Dani's feet, and she nearly lost her balance. The water trembled, splashing against the pebbles lining the bank, small waves lapping at Dani's shoes. A great gust of wind rushed past them. Across the river, the dogs yelped and bolted, disappearing over the bank with their tails tucked between their legs.

"What…" Santana started, but whatever she was going to say died in her throat as she looked past Dani, her eyes growing wide as dinner plates.

Dani turned to follow Santana's gaze, and felt her blood run cold.

Around the bend in the river came a towering wave, crashing over the rocks and snapping trees out of the ground along the banks like they were no more than toothpicks. The water swelled well over a hundred feet high, churning dark brown and full of debris as it swallowed everything in its path. The roar of the water was deafening, and it almost sounded like the earth was being ripped apart.

Dani whirled on her toes, leaving her packs and water bottles scattered on the ground, and grabbed Santana's arm. But as she tried to run back up the slope to the road, Santana wouldn't budge, frozen to the spot in terror.

"We have to go!" Dani screamed, barely able to hear her own voice.

Santana didn't even glance at her, only staring at the wave surging toward them.

"KURT!" Dani shrieked, desperate for help, but Kurt also stood petrified and rooted to the ground.

Dani glanced over her shoulder, her heart knocking hard and fast against her ribs. There was no time; the wave would reach them in seconds. She pulled on Santana's arm again, and Santana still refused to move. "COME ON!"

At last, the adrenaline coursing through Dani's veins kicked in, and as the wave loomed closer and closer, Dani let go of Santana's arm. And she ran.

She didn't see Santana and Kurt before the wave consumed them, but somewhere amidst the roaring and crashing of the water, she heard them scream. The sound was brief, almost immediately choked off, but Dani didn't look back. She scrabbled for footing on the gravel hill, and had barely made it to the top of the slope when she was lifted off her feet and sucked underwater. The air was ripped from her lungs, and everything went dark.

Dani's body jerked her awake, her eyes snapping open in the pitch black, and for several seconds she had no idea where she was. She lay still, breathing hard and trying to gather her wits, staring up at the shadowed ceiling overhead.

Ceiling. Right. She was indoors.

After making it across the bridge into Easton, the three of them had ducked into an empty Italian bistro in the middle of town to camp inside for the night. The kitchen had been empty, but the windows and doors were intact — a welcome bit of security, since outside the rain was coming down in heavy torrents. The rain battered the windowpanes in a chaotic staccato, and occasionally a flash of lightning somewhere out in the night illuminated the glass.

Dani sat up from her makeshift bed on the floor — really just a blanket and a balled-up sweatshirt for a pillow — and leaned back against the wall. Her heart was still racing from her nightmare. She glanced over to where Kurt was sleeping near the opposite wall to reassure herself that she wasn't alone. Santana, however, wasn't sleeping at all and instead was sitting at one of the small dining tables by the front window, watching the rain in silence.

Dani shivered, goosebumps rolling over her skin in ripples. She shook out the sweatshirt she'd been using as a pillow, pulled it tightly around her torso, and stood up to go join Santana at the table.

"Can't sleep?" she said softly.

Santana shook her head, resting her chin in her hand.

"Same here."

Santana was quiet for a long time, her eyes following the streams of water coursing down the glass. "Do you think we did the right thing?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.

"When?"

"Leaving Rachel the way we did."

Dani's chest ached. "What else could we have done?"

"I don't know." Santana swiped the cuff of her sleeve over her eyes. "I'm so tired."

"You want to go back to sleep?"

Santana shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

Dani chewed on the insides of her cheeks, feeling useless. Lightning flashed outside, followed a moment later by a low, far-off rumble of thunder. The storm was already passing.

"Do you think we should have stayed in New York?" she asked, partly because she really wanted to know what Santana thought, and partly because Dani had been asking herself the same question multiple times a day ever since they reached New Jersey and was just desperate for an answer.

Santana sighed, a drawn-out and unsteady exhale. "I don't know," she repeated. "I have no idea."

"I don't either."

Santana pulled her hands through her hair, brushing it back out of her eyes in exhaustion. "Dani, why did you come with us?"

Dani blinked, taken aback by the question. She suddenly realized that Santana had never officially invited her to come along, and it wasn't as though Dani was from Ohio anyway — she'd never even been there. Was it possible that Santana didn't want her along?

She fiddled nervously with her watch. "I-I, um…"

"You could have gone to Tennessee," Santana said. "Found your family."

Dani swallowed. "Santana, they disowned me. If I made it to Tennessee, I still wouldn't have a home to go to. They wouldn't want to see me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

Santana went quiet for another minute, picking anxiously at her fingernails. "For what it's worth," she said at last, "I'm glad you came."

Relief flooded through Dani's veins so quickly she nearly cried. "M-me too," she stammered. Santana's face was barely visible in the dark, but Dani could see a pained smile cross her features. Whether Santana was glad for Dani's company because they were girlfriends (they hadn't been together long enough to say it was definitively love ) or just because Santana didn't want to be left alone with Kurt, Dani didn't know. She supposed, in the end, it didn't really matter.

DAY 22

Puck sat on the edge of the deck attached to June and Carter's house, the heels of his boots resting on the hard-packed dirt. He squinted into the sun, watching Mercedes assisting Carter with giving a large cream-colored horse a brush-down. Puck rubbed his palm over the back of his neck; his hand came away sticky with dust and sweat.

"Here."

Puck twisted to glance over his shoulder. June had emerged from the house and was holding a glass of water out to him. She held a second glass in her other hand.

"You need to stay hydrated," she said.

"Thanks." He accepted the drink and took a long gulp as June sat on the deck's edge next to him. The water was warm, but nevertheless was welcome on his dry throat.

"Wish we had some ice," June mused, almost to herself. She set her cup on the deck beside her and turned toward him. "Come on, let me see your arm."

Puck shifted to allow her better access to his bandaged arm. She carefully unwound the gauze, leaning closer to inspect the scabbed-over crescent knitted into Puck's skin.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked, prodding gently at it with the tip of her finger.

Puck shook his head. "Not much. At least, not compared to earlier."

"That's good," she said. She balled up the gauze in her fist. "I think you can do away with this. You'll have to put on some antibiotic cream later, though."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Puck asked, scratching at the scab.

"People get injured a lot on ranches. You learn what you need to when you need to." June shrugged. "And by the way?" she added. "The next time you get bit by a Gila, don't kill it. Just wedge a stick between its teeth to get it off you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I'll keep that in mind." Puck took another drink, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Where do you guys get your water?" he inquired, peering toward the rocky ridge in the distance that concealed the Colorado River from view. "That's a pretty long way to carry buckets."

June shook her head. "We're close enough to the river to have a well," she explained. "It's all groundwater. We did have to restructure the pump to be hand-operated after the blackout, though, and we take the cows and horses to the river at least once a day. Can't pump enough water for the whole herd."

Far overhead, a hawk screeched, its call echoing out over the sand flats. A gust of wind kicked up a billow of dust, eddying across the yard between the house and the corral. Over the ridge by the river, a wall of dark clouds was gathering, edging across the sky in their direction.

"Storm's coming," June observed.

"Did you do a rain dance?" Puck joked.

June's expression dropped in a fraction of a second, and for a moment Puck thought she was going to slap him. "That was very rude," she said.

Her tone was perfectly steady, and suddenly Puck felt like he was two inches tall. Embarrassment crept up his spine and his face flushed. "…S-Sorry," he stumbled.

June didn't say whether or not she accepted the apology, instead staring back toward the cloudbank. "Come on," she said after a minute. "We should set up some barrels to collect the rain. It's always good to have extra water."

Puck nodded, quickly standing to follow her. After a couple days of taking it easy and letting his arm heal, he was itching to do something useful. He helped June carry empty feed bins from the barn out into the open patch of sand beside the house, relishing in the feeling of getting to use his muscles again. As they worked, the wind picked up, tugging at their clothes and blowing dust across the yard.

"June!" called Carter, approaching them from the horse paddock. "Honey, we got to get the cows over to the river and back before the storm hits. Otherwise they're without water until tomorrow."

June shielded her eyes against the sun, watching the clouds for a moment. "Yeah, that's coming on faster than I thought," she agreed. "Okay, but we've got to go quick as we can. Puck, you think you and Mercedes can help with this?"

Puck shrugged. "Sure. What do you want us to do?"

"Get your horse saddled up," June directed. "Mercedes can ride one of ours. After that, all you have to do is follow up behind the herd."

"Sounds easy enough."

"We've only got about three hours before the storm hits in earnest," Carter said. "Let's go."

The air in Lima was unnervingly still as Blaine and Artie crossed town, following the familiar route to Yoakam Road on their daily supply run to the abandoned truck. They were now well stocked at home and didn't exactly need to be making a run today, but the idea that someone else might find the truck and figure out how to get it open made Blaine anxious, and so now the runs were more for the purpose of hoarding than anything else. The town was oddly quiet today — aside from the occasional squawk from a crow, not even the birds were singing, and the hairs on Blaine's arms stood on end. Artie was silent as he rolled along beside Blaine, perhaps because the eerie stillness was unsettling him just as much.

Blaine had the odd sensation that if they tried to carry on a conversation, somehow it would give away their location, and the gangs and thieves and thugs that spent their time ransacking and stealing would suddenly pour out of any number of hiding spots. He and Artie would be surrounded, and their hoarded provisions — including the keys to the Target truck — would be ripped from their grasp and they would be shot and left to rot in the middle of the street.

But he couldn't think about that.

Blaine hadn't mentioned to Artie that he had stopped at Sam's house, with its collapsed roof and the charred corpse lying out in the open on the front porch. Partly because Blaine didn't want to see Artie's reaction to the probability that Sam was dead, but mostly because Blaine didn't feel capable of even acknowledging it himself. The list of things he avoided thinking about every day was growing longer and longer.

A small wave of relief hit him as they rounded the bend onto Yoakam Road and found the truck still intact, still sealed up tightly. Blaine quickly climbed up onto the foothold at the back of the truck, fishing the keys out of his pocket to unlock the doors. Over the past several days, they had barely made a dent in the truck's contents.

"So what are you thinking?" Blaine asked. "Soup today? Cereal?"

Artie shrugged. "Whatever we can carry the most of, I guess."

"Cereal it is." Blaine hoisted himself into the trailer, yanking down large cardboard boxes labeled with Cheerios and Kellogg's Corn Flakes and tossing them down to Artie.

Artie set about ripping the boxes open and tossing the cardboard aside, taking only the sealed plastic bags and shoving them into their packs. They could carry far more without the bulky rectangular packaging. Blaine pulled out a box of condensed milk once they had filled the packs, and leaped down from the trailer, quickly locking the doors behind him.

Scooping up the piles of cardboard in his arms, Blaine carried them off the street and into the wooded patch bordering the pavement, tossing the heap onto the carpet of ferns and out of sight from the street. It was a practiced action — they had quickly realized that leaving empty boxes littering the pavement around the truck would look suspicious — and Blaine realized that the process of raiding the truck was becoming strangely well-rehearsed.

"Okay," he said, returning to the pavement and hefting the box of condensed milk off the truck's tailgate. "Let's go."

Artie didn't move immediately, instead staring up at the sky. "Blaine," he said softly. He pointed toward the tree line.

Blaine followed his gaze, the pit of his stomach going cold. A plume of black smoke was rising into the air from several blocks away. It hadn't been there a few minutes ago — whatever was burning, it had only just caught fire.

"We should go," he urged, taking a step back in the direction of the main road.

Artie didn't argue, turning his wheelchair to follow. But as they headed away from Yoakam Road, he kept glancing back over his shoulder at the smoke. Blaine, on the other hand, made a conscious effort not to look back.

"Hey, Blaine?" Artie eventually said when the smoke was finally out of view. They were still a twenty-minute walk from home. "Shouldn't we, you know, check on some people?"

Blaine swallowed, not wanting to have this discussion.

"I mean…" Artie continued. "We haven't seen anyone from school, and I really want to know if they're okay. We — we could even bring them some food; we have more than enough."

Logically, Blaine knew Artie was right. And it wasn't as though Blaine hadn't thought about it — he'd wondered almost constantly if the people he knew in Lima and elsewhere were surviving well or starving or even alive. But a big part of him didn't want to know, and ever since he'd been to Sam's house, Blaine wasn't sure anymore if he could even handle knowing.

Artie seemed frustrated with Blaine's hesitance. "Blaine, don't you think that you should at least check on Kurt's parents?" he pushed. "If you were in New York and he was here, wouldn't you want him to make sure your family was okay?"

Blaine swallowed, feeling like a knife had been jammed up underneath his ribs.

"We have to do something," Artie insisted. "If they're safe, I want to know. If they're starving, I want to help. If they're lying dead on a street somewhere, then I want to bury them. We can't just—"

"I can't, Artie!" Blaine snapped. Artie flinched, and Blaine immediately felt guilty. He clamped his mouth shut, his gut twisting as horrible images flashed across his mind — of the corpse that might have been Sam, of Mr. Schue being picked at by crows, of Cooper lying crushed with blood trickling from his mouth.

Artie's eyebrows pulled together. "So you're just going to leave them, is that it?"

Blaine finally stopped in his tracks, making Artie's chair halt next to him. "I have to believe that they're all okay," he forced out, his heart beating much too loudly against his ribs. "All right? I have to. But as soon as we go look for them, and we actually find them, then that won't be true anymore. And I can't—" He shook his head, blinking back tears. "I can't deal with that."

Artie stared at him for several seconds in silence, his expression blank, as though he had no idea what to make of Blaine's confession. "Blaine, what you just said… it's the exact same thing as believing they're all dead."

Blaine let out a slow, shuddering breath, trying to slow his roaring heartbeat.

Artie sighed, pushing his dirty hair back from his forehead. "You do what you want," he said, reaching down to grip his wheels and push forward again. "Tomorrow, I'm going on my own."

Though the distance between the ranch and the Colorado River was just barely over a mile and would have normally only taken twenty minutes to cross on horseback, it was much more difficult to keep up the pace while managing a herd of cattle. Not to mention the fact that Puck was suddenly being made keenly aware of how much he really didn't know how to ride a horse. He found himself repeatedly tugging on Mr. T's reins whenever she would try to speed up and get ahead of the herd, and then nudging her to speed up when she dropped too far behind. He couldn't quite pinpoint the correct pace. It had never been an issue before, when it was just Mr. T he had to worry about and she was only going as fast as they could walk.

At the very least, Puck felt a little bit better seeing that Mercedes was having just as much trouble as he was, if not more. She also had the disadvantage of being completely unfamiliar with the animal she was riding — a large cream-colored gelding with a white mane that seemed intent on stopping every few hundred yards to munch on the shrubs poking out of the sand. On top of that, he could hear her muttering constantly about how much she disliked horses and how she was never going to ride one again as long as she lived.

Puck couldn't help but snort at that. Though Mercedes hadn't complained about Mr. T, she had never once struck him as a fan of animals of any kind.

Up ahead of the trudging herd, June and Carter flanked the mass of lowing cattle, expertly guiding them with a series of hey-heys and loud yups and the occasional slap of a prod. Luckily, the herd wasn't massive — just under eighty or so if Puck was any good at estimating — and Carter and June could have easily managed the run on their own if they weren't so pressed for time.

Overhead, the sky was growing dark despite it being barely noon, the rainclouds sinking low and heavy. The first rumble of thunder rolled across the desert just as they began to climb the rocky ridge, a couple of sparse but fat raindrops pattering the well-packed earth underfoot.

"I'm going to be so pissed off if we get hit by lightning," Puck called to Mercedes, raising his voice to be heard over the constant bellowing of the cows.

"I doubt we'd live long enough to complain," she retorted.

"That's comforting."

Mercedes laughed at him, but was quickly distracted by her horse halting again to lean down and grab a mouthful of shrub. She swore loudly.

At last, the herd rounded the top of the ridge, beginning the short descent from the rocky path to the water. Puck's first thought was that the river was much, much smaller than he'd anticipated. He'd been expecting a staggeringly large waterway with heavy currents and lush green banks; instead, the Colorado (at least at this particular location) was barely three hundred feet across, with a steady but calm flow of water and a muddy brown shoreline on both sides.

Still, he couldn't say he was disappointed. It was the first body of water he'd seen since leaving the west coast, and after weeks of walking through nothing but desert he was overjoyed. As the cattle slowly spread out along the water's edge to drink, Puck nudged Mr. T to a trot and circled around the herd, then promptly dismounted and without any hesitation, ran straight into the water. It was cool and shallow, and after a few steps Puck dove in headfirst.

"Puck, what the hell are you doing?!" Mercedes exclaimed with a laugh when he resurfaced seconds later.

Puck might have made some kind of witty retort if he hadn't been enjoying the feel of the water so much; as it was, he only let out a satisfied sigh. "Mercedes, you've got to come in here," he urged, floating on his back. He didn't even care that his shoes were flooded. He could feel weeks' worth of travel grime and dust and caked dirt already being washed away.

"Hey!" Carter barked, trotting up on his horse. "We don't have time for a swim, Puck, let's go. Storm's gonna start any minute now."

Puck couldn't help feeling disappointed, but he shook the water from his hair and waded back out of the river, wringing out the hem of his shirt.

"Makes you feel any better, we're all gonna be soaked anyway by the time we get back," Carter said as Puck grabbed Mr. T's reins. "It's gonna be quite the downpour."

As if on cue, the sky flashed with lightning.

Mercedes shrieked, clapping her hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide. "Did… did you see that?"

A peal of thunder rolled across the hills, reverberating through Puck's chest. He turned his head to watch the clouds. "…See what?"

Mercedes was still staring at the sky. "Th-the lightning."

Puck squinted into the rain, drops pattering the ground more rapidly now. "What about it?" he asked.

"Just wait, wait…"

Puck frowned, watching the dark clouds. Carter was right — it was going to be one hell of a storm. The air around them was thrumming with the pressure.

A minute passed, and the sky once again flashed with lightning. Puck immediately jumped back, bumping into Mr. T.

"What the hell? " he cried.

"You see?"

"That — that's not normal."

Carter didn't seem all that startled, and instead of crying out in shock or alarm, asked, "Have you two not seen this before?"

Puck gaped at him. "You mean this has happened before?!"

Carter nodded. "Ever since the blackout. We've had a couple storms a week 'cause it's the rainy season, and they've all looked like this. I got no idea why."

Puck turned his attention back to the clouds, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Every nerve cell in his body was screaming that he should run, find shelter, hide , but he remained frozen where he was. There was nowhere to go .

A third time, the sky flashed, and a bright bolt of lightning darted down out of the clouds to the east. And then, as though the sky couldn't quite let it go, the bolt curved upwards and looped back into the clouds before disappearing. It never once touched the ground.

The accompanying peal of thunder rolled overhead quicker than before. The storm was growing closer.

"Come on," Carter finally said. "We got work to do. Let's get the cows watered and get 'em back."

Puck swallowed, his limbs feeling unsteady, but he followed Carter's direction and climbed back into Mr. T's saddle. He exchanged a silent look with Mercedes, who seemed just as uneasy as he was. Her knuckles were almost white around her horse's reins.

They spent a few more minutes at the riverside letting the cows drink, and then June and Carter began prodding the herd back up the ridge slope. The wind had picked up again, whipping at Mercedes' tied-back hair and making Puck shiver in his damp clothes. Even though he did try to concentrate on watching the herd and making sure none of the cows wandered, Puck couldn't stop himself from continuously glancing up at the sky.

As they pushed the cattle back up and over the ridge, and then slowly made their way westward across the sand flats, the sky darkened from grey to almost violet. The rain came down in heavy sheets blown by the wind, drenching them all to the bone and turning the sand to mud. Thunder made the earth shudder every few seconds.

And again and again and again, the lightning refused to strike the ground.

Puck followed behind the herd for the mile-long journey back to the ranch with his heart in his throat. He was unable to escape the foreboding idea that the world was coming to an end.

Night swept quickly over Lima, plunging the town into a darkness that was eerily still and unyielding. It was a perfectly clear night without even a breath of wind to rattle the window panes. Blaine, his parents, Artie, and Caitlin were gathered around the dining table eating dinner — a miscellaneous meal consisting of corn flakes, ramen, refried beans, and canned ham. This was the only lit room, with several candles burning on the table and casting flickering shadows up the walls. There were only a couple inches of wax left on each candlestick, and Blaine made a mental note to scour the town for more on his next supply run tomorrow.

Blaine ate in silence, barely tasting his food and not really putting any effort into joining the others' conversation. It was mostly small talk anyways; they didn't need him to pitch in. Not to mention that Artie had barely spoken to him all afternoon.

The back of Blaine's neck prickled uncomfortably as he sensed someone staring at him, and he noticed his mother watching him from across the table. She averted her eyes when he raised his head, but not in time for him to miss the concerned look on her face. Blaine felt a rock work its way into his throat; he tried to swallow it, but it seemed stuck. He knew his father had told her about their visit to Sam's house, but she hadn't spoken to Blaine about it yet.

Not that she hadn't tried. He just hadn't given her the chance.

He didn't want to give her the chance.

"We need more water," Tim said, pouring the last contents of the pitcher into his glass.

"There's still some in the barrel outside." Blaine immediately moved to grab the pitcher, eager to get away from the table even if just for a minute.

Tim waved him off. "I'll go; I'm done eating anyways." He took the pitcher from the table and stood. "Be right back."

"Well," Pamela said as Tim headed out to the front door. "Caitlin and I got a lot done in the garden today. Planted a lot of veggies."

Artie smiled at his little sister. "Yeah? Did you have fun?"

Caitlin shrugged, but smiled very slightly. Blaine could see that she wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of feeling safe again. (He could relate.)

"You were very helpful," Pamela insisted. "Pretty soon you're going to be a better gardener than me."

Artie gave Caitlin a nudge with his elbow. "Maybe tomorrow you can show me what you did."

Caitlin nodded, seeming pleased. "Okay."

Pamela changed the subject then, much to Blaine's chagrin. "You know, Blaine, we're pretty fully stocked for now. You don't need to make a truck run tomorrow; you could take the day off."

Blaine felt his stomach twist, the refried beans and canned ham sitting in his gut like a fistful of mud. He couldn't quite stand the thought of standing still, with nothing to distract him for an entire day. "…Yeah, maybe," he forced out.

Pamela frowned at him for a moment, looking more worried than anything else, and it was uncomfortably quiet. Blaine knew she was trying to figure out what to say to him, and he braced himself for some awkwardly phrased expression of sympathy or comfort, or possibly a gentle offer to talk.

Before she could say anything, however, the silence was ripped in half. Two gunshots blasted in quick succession from somewhere outside the front of the house, and everyone at the table recoiled.

Barely a second later, they heard the water pitcher shatter on the porch.

Pamela lurched to her feet, her eyes wide, her shoulders rigid. Her gaze was fixed in the direction of the front door. "Boys, take Caitlin and go in the basement," she ordered.

Neither Blaine nor Artie moved, both frozen stiff.

"Go!" Pamela barked. "Now!"

In unison, the two of them finally tore into action. Blaine grabbed Caitlin's upper arm and quickly steered her toward the basement door in the hall. Artie followed, accidentally catching his left wheel on the table leg in his haste. Already, they could hear several pairs of feet pounding up the steps to the front porch.

Blaine flung the basement door open, pushing Caitlin as roughly as he dared down into the stairwell, then turning to help Artie. Artie already knew what had to be done; his wheelchair couldn't go downstairs. Blaine hoisted him onto his back, letting Artie cling to his shoulders as he rushed to make it down the first few steps.

Four stairs down, Blaine twisted slightly to make sure Pamela was behind them, but he turned just in time to see her slam the door shut after him. "Mom!" he cried. They plummeted into darkness, broken only by the soft glow of the candlelight from the dining room shining through the crack beneath the door.

There was a crash as the front door burst open.

Blaine hunched on the stairs with his blood running icy cold, feeling Artie's rapid heartbeat against his back and Caitlin's shuddering breath on his arm.

Another three sudden gunshots made them flinch, and there was a dull thud as Pamela fell heavily in front of the door. The thin slit of light vanished. Almost immediately, Blaine could smell the blood seeping through the crack.

He couldn't breathe.

Footsteps passed through the hallway to the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. Spreading out. Searching the house. Blaine couldn't tell how many there were.

"Jesus, this is a good find," a man's voice said. "They've got a lot of stuff in here."

Blaine could hear the kitchen cupboards opening and closing, opening and closing. He bit on his tongue until it bled.

"They got Lucky Charms!" exclaimed another voice. "Hell yeah!"

"Hey, someone check the basement."

Automatically, Blaine heaved himself back up, his calves screaming with the weight of both himself and Artie. He bumped Caitlin, forcing her to move down the stairs and further into the pitch black, and staggered down the steps to the cement floor. He could already hear someone dragging his mother's body out of the way.

"Caitlin, stay with us," Artie whispered, practically choking Blaine with his grip (or was Blaine's throat closing up without Artie's help?).

Blaine struggled not to collapse under Artie's weight as he pushed into the corner of the cellar, only half-hidden from the stairwell by a stack of old cardboard boxes. Crouching down, he felt Artie reach out and grope for Caitlin in the dark, grabbing her by her sleeve and pulling her close.

The door opened, and immediately the wavering light of a torch shone down into the dark. Footsteps, lighter than those upstairs, descended the steps. The intruder came into view, and suddenly Blaine's heart screeched to a complete halt. Artie let out a small, almost inaudible gasp.

It was Kitty.

She was in jeans and a sweatshirt, her too-oily hair pulled back in a limp ponytail that was really only a poor imitation of her old cheerleader's style. There was a nasty cut on the side of her jaw. Blaine almost didn't recognize her.

Holding the torch above her head to better see the room, she glanced around the basement until her eyes landed on the three of them, and she froze. Her eyes went wide.

No one spoke. No one moved.

"You find anything down there?" shouted someone from upstairs.

Kitty's eyes were suddenly glassy, and Blaine couldn't be sure in the torchlight but she might have been on the verge of tears. She swallowed, not looking away from them for even a second as she called back.

"N-No, there's nothing."

"Well, come on, we need help with all the crap up here."

Kitty didn't move immediately. "Is there a back door?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Blaine's heart was leaping hurdles in his chest, banging much too hard against his ribs. His gaze jumped to the right, where set into the far wall was a door leading out to the sloping backyard.

Kitty pressed her lips together momentarily. "They're going to burn the house," she hissed. "Run."

And with that, she whirled on her toes and dashed back up the stairs to rejoin her companions, taking the light of the torch with her.

Blaine's chest heaved, the oxygen tingling in his fingertips.

"Blaine," Artie snapped, shaking his shoulders. "Blaine, we have to go."

At Artie's urging, Blaine blinked and gave his head a shake. He readjusted his grip on Artie's legs, then stood up.

"Caitlin, hold onto me," Artie directed breathlessly.

Going as fast as he could and yet still far, far too slowly, Blaine edged his way through the cellar, navigating the dark based on sheer muscle memory. Upstairs they could hear the constant thudding of footsteps and slamming of cupboard doors as the kitchen was ransacked. At last, Blaine nearly tripped over the concrete step beneath the back door, fumbling for the handle with trembling fingers.

The door fell back on its hinges, and cool air washed over them. Blaine's legs strained to step up and through the doorway, emerging from the house in the shadow of the rear deck. Out here, it was easier to see in the light from the stars and the waning moon. Blaine hastened away from the house, stumbling down the slope toward the woods at the edge of the property.

Out of the corner of his eye, he barely caught sight of Cooper's wooden grave marker nestled in the grass as they rushed by.

At last, Blaine ducked in between the trees, ferns damp with late night dew brushing across his ankles. His knees buckled, and he and Artie crashed into the dirt. Caitlin shrieked. Artie immediately jerked up, begging her to be quiet.

Blaine pushed himself back onto his feet, reaching down to heave Artie across the ground for a few feet to sit at the base of the nearest tree trunk. Caitlin instantly dove into Artie's arms, crying and shaking like a leaf.

Blaine crept forward a few yards, keeping low despite the fact that logically, he knew nobody would be able to see him from the house. He stared up the hill at his home, the windows lit now only by torchlight. The minutes dragged on, time passing unjustly slowly now that there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait. Crickets chirped incessantly all around him.

Eventually, the light faded from the window panes, and there was a blissful moment of quiet darkness in which Blaine thought maybe — just maybe — Kitty had been wrong and it had been the gang's plan all along to leave the house standing.

And then there was a small flare of orange light somewhere in the living room, and within only seconds — they must have had a can of gasoline — the entire first floor was engulfed. The flames burst through the windows and licked up the walls, eating up to the second floor more gradually until the house was an inferno.

Blaine sat there in the dirt and watched as his home burned, the walls and roof and furniture and everything that made it his reduced to a hundred-foot bonfire. The fire was so bright that Blaine had to squint, and even where he was he could feel wave after wave of dry, foul heat rolling over him.

He shivered, his knuckles digging into the ground.

The fire roared, drowning out the crickets, and the smoke blotted out the stars.

"Blaine," Artie called from behind him.

Blaine ignored him, watching sparks and burning embers float up into the sky. The stench of smoke clogged his mouth and nose, and his breath hitched in his chest.

"Blaine," Artie repeated. "We should go."

A loud crack-crack-crack echoed outwards from the house, and the roof gave way, falling in on itself and taking half the right wall of the house with it.

"Blaine!"

Finally, Blaine tore his gaze away, turning his attention to Artie. Artie clutched Caitlin to his chest and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose, his face streaked with dirt. Caitlin was pressed into him, her limbs pulled inward and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Artie's eyes jumped to the house and then back to Blaine, the reflection of the fire flickering across his glasses. "We can't stay here," he pressed.

Feeling dizzy, Blaine watched the house burn for a few moments longer, then forced himself to turn away. Artie gently nudged Caitlin to her feet. Blaine knelt down and carefully but somewhat awkwardly hauled Artie up onto his back a second time. His knees shook under the weight, but he hefted Artie to the most comfortable position possible and waited for Caitlin to wrap her fingers into the hem of Artie's sweater.

As the boom of the second floor's collapse reverberated down the hill, Blaine, Artie, and Caitlin trudged away from the blaze. The roar of the fire and the blinding orange glow grew fainter, fading into the distance.

Slowly, step by heavy step, the three of them disappeared into the dark.

Chapter Text

DAY 23

Artie jerked awake, finding his lids crusted over with grime and his cheek pressed into the dead leaves and dirt covering the ground. For several seconds, confusion clouded his head and he couldn't quite place where he was. The treetops overhead rustled in the breeze. A grey sky. Caitlin was next to him, squeezed into the crook of his arm and shivering slightly, but still asleep. It was cold and damp, and smelled like impending rain. In the back of his mind, he could still taste sour smoke and hear the deafening, echoing boom of Blaine's house caving in. He wondered if the fire was still smoldering, or if there was even anything left of the house at all.

What were they going to do? What could they do? They were left without food, without shelter, without anyone to protect them other than themselves. And, frankly, Artie didn't have a whole lot of faith that any one of them could offer much protection at all. He couldn't even move around now that his chair was burned to a crisp, Caitlin was just a kid, and Blaine… well. Artie's confidence in Blaine was dwindling by the day. Not that he didn't trust Blaine; it was only that Blaine kept withdrawing into himself, going through the motions of survival as though he didn't have a vested interest in it. And that was before the fire. Artie had no idea what to expect now.

At last, Artie forced himself to sit up, carefully working his arm out from under Caitlin's shoulder. She didn't wake up, and for the moment Artie was grateful for that. Sleep was an ignorance he wanted to let her keep for as long as possible.

Blaine, on the other hand, didn't appear to have gotten any sleep during the night whatsoever. He sat a few feet away from Artie, his back against a tree trunk and his elbows resting on his knees. Artie was struck suddenly by how skinny Blaine looked, and he had to ask himself if that was new or if he'd simply not noticed Blaine's cheekbones sticking out further, his eyes sunken. It occurred to Artie that Blaine might have stopped eating properly days ago.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, his voice coming out hoarse from a night of breathing the damp night air.

Blaine didn't even make eye contact, only responding with a small shake of his head.

"You can't stay up forever," Artie said lamely. The words felt awkward and clumsy, and there was a long, pregnant moment of silence. "I'm really sorry, Blaine."

"For what?" Blaine's voice, his posture, his expression… everything was collapsed, like all the energy had been sucked out of him.

Artie frowned, his stomach turning. "About your mom and dad. And your house."

Blaine only closed his eyes, looking absolutely exhausted, and raked his fingers through his hair.

"It sucks, and none of this is fair, but…" Artie started again, attempting some kind of a pep talk (he hoped, anyway). How was he supposed to respond to this? "I'm with you, okay?"

"Artie, please don't," Blaine stopped him. He hadn't opened his eyes.

Artie's jaw clenched, and he looked away. Not that Blaine would have noticed the expression, he thought bitterly. His chest was tight, his stomach aching. None of them had eaten anything since just before the attack, and that was a problem that had to be solved soon. Artie swallowed the bile in his throat, feeling something like anger bubble in his gut. Maybe it was just hunger, but it certainly felt like rage.

"Blaine, maybe this isn't the best time for you to hear this, but we're sleeping in the freaking woods and I don't have any more room in my head to deal with this," Artie snapped, the words jumping from his mouth faster than he could think them through. "I'm getting really sick of this whole stoic straight-arm thing you're doing, okay? It's not helping anyone, and we have more important things on our plate to worry about and we need to be able to have a real conversation without pausing for you to silently brood."

Blaine had finally opened his eyes again, and was glaring back at him. "Are you seriously telling me I don't have a right to be upset?" It was the first time that morning that Artie had heard any force in Blaine's voice at all.

"Oh, come on , Blaine! You know exactly what I'm saying!" Artie cried, struggling to keep his voice down so he wouldn't wake Caitlin. "Your parents just died and you're grieving and tired and scared and I get that. Scream, cry, punch a tree, I don't care. Do whatever you have to do. But don't you dare let all of that get in the way of us staying alive. We have to find food. We have to find a safe place to stay. We have to find me another chair, because you can't carry me. And none of that is going to happen if you and I aren't communicating."

Blaine didn't speak right away, still glaring at him. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose.

Artie pressed his lips together, bracing for Blaine to yell at him. To be honest, he wasn't so sure getting Blaine to yell was such a bad thing — maybe it would shake him out of whatever stupor he was stuck in.

When Blaine finally opened his mouth, he didn't shout. His voice came out hoarse and thready and shaking. "How long do you expect we can actually survive out here?"

"Blaine," Artie warned. "Stop it."

Blaine didn't listen. "Artie, we're starving, we're exposed, we've got nowhere to go, and our families are dead. We've got nothing."

"My family isn't dead!" Artie spat. At that, Caitlin stirred at last, shaken awake by the argument. She sat up, glancing back and forth from Artie to Blaine and back again.

Blaine stared at him. "What?"

Artie let out a huff of air and heaved himself all the way up, dragging his legs so that he could sit against the tree trunk to his back. Caitlin sat with her knees pulled to her chest, not sure of what to do.

"Our brother's in Philadelphia for college, and our parents are in Belgium."

Blaine blinked. "Belgium?" he repeated.

"They were on a business trip when the blackout hit," Artie explained with a rock in his throat. "They're not dead."

Blaine's shoulders dropped, and he ran a palm over the back of his head. "Artie, I-I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah, well, you never asked," Artie snapped. He knew exactly what Blaine had assumed, and he couldn't say he blamed him for the assumption, but Blaine could have at least asked.

They both fell quiet, neither of them having any idea how to move the conversation forward.

"I'm hungry," Caitlin said, sounding as though she was trying to fill the silence more than expecting someone to actually give her something.

Blaine stood and brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants.

"Are you going somewhere?" Artie asked with a frown.

"Like you said," Blaine answered. "We need to get you a new chair."

Artie's eyebrows shot up. "You're going now? Where are you even going to look?"

"St. Rita's."

"Blaine, we passed by St. Rita's days ago and it looked like it had already been raided," Artie said. "It's probably empty."

Blaine nodded. "Yeah, of drugs, most likely. What are the chances a gang broke in and stole all the wheelchairs?" He didn't wait for Artie to answer, instead squinting up at the sky for a moment (as if he could actually see the sun despite the cloud cover). "I think it's a little before noon. I'll be gone for a couple hours, so until I get back, stay away from the road."

"I'm not going anywhere," Artie said flatly, gesturing irritatedly at his legs.

Blaine didn't respond to the jab, instead giving a short nod and striding through the ankle-deep ferns in the direction of the road. The pavement was just visible from Artie's place on the ground, but it wasn't more than a few seconds before Blaine vanished entirely from view.

Once Blaine was gone, it fell terrifyingly quiet. Artie looked up at the thin canopy of leaves, his skin running cold. A small flock of sparrows chittered in the branches somewhere overhead.

Caitlin sat with her legs crossed and ripped a dead leaf to smaller and smaller pieces in her fingers. "I'm hungry," she said again.

Artie sighed, leaning his head against the tree trunk to his back. "Me too."

Santana was slow to wake, the battering rain and thunder from the previous night still echoing distantly in her head. Every part of her ached from sleeping on the hard tiled floor — her head especially since somehow she had managed to shove away the balled-up sweater she'd been using as a pillow. Despite the pain in her twisted spine, neck, and the back of her head, Santana didn't move. She remained lying on her side and staring at the wall, her eyes tracing the pattern of meanders painted along the baseboard as her mind slowly drifted into wakefulness.

Eventually, the realization that she couldn't hear Kurt or Dani — no talking or moving around or even breathing — jerked her upright. A jolt of panic shocked through her when she saw the bistro was empty beside herself, and she quickly lurched to her feet. She spotted Kurt sitting on the front step outside with his back to her, and her shoulders relaxed, her stomach still in knots from anxiety or panic or hunger or some combination thereof.

Scraping her hideously dirty hair off the back of her neck and pulling it up into a messy bun, Santana pushed the front door open. Kurt looked up for a moment, then returned his attention to scanning up and down the street.

"Hey," he said as she sat next to him.

She swallowed a sudden urge to gag — they both badly needed a shower. Santana had thought that after a certain amount of time, her nostrils would eventually just tune out the stink, but as the days of walking and sweating and not bathing multiplied, the smell only got worse.

"What are you looking at?" Santana asked, careful to breathe through her mouth.

Kurt shrugged. "Dani went to see if she could find some stuff."

Santana couldn't quite tell if that was a direct answer and he was watching for Dani to return, or if he didn't even know what he was looking for and he was just avoiding the question.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her stomach cramping in hunger. Kurt didn't notice her staring at him. Santana hadn't looked in a mirror in weeks and was sure she looked awful, but the difference in how Kurt looked compared to before the blackout was nothing short of shocking. He was bony. His cheeks and jaw were covered in a coat of dark facial hair that made him look like someone else. The hair on his head was overgrown and unstyled, covering the tips of his ears and thick with dirt and oils. His fingernails were caked underneath. Dark shadows beneath his eyes made them appear sunken and hollow.

Santana swallowed and forced herself to look away.

She turned her gaze upward, watching the sun vanish and reappear as white fluffy clouds blew past across a patchy blue sky. Her abdomen clenched as a particularly strong hunger pang shot through her.

"There's Dani," said Kurt, breaking the quiet.

Santana spotted Dani a few blocks away down the empty street, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The pack didn't appear any heavier than it had been the previous evening.

"Anything?" Santana asked as Dani finally approached them.

Dani shook her head, her shoulders hanging low. "Everything I did find expired ages ago. More mold than food."

Santana sighed. She couldn't say she was surprised. But… they were out of food completely now. There was nothing left, and if they didn't find anything to eat soon, they wouldn't make it much further than Easton. Every cell in her body was fatigued, and she felt like she could barely lift her arms, let alone walk to Ohio from the far end of Pennsylvania.

She wished Rachel was here, helping to fill the silence.

"We should get going," said Kurt, pulling himself up from the granite step. He turned and went inside without another word to start packing.

Santana didn't move quite yet; instead, she glanced up at the sun again. Now that she thought about it, the sun was much higher than it usually was when they started walking in the mornings. "What time is it?"

Dani peered at her watch. "Almost noon." She shrugged the pack off her shoulder and sat next to Santana. "Did you sleep any better last night?"

"A little bit."

"Your hands are shaking."

Santana looked down. Dani was right — her fingers were trembling. "I'm just hungry."

Dani didn't have an answer to that. She reached over and wrapped her hand around Santana's, leaning into her side and resting her head on her shoulder. Dani's fingertips were freezing cold against Santana's skin.

They sat there for a few minutes, silently watching the clouds pass overhead, the few trees planted along the sidewalks rustle in the breeze, and a couple of squirrels scamper across the road. The sun was warm, but Santana felt frigid inside, as though her blood couldn't reach any deeper than her skin.

Santana's head nodded for a moment before her body jolted her awake again.

"You okay?" asked Dani, squeezing Santana's hand.

"Yeah, I think so." Santana gave her head a shake, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Now was not the time to fall asleep — it was already late in the day, and they had to keep going. "Come on, we should pack up and head out."

When Santana stood up, the blood rushed from her head and she swayed on her feet, her vision disappearing into a cloud of black spots. Her ears roared, and she felt Dani's arms grab her shoulders before she could fall. As she rapidly blinked and sucked in a deep, deep breath, the spots cleared from her eyes and the roaring in her ears faded. She steadied herself on her feet.

Dani was still gripping her shoulders. "We have to find something soon," she said solemnly. "We can't keep doing this."

"We don't have any other option," Santana replied, shrugging away from Dani's hold. "It's okay, I'm fine."

Dani didn't argue, but her mouth was set in a grim line as she followed Santana back inside.

Kurt was standing by the booth he'd slept next to, shoving his blanket and a few pieces of clothing into his pack. His hands were shaking too.

Santana knelt on the floor to roll up the tangle of blankets she'd been sleeping on, the back of her head buzzing like her skull was filled with static.

"Are you going to help or what?" Kurt snapped.

Santana paused and looked over her shoulder. Dani was still standing by the door, her arms hugging her torso and her bottom lip clamped between her teeth.

"Guys, we need to stop," she blurted out.

Kurt frowned. "What?"

"We need a break, okay?" Dani continued. "We can camp out here, comb the town for supplies. Rest for a while before getting back on the road."

"We need to go home," Kurt insisted, shaking his head.

Dani's arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders falling. "Kurt, we didn't even make it five miles yesterday. Over the whole day. We weren't even that slow when Rachel was with us."

Kurt's jaw clenched shut and he looked away, like he was angry at Dani for bringing Rachel up. Santana's chest hurt and for a split second she wanted to burst into tears.

"We're tired, we've eaten pretty much nothing the last two days, and we're not going to make it home if we keep going like this," Dani persisted.

Kurt bristled at that, and a shadow flickered across his face. His eyes flared. "It's not your home," he spat lowly, speaking through his teeth. "You don't get to make the calls. You're just along for the ride."

"Don't be an asshole," Santana cut in, glaring at him. She sighed, pulling herself shakily to her feet. "She's right. We're exhausted."

Kurt's jaw twitched, his fists tight.

Rather than argue any further, Dani pleaded. "Kurt, let's just stay here for a few days, okay? We'll rest up and get back out there as soon as we can. We all need a break."

"We have to go home," Kurt repeated, his words thin and unsteady. "I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Kurt, we're not going to make it home if we starve to death on the way," Santana countered, raising her voice. "You want to end up dead in a ditch by the side of the road like Rachel did? Be my guest. But I'm staying here with Dani, and if you want to keep on with your freaking death march, then I won't stop you."

"Oh, screw you!" Kurt shouted, his voice breaking.

"Kurt…" said Dani gently. "Please. Let's stay alive."

Kurt gritted his teeth, his eyes glassy. His breath shuddered out of his chest and his shoulders sunk. He ran a hand over his face. "Fine," he choked out. "Fine."

Santana glanced at Dani, who looked like she was about to cry. "How about you and Kurt go to the river and I'll meet you there in a little bit?"

Dani blinked back a few tears, nodding. "Okay. What are you going to do?"

"I saw a Rite Aid a couple blocks away that I want to check out. If we're going to be here for a day or two, we should at least try to clean ourselves up."

Santana could feel Kurt glaring at her, but she ignored him. He would just have to get over it. Maybe that was callous, but they'd all had to make adjustments in favor of their safety, and Kurt was no different. They couldn't prioritize their feelings anymore.

She headed out the door with one of their empty backpacks hanging from her shoulder, striding quickly along the sidewalk in the direction of the Rite Aid she'd spotted on their way into town. The road was littered with trash, dead leaves, dust, and abandoned cars, and most of the shops she passed had been looted. In all likelihood, the Rite Aid wasn't going to have anything more, but Santana preferred to be thorough. She wasn't going to risk losing a possible resource based on an assumption.

By the time she reached the Rite Aid parking lot six blocks away, her legs nearly felt ready to give out. The sun no longer felt pleasantly warm — instead, it beat down on Santana's neck, brutal and dry and hot. She paused at the edge of the lot to brace an arm against a streetlamp and give herself a few seconds to rest. Dani had been right; if she couldn't make it a few blocks without feeling dizzy and sick, then a rest for a few days was what they needed.

Swallowing, Santana stepped off the curb and walked across the lot to the front entrance. The automatic doors had been smashed, so she stepped through the hollow frame and was careful to not catch her feet on the jagged shards of glass sticking up from it like teeth.

Inside the Rite Aid, Santana found nearly all the shelves empty and a filthy floor. She could hear a few pigeons cooing somewhere toward the back of the store, and a few bird droppings decorated the cash registers. Looters had tracked in dirt and mud, leaving smeared shoe prints across most of the linoleum, and rain falling in through the broken doors over the past several weeks had made the mess worse. Santana wrinkled her nose — though the open entrance had helped to ventilate somewhat, it still stank.

The grocery aisles were entirely devoid of anything useful. The only food left that Santana could immediately spot was a shattered jar of salsa that someone had dropped on the ground, leaving its splattered contents dried and crusted on the floor like a huge scab.

Desperately but without any real expectation of success, Santana knelt on the ground, then lay on her belly to peer beneath the aluminum shelves. Her eyes widened when she saw the shadow of a box that had been somehow kicked underneath. Her stomach grumbled loudly, as if to ask what she was waiting for. She grunted slightly as she wedged her arm into the gap between the shelf and the floor, batting the box clumsily toward herself, and finally yanked it out.

She nearly laughed out loud. It was a box of Frosted Flakes.

Eagerly stuffing the box of cereal into her pack, Santana stood back up and began to wander throughout the store in search of anything else of use. There was no more food, but Santana was able to retrieve a handful of supplies from the other aisles — three boxes of tampons, a single tube of shaving cream, a packet of five razors, and a box of baking soda. Everything else that was left (mostly cosmetics and stationery) was nowhere near essential.

She had just zipped her bag shut when the pigeons sprung away from their roost near the ceiling, flapping and hooting in a frenzy. Santana jumped at the noise. She slung the pack back over her shoulders and turned to leave, only to stop in her tracks when she realized she wasn't the only one in the store.

Two women stood at the door, watching her.

Santana didn't say anything, her heart in her throat. She suddenly felt very, very alone.

"Did you find anything?" said the older woman. She was in her fifties, while the other was closer to Santana's age. They looked like a mother and daughter. Both of them were skinny and in need of a bath, and both had the same haunted, starved glint in their eyes that Santana had seen in every single person she'd encountered since the blackout.

Santana shook her head. "No, nothing."

The strangers exchanged a glance, and then the daughter spoke. "I don't believe you."

Santana stepped back. "I don't have anything."

"Give us your bag."

Her hands tightened around the straps, her palms sweating. "No."

The mother's eyes flared, and she stepped forward. "Give us your bag," she repeated.

Santana swallowed. She quickly ran her eyes over the women's figures — they had no weapons, nothing to give them the upper hand besides the fact that they outnumbered her.

After a split second of indecision, Santana bolted.

Blaine shivered as he approached the looming hospital, a bead of cold sweat dripping down his neck. His heart thudded hard against his ribs, and he hesitated at the edge of the curb with his pulse roaring in his ears and his stomach turning somersaults in his gut. Every nerve in his body was urging Blaine to turn and walk in the other direction, to leave the hospital behind him and not look back. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and reminded himself that Artie desperately needed a new chair. And at the moment, one could argue that a new wheelchair was more important than finding food and shelter. Blaine couldn't keep carrying Artie, and he couldn't be doing all the work. Mobility was a necessity that none of them — Artie included — could afford to sacrifice.

"Come on, come on," Blaine whispered to himself. "You can do this." He finally stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Emergency Room doors. A hot breeze blew past, causing dust and leaves and old trash to eddy around his feet.

The sliding doors stood only half closed — one door sat crooked on its bearings, the glass cracked around two massive bullet holes. Blaine swallowed and shouldered his way through the gap, only to cough and clap his hand over his mouth and nose as he was slammed with an overwhelming stench of decay. He froze in his tracks, his lungs halting entirely as he took in the gruesome scene in front of him. The bullet holes in the door had been only the beginning. Inside, holes peppered the walls, the nurse's station counter, the doors leading to other rooms and hallways. And there were bodies. A man and a woman in scrubs by the door to the stairwell. A woman in a white coat in front of the nurse's station. Another nurse to Blaine's right, near the exam rooms. All of them lay in pools of dried blood, staining their clothes and the floor underneath dark brown. The buzzing of flies made Blaine sick.

Blaine didn't know how long they had been dead, but the air was rancid and stinking, and he gagged as he struggled to breathe. He froze again as he noticed one final detail — a line of bloody footprints leading from the nurse's station straight towards him, disappearing out the door. The prints were old and dried, ghostly traces of someone left unnamed. Whatever had happened here, someone had survived and made it out.

He tried not to think too hard about the fact that even if they'd survived the massacre here, they could have easily been killed elsewhere between then and now. He wasn't sure if it even mattered anymore when or where or how a person died.

Swallowing the bile in his throat, Blaine clenched his teeth and tore his gaze away from the corpses, searching the room for any abandoned wheelchairs. His heart sank — not a single one was in sight. No. There had to be at least one or two chairs left, maybe on the other floors. Blaine carefully avoided the bloody footprints on the floor and edged toward a large sign on the far wall listing the various departments. He kept his eyes forward and refused to look at the bodies on the ground again.

Blaine waved a couple of flies away from his face as he read the department directory, trying to decide which one was the most likely to have several wheelchairs on hand. He settled on Surgical Center – 2nd Floor.

He had to step over the nurses' corpses to get to the stairwell.

On the second floor, the smell was even worse. A total lack of open windows and doors had trapped the stench inside for weeks, and Blaine guessed that the bodies on this floor had died in the blackout itself — they had to have been here for longer than the dead doctors and nurses in the lobby. Blaine pulled the collar of his t-shirt up over his nose, trying not to think about it too hard.

Next to the nurses' station close to the elevator, Blaine found a line of three folded wheelchairs kept well out of the way against the wall. He quickly unfolded one, rolled it back and forth a few feet to test it, then collapsed it again and hurried back to the stairs. He was acutely eager to get out of the hospital and out of the smell. It only took him a few minutes to heft the wheelchair down the flight of stairs to the lobby, shoulder his way through the door, and step back over the bodies blocking his path.

By the time he reached the main entrance, Blaine was almost running. At this point, the hospital was really nothing more than a necropolis, and Blaine was all too happy to leave it behind.

Outside, Blaine drew a huge gasp of fresh air as though he'd just barely escaped drowning. The air — clean air — filled his lungs and made the back of his head buzz with oxygen. He stood there for a moment to catch his breath before setting the wheelchair on the pavement and unfolding it again.

He turned to look one last time at the hospital entrance, and noticed for the first time that someone had spray-painted a wooden sign and nailed it to the bench closest to the door.

HOSPITAL OPEN

WE CAN HELP

Santana's chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through her veins with such intensity that she couldn't feel her arms and legs. Her backpack bounced back and forth on her shoulders as her feet pounded the pavement. Her head was swimming, her ears roaring, and she couldn't hear anything besides her own gasps for breath. Her throat burned.

In a blind panic, Santana made turn after turn, dashing down street after unfamiliar street. She paid no attention to which direction she was heading — the only thing driving her was the overwhelming urge to get AWAY from the strangers on her heels. A quick glance over her shoulder showed they were still behind her, running just as fast and showing no signs of slowing.

Santana grabbed the pole of an approaching streetlamp, using it to swing her weight ninety degrees before fleeing down yet another street. She hadn't run this fast since the hyena attack in New York. (This was scarier.)

She was exhausted.

They had to give up soon, didn't they?

One of the women shouted something at her, but with her pulse and the wind drumming in her ears, she couldn't hear what they said. She didn't stop to ask for clarification.

Why did she feel like there were lead weights hanging from her ankles?

She was breathing so fast through her teeth that her gums hurt.

She couldn't keep this up.

With the air tearing raggedly through her lungs on each inhale, Santana darted into the first open door she could spot — a small coffee shop. She didn't pause even for half a second, sprinting past the tables, past the counter, through the door to the back storage room and finally bursting out of the emergency exit. She found herself in an alley and quickly made a break for the street, turning the corner just as she heard her pursuers crash through the door after her.

Her legs were going to give out.

Every cell in her body was screaming at her to stop, to give up, to collapse on the pavement. The oxygen was barely reaching her brain, and with no food in her stomach she could feel her muscles burning instead. Her skin felt like it was about to rupture.

She didn't stop.

She ducked into another doorway, this time a hardware store. She ran past the cash register and down an aisle of nails stacked on shelves ten feet high, her eyes desperately searching for another exit.

Wait.

Nearly everything in this store was either heavy, blunt, or sharp.

Santana skidded to a stop, her legs and knees and arms shaking almost uncontrollably, and she grabbed the first object within reach — a long-handled ten-pound sledgehammer. She heard the front doors slam open, two pairs of sneakers squeaking on the floor.

Santana could barely breathe, her ribs aching from the strain of opening and closing so quickly and her blood boiling. With trembling arms, she heaved the sledgehammer as high as she could, bracing herself as the strangers' stomping feet drew closer.

She clenched her teeth, halted her breath, and swung with every last ounce of strength in her body.

She felt the hammer make contact, felt the crunch of multiple splintered bones and heard a bloodcurdling scream as one of the women crumpled to the ground. The force of the swing combined with the weight of the hammer nearly made Santana topple to the floor as well, but she managed to catch herself on the shelf by her side. The woman on the ground was still screaming.

"Mom!" shouted the daughter, dropping to her knees. Her mother was sobbing in agony, clutching her shoulder with her uninjured arm.

Santana's blow had struck the woman's right shoulder, collarbone, and upper arm, shattering every bone beneath it.

The daughter looked up at Santana with an expression that could only be described as terror.

Santana gritted her teeth. "Leave me alone!" she snarled. Her throat had been burned so badly during her run that it hurt to speak.

The mother was still sobbing, her daughter frozen to the spot.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Santana screamed. She mustered enough willpower to stand upright, lifting the hammer slightly to show she wasn't afraid to swing it again (even if she was).

Immediately, the daughter scrambled to help her mother to her feet. The older woman could barely stand, clinging to her daughter with her good arm as they hobbled out of the hardware store. Santana stood there, breath heaving and body shaking, until the door banged shut behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Santana retched. There was nothing in her stomach to throw up, and so the acid in her throat sent shocks of pain stabbing through her abdomen.

Absolute and total exhaustion took over then, her body surrendering. She lost consciousness before she hit the floor.

"How is it?"

Artie nodded, flipping the chair's brakes a couple times to test them. "Much better than sitting in the dirt," he said. "Thanks."

Blaine could see that the wheelchair wasn't perfect — it was a little too wide for Artie to push it comfortably and was clearly designed for hospital use, where there were plenty of nurses to do the legwork for their patients. But it seemed manageable, and Artie was already wheeling himself clumsily toward the road.

"Whoa, hold on," Blaine interjected quickly, grabbing the handlebars of the new chair. "Might be easier to get you to the pavement first."

Artie let go of the wheels and allowed Blaine to push him across the thick carpet of dirt and dead leaves, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Caitlin was following.

"I miss your light-up wheels," Caitlin remarked.

Artie smiled. "Yeah, me too," he agreed. "Here's hoping I can get another chair like that again someday."

Blaine jostled Artie over the lip of the asphalt, then released him. Artie turned in a few practice circles, adjusting to the new equipment.

"So, what's the plan here?" Blaine asked, crossing his arms. "What next?"

"Food," Artie replied immediately. "No point trying to find someplace to stay if we starve before we get there."

"Where do you think we should look?"

"What about the truck?" suggested Caitlin. "You said there was still a lot of stuff in it."

Artie shook his head. "The key was back in the house. Even if it didn't melt in the fire, we'd never find it."

"I bet there's a hardware store in town where we could find bolt cutters," Blaine said. "We could get a new lock and key for it too."

"It's pretty late in the day already — do we have time for that?"

Blaine scratched the underside of his jaw in thought. "The truck's pretty close to downtown, but I don't think we do if we want time afterward to find a place for the night."

Caitlin tensed up at that. "I don't want to sleep in the woods again," she insisted, looking pleadingly at her big brother.

"Maybe we should prioritize finding a roof first," Artie said with a sigh. "I hate to say it but if worse comes to worse, we can make it another day without eating. And it's dangerous to be out here all night. We could check on some people from school like I was saying earlier, crash with one of them. They might even have food."

Blaine nodded in agreement, though a cold knot of apprehension settled into his gut. Why did he have the sickening premonition that they would find all the people they knew burned to death and left for the crows?

"Ryder lives closest to here," Artie continued. "We should check his house first."

"All right, let's go."

Blaine had never visited Ryder before, and so Artie led the way, wheeling just ahead and giving the occasional direction until they reached Dunbury Lane. The street was a small cul-de-sac at the end of a road that was little more than a driveway, and like the rest of the town, it was dead quiet. Caitlin wordlessly grabbed Blaine's hand, hugging close to his side as they neared the circle of houses. There was a sudden bang! like a gunshot, making all three of them flinch. Blaine released a shaky breath — the noise had only been the wind causing the unlocked door of the nearest house to slam against its frame. Eerily, the house didn't appear to have been broken into at all — the windows were all intact, there were no signs of fire, no debris left on the front lawn. But it didn't seem to be occupied either.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made Blaine's gaze shift quickly to the house on their left. He turned in time to see the curtain in an upstairs window pull shut, the shadow of a person just vanishing from view.

"Artie," Blaine said softly. "There's still people here."

"I don't think this place has been attacked yet," Artie replied, scanning the houses for signs of damage.

It should have been a relief, but Blaine had to remind himself that the operative word in that statement was yet .

"Which one is Ryder's house?" he asked.

Artie slowed to a stop, his shoulders falling. "Crap. It's that one."

Blaine followed Artie's gaze, and felt his heart skip. Ryder's house was smallish and painted robin's egg blue, bearing no signs of any break-ins, and might have seemed safe if it weren't for the huge message spray-painted in massive black letters across the entire front:

SOPHIE — WE WENT TO ATLANTA

"Who's Sophie?" was the only thing Blaine could think to say.

"Ryder said he had an older sister," Artie said.

"Why did they leave?" asked Caitlin, squeezing Blaine's hand.

"Maybe they had other family in Atlanta."

Blaine swallowed, his stomach flipping over. He was struck suddenly by the disturbing notion that Ryder and his family would have to choose who to save, being forced to leave someone to fend for themselves. He wondered what he and his parents would have done if Cooper had been out in Los Angeles when the blackout hit, and if Cooper would have even died at all if he hadn't been here in Lima.

"Who next?" he asked, forcing all the what-ifs to the back of his head.

Artie cleared his throat, turning his chair to face away from Ryder's house. "Sam," he said. "Brackett Street's not far."

Blaine's skin ran cold. "I, uh…" he stammered. "That's not a good idea."

Artie froze. "What do you mean?"

"I already checked Sam's place."

"…Is he dead?"

"I don't know," Blaine answered honestly. "The house was burned down." He was careful to not mention the corpse on the front step.

Artie was quiet for a moment, his fingers tightly gripping the rims of his wheels. "Okay. It's okay," he said, sounding as though he were trying to reassure himself more than Blaine or Caitlin. "I'm sure we'll find someone. Let's just… let's just keep going."

Dani and Kurt knelt at the edge of the river by the trestle bridge, each rinsing their clothes as best they could in the shallow water at their feet. The water on Dani's forearms was freezing cold and sent shivers across her skin as she wrung out one of her shirts, heaving herself back onto her feet in order to turn and lay the shirt out on a sunny rock to dry. She brushed her damp hands off on the seat of her jeans, watching a kingfisher dive a little ways down the shoreline. The constant gurgling of the water passing was soothing, especially now that they weren't rushed to get back on the road, but she was sure Kurt didn't feel the same. He had barely spoken to her since they'd split up with Santana, and when he had his responses had been monosyllabic.

Dani sighed, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Kurt, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kurt said tautly, not looking up.

Dani bit the inside of her cheek. "You don't seem fine."

"No, Dani, I'm not fine!" he spat over his shoulder. "Rachel is dead, we're still hundreds of miles from home, the world's freaking collapsed, and I'm washing my clothes in a goddamn river!" He huffed, angrily scrubbing at his soaking t-shirt with his fingers. "Things aren't exactly butterflies and rainbows."

"You don't have to yell at me," Dani retorted, though she didn't have the energy to put much force into her words at all.

Kurt didn't respond to that.

"And for your information, Kurt," she continued. "I'm dealing with the exact same things you are, so don't pretend like you're the only one going through this crap."

"You were the one who said we should stay in Easton," Kurt argued.

Dani threw her hands up. "I didn't say we were going to live here! We just need a break! If we keep pushing ourselves as hard as we've been so far, we're going to end up killing ourselves before we ever get to Ohio. Is that what you want?"

Whether or not Kurt would have argued further, Dani never found out. The sound of shifting gravel made her turn towards the edge of the road by the bridge, where Santana was unsteadily making her way down the hill. Immediately, Dani realized something was wrong. Santana's expression was terrified and her limbs shook like she was barely able to hold herself up.

"Santana?" Dani rushed to her side, meeting Santana just as she reached the bottom of the slope. "Santana, what happened?"

Santana waved her off, feigning strength even as she had to lower herself to sit on a boulder sunk into the dirt. "Had a run-in with some people who tried to take my bag. Long story short, I won." Even her voice was shaking.

Kurt stood up, wringing out his shirt, and came to stand next to Dani. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Santana nodded, looking ill. "Yeah, I'm fine." She winced as she shrugged off the backpack — Dani quickly took it and placed it on the ground by Santana's feet. It was heavy and bulging.

"What happened?" Dani asked again.

"A couple people chased me all over town, I ran into a hardware store and then hit them with a sledgehammer. Not much else to tell. They won't be coming after me."

Dani stared at her, her jaw slack.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Did you find anything?"

"Yeah, there was some stuff left at the Rite Aid," Santana said, seeming grateful for the change of topic. "The only food I found was a box of cereal, but I got some other things that'll be good to have."

Dani couldn't help but perk up at that, eagerly waiting as Santana unzipped the bag. When the first thing that Santana pulled out was a box of baking soda, Dani had to raise an eyebrow.

"…Are you going to make cookies?" Kurt asked with a frown, equally confused.

"No, Kurt, I'm not making cookies," Santana retorted flatly. "This is for washing up. We all need a shower. I'm not sure I can take the stink any more." She shoved the box into Kurt's hands.

"Huh?" was Kurt's only response.

"You can use baking soda as shampoo and toothpaste," Santana explained patiently. "Doesn't work as well as the real stuff, but it's better than nothing."

Dani blinked. "Really?"

Santana nodded. "When I was little, my mom was working like five jobs and we were still broke as hell. Baking soda's cheaper than real soap." She dug back into the bag. "And Kurt, I got you some razors and shaving cream. Seriously, it's time to lose the creeper beard. You're starting to look like Charles Manson."

"Gee, thanks," Kurt deadpanned.

"She has a point," Dani interjected, only to receive a glare from Kurt.

Santana then pulled out three boxes of tampons, and Dani nearly cried from sheer joy.

"Okay, but before anything else," Santana said, handing the tampons to Dani. She then yanked out the box of Frosted Flakes. "Breakfast."

The three of them sat on the gravel beach and watched the water rush by, eating fistfuls of dry cereal as the sun warmed the earth beneath them and stretched into afternoon. Clouds rolled by against a brilliant blue sky. The kingfishers dove from the trees lining the water a little ways upstream, and every once in a while the truss bridge would creak in the breeze.

Sitting on the ground next to Santana with their backs against the boulder, Kurt tried to allow himself to relax. He was already beginning to feel a bit better with some food in his stomach — even if it was only carbs and sugar — but he couldn't help repeatedly glancing over his shoulder to watch the road. It was possible he was just being paranoid, but the fact that Santana had had a violent encounter in town was making him nervous, and he kept imagining more thieves suddenly appearing at the top of the slope. Whether Santana thought there was a possibility she'd been followed, he wasn't sure.

When his belly began to cramp, they had only eaten halfway through the box. There wasn't much in his stomach, but he'd gotten far too used to having nothing in it at all that he had to stop himself from eating any more.

"I'm good," he said when Dani offered him the box again. "Save it for later."

Dani shrugged and rolled up the bag, stuffing it back into Santana's pack.

"You know, I'd give anything for a pizza right now," Kurt mused aloud.

"Mm, and a cold Diet Coke," Dani agreed.

Santana leaned back against the boulder, squinting up at the sky. "I just want a pint of Ben & Jerry's," she said wistfully. "Actually, scratch that. I want a whole gallon."

"I can't remember the last time I ate junk food just because I felt like it," Kurt said. He rested his elbows on his knees, tugging his overgrown hair back away from his forehead. "I'm sick of this eating-whatever-we-find shtick. It's gotten old fast."

Santana huffed through her nose. "Well, if you find a fast food joint that's still open, you let me know."

Kurt swallowed, watching the river in silence for a few minutes. It was the first time they had really stopped to take a breather, and by now Kurt was completely unfamiliar with the sensation of not being pressed for time. They weren't rushing to pack up and get back on the road by a certain time or to find a good place to sleep before dark. Maybe Dani had been right — they did need a break.

As far as whether they deserved one, having let Rachel die and left her in New Jersey, Kurt didn't know.

Finally, he stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. "Okay, I'm taking a bath," he stated, pulling his shirt off over his head.

"Me too," Santana followed.

"I'm going to sit for a little while, digest a bit more," Dani said, waving them off.

"Suit yourself," Kurt replied as he yanked off his shoes, socks, and pants. He winced as the gravel dug into the soles of his feet and the breeze raised goosebumps on his skin.

Santana had also stripped to her underwear, and she grabbed the box of baking soda as she and Kurt walked to the edge of the water. Despite the fact that everything else was about as awful as it could be, Kurt couldn't help feeling excited at the prospect of actually being clean. With only his toes in the freezing cold water, he held out his hand and Santana poured a small amount of soda onto his palm.

Only half a second later, Kurt realized he kind of had no clue what to do with it. Was he supposed to mix it with water and make a paste or something?

Having no other ideas, Kurt knelt and splashed a bit of river water onto his palm, trying to mix it into the soda without letting all of the powder simply wash off.

Santana only rolled her eyes at him. "You're doing it wrong. Here." Without warning, she dumped a handful of dry baking soda onto his head.

Kurt flinched and grimaced. "Feels like you just poured sand all over me."

Santana placed the box on the shore behind them and reached over to rub the soda into his hair, massaging it into his scalp with her fingers. "Suck it up, it'll be out in a minute."

Kurt fell quiet, standing with his head bowed so that Santana could easily reach it. It'd been ages since someone had done this for him — he'd been to the hairdresser a couple weeks before the blackout, but it seemed like eons ago and he'd almost forgotten how good it felt. He hadn't realized how much things like this made him feel like a human being.

Suddenly, he felt like a person again.

His vision blurred, and he struggled to blink back tears.

"You've got a pretty impressive tan line back here, you know," Santana remarked as she continued to work her fingers through his hair.

Kurt let out a shaky breath, hoping that when he spoke it wouldn't sound like he was crying. "First tan of my life," he joked.

"It's more like a freckle line," Santana amended.

"I guess that's what happens when someone with my complexion is stuck outside for a month straight." Kurt paused, the inside of his chest feeling cold. "…It's really been a month, hasn't it?"

Santana sighed. "I think so."

"Do you think things will ever go back to normal?"

"You really want to have a philosophical discussion while I'm rubbing baking soda into your hair?"

"I'm not sure that question counts as purely philosophical."

"Either way," Santana said with a shrug. She didn't seem to want to talk about it, and instead changed the topic. "You need a haircut."

"So do you."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Santana abruptly spoke again. "You never mention Blaine," she blurted out, as though she'd been working up the courage to broach the subject.

Kurt tensed at that, his heart leaping into his throat. "Your point?"

"Might help to talk. We're all in the same boat."

"You never mention Brittany," Kurt countered.

Santana glanced at Dani out of the corner of her eye. "That's different."

"No, it's not."

Santana quickly drew her hands away from him. "You're done," she said brusquely. "Go rinse it out."

Kurt didn't move right away. Santana knelt to rinse her hands off in the water at her feet.

"For all I know, Blaine stepped on a piece of glass too," Kurt said. This time, he wasn't able to keep his voice from shaking.

"He's not that stupid," Santana replied.

"Neither was Rachel."

"Obviously she was."

Kurt bit his lip. "You don't mean that."

"Maybe I do," she snapped. She didn't meet his eye, but her hands were trembling.

Kurt didn't press it any further. Instead, he waded deeper into the river, diving in headfirst after a few steps. It was shallow and cold and the current was almost enough to drag him away, but it felt good. He could feel the frigid water digging into every pore of his skin, slowly rinsing a month's worth of sweat and dirt and grime away. It was almost as though he was shedding his skin entirely.

For the first time in a long while, he felt alive.

As the hours dragged on through the day and the sun swung across the sky, Blaine and Artie and Caitlin trekked in a massive convoluted loop around the town as they searched for the people they knew. But as the day edged toward evening and their energy dwindled, exhaustion gradually took hold. And even worse — much worse — they had not been able to make contact with anyone at all.

Marley's home had been ransacked, the house all but torn to shreds, and she and her mother were nowhere to be found. Blaine had found a huge spray of blood in the kitchen where someone had been shot, but there was no body.

Unique's house had been razed to the ground. If there had been anyone trapped inside when it burned down, they weren't able to tell.

Tina and her family, much like Ryder and his, had abandoned the place. But here there wasn't so much as a note to hint at where they'd gone.

The only occupied house they encountered was Sugar's, but rather than being allowed inside, the three of them had only been shot at from an upstairs window. Artie was pretty sure it was Sugar's father holding the rifle, but to be honest he wasn't all that sure that Sugar would have let them in anyways.

As they walked back along Spencerville Road over the bridge crossing McClintock Lake, Artie broke the quiet. "Blaine, we have to check Kurt's house," he said finally. "We have to."

Blaine sighed, his shoulders slumping like he knew he'd been avoiding it. "I know. I know."

"How far is it?" Artie glanced up at the sun for a moment to check its distance from the horizon. They still had a couple hours left before dark.

"Couple blocks," Blaine answered. "Not far." His voice was almost shaking, like he was readying himself to jump off a cliff.

"Okay, let's go." Artie paused before turning his chair to backtrack along the road. "You going to be all right?"

Blaine nodded, though he didn't meet Artie's eye. "Yeah. Have to be."

They didn't discuss it any further, continuing on in silence as the sun dipped along the tops of the trees lining the street. Artie's heart was thudding noisily in his chest, as though his brain was instinctively preparing him for a quick escape from something. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A chill ran down his spine, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to reach out and grip Caitlin's hand, to make sure that she was with him, but he couldn't push his chair with only one hand. Instead, he slowed for a moment to let Caitlin walk a few steps ahead of him and kept her well within his sight.

When the three of them at last turned onto Wilson Avenue and spotted Kurt's house standing five doors down, Blaine released a massive, audible breath of relief. No signs of fire, no lingering stench of smoke and charcoal. The house stood exactly as it had the last time they'd seen it.

And then… they got closer, and Artie's heart sank.

The front door of the Hudson-Hummel house was left open and hanging by one hinge. Two of the windows at the front of the house had been smashed, shards of glass strewn across the porch and glinting in the evening sun.

Blaine broke into a run.

"Blaine, wait!" Artie cried, trying (and quickly failing) to keep up. "Blaine!"

Blaine ignored him, sprinting up the porch steps and vanishing into the house. Artie could hear him yelling. "Burt? Carole? Hello?!"

Artie finally rolled up to the front of the house, forced to stop at the steps. Caitlin stood next to him, anxiously shifting from foot to foot. "Blaine!" Artie shouted again, receiving no response from inside. It was so quiet that he could hear Blaine's heavy footfalls as he ran from room to room.

Artie and Caitlin waited impatiently on the flagstone path until Blaine at last re-emerged from the house, his shoulders low. He didn't say anything immediately, only sinking down to sit on the top step.

"Anything?" Artie prompted.

Blaine shook his head.

"…Are they in there?" Artie asked, his stomach in knots. Are they dead?

"It's empty," Blaine said quietly. "They're gone."

Well, that was at least better than finding more bodies. "M-Maybe they went to New York to find Kurt."

There was a short beat, and then Blaine sucked in a sudden gasp, his chest shuddering. "Oh my God…" he whispered, beginning to hyperventilate. Within seconds, he could barely breathe.

Artie blinked, startled by Blaine's abrupt panic attack.

"I should've come here sooner. I— I— What if they're dead? God, Kurt's never going to forgive me. I should've—"

Artie leaned forward to grab Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine!" he said sharply. "Listen to me. If there's one thing we absolutely cannot do right now, it's panic. You need to calm down."

Blaine was fighting tears. "Are — are we the last ones?"

Artie's chest was tight, and he gritted his teeth for a moment. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "But we're going to keep looking, okay? We'll find someplace safe. I promise."

Blaine nodded, the tendons in his neck tightening as he struggled to slow his breathing. He swallowed. "Okay," he said thickly. "Okay."

Artie glanced at Caitlin; she was hugging her torso, her eyes wide with worry. "We'll go to Rachel's place," he declared, straightening his shoulders. "Her dads will be there, and if they're not, we'll just camp in the house for at least tonight."

"What if it got burned down?" Caitlin asked.

"Then we'll find the nearest empty house and stay there." Artie knew it was a solution that would only last so long, but it was better than nothing.

Blaine shakily stood up from the step, and as the sky already began to slowly turn pink the three of them left the vacated house in their wake. It was getting cold, and goosebumps coursed over Artie's skin in waves. He wished he'd been able to snatch a coat from Blaine's house before it had gone up in flames, but as it was, a coat was probably low on the list of their priorities. They had nothing to carry — no food, no extra clothes, no tent, nothing they could possibly use as weapons if they ran into Kitty's gang a second time. Though this made moving from place to place easier, it also made them utterly exposed. Artie's heart still knocked heavily against his ribs as if to scream at him:

You're still in danger — why aren't you running?!

Sweat dripped down Puck's neck as he yanked snug the belt of Mr. T's saddle, the sun beating down harshly on his shoulders. He had been anxious to get out of the desert for weeks, but now that Arizona was barely a mile or two away, he had progressed to sheer impatience. Adjusting the saddle one final time to be sure it wouldn't slip, Puck moved to Mr. T's head to double-check that the bridle wasn't too tight. Mr. T butted her nose into his chest with a snort, as though she was equally eager to leave.

He patted her cheek, telling her, "Just a few more minutes, and then we can get out of here."

Taking her reins in hand, Puck led Mr. T out of the corral, making sure to latch the gate behind them. "Mercedes!" he shouted in the direction of the cabin where they'd been staying. "You ready or what?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she called back from inside.

"Hurry up!"

June emerged from the small horse barn past the corral, toting a large burlap sack in each arm. She had tied them together by the handles with a two-foot-long strap, and as she approached Puck she swung one over Mr. T's shoulders so that the pair hung crossways in front of the saddle. Mr. T stamped, adjusting to the weight.

"What's that?" asked Puck.

"She needs to eat better than what you were giving her before," June said. "I've got two more sacks of oats in the barn, and you're also going to take one of our other horses."

"Wait, what? You're serious?"

June gave a short nod. "We have five horses now, which is three too many now that all our ranch hands have gone. You'll get home quicker this way, and we won't have as many animals to worry about."

Puck stared at her in stunned silence for a full three seconds before he mustered up enough composure to thank her.

"Don't thank me. Just take proper care of your horses." She patted Mr. T's flank. "A couple more days out there and this one would've dropped dead. Don't let that happen again."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door to the cabin finally swung open and Mercedes stepped out with her backpack on her shoulders and Puck's clutched in her hand. She walked over to where Puck and Mr. T were standing, a small bounce in her step.

"I'm so ready to be gone," Mercedes said, grinning. "No offense, June, but I have had enough of this freaking desert."

June smiled understandingly. "You need to get home."

"She's giving us another horse," Puck said.

The grin on Mercedes' face vanished, replaced by shock. "Th-thank you," she stammered.

June nodded, then gestured to the barn. "Come on, we'll get Peach geared up for you."

As Mercedes followed June back to the horse barn, Puck left Mr. T with her reins tied to the corral fence and strode over to June and Carter's house. He crossed the front porch and rapped twice on the door before stepping inside to their 1950s-esque kitchen. Carter was standing at the counter, packing a few supplies into a canvas bag.

"Hey there," Carter greeted him over his shoulder. "You and Mercedes about ready to head off?"

"Almost," Puck replied.

Carter lifted the bag off the counter and handed it over to Puck. "There you go," he said. "There's a few cans of beans and some beef jerky in there for you. It ain't much, but it's something."

Puck set the bag on the little dining table by the window. "Listen, I, uh…" He scratched at the remaining scab on his arm, feeling awkward. "I just wanted to thank you for everything. Gila bite or not, I'm pretty sure Mercedes and I would've died if we hadn't run into you."

Carter nodded, a genuine smile crinkling his eyes. A moment later, the smile faded and Carter's face turned serious. "Puck, I want you to take care of that horse as best you can, alright? He's June's favorite."

Puck frowned. "Then why's she giving him to us?"

Carter's shoulders fell. "You can't seriously think this ranch is going to be able to stay afloat for much longer," he said solemnly. "June and I can take care of the herd for a while on our own, but food's running out quick — for the herd and for us. Eventually, we're going to have to slaughter them. The horses are probably not going to make it either."

Puck's stomach went cold. "What are you going to do?"

Carter shrugged. "We'll likely end up going back to the reservation, if we can make it." He scratched the back of his neck. "June's giving you her favorite horse so that he's got the best chance of living. This desert is a death trap, but you'll make it out. So take care of him."

Puck nodded. "I will. Promise."

"I hope you get home safe," Carter said. "It's a dangerous world out there." He held out his hand, and Puck gripped it in a firm shake.

And for the first time since the blackout, Puck felt as though they had a fighting chance.

Luckily, Rachel's house wasn't far from Kurt's, and so Blaine, Artie, and Caitlin only had roughly a twenty-minute journey before reaching Maplewood Drive. It was a slightly wealthier part of town (only slightly) and the houses lining the street here were a bit nicer than some of the other neighborhoods. Now, several of the houses had been broken into or abandoned, but at the very least there weren't any that had been burned. At least, not yet.

Rachel's house was a few hundred yards back from the main road, and when the three of them approached it, Blaine was relieved to see there was no evidence of anyone breaking in. The curtains had been drawn shut in every window, the door tightly closed. Blaine wasn't sure if any of that meant that someone was still here, but at the very least, they would have a place to stay tonight (provided they could actually get in).

He turned to Artie and Caitlin. "Okay, wait here. I'll go see if anyone's inside."

Artie nodded, and Caitlin anxiously grabbed her brother's hand.

Blaine took a deep breath before striding up the flagstone path to the front door, careful not to make any noise as he stepped onto the stair below the door. He knocked sharply three times.

Silence.

He glanced back at Artie and Caitlin, then reached up to knock again.

This time, a curtain shifted in the window to his left, an eye peering out at him for half a second before vanishing. The curtain drew closed again.

For a moment, Blaine was certain whoever was inside was ignoring him and hoping he'd go away, but then the door flung open.

"Blaine!"

Blaine blinked and nearly fell back off the step in shock. "Carole!"

Carole lurched forward and engulfed him in a fierce hug. "Thank God you're okay," she said, clutching his shoulders. "Thank God."

Relief and something that was probably akin to joy flooded his chest, and Blaine found himself hugging her back as tightly as he could. Suddenly and incredibly, he felt safe.

Chapter Text

Blaine found himself standing in the woods, alone. The branches overhead swayed in the breeze and cast dancing shafts of dappled sunlight across the forest floor. Pine needles crunched underfoot. The tree trunks creaked and moaned. There were no birds singing, no squirrels chattering, no insects buzzing. Save for Blaine, the wood was empty.

Terror gripped him by the chest.

His heart pounded, knocking audibly against his ribs, and he felt his blood pulsing all the way to his fingertips. Dead leaves eddied along the ground, swirling around Blaine's feet.

"Is anybody out there?" Blaine called, his voice ricocheting through the trees. He could barely hear himself over his own heartbeat.

The leaves rustled up above, making the canopy tremble.

"Hello?" he shouted. "Is there anyone out there?" His voice echoed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Blaine tried desperately to slow his pulse, sucking in a deep breath. There wasn't nearly enough oxygen in his lungs. He needed to find a way out of here, wherever here was. The trees were sparse and far apart, but Blaine couldn't see any end to them. The further he looked, the more there were.

The air reeked of decay. Rotting leaves and thick, damp dirt.

Blaine tried to move, and abruptly realized he was stuck. He looked down to see that his feet were buried in the soil, rooted to the earth beneath him.

"Somebody help me!" he screamed. The only response was his own voice rebounding.

Panic shocked through his chest like a lightning bolt, tearing through his heart and his ribs and his veins. He was sinking, the earth sucking him down like quicksand. He screamed again for help, and again was met with nothing but echoes. Desperately pulling at the ground did nothing to release him. The trees swayed above him, seeming to pull away and apart. The forest stretched and grew in every direction. Taller. Farther. It was all out of reach, and Blaine was trapped and alone.

Alone.

He was completely, utterly alone.

Blaine jolted awake, nearly sitting upright. His chest heaved and shuddered and he wiped sweat from his forehead, pushing the bright pink polka-dot blankets away. He sank back into the pile of pillows. Every cell in his body felt like it was on fire, adrenaline making his hands shake and his heartbeat drum in his ears. He stared at the ceiling, desperately trying to slow his breath.

Eventually, he forced himself to actually sit up and climb out of the bed. It was bright and sunny, and even after spending a handful of nights sleeping in Rachel's room, Blaine still couldn't help but feel disoriented. He had spent so many afternoons here with Kurt and Rachel and Mercedes — studying and rehearsing and sometimes just hanging out and watching Netflix — and now, staying here without them felt alien and wrong.

He crossed the carpeted floor and leaned against the window, watching the empty street outside. A couple of cars sat askew on the pavement, stuck where they'd halted at the moment of the blackout and already gaining a thin coating of dust. Like all the other streets in Lima, this one was strewn with dead leaves and bits of trash blown by the wind. A few houses down the road, a dog with a collar but no leash wandered across the lawn, idly sniffing in search of something to eat.

Blaine stepped back from the window, unnerved by the empty quiet outside. The little bulletin board on the wall above Rachel's desk caught his eye, and despite having avoided looking at it too closely for the past several days, Blaine found himself staring at it.

Rachel had made a collage of memories — photos, snippets from the school newsletter, playbills, performance announcements, even a couple of Broadway headlines. The photographs were most prominent, and nearly all of them featured kids from the glee club. A couple were group pictures from the yearbook, but most were snapshots taken outside of school. Artie, Santana, and Quinn making goofy faces over lattes at the Lima Bean, Finn and Puck striking poses in their football gear, Brittany hugging her cat, Rachel and Mercedes and Tina giggling at a table in the mall food court, Kurt and Blaine holding hands outside the local movie theater…

Blaine swallowed, the hollow space in his chest feeling cold. He'd been trying not to think too much about what New York might look like now, or where Kurt was, or even if Kurt was alive, but as the days dragged by it had become increasingly difficult. Staring at Rachel's bulletin board, Blaine felt heavy with the realization that he didn't know where any of them were, save for Finn and Artie – and Finn was buried in the cemetery on the other side of town. Artie was the only person he knew for certain was alive. And that was terrifying.

For all Blaine knew, Kurt and Rachel and the rest of them could have all died the day of the blackout. If they had, he would probably never find out.

Blaine suddenly found himself wishing he still had his phone. He knew it wouldn't work anymore, but there were so many things saved on it that connected him to Kurt — pictures taken with just the two of them, countless texts, Snapchats back and forth, videos… They had documented everything, and even after the blackout had rendered the phone useless, somehow having it with him had always been some sort of comfort. But the phone had gone up in flames along with everything else in Blaine's house, and Blaine felt like his last tether to Kurt was gone.

It was slowly sinking in that the odds of him ever seeing Kurt again were slim at best.

Blaine took a deep breath, blinking back tears, and forced himself to turn away. Fixating on all the what-ifs wouldn't help anything now.

Rather than let himself stand there and think, Blaine headed downstairs. In the living room, he found Carole sitting with Caitlin on the couch, brushing her hair. Since arriving at the Berrys' house three days ago and receiving almost constant attention from Carole, Caitlin had gone from looking like a Dickensian orphan to being relatively well-groomed (or at least as groomed as the circumstances would allow).

"Morning, Blaine," Carole said over her shoulder as he walked by. She was pulling Caitlin's hair into a new, straightened braid. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," Blaine lied. "Where is everyone?"

"Hiram and Leroy took Artie on a supply run," Carole answered.

"Where'd they go?"

"To the Target truck. You guys barely made a dent in it; there's still tons of stuff there."

Blaine scratched at the back of his neck, feeling like he badly needed a shower. His stomach grumbled loudly.

"Burt's making coffee," Carole added.

Blaine blinked at that. "Coffee? Seriously?" He left Carole and Caitlin on the couch and went to the kitchen without waiting for an answer, eager for a luxury he'd all but forgotten in the past several weeks.

Burt stood at the stove, boiling water over one of the burners.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt greeted him. "You want coffee?"

"Hell yes."

"It's just instant, so don't be expecting anything as good as Starbucks," Burt warned.

"It's the first coffee I've had in a month. Trust me, I don't care," Blaine said. "How'd you get the burner working?"

"The gas line isn't electric. It'll work until the gas runs out."

"Is there any food?"

Burt tilted his head to the side in a half shrug as he took the pot of water off the stove. "Not really, 'til the guys get back," he said. "I think there's a couple cans of pears, though."

Blaine opened the cupboard and retrieved the pears, cracking the can open and slurping unceremoniously at the contents. His stomach longed for something more solid, but knowing that there were people coming back from a supply run lessened the pang in his gut. It was strange, suddenly being in a house full of people again. Or maybe it was just strange being in a house full of people that weren't his family.

"How are you doing, Blaine?" Burt asked, handing Blaine a steaming mug.

Blaine shrugged, letting the cup warm his palms. "I'm fine."

Burt sipped at his own coffee, eyeing Blaine pensively. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Um… yeah," Blaine replied awkwardly, feeling scrutinized. "I know. Thanks."

"You've barely spoken since you got here."

Blaine didn't respond to that, unsure of what to say. His fingertips felt cold even against the hot mug in his hand.

Burt leaned against the counter next to Blaine, speaking softly. "Blaine, Artie told me what happened back at your house."

"I don't want to talk about that."

"I know. You don't have to. But closing yourself off isn't going to help anybody, especially you."

Blaine swallowed, refusing to make eye contact and staring at the linoleum instead.

Burt reached over and clapped a solid hand against Blaine's shoulder, squeezing for a moment before letting go. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "I'm so glad you made it out. Having you around here is almost like having Kurt back."

Blaine drew a long breath, his lungs feeling half empty. Maybe it was that he missed Kurt, maybe he missed Cooper, maybe it was sinking in a little too quickly that his parents were dead now too, but whatever the cause, Blaine suddenly felt his eyes spill over. "I miss them," he said, his voice cracking.

It was Burt's turn to be silent. He reached around and wrapped an arm around Blaine's back, holding tight as Blaine finally began to sob in earnest. All the losses in the past month weighed down on Blaine, almost to the point of crushing him entirely. As he cried onto Burt's shoulder, he felt it all — the grief, the terror, the anger — rushing through him hot and burning. But slowly, with Burt there and Carole in the next room, Blaine began to feel a little lighter.

DAY 27

Sweat dripped down Kurt's neck, his knees shaking beneath him as he dragged himself along behind Dani and Santana. There were no clouds to provide shade and the sun beat relentlessly down on his shoulders, making his head spin. He couldn't keep this up much longer.

It had been four days. Four days, and their plan to stay in Easton and thoroughly search the town for supplies had proved barely effective. The box of cereal from the Rite Aid hadn't even lasted a full day, and despite being better rested (not to mention cleaner thanks to Santana's baking soda trick), they were still desperately short on food. They'd managed to find a measly few edible items left behind — two protein bars and a diet Snapple from a gas station, and a bag of pretzels found concealed in an abandoned lunch box behind a deli counter. But it wasn't nearly enough for one person, let alone three.

"What about there?" Dani suggested, pointing to a mom-and-pop grocery store on the corner up ahead.

"I checked it yesterday," Kurt said dejectedly. "It was empty."

Santana released a frustrated growl, stopping to rake her fingers through her stringy hair. "This isn't working," she snapped. "Everything's cleaned out. There's nothing left in town."

"We don't have anywhere else to—" Dani started.

"Yes, we do. There's plenty of houses."

Kurt stared at Santana. "You're not serious."

"In case you haven't noticed, Kurt, we are starving," she spat. "You think we have a choice? If you really want to make it home, then yeah, we're going to have to do some breaking and entering."

For the first time in the past month, Kurt looked at Santana and actually saw her. He saw how drastically she'd changed in such a short while, how scared she was, and he barely recognized her. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken and hollow, her collarbones poking through her sweat-stained t-shirt. Her limbs visibly shook, and her jeans hung loosely on her hips, held up only by her belt. She seemed like she might fall apart at any second.

Kurt swallowed, then nodded. "Okay," he acquiesced. "Okay, we'll search the houses."

"Should we really do this empty-handed, though?" asked Dani uncertainly.

"You think we should be armed?"

Dani scratched nervously at her temple. "I think that if we're going into people's homes, we don't know what or who we're going to find."

Kurt sighed. "That's… a good point," he said, already trying to think of another alternative that didn't involve trespassing on private property. There was only one gun store they had seen in town, and it had been thoroughly raided. He didn't want to find out who had the guns now.

Santana straightened up suddenly. "Wait, I have an idea. There's a hardware store, like three streets over from here. I went in there when I got chased — there's no guns, but there's plenty of other stuff we can use."

Dani nodded eagerly. "Works for me."

Kurt wasn't sure what kind of weapons they might find at a hardware store or how effective they'd be, but he didn't argue and instead fell into step behind Santana as she led the way. At this point, he was willing to entertain any and all possible solutions.

Duncan & Sons Hardware, as the sign above the door proclaimed, was a relatively small shop with dusty windows and a dark interior. The fluorescent lights lining the ceiling sat dead and the shelves of wares were high enough that the sunlight couldn't penetrate very far inside, so the majority of the store remained shadowed. The cash register had been broken open and knocked on the floor next to the front counter, empty of its contents.

"I think I remember seeing a hunting section in the back," said Santana as she walked toward the aisles further away. "Here it is!" she called a moment later.

Kurt and Dani circled around the counter and followed Santana's voice. The very last aisle was so dimly lit that Kurt had to stand there for several seconds to let his eyes adjust, but once they did, Kurt's jaw dropped. The entire shelf that Santana was currently pawing through was fully stocked with hunting knives — blades in so many varieties that Kurt quickly ran out of possible explanations for what they were all for. Some were large and serrated, some small and barbed, some just looked like miniature machetes. All of them would be sufficiently intimidating, Kurt thought, and he suddenly felt very grateful that Santana had thought to check here.

Each of them grabbed two knives, agreeing that it would be best to have more than one. Kurt chose a reasonably sized bowie knife, tucking the sheath into the back of his jeans, and a small folding knife which he hid in his sock. It felt awkward, having two bulky objects jabbing into his ankle and the small of his back, but Kurt did feel safer with them in reach. Santana selected a larger camp knife, attaching it to her belt, while Dani chose a smaller survival knife with a hooked tip. They each took a small folding knife like Kurt's as well, hiding them in similar places.

Once the three of them felt comfortably armed, they headed for the northern edge of town, where the strip malls and shops gave way to neighborhoods and streets less crowded with abandoned cars. Small cul-de-sacs curled away from the wider residential streets, short fences lining the front yards of more than a few houses. Most of the houses were painted in pastels, and it looked like the type of place that would have block parties and neighborhood barbecues — a place that was safe. Gardens had overgrown in the weeks since the blackout, weeds sprouting through the fence slats and sidewalk cracks. Dust had collected on the porches and front steps, windows covered with either drawn curtains or plywood nailed to the inside, the only sign of people still inside.

The first four houses they checked were already picked clean, the owners long gone and the kitchens raided.

At the fifth house, they were greeted by a rifle poking through the window and a man shouting to back off, or he'd blow their brains out. They quickly obeyed.

House number six was hedged in by a now-unkempt row of rose bushes, little garden gnomes peeking out mischievously from the weeds. The three of them walked up the flagstones to the porch, where Dani sighed at the sight of the door hanging on only one hinge.

"That's not a good sign," she remarked.

"Ugh, tacky," Santana said, kicking at the welcome mat that exclaimed WIPE YOUR PAWS AND COME ON IN!

Inside was a riot of paisley and doilies, the smell of stale potpourri lingering in the air. Framed pictures of grandkids lined the mantle (they had to be grandkids — there was no way anybody under the age of seventy lived here), well-used armchairs and an out-of-date TV decorating the living room. A basket of half-finished knitting projects sat beside the coffee table. On the walls hung signs reading various Bible verses, encouraging good deeds and generosity and loving thy neighbor. It was exactly the kind of church-lady style that had always made Kurt vomit. Now, he barely noticed, instead focusing on finding the kitchen.

The kitchen was toward the back of the house, and Santana was already peering into the refrigerator with a scowl.

"Anything?" asked Dani.

Santana shook her head. "Unless you like moldy tapioca and salad dressing. Everything else is gone." She opened a few cupboards, but it was a fruitless exercise. Whatever canned goods the owner of this house might have had were gone, and the dusty shelves were left empty.

Dani only sighed, gazing around the kitchen at the various framed Bible verses on the walls. Give us this day our daily bread …

Kurt studied the front of the refrigerator as Santana slammed her way through the rest of the cupboards. Family photos, grandkids' school pictures, a blue ribbon for the best fruit preserves and jams at the Northampton County Fair, and touristy magnets from a handful of other states were scattered across the freezer door. The display was almost eerie.

"Okay, there's nothing here," Santana said, exasperated. "Let's go."

"We should look upstairs," Dani stopped her. "There might be stuff we can use — blankets and things."

Santana didn't argue, though she looked like she was more than impatient to move on to the next house.

The three of them headed for the stairs with Dani in the lead, Kurt trailing behind. The upstairs hallway smelled primarily of cat urine, but the cat must have gotten out of the house at some point. Santana peered into the first room, which only had a sewing station and a desk with a very old computer collecting dust. The second door down the hall was closed, and when she opened it, Santana let out a startled yell and jerked back.

Kurt didn't have to ask why — immediately, the most awful stench Kurt had ever smelled slammed into his nose, nearly making him vomit onto the carpet. Dani clapped a hand over her mouth and nose, her eyes watering.

"Oh God," Dani said, muffled through her fingers as she flinched away from the door.

Kurt pulled his shirt up over his nose and tried his very best not to breathe as he leaned to look over Dani's shoulder. A bed sat in the middle of the room, and in the bed was the rotting corpse of the old woman. The body had been there so long that it had started to liquefy, soaking into the covers and mattress below, the outline of bones poking through what was left of the skin. Flies buzzed along the walls, almost deafening compared to the previous quiet of the unoccupied house. The bedroom door being closed and the window being open had prevented the smell from reaching the rest of the house, but had made the corpse easily accessible to insects.

"Jesus," Kurt muttered.

Santana threw up in the hallway. "Close the door already!" she grunted, buckled over.

Kurt grabbed the handle and closed the door again, but the smell had already permeated the hallway.

"Now can we go?" Santana snapped, wiping sweat from her forehead as she shakily straightened back up. "Even if we find stuff to use, the smell's going to stick."

Dani nodded eagerly, her face tinted green and her hand still clamped over her nose. They rushed back downstairs towards the front door, eager to run. As they passed through the kitchen, however, Kurt abruptly stopped. Dani nearly crashed into him.

"What are you doing?"

"Hold on," Kurt said, turning to look at the fridge again. Something had just occurred to him.

Santana was having none of his delay. "Kurt! Let's go!"

Kurt ignored her, picking the county fair ribbon off the freezer door. "She won first prize for fruit preserves," he said, holding the ribbon up for the girls to see.

Santana looked like she was about ready to murder Kurt where he stood. "So freaking what?"

"So how much do you want to bet there's a basement?"

Dani blinked, her furrowed brow smoothing in realization.

Santana crossed her arms. "Kurt, we are in a house with a freaking corpse. Let's go."

"We check the basement first," he insisted, already going back to the stairs. "Then we go."

Past the stairwell in the corridor, the old-fashioned cellar door was set into the floral wallpaper, sagging in its frame like it was upset it had been discovered. Kurt turned the knob and yanked — the door gave reluctantly, squeezing uncomfortably out of the ill-fitted jambs. He descended the steps into the basement lit only by sunlight from the small windows at ground level. Dani and Santana tentatively followed him down.

As they reached the cracked cement floor, all three of their jaws fell open.

One entire wall of the cellar was covered by shelves as tall as Kurt, each ledge toting at least twenty fist-sized jars. A practical rainbow of choices glinted in the dim sunlight, succulent reds and purples and oranges. Each jar was labelled with neat cursive announcing the flavors held inside, as well as a printed logo for EDNA MCCREADY'S JAMS AND JELLIES.

"They haven't been touched," Kurt said, noting the thin layer of undisturbed dust. "I can't believe no one's found this yet."

"People don't usually keep food in their basements. I guess nobody thought to check," Dani replied, hushed and awed and still gaping at the edible treasure before them. She finally shook herself out of her shock, shrugging off her backpack and unzipping it. "You're a genius, Kurt."

The three of them filled their packs to bursting with as many jars as they could carry. For a moment, Kurt considered just sitting and eating here in the cellar, but he was just as eager as Santana to get away from the dead body upstairs. They could find someplace outside to rest and eat; a few more minutes wouldn't make a difference. He hefted his clinking pack onto his shoulders, almost tipping over from the sudden weight of it.

"Should we get some more bags?" Dani asked. "Come back for the rest of it?"

Kurt glanced over the shelves. There was still a healthy number of jars left, though they had made a significant dent in it. It would be smart to do as Dani said, to horde as much of this precious resource as possible. But Kurt shook his head.

"No. This is already heavy enough. We'll leave it for someone else to get lucky."

Amazingly, Santana didn't argue, only tightening the straps of her backpack around her armpits. She swayed, adjusting to the bulk. "Let's go," was all she said.

Santana led the way up the stairs and out of the house, eager to find a place to eat elsewhere. As they exited into the sunshine, Kurt's stomach rumbled loudly enough that he was sure it could be heard from several houses away. He stopped at the garden gate, his hand on the fence, and glanced for a moment up at the open bedroom window on the second floor. From out here, he couldn't hear the flies.

"Thank you, Edna McCready," he muttered under his breath.

He shut the gate behind him, hurrying to catch up with Santana and Dani.

DAY 29

Having left the Ring of Fire in their wake several days prior, Mercedes and Puck had fallen once again into their routine of traveling under the cover of night and camping in gas stations during the day. The only changes from before the ranch were that they were now both on horseback, save for when they wanted to stretch their legs, and the stations were a bit more cramped with two horses. Settling down for the day now included taking time to push a shelf or two out of the way to make more floor space, but all in all it wasn't a bad system, especially since the stations were all still chock-full of food and water. They had elected to save the beans and jerky from Carter until they were out of the desert and food would be, ironically, scarcer.

This particular evening was — amazingly — damp. As Mercedes and Puck led the horses out of the station and the copper-red sun dipped below the western horizon, a breeze brought a wave of sudden humidity rushing past them from the east. Mercedes breathed deeply, relishing in the sensation of air that wasn't dry as a bone, as if all the water had been boiled straight out of it, feeling for the first time that they were close to the desert's edge. While she wasn't precisely sure where they were at the present moment, she knew they were in southern Utah. They had exited Nevada within hours of leaving the Ring of Fire, and it had taken them only a few days to cross the northwest corner of Arizona. And now, with water in the air and a hopeful wind blowing, Colorado was near.

The moon sat fat and yellow and marbled against a cloudless lavender sky, and Mercedes looked out at the barren landscape toward the distant eastern mountains barely touched by the last vanishing rays of red sunlight. She wasn't sure if it was real or just a trick of the light, but Mercedes was pretty sure that the mountains looked almost green. The range didn't look tall enough to be the Rockies, but maybe they were closer than they thought.

The downsides to traveling on horseback were numerous, however, and as eager as Mercedes was to get out of the desert, the pain from being seated in a saddle for hours on end made the boredom that much more unbearable. Peach had turned out to be a poorly trained horse (or maybe he just didn't like Mercedes specifically), and she found herself fighting with him several times nightly. Luckily, most of the time Peach simply followed after Mr. T and Mercedes didn't feel the need to try so hard to direct him. Thank goodness for herd instincts.

The painted starry sky hadn't quite lost its splendor, but as each night passed in near silence, Mercedes found that she was filled less with a sense of awe and more with a simple lonely ache. Puck didn't talk much, and neither did she. After all, there was nothing to talk about, really, when they were experiencing everything side by side. It was almost like she was traveling alone, and Mercedes sometimes fell into such a state of monotonous thought that she would occasionally forget that Puck was even there.

And so, when Puck spoke, it made her jump in the saddle and accidentally cause Peach to sidestep irritably.

"So what are you going to name him?"

Mercedes frowned at him. "Huh?"

"Your horse. What are you going to name him?"

"His name is Peach," Mercedes said dryly. Puck knew this already.

Puck shook his head, shifting in Mr. T's saddle. "That was his name at the ranch, but now he's your horse so you get to pick the name."

"Okay, I pick Peach."

Puck gave her an exasperated look. "You can't pick—"

"Puck, I'm not an animal person, all right?" she cut him off. "I'm not planning on keeping this horse any further than I need to. He's not my horse."

"Fine, I'll take him then."

Mercedes snorted. "Sure, cowboy. You have the makings of your very own stable."

Puck ignored the implication that he didn't know what he was doing. Mercedes had no idea what Puck was even thinking, assuming he could take care of one horse long term, let alone two. It wasn't like he'd grown up on a farm, and honestly it was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn't managed to kill Mr. T already. But on the other hand, it occurred to her that perhaps Puck just wanted to have something to plan for. After all, they had no idea what was waiting for them back in Ohio (if they ever made it).

Puck gazed up at the infinite sky, beginning to sing to himself quietly. "Well, I've been through the desert on a horse with no name—"

"Shut the hell up."

DAY 31

The minutes dragged on. Step by step. Santana attempted to count her footsteps, having nothing else to occupy herself, but quickly lost track once the number reached three digits. Clouds drifted across the sun, periodically casting them in shadow. They passed by a handful of scattered houses, all empty and deathly silent. Santana found herself wishing they had some other means of travel besides walking — a carriage, a horse, or hell, even a bicycle. If she didn't starve to death between here and Ohio, she was fairly sure the boredom would kill her just as quickly.

They had stayed camped in Easton for a few more days to regain their strength and see if they could find any more food. They hadn't had much luck, but the jars from the old woman's house had given them enough calories to return to the road. The downside was the sugar content — eating nothing but tart jams and preserves had left Santana's mouth with more than one canker sore, not to mention the headache from the sugar rush every time she ate. But she'd rather deal with a headache than starve, so she tried to ignore it as much as possible. Vitamin deficiency wasn't high on their list of priorities at the moment.

At last, the road diverged into two up ahead, and a tall green sign clearly announced that Bethlehem was only a mile away.

Santana sighed in relief — after walking from Manhattan, a mile seemed like barely a blip. And according to the map, Allentown wasn't much more than a few miles past Bethlehem. Maybe they'd be able to bed down early today. She glanced up at the sky — it was no longer midday but sunset was still a long way off. They had time.

They passed by the sign, taking the left fork of the road onward. Santana again tried to count her footsteps, and again quickly lost track.

The houses scattered along the road eventually grew more frequent, and they walked by several smaller roads branching off into residential streets and cul-de-sacs. It seemed a nice enough area, and didn't appear any different from the neighborhoods along Easton's outer edge.

Kurt abruptly halted in front of her, and Santana nearly bumped into him.

"What's up?" Dani asked.

Kurt wordlessly jerked his chin in the same direction he was looking, and Santana and Dani followed his gaze.

About two hundred yards ahead, a man was walking towards them.

Santana frowned in confusion. They'd passed plenty of people on the road since New York, and this particular stranger didn't seem any more threatening than the average wanderer.

"He's got a gun," Kurt said under his breath.

Santana's heart skipped, and she squinted at the stranger, who was still walking in their direction. Kurt was right. There was a large rifle hanging by his side from a strap on his shoulder.

"He's already seen us," Dani said. "We should just keep walking and hope he leaves us alone."

Kurt nodded in agreement, and immediately continued forward at a controlled, intentionally moderate pace. He sidestepped slightly to move toward the edge of the road, giving the stranger a wide berth. Santana and Dani quickly followed suit, staying a little bit closer to each other than before.

The distance between them and the stranger grew smaller, and Santana's heart worked its way into her throat. She knew the man had seen them already, and even though he hadn't lifted his gun or given any other indication that he would hurt them, she knew he could. She held her breath and kept close to Kurt and Dani and hoped the stranger wouldn't try anything.

Instead, the man called out to them as soon as they were only a few yards away.

"Hi there," he greeted them.

Kurt, Dani, and Santana stopped in their tracks.

"Where are you folks coming from?"

Kurt hesitated. Santana saw his hand reach behind him to grip the handle of his knife, but he didn't draw it out yet.

"It's fine," the man said conversationally. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's just been a while since I've seen anyone. Where you from?"

"New York," Kurt replied tightly.

The man whistled lowly, and the hairs on Santana's arms stood on end. Something wasn't quite right, but she couldn't put her finger on why the alarm bells in her head were ringing so loudly. The man was tall, thin and narrow-faced. Fairly young, although he looked a bit older than they were. A worn baseball cap covered the top of his head. The gun hanging by his side wasn't any old hunting rifle — it looked like the sort of gun police officers carried when expecting a riot.

"Where are you headed?"

Kurt apparently had the same suspicions as Santana, as the next thing he said was an outright lie. "Montana."

"That's pretty far."

"And you?" Kurt asked, his voice tense. His knuckles were white around the knife handle.

The stranger avoided the question, only worsening the apprehension in Santana's gut. She was glad Kurt had lied — she didn't want this person knowing anything about them.

"What's your name?" the man inquired instead.

Santana abruptly realized what was wrong with this picture: the man was carrying nothing apart from the gun. No packs of food, no bedding or blankets stuffed into a sack, not even extra clothing. And stranger still, the man was clean. Every person they had seen since the blackout had been unwashed and unkempt, but his clothes looked recently laundered, his skin clear of dirt smudges, and his hair wasn't heavy and dark with oil.

Kurt's jaw twitched. "Look, why don't we just keep going the way we're going, and you keep going the way you're going, and we leave it at that?"

The man's mouth tightened for a second, and he almost looked… sad. "I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded like the first honest thing that had come out of his mouth. "I can't do that."

In one fluid motion, he swung the gun from his side up to aim directly at them, and Dani yelped, seizing Santana's arm. In the same instant, Kurt yanked the knife out of his belt. Santana's heart was galloping in her chest, and she could feel her pulse all the way to her fingertips. For a split second, Santana reached for her own knife, but stopped as she realized it would do no good against an assault rifle.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught Santana's attention, and she turned to see another man emerging from behind a house to their right. He carried an identical gun. Santana turned again — there was a third man coming out of the woods to their left and a woman closing in from the road behind them. All were equally armed, rifles aimed and ready to fire.

She couldn't breathe, her heart pounding in her eardrums. This was an ambush.

Chapter Text

Kurt had lost track of how long they’d been walking hours ago.  At least, he thought it was hours. With his hands tied at the wrist behind his back and a cloth bag pulled down over his head, he hadn’t the slightest clue where he was or how far they’d gone or how long it had been.  The strong pair of hands gripping him by the upper arms was the only thing keeping him on course, and the sole indication that he hadn’t been led somewhere far away from the girls was the occasional sound of Santana waspishly swearing at their captors as she was dragged along behind Kurt.  While he could see light through the mesh of the fabric over his eyes, he couldn’t make out any details.

The zip tie cut into the skin on his wrists, and Kurt did his best to tune it out.  He didn’t have any idea what these people wanted from them, why they hadn’t just taken their supplies and weapons and moved on, but it couldn’t be good.  His heart thudded away in his chest, knocking against his ribs and urging him to make a run for it. He couldn’t, though. If he tried, they would probably shoot him.  Even if they didn’t, he couldn’t leave Santana and Dani behind. So he remained quiet, resigning to wait for a better opportunity.

He wished they hadn’t found the knife tucked into his sock.  He’d had the knife less than a week but already he felt naked without it.

Being so alert but unable to see made Kurt’s hearing go into hyperdrive.  Mostly what he heard was the heavy, rattly breathing of the man gripping Kurt’s biceps, the calling of birds in the trees as they followed the road, and the bag over his head scratching against his cheeks.  So when he began to hear different sounds in the distance — voices, mainly — the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Open up!” said the man holding him, making Kurt jump.

The next sound was the undulating grating of metal — a chain link gate being dragged across pavement.

“Fresh meat?” asked a man somewhere to his left.

“We’ll see,” replied Kurt’s captor, giving Kurt a strong push.

Without warning, the bag was ripped from Kurt’s head, and he squinted in the suddenly blinding sunlight.  He barely had time for his eyes to adjust before the zip tie around his wrists was cut and his arms freed; he rubbed the skin where it had been chafed raw.  Glancing behind him, he saw that Santana and Dani were similarly released. They were far from free, however, as the chain link gate swung shut behind them and was quickly locked by an armed guard.

Kurt took in his surroundings with a mix of fear and awe coiled in the pit of his stomach.  They were in what appeared to be a town square, with one side cordoned off by a recently-erected fence topped with barbed wire.  The fence extended past what Kurt could see, but had cut this part of town off from the outer neighborhoods. Cars that had died in the blackout had been pushed against the fence as a supplementary barricade.  Water stations — barrels and troughs — had been set up in various spots around the square, and the green spaces had been tilled into gardens, although it had clearly been recently enough that not much was growing yet.  The pavement and sidewalks had been cleared of the brush and trash that had become so commonplace in the past month.

There was a shocking number of people — shocking only because they had seen so few people at a time since the blackout.  In his immediate field of vision, Kurt could see at least three dozen men, women, and children (but mostly men). All of them were in the middle of carrying out various tasks: tending to the gardens, hand-washing loads of laundry in barrels, cooking at open-fire grills, or patrolling the fences with guns.  These people weren’t starving or sick, and though most of them were watching Kurt, Santana, and Dani suspiciously, they didn’t appear afraid. Ultimately, it seemed organized.

Kurt was given a shove by the man who’d dragged him through the gate — the oldest of the group that had ambushed them.  He was in his late forties, his face covered in scruff and his eyes devoid of sympathy. “Go on, move,” he snapped.

Kurt exchanged a glance with Santana, hoping she wouldn’t try to fight back until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, then began to walk in the direction his captor had pushed him.  Dani and Santana were urged along as well, guarded by the narrow-faced man in the baseball cap who’d first approached them and a short-haired Asian woman in her thirties. The third man, a Latino in his late twenties, walked alongside them, keeping his rifle at the ready.

They were led past the square by a block, to a two-story brick building with a sign on its front reading NAZARETH POLICE DEPARTMENT.  At this, Kurt was more than anything surprised.  There had been no semblance of police presence since they’d left New York.  He was pushed through the front door into a reception area which was entirely lacking in staff and lit only by the sunlight streaming in through the windows.  Empty desks sat unused, computers and keyboards collecting dust, the linoleum floor tracked with worn muddy shoeprints.

“Move,” said the oldest man again, jabbing Kurt’s shoulder with his fist.

Kurt clenched his teeth, wanting nothing more than to punch the man in the groin, and did as he was told.

They were herded toward the back of the building to an office door with a frosted glass window that read CHIEF OF POLICE.  Kurt’s captor rapped quickly on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer, pushing Kurt ahead of him into the office.  The office, like the reception area, was lit only by the sunlight coming through the windows. A large desk occupied a good portion of the room, and behind it sat a bearded man scribbling notes onto a legal pad.  His computer sat pushed off to the side where it wouldn’t be in the way, and he was not wearing any kind of uniform. Instead, he was dressed in flannel and jeans, like an average farm worker.

“What do you got for me, Ennis?” he asked without looking up, continuing to write.

“Picked up these three on the road outside of Easton,” said the man holding Kurt’s arm.

The bearded man put down his pen, tore off a couple pages of notes, and handed them to the Latino.  “Javi, take these over to Bruce, tell him that we need to double our garden spaces if we want to produce anywhere near what we need by the end of the summer,” he ordered.  “Tell him to just find whatever he can.”

Javi nodded and swiftly left the room, shutting the office door behind him.

“Ennis, stop manhandling the kid, would you?”

Ennis immediately lifted his hand away from Kurt’s arm and stood back.  The bearded man stood and came around the end of the desk to stand closer to Kurt, Dani, and Santana.  He was much taller than Kurt, with his beard trimmed and his hair and clothes reasonably clean (if a bit wrinkled).  His eyes and hair were dark, and his face had the slightest hint of a tan, with a deep-set frown line between his eyebrows.  He didn’t look like he smiled much.

“My name is Nick,” he said.  “You want some water?”

Kurt swallowed, his mouth dry.  “I’m fine.”

“Where did you walk from?  Anywhere nearby?”

Kurt could feel Dani and Santana on either side of him, heat coming off their skin in waves.  They were just as afraid as he was. He could almost hear their hearts pounding. The Asian woman and the man in the baseball hat had both stepped back, giving them space but blocking the path to the door.

“New York,” Kurt answered.  He kept his gaze as level as he could, refusing to let on how much he wanted to run.

Nick only probed further.  “Anyone else with you?”

Kurt shook his head.  “No.”

“Mack?”

The man in the baseball cap, who had been carrying their packs from the gate, presented them to Nick without a word.  Nick took the packs and set them on the desk, unzipping them and examining the contents.

“This all you’ve been eating?  Fruit preserves?” he asked, holding up a jar of Edna McCready’s blueberry jam.  He didn’t seem like he expected an answer, so Kurt remained quiet, watching as their clothes, blankets, and knives were all methodically removed and neatly placed on the desk like they were being inventoried.

“Okay, well,” Nick said once he was finished, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms.  “Welcome to Nazareth.”

“What are we doing here?” Santana demanded, her voice shaking.

Nick thankfully didn’t seem annoyed that Santana had spoken out of turn.  He quietly studied the three of them, as though he were estimating how much trouble they were likely to cause.  “We’re offering you a rare opportunity,” he said after a moment. “You can stay here if you like. Nazareth has a lot to offer.”

Kurt’s eyebrows snapped together at that, alarm bells ringing in the back of his head.  Nick’s choice of words sounded as though he were just pitching an idea, but his tone suggested that there wasn’t another option.  Kurt felt as though he was backed into a very, very tight corner.

“What are you talking about?” Santana asked, more than a little unnerved.

“You saw on your way in that we’ve got crops started, we have a steady supply of clean water, not to mention walls and guards for protection.  The crops are small now, but we’re expanding. And I know the walls are just fences at the moment, but we’ll be building those up too. We have systems in place — systems that will guarantee survival.”

Santana stared at him, incredulous.  “Okay, but we can’t stay here,” she said, as though she couldn’t believe she had to explain this.  “We don’t know you. We have to go home. So let us go.”

Nick returned her stare evenly, evaluating her.  “Here in Nazareth, we have a very simple philosophy,” he said.  “You can be part of this community — you work, you contribute, and you receive all the protection and supplies you need.  Or, you can be competition. If you’re competition, then you’re taking potential resources away from our community, and you become a threat.  And if you’re a threat, then…” Nick tilted his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

Kurt’s blood ran cold, and he suddenly wondered if he’d ever see his dad again.

“So what, it’s join or die?” Santana exclaimed.  “That’s barbaric! You’re insane!”

If Nick was insulted, he didn’t let on.  “The world is barbaric,” he said, like it was some kind of justification.  “It’s survival of the fittest now. I’d rather be a little barbaric than dead.”

“But you don’t know that the power’s not coming back,” insisted Dani desperately.

“I do know that, actually,” replied Nick.  “At least, not for a very long time. What happened, whatever it was, it’s the kind of thing that takes years — maybe even decades — to come back from.  We have bigger things to worry about now than charging our iPhones.”

“You seriously think we’d want to join your little apocalypse posse?” Santana seethed.

Nick’s mouth twitched.  “You clearly haven’t thought about this much.”

Santana glared at him, angry and scared but unsure of how to respond.

“Has it even occurred to any of you what you’ll do in the long term?”

All three of them stared at Nick blankly, at a loss.

“You all are just trying to get home, right?  What about once you get there? What then?” Nick asked, straightening back up to his full impressive height.  He towered over Kurt as he spoke. “Let’s say you make it home and by some miracle all your families are still alive and well and surviving just like you are.  What do you do at that point? Do you have a way to make it long-term? Because the long-term is important. It’s more important than the short-term.”

“That’s debatable,” muttered Santana through her teeth.

Nick leaned down slightly, speaking directly to Santana now.  “What are you going to do this winter? After everything you can steal has been used up?”

Santana clenched her jaw, her fists curled at her sides.

“Millions of people died in the blackout, but millions more are dying now,” Nick continued.  “People are starving. They’re getting sick. They’re going to freeze to death when winter hits.  They’ll get hurt and not have a doctor to help them, or they’re going to be killed by someone else.  The only way to weather all of that is to have a group of people to defend and support each other. A division of labor.  There are people with necessary skills here, and the ones that have none are learning from the ones that do. That’s the way society works — has always worked.”  Nick paused for a breath, carding his fingers through his beard for a moment.  “People unite in order to withstand hardship. Work together, or you die alone.”

Kurt had a feeling that Nick liked to hear himself talk.

“Look,” Nick started again.  “We’re not unreasonable. We know you’re not idiots, and that you wouldn’t accept a deal without knowing what you were getting.  That’s why we took your hoods off at the gates — so you can see what we’re building here. And you can have some time to think about it if you need to.”

Kurt finally interjected again, wanting to keep Santana from saying something rash.  “Yeah, if we could have some time to think about it, that’d be good,” he said. He thought bitterly that he sounded like he was asking a waiter for another minute to look over a menu.

Nick nodded agreeably.  “One piece of advice, though,” he replied sagely.  “In this... let's call it the new world order, you either have to be strong, or be smart.  Better yet, be both.”

“That’s very philosophical of you,” Santana sneered.

Nick looked at her pointedly, glancing down over her skinny frame.  “Be smart.”

Santana closed her mouth.

Nick turned his attention to his cronies.  “We’re finished here. You can take them.”

Before Kurt could react, Ennis seized his arm again, dragging him back towards the door.  Dani and Santana were pushed along with him by Mack and the Asian woman.

“Wait, where are—?” Dani tried to ask, but the door swung shut before she could finish her question.

“Ow!” Santana snarled as the Asian woman stepped on her foot.

“If you just walk, we won’t have a problem,” snapped the woman.

“Ease up, Julie,” Mack said with a roll of his eyes, gripping Dani’s arm.  “You don’t have to be such a dick.”

Julie only sent him an icy glare as a retort.

For a second, Kurt saw the front door of the building, with its sunlight spilling through the windows, and thought that they were about to be led back out into the fresh air where they might have a slight chance of escape.  Instead, they were guided down a long, dim corridor that extended past Nick’s office to a room that was only slightly better lit.

Kurt’s heart dropped into his stomach.  The only things in this room were jail cells.

“Oh, hell no!” Santana argued loudly, already struggling to get away from Julie’s vicelike grip.  But, having lost an unhealthy amount muscle in the past month, she wasn’t strong enough to break Julie’s hold.

Dani didn’t fight and she didn’t beg, but she did look as though she might cry.

All Kurt could think about was not doing anything that would get them killed sooner.

Santana and Dani were shoved into one cell, Ennis locking the door after them, while Kurt was shut into the opposite one.  He wasn’t the cell’s only occupant — there was another man sitting on the cot. Kurt’s cellmate didn’t immediately acknowledge him; instead, he lurched to his feet and lunged at Ennis.  Kurt quickly jumped out of the way, his back slamming into the bars.

“Please!  Please let me go!  You have to let me go!”

Julie cocked her gun, ready to shoot, but Ennis didn’t need any help.  He scowled and easily knocked the man back into the cell, telling him to shut up.  “If you’d just make your decision, this whole ordeal would be over already, you moron.  You know your options.”

Kurt’s cellmate’s eyes were wide and panicked — almost delirious, really.  “Let me go! ” he cried again, and promptly fainted.  His body hit the concrete floor with a deflated thud.

Ennis rolled his eyes.  “Mack, check that he’s not dead, would you?”

Mack entered the cell, kneeling down while Ennis kept his eye on Kurt to make sure he wasn’t about to be attacked again.  Santana and Dani watched the whole ordeal through the bars of the opposite cell. Mack felt the side of the unconscious man’s neck in silence for a moment.

“He’s alive,” he said.

Ennis nodded, neither relieved nor disappointed.  “Alright, leave him there.”

Mack hesitated.  “I’m going to get him some water at least.”

Ennis’ upper lip curled.  “What did I just say?”

“Seriously?” Mack said, annoyed.

Ennis only raised his eyebrows, challenging Mack to argue further.

“Fine,” Mack huffed.  “But I’m not going to leave him on the floor.”  He hooked his arms under the unconscious man’s shoulders.  “You,” Mack said to Kurt, “help me get him onto the cot.”

Kurt didn’t protest, helping Mack heft the prisoner onto the small platform bolted to the wall.  The unconscious man’s head lolled to the side — there was no pillow and it looked uncomfortable at best, but at least it wasn’t the floor.

Mack stood, exchanging a quick (possibly sympathetic) glance with Kurt before brushing past Ennis and stepping out of the cell.  Ennis swung the door shut and locked it, pocketing the keys.

“How long are we supposed to stay in here?” asked Dani.

“I wouldn’t take too long to decide,” was all Ennis said before walking back into the corridor.  Mack and Julie followed without so much as a word.

It was quiet, apart from the breathing of Kurt’s sleeping cellmate.

Santana kicked the bars in frustration.  “Well, they didn’t wait very long before going all Lord of the Flies.”

Dani sank onto the cot in their cell.  “How the hell are we going to get out of here?”

Kurt sat on the floor, his back against the only solid wall.  There was a toilet and a sink in each of their cells, but without plumbing they’d instead been given buckets to relieve themselves in.  Kurt knew that’s what the buckets were for; he could smell them. There was a camera in the corner of the cell’s ceiling, and even though Kurt knew it wasn’t working at the moment, he still felt as though he was still being watched closely.

“I say the next time they come back, we grab one of their guns and start shooting,” Santana growled, already pacing back and forth like a tiger at the zoo.

Kurt knew that wouldn’t work, but he didn’t offer an alternative.  He didn’t have one. A blitz attack would never end in their favor, but rather than debate it he resolved to let Santana pace until she was calm enough to think clearly.

They needed a plan.

Before they knew it, night fell.  The cells, which were already poorly lit, plunged into near total darkness.  The only windows in the room were small and close to the ceiling, allowing only the slightest shadow of moonlight inside.  It was quiet and cold, and while Santana and Dani squeezed together on their single shared cot, Kurt lay on the concrete floor, his arm folded under his head.  His anonymous cellmate was still passed out on the cot, now snoring slightly. Kurt didn’t know for sure if they were alone in the building or if there might have been an armed guard standing outside, but he couldn’t hear any signs of movement.  He had a feeling that their captors trusted the cell bars and manual, non-electric locks to keep them contained.

“Kurt?” came a whisper from the other cell.  “Are you still awake?”

Kurt rolled onto his back, his hips and shoulders aching.  “Yeah.”

“Do you think they’re going to kill us?” asked Dani.

“I don’t know,” Kurt said with a sigh.  He didn’t know why Dani would think he had a clear answer to that question.  These people didn’t seem like they wanted to hurt them exactly, but Kurt didn’t think they’d have any qualms about it either.

“They’re crazy, right?” Dani pressed, her voice wavering in the dark as she sought reassurance.  “I mean… they can’t really expect us to stay here. Can they?”

Kurt felt a lump work its way into his throat from his stomach, a ripple of fear prickling at the corners of his skull.  Pressure built in his chest, and he had to strain to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “I don’t know,” he reiterated. He had no solutions.  No ideas, no clue how to make it out of here unscathed.

Thankfully, Dani didn’t ask any more questions.  A little while later, Kurt thought he heard her crying.

Lulled by the quiet, Kurt had nearly fallen asleep when there was a sound from the cot.  Kurt’s cellmate groaned under his breath as he sat up, his neck cracking. Kurt propped himself up on his elbows to see a bit better, and could barely make out the man’s shadow as he sat on the edge of the cot with his head in his hands.

“Are you okay?” Kurt whispered.

The man’s head jerked up.  “Who’s there?” he hissed.

“My name is Kurt.”

“When did they put you in here?”

“Earlier today.”

“...I don’t remember.”

Kurt pushed himself up to sit cross-legged, his back aching.  “You were pretty out of it.”

“Tomorrow’s my last day.”

Kurt frowned.  “What do you mean?”

The man didn’t answer, and Kurt could hear him picking at his fingernails.

“What’s your name?” asked Kurt instead.

For a long, silent moment, Kurt thought his cellmate was refusing to answer or perhaps had fallen asleep sitting up.  But finally the man said, “My name is Caleb.”

“Caleb, when’s the last time you ate something?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Are they going to feed us while we’re in here?”

“No.  Yes. Sort of.”  Caleb shook his head like he was clearing cobwebs from his ears.

Kurt had no idea what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.  He didn’t think Caleb could provide clarification even if he did ask.

“How long have you been in here?”

Caleb let out a slow breath.  “Five days,” he said. “I think.  Maybe longer. They already killed my brother.”

The hairs on the back of Kurt’s neck immediately stood on end.  It was seeming less and less likely by the minute that they’d ever get out of here.  There was no chance they would just be let go. Kurt felt like his lungs were full of concrete, the blood draining from his head and pounding into his fingertips.  For the first time since leaving New York, home felt unreachable.

The next day, Kurt was startled awake by an earsplitting BANG BANG BANG!  He bolted upright from the floor, his stiff neck and back screaming in protest.  Ennis was standing outside the cell walls holding a baseball bat. He rapped the bars with the bat again, gruffly barking “Rise and shine, kids!”

Kurt’s stomach twisted in his gut.  The baseball bat was flecked with dried blood.

“You,” Ennis said, pointing to Kurt with the speckled end of the bat.  “Back against the wall.”

Kurt did as instructed, pressing his spine to the wall as Ennis unlocked the door.  Santana and Dani watched closely from the opposite cell — Dani sitting on the cot with her knees pulled to her chest and Santana standing, her hands white-knuckled around the bars.  Caleb was already sitting up on his cot, his shoulders slouched. He looked exhausted.

“Feel like joining the rest of the class?” Ennis asked, looming over Caleb.  “Last chance.” He tapped the tip of the bat on the floor at Caleb’s feet.

“Fuck you,” Caleb said tiredly.

Ennis nodded.  “I’ll take that as a no, then.”  He seized Caleb’s arm and dragged him to his feet.

For a brief moment, the thought occurred to Kurt that he should help Caleb, attack and somehow fight Ennis off, but fear was draped over his shoulders and he remained back against the wall with his feet rooted in place.

“What are you doing?!” demanded Santana as Ennis locked Kurt’s cell again.

“You’ve got some thinking to do, sweetheart, so I’d shut up and get to it if I were you,” Ennis said levelly without even bothering to look over his shoulder at her.  He was already pulling Caleb towards the door.

Caleb cast one last look at Kurt, then disappeared down the corridor.

Half an hour later, Ennis returned.  Caleb wasn’t with him, and this time the bat was decorated with a fresh layer of blood.  Kurt wanted to vomit, his palms sweating as he sat on the cot.

“You’ve got two days,” said Ennis, resting the bat idly on his shoulder.

“Before you kill us?” spat Santana.

“No.  Just one of you.”

Two days passed in an alternating cycle of boredom and terror.  Kurt felt time passing too slowly and too quickly all at once. By the second morning all three of them were pacing in circles, but having been given nothing to eat, they couldn’t move around for very long before they’d exhausted themselves and had to sit.  They slept at odd times, only a few hours here and a few hours there. There wasn’t anything to talk about, and they found the days entirely lacking in conversation.

While Kurt desperately tried to think of an escape plan, his mind kept circling back to Ennis’ threat and attempting to determine who was most likely to be chosen.  This was partly for fear that he himself would be selected, and partly so he could try to prepare. Although what exactly he would do when the time came was a mystery.  He hated to even think it, but he predicted that Santana would be the first.  She was volatile and rude (not that she didn’t have reason to be) and Kurt knew there was absolutely no chance she’d ever agree to Nick’s so-called offer.

The morning of the second day was torture for all three of them.  Being too exhausted to move and too wired to sit still made them all feel like they were stuck in limbo.  Personally, Dani was convinced that if Hell truly existed, it consisted solely of boredom. The morning dragged on, any sound from outside (people talking, laughing, or the occasional nail being hammered in the distance) making them jump.  Ennis hadn’t specified when he was going to come back, and so they were left to speculate and sweat.

Dani fidgeted, as though she was only seconds away from gnawing on the cell bars with her teeth.  Ever since Ennis had promised to kill one of them, a sole terrible thought had been whirling around in her head, but she’d been too afraid to say it aloud.  Until now. She was out of time.

“Hey, guys?” she started.  Her voice squeaked in her throat.  Her hands shook.

Santana stopped pacing, raising her eyebrows at Dani expectantly.  Kurt looked up from chewing the skin from his cuticles.

Dani took a deep breath, steadying her nerves.  “When he comes back, I want you to let him take me.”

Kurt stared at her from where he sat on his cot.

“What the hell are you talking about?!” spat Santana.

Dani blinked back tears.  “Think about it.”

“Shut up .”  Santana turned away in an attempt to dismiss her, but Dani pressed forward.

“Santana, you have your brothers and your mom to go home to,” Dani insisted.  “Kurt, you have your dad and stepmom. I don’t have a family anymore — not one that wants me back, anyways.”

Santana shook her head, crossing her arms and refusing to look Dani in the eye.

“It’s okay.  I was just along for the ride,” Dani said softly.

At that, Kurt looked guiltily at his feet, pulling at his hair.  “Dani, you know I didn’t mean that when I said it.”

“Santana, think of your grandmother,” Dani pleaded.

“My abuelita is already dead!” Santana cried, her fists dropping to her sides.  She met Dani’s gaze with fury and hurt, tears leaving tracks down her face. “She had a pacemaker!  She died the second the blackout hit!”

Dani blinked.  Santana hadn’t said anything about her grandmother since before the blackout, not even that she missed her.  “Santana, I… I didn’t know.”

“You can’t ask me to just let you sacrifice yourself,” Santana said, her fingernails cutting into her palms.  “I can’t lose you too.”

“And what happens to the rest of your family if you die here?” Dani asked solemnly.  “Of the three of us, me dying is the smallest loss. Other than the two of you, nobody cares.”

Dani hated all of this, but it didn’t make it any less true.  It was just math. She looked past Santana to meet Kurt’s gaze; he seemed in pain but she could tell he knew she was right.

“It’s going to be okay,” was the only thing Dani could think of to say.

“No, it’s not,” Santana seethed.  “Don’t lie to me.”

Outside, the sunlight shifted from late morning to mid-afternoon, and the beam of light coming in through the tiny window swung across the floor.  Adrenaline continuously pumped through Dani’s veins with nowhere to go as she tried to prepare for what was coming, making her entire frame vibrate.  There was no preparing for this, though. Not really.

By the time Ennis came in with the baseball bat, Dani was actually relieved.

“Alright,” said Ennis cheerfully, swinging the bat idly at his side.  He looked at Santana and Dani. “How you ladies doing today?”

“You’re still insane,” snarled Santana, edging close to the bars like she was daring him to unlock the door.  To further make her point, she spat at his feet.

“Well, that’s definitely a shame for one of you.”  Ennis shrugged, but he didn’t look all that disappointed.

Dani swallowed and stepped forward before she could change her mind.  “Me,” she said with as much strength as she could muster. “You can take me.”

Ennis stared at her for a moment, his cold eyes calculating, and then he broke into a chuckle.  “Oh, that’s funny. You think you get to choose?”

Dani froze at that, her blood roaring in her ears.  Even Santana went pale.

Ennis shook his head.  “No, you stay where you are, sweetheart,” he said to Dani.  “I’m taking this one.”

A breath whooshed from Santana’s body, and Dani’s hands covered her mouth.

With the blood-flecked tip of the bat, Ennis was pointing at Kurt.

Chapter Text

Kurt stood slowly as Ennis unlocked his cell. Santana wasn't certain, but she thought she saw his knees shaking. She was sure that Ennis would only kill Kurt faster if she protested, and so even though she could feel a scream bubbling up from her chest, she didn't make a sound.

"Oh my God," Dani whispered beside her, barely audible.

Every bit of Santana's skin was freezing cold. For a second, she thought Ennis might abruptly bludgeon Kurt to death then and there, without bothering to take him out of the room. But, just as he'd done with Caleb, Ennis grabbed Kurt by the arm and dragged him from the cell.

"No!" Santana couldn't stop herself from shouting, beating a fist against the bars.

"Wait!" Kurt cried, his shoes skidding on the concrete. His free arm flailed, grabbing at nothing. "Wait, wait— WAIT!"

Ennis halted, his grip on Kurt's bicep tightening enough to bruise. "What's it going to be, kid? You've got three seconds."

Kurt swallowed, his jaw twitching.

Ennis flipped the bat in his hand, raising it to bring it down on Kurt's skull. "Tick tock."

Kurt's hands went up, palms bared. "Okay!" he said quickly. "Okay." He let out a shuddering breath, and even from where she stood Santana could see all the hairs on Kurt's arms standing on end.

"Was that a yes?" asked Ennis, keeping the bat dangerously high.

"Yes. I'll join."

Santana's heart skipped, and she hated that Kurt's back was to her and she couldn't see his face. Ennis looked at the girls over Kurt's shoulder.

"What about your friends?" he asked, the bat lowering.

"They're not my friends."

Santana's heart dove into her belly, cold blooming inside her chest as her blood pumped hot and burning into her hands and feet.

At that, Ennis looked genuinely surprised. "They're not?"

Kurt shook his head. "Of course not," he said, a little too smoothly. "I ran into them the day before you picked us up. We were both going the same way and we figured we'd stick together. Safety in numbers, right?"

Santana and Dani exchanged a terrified look. WHAT IS HE DOING?! The sudden thought that Kurt might actually abandon them in the interest of his own survival slammed into Santana like a truck, and her legs almost buckled beneath her.

Ennis didn't look like he fully believed Kurt's story. He may have been a brute, but Ennis was not an idiot. "I doubt that," he said.

Kurt huffed, then twisted in Ennis' grip to address the girls. "What's my name?"

Santana blinked, betrayal and hurt now mixing with confusion. "What?"

Kurt's eyes were grim, voice cold and unemotional. "You heard me," he said. "What's my name?"

"K-Kurt," answered Dani.

Kurt turned back to Ennis. "See? My name is Kyle."

Santana's breath caught in her chest like she was underwater. What the hell was Kurt playing at? What was he thinking?

Unlike Santana, Ennis seemed to finally buy Kurt's act. He let go of Kurt's arm, the baseball bat practically forgotten at his side. "Come with me," he said, heading for the corridor. Kurt fell into step behind him without so much as a glance to Dani or Santana.

Rage burst up from Santana's gut and she furiously slammed her hands against the bars. "HEY!" she shouted. "You can't just leave us here!"

Kurt stopped on his heel. He met Santana's gaze with a blank expression. "Yes, I can," was all he said before he followed Ennis down the hall and out of sight.

Kurt could barely hear his own footsteps over the roar of blood in his ears as he walked behind Ennis to the front entrance of the police station, his mind reeling. He didn't really know where anything he'd just said to Ennis had come from, except that all he could think about was not dying. He'd have to come back for the girls later, but at least this would buy them some time. They wouldn't have a chance of escape without getting an idea of the town's layout, and they couldn't do that from inside the cells. Kurt felt guilty for leaving Santana and Dani behind but it was better that Nick and Ennis believed they weren't together. After all, three people were more of a threat than one, and Kurt suspected that even though he was out of the cell, Nick wasn't about to let him roam around Nazareth completely unsupervised.

Ennis pushed through the station doors and into the blinding sunlight. The day was hot and dry, and within seconds Kurt was sweating. Fat clouds rolled across a brilliant blue sky and a light breeze ruffled Kurt's air. It was the first fresh air Kurt had gotten in three days, and he couldn't help but breathe deep.

"Come on," Ennis beckoned, leading Kurt away from the town square and down a street lined with former storefronts and the occasional cafe. As they walked, Kurt observed that most of the stores had been cleared of merchandise — he could see empty shelves and racks through the windows and in some cases even the furniture had been taken. It was clear there had been no looting. Doors and windows were left intact, the interiors methodically and calmly picked clean.

"Why are the stores empty?"

"Everything's a resource," said Ennis. "If it's useful, it's inventoried and rationed. If we can't use it, we usually burn it. Easier than collecting firewood."

While the stores were empty, the streets were not, and they were frequently passed by people who greeted Ennis by name. Kurt noticed that, just as when he and the girls had first been brought through the gates, the majority of Nazareth residents were men. Stranger still, many of them were carrying lidded buckets, like the kind builders would store plaster in.

"What's in the buckets?"

"Water," Ennis answered. "There's a small river about a mile east. We're working on an irrigation plan, but for now we have to carry it here. We collect rainwater too, but it's not enough for everyone."

Kurt hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Nazareth was the only place he'd seen since the blackout that didn't seem already dead or dying. Still, something nagged at him — why were there so few women?

Ennis led him around another corner to a huge white-steepled brick church in front of a park. The park's grass had almost entirely been ripped up and the ground turned back to soil. A dozen people (only three of whom were women) tilled the dirt with rakes and hoes. By the time Ennis and Kurt reached the church steps, a wave of lightheadedness swept over Kurt and tiny black pinpricks danced across his eyes. It was an abrupt reminder that he hadn't eaten in three days, and he silently hoped that Ennis would stop and let him sit down soon.

Inside the church, the pews had all been removed and replaced with tables and chairs, only a few of which were occupied with a handful of people finishing up their lunches. The stained glass windows cast little splashes of color across the carpeted floor. Besides the large crucifix hanging on the wall at the head of the church hall, there were no religious items or relics. There was no altar in the apse — only a long table laid out with trays of food. This wasn't a church, Kurt realized; it was a cafeteria.

But oh, God, food.

The smell of food slammed into Kurt's nose like a solid punch to the face, and his empty stomach immediately and painfully cinched in his gut. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten actual solid food — not just whatever scraps he could find. His mouth watering like a rottweiler, Ennis had to tap Kurt's shoulder to get his attention again.

Kurt shook himself out of his stupor, feeling like there was probably drool on his chin. Ennis led him to a table in the corner, away from the food. Nick was already seated there, again making notes on a legal pad. He had clearly just finished lunch, his used plate and utensils sitting to the side. As Ennis and Kurt approached, he put his pen down.

"Kid says he wants to join," said Ennis.

Nick nodded, smoothing his beard with a forefinger and thumb. "Good," he said to Kurt. "Have a seat."

Kurt sat, the dizziness swimming through his brain subsiding only slightly.

"Ennis, go get him a plate, would you?" Nick requested. "He looks like he's about ready to pass out."

Relief flooded Kurt's chest at the prospect of being finally fed. At this point he didn't care a bit what it was. As Ennis went to fill a plate, Nick flipped to a blank page on his notepad.

"Name?" he asked. "First and last."

Kurt blinked, and he had to stop himself from giving his real name out of sheer reflex. "Kyle Haskell," he replied.

Nick wrote it down. "Age?"

"Twenty." Kurt paused then, frowning. "Wait, do you know the date?"

"It's May twenty-sixth."

"Oh." Kurt suddenly felt like weeping childishly. "Then I'm twenty-one." His birthday had gone by nearly two weeks ago and he hadn't even noticed.

"Skills?" prompted Nick.

"What?"

"Any skills?"

Ennis returned then, setting a heaping plate of food and a large glass of water in front of him. His birthday suddenly all but forgotten, Kurt didn't bother asking for permission and hungrily dove in, shoveling food into his mouth with a spoon. There were mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and some kind of meat mixed with caramelized onions. A piece of dense, unleavened flatbread almost like a pita sat on top of the potatoes. It was simple and barely seasoned, but to Kurt he may as well have been dining at Buckingham Palace. It had been a month since he'd had a real meal so he couldn't be completely sure, but this may have been the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"Skills like what?" Kurt slurred through a mouthful of roasted carrots and parsnips. He tore off a chunk of the flatbread and used it to mop up the juices from the meat and onions.

"Anything," said Nick. "I need to know what you can do so I know where to place you."

"Um," Kurt said eloquently, gulping down his water greedily. He dug a string of meat from between his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

Nick decided to be a bit more specific. "Are you at all medically trained?"

Kurt shook his head, relishing the mashed potatoes.

"Can you hunt or shoot?"

"No."

"Do you know anything about farming?"

"No."

"Engineering?"

"No."

Nick leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the table impatiently. "What can you do?"

"I can fix cars," Kurt said without really thinking. "My dad's a mechanic."

Ennis, leaning against the wall behind Nick, let out a barking laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll be useful once the power comes back."

Nick scratched at his temple. "How about cooking? Can you cook?"

Kurt shrugged, then nodded. "Reasonably well, yeah." He had loved delving into the fancier recipes of Julia Child's books, but trying to make the perfect souffle was very different from the kind of cooking he was currently eating.

Nick made a note. "Let's think about it this way," he amended. "What did you do before the blackout?"

"I was a waiter," Kurt answered between chews. "And an intern at Vogue." He decided not to mention that he was also an acting student — it was probably not a good idea to let Nick and Ennis know that he was an excellent liar.

Nick frowned. "Vogue, the fashion magazine?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ever make the clothes yourself?"

"Not at the magazine, but I did a lot of my own clothes when I was growing up."

"We don't have anyone with tailoring experience, do we?" Nick said to Ennis.

Ennis shook his head. "Not off the top of my head, no."

Kurt was so focused on devouring the last of the potatoes that he barely noticed Nick's nod of approval.

"That's good, that'll come in handy," Nick said, writing on his notepad. "We aren't short on clothes yet, but clothes don't last forever and in a couple years we'll need that expertise. For now, though, we'll put you somewhere else."

"I want to learn to shoot," Kurt blurted out as soon as the idea popped into his head.

Nick's eyebrows went up, questioning.

Kurt scooped up the last of the meat and onions with the remainder of the flatbread. The chances of ever getting out of Nazareth were slim, but it would be easier if he knew his way around (and had access to) a gun. "I want to be useful," he lied. "If you teach me how to shoot, then I can help with guard duty and hunting."

"Don't be too over-eager," Nick advised. "Give yourself some time to settle in and build up your strength again. If you're still interested in a couple of days, then we can talk about shooting."

Kurt swallowed the last of his food, feeling like he was ready to burst. Nick was wisely cautious, not ready to give a deadly weapon to someone he'd threatened to kill only recently. Kurt would have to bide his time. He could only hope that Santana and Dani would hold out that long.

Santana furiously paced back and forth in her cell, practically vibrating with rage. How could Kurt just turn around and leave them behind? No warning, no discussion, just a quick lie and he'd flippantly tossed them aside like so much cheap trash. Santana decided that if — no, when — she got out of here, the first person she was going to kill would be Kurt. Nick and Ennis would be close seconds.

"Santana, would you please sit down?" Dani pleaded in exasperation. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her elbows resting on her knees.

"No," huffed Santana.

"Well, you're going to make yourself pass out," Dani retorted.

"How are you so calm about this?!"

"Because we don't know what he's doing!" Dani was more annoyed than anything else. "We don't know! Kurt is probably buying time so we can all get out of here. It's not like he had much of a choice. And even if that's not what he's doing, there's nothing we can do about it, so there's no point in working ourselves up."

Santana made a face and went back to pacing. Kurt had seemed pretty sincere to her. But, if Santana was being honest with herself, she wasn't all that sure of how well she knew Kurt to begin with. He wasn't with her like he had been with Rachel — the two of them had always seemed able to read each other's thoughts even if they occasionally hated one another. Santana had really only known Kurt for a few years, and for most of that time, Santana had either been just plain mean or had tortured him outright. It was entirely possible that Kurt had never even liked her in the first place.

She wondered how long it would be before Ennis returned with the bat to claim her or Dani. She didn't know what Dani would choose, but Santana didn't care that Kurt had left them. She wasn't going to say yes to these lunatics holding them hostage. There was no way.

Her mouth dry and dizziness washing over her, Santana finally sat on the cot.

"Told you you'd wear yourself out," Dani said, intently studying a crack in the ceiling.

Santana rested her head in her hands, waiting for the black spots in her vision to go away. "Do you really think he'll come back for us?"

Dani sighed, scratching her forehead. "Honestly, I don't know. You know Kurt better than I do."

Santana swallowed the lump in her throat, the cell feeling even smaller than it had to start with. She wasn't at all sure that was true.

God, she wished Rachel was here.

As it turned out, the sensation of being full was only pleasant for a short time, and Kurt quickly began to feel like he was going to vomit. Having been empty for so long, his stomach was now struggling to break down a heavy meal, and Kurt couldn't decide if he wanted to violently throw up or if he just wanted to go to sleep. The dizziness swept back in as his body worked to process the shock of food to his system, and he had to fight the urge to just put his head down on the table.

"Tomorrow I'll have you start in the gardens," said Nick as he stood up from the table. "For now, you should get some rest." Nick collected their dishes and deposited them in the bin at the end of the big table, then came back for his notepad. "Come on," he beckoned, tucking his pen behind his ear. "I'll show you where you'll be staying."

Kurt took a deep breath before standing up, his palms cold and clammy. His unhappy stomach twisted and shot a stabbing pain up into his chest. Trying not to retch, Kurt followed Nick and Ennis back out of the church and into the sunshine. Ennis made some excuse about having other things to see to and left, walking off toward the town square. Nick led Kurt down the church steps and through the park, the gardeners eyeing Kurt suspiciously as they passed by.

"Hold on," Kurt said, pausing to brace an arm against the corner of a building once they'd crossed the street on the other side of the park. "I just… need a sec."

"Take your time," Nick said, waiting patiently for Kurt's nausea to pass.

Kurt took a few deep breaths, wiping sweat from his forehead, and then a horrific thought occurred to him. "That… that food I just ate," he asked. "What kind of meat was that?"

Please don't say human, please don't say human, Kurt prayed, desperately hoping this was not the explanation for the lack of women in Nazareth. He also had no idea what Ennis had done with Caleb's body.

Nick frowned at him, understanding what Kurt was really asking. "You must have watched too many zombie movies," he said. "It was venison. Trust me, we are nowhere near desperate enough to consider something like that." He sounded offended that the thought would even cross Kurt's mind. "Your body just needs to get used to real food again, that's all."

Kurt was only somewhat reassured. "Okay." He straightened up again, letting out a slow exhale. "Okay, I think I'm good."

He followed Nick two more blocks from the church and was surprised to discover their destination was a long, squat single-floor school building. The sign out front declared it was NAZARETH PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL, and Kurt noted that it was the only place in town where there didn't seem to be any people. For a moment, Kurt wondered if Nick was planning on taking him to a secluded place and killing him anyway, but if that were the case there wouldn't have been any point in talking to or feeding Kurt at all, and Nick was not the type to waste his own time.

"What's with the school?" Kurt asked as Nick pulled open the main door and allowed Kurt inside.

"About half of our people stay in the school," Nick explained, his voice echoing slightly as the door shut behind him. "It was best to consolidate to the center of town so everyone wasn't so spread out. Easier to manage, easier to protect. Anyone who's not married stays here."

"What about the married people?"

"Some of them have set up in a hotel about a block away. Others have taken a handful of the offices here in the school. If they've got kids, they get an apartment near the square."

"What about you?"

"I'm not married and I don't have kids. I stay here."

Inside the school, the layout consisted of the main entry hall with offices at the back, and two big corridors branching off in either direction. Each corridor had classrooms only along the rear side, while the walls toward the front of the school were entirely windows looking back out to the main road, allowing for plenty of sunlight. Many of the classroom doors were left open, and as Nick led him down the west corridor, Kurt could see that all of the normal features of a classroom had been removed. The desks were gone, along with any textbooks that may have occupied the bookshelves. Now, any shelves in the rooms housed people's personal belongings — mostly clothes and toiletries with the occasional novel. The desks had all been replaced with twin-sized beds and cots, which had all presumably been dragged from homes outside the new Nazareth perimeter, as well as a small bureau or two. Under any other circumstance, Kurt would have balked at the idea of sharing a room with strangers, but right now he had bigger things to focus on.

Nick stopped at the sixth classroom down the hall. "You'll be in this one," he said.

Kurt stepped inside, finding five beds spread out through the room, a bookshelf and a small chest of drawers to one side. There were also various cupboards attached to the wall. Two of the beds sat unclaimed with no linens, and Kurt chose the one in the furthest corner.

"Sheets and blankets are in the cupboards," Nick said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Why is no one here right now?" Kurt had to ask.

"It's Monday," Nick replied as if it was obvious. "People are working."

"Oh." Kurt had all but forgotten the normal work calendar. For the past month there had been no use for it. He went to the cupboard and pulled out some fresh linens, unable to totally conceal how relieved he was to have clean sheets and an actual bed.

"Latrines are out back behind the school," Nick said. "Curfew is at dark, and once curfew hits the only reason anyone should be outside is if they're on guard duty or they're using the latrines. No exceptions."

Kurt frowned. "Why is there a curfew at all?"

"Safer that way," was the only explanation Nick offered. "Another thing — no stealing. That applies to personal items and public rations. We have an absolutely zero tolerance policy."

"Okay." Kurt was pretty sure he already knew what 'zero tolerance' looked like, and he had no desire to tempt that.

Nick scratched the back of his head. "I think that's it. Any questions?"

"I don't think so," Kurt said as he pulled the sheet over the corners of his mattress.

"Get some rest, then," Nick said, and promptly left Kurt alone.

Kurt quickly finished making his bed, fighting another bout of nausea as he had to bend over with his still-full belly. Once he was done, he laid down and stared at the ceiling as he tried to finish digesting. He hated to admit it, but Nick made a convincing case for Nazareth. Kurt could see why it would be a smart decision to stay — at least, for some.

But the strange unbalance of the town being mostly men, and the fact that Ennis had been more than willing to kill Kurt just a short while ago still weighed on him. He couldn't allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, and he knew he was still in danger here. He also didn't know how long the girls had before they were given the same ultimatum, and he could feel the clock ticking.

His brain swimming and his belly full, however, Kurt wasn't able to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes, and soon he had fallen into a deep, deep sleep.

When Kurt finally woke, it was dark and the only sound was someone snoring. He rolled over, groggy and forgetting for a minute where he was before the memory of the previous day came rushing back. Rubbing his eyes, he sat on the edge of the bed and blinked in the bright glow of the full moon flooding through the classroom windows and across the floor. The other three beds were now occupied — Kurt recognized Mack and Javi, and in the third bed slept a blond boy about the same age as Kurt (maybe a bit younger). Javi was snoring loudly, his arm hanging off the side of his bed. Kurt thought it was probably not a coincidence that he was staying in the same room as Mack and Javi, who Kurt was fairly certain had been instructed to keep an eye on him.

Now, it occurred to Kurt, would likely be the best time for him to explore the town and attempt to find an escape route before anyone else woke up. The moon was still high in the sky and dawn was a long way off — and most importantly, Mack and Javi looked like heavy sleepers.

Kurt slipped his shoes on as quietly as he could, then tiptoed toward the door. Sliding silently into the hallway, he turned to head for the building's main entrance, then abruptly stopped in his tracks. The hairs on his arms stood erect and the pit of his stomach went cold.

Nick was standing at the end of the hall, outside the first classroom.

Kurt swallowed and stepped more fully into the corridor, knowing that Nick had already seen him and if he suddenly turned and went back to his room he would look suspicious. Nick leaned against the wall, staring out the windows across the streets outside. The moonlight refracted in through the glass and made the entire corridor glow a soft blue.

"What are you doing up?" Nick asked.

"I couldn't sleep," Kurt lied.

"Me neither."

Kurt didn't know what to say to that.

Nick tugged on his earlobe in thought. "Where were you heading again?"

"Montana," answered Kurt, feeling awkward. He didn't know how to get out of this conversation without making Nick think he was up to something.

"I assume you were trying to find your parents."

Kurt nodded. "Yeah. Well, my dad. My mom died when I was a kid." He wanted to keep up the lie, but it was always easiest to lie when sticking close to the truth. If he lied about everything, he wouldn't be able to keep it all straight and he knew he would eventually slip up.

"And now you're staying here," Nick said. It sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Like you said, it's the big picture," Kurt replied, bile rising in his throat. "The long-term." He leaned his back against the opposite wall. "Do you have family somewhere?"

Nick shrugged. "My mother lives down in Florida."

"Why don't you go there?"

"She's eighty-five and has dementia. If she's not dead already, she would be by the time I got to Virginia."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Everyone has to die sometime," Nick said hollowly.

"You don't want to know for sure?"

"Knowing whether my mother is alive is a short-term problem." Nick crossed his arms over his chest. "The work I'm doing here in Nazareth, building this community — that's long-term."

Kurt struggled to mask how much that thought disgusted him. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

"Are you at all worried about your dad?" Nick was watching him closely, scrutinizing, as though he was carefully testing Kurt's answer.

"Of course I am, but…" Kurt forced himself to shrug, looking up at the ceiling. "He's got a bad heart. He's probably dead. There's no point in going home if all I find is a grave marker."

It was the worst thing he'd ever said, Kurt decided. Guilt coiled up in his gut like a snake waiting to strike.

Miraculously, he'd kept his voice steady, and Nick seemed satisfied with the response.

"It's late," Nick said. "You should try to get some more sleep before tomorrow."

Kurt nodded, eager to get away. He returned to his room, where he lay awake for the rest of the night, wondering if he'd ever be able to forgive himself.

Chapter Text

DAY 35

As the sky gradually grew light outside the windows of the remodeled classroom, Kurt lay awake with his mind going in circles like an eddying wind.  He cycled repeatedly through guilt, then fear, then guilt again, but couldn’t follow any productive line of thought. He still knew far too little about Nazareth to make any kind of concrete escape plan, and he had absolutely no idea how to get Santana and Dani out of the police station.  Worse still, he had a feeling that saying with indifference that his father was dead had jinxed him, and Kurt couldn’t help envisioning over and over arriving home only to find Burt’s corpse rotting in an upstairs bedroom.

Beams of soft sunlight broke through the treetops outside and roused the others sleeping in the room.  Mack and Javi stretched with half-asleep grumbles and began putting on their boots, while the blond boy sat on his cot and yawned, pulling at his ruffled hair.  Kurt awkwardly followed suit, feeling like he wasn’t supposed to be there and not knowing if there was a particular routine he should be following.

The blond boy waved at him, speaking through what was probably his third yawn in as many minutes.  “I’m Toby,” he said sleepily as he put on a fresh shirt from the tiny bureau.

“Kyle,” said Kurt.

“Come on,” Mack jerked his head in the direction of the door.

Kurt stood and followed Mack out of the classroom and down the hall, leaving Javi and Toby to finish getting ready.  There were a few other people trickling out of adjacent rooms on both ends of the school. Walking out the door and into the direct sunlight made Kurt squint and shield his eyes.  “Where are we going?” Kurt asked.

“The church.  We need breakfast.”

Kurt didn’t feel hungry, but he knew he should probably eat again.  He didn’t want to get too used to having food readily available — if by some miracle he and the girls made it out of Nazareth, he knew food would become immediately scarce again.

The church’s white steeple and roof shone brilliantly in the already-bright morning.  Nobody was working in the gardens quite yet, but Kurt was surprised to see three water stations off to the side of the church that he hadn’t noticed yesterday.  These were not drinking stations, however, and the handful of people already there were bathing — actually bathing!  A makeshift shower had been constructed at each station, with repurposed garden hoses and buckets propped up high to create water pressure.  Granted, there would be no heated water, but it was more than Kurt had had since leaving New York, and he couldn’t feel anything but excitement when he saw that each station had a bottle or two of shampoo.

Mack saw him eyeing the people washing.  “You want to shower first?”

“Yes,” Kurt answered emphatically.

Mack cracked a smile.  “Go on, I’ll meet you inside.”

Kurt left Mack’s side without a second thought, making a beeline for the showers and stripping off his shirt as he went.  He scrubbed the buildup of dirt and oil from his hair, his armpits, and everywhere else he could reach, relishing in the smell of real soap and the feeling of his skin finally being able to breathe again.  The cold water sent shivers down to his toes and thoroughly woke him up, and he barely noticed the other people using the showers alongside him. He shook the water from his hair when he was done, standing in the sunshine for a minute to warm up a bit before pulling on his shirt again.  With clothing sticking to his damp skin, he finally went inside.

In the church, there were already a few dozen people eating breakfast.  Which, as Kurt quickly discovered, wasn’t much different from what he’d eaten the day before.  There were no eggs or bacon or cereal, but instead the same venison alongside potatoes and the same unleavened flatbread as yesterday.  The main difference was that on the long table in the apse, next to the bread were a few jars of Edna McCready’s jams. Kurt quirked an eyebrow at that; apparently, the food he and the girls had been carrying were being distributed to the masses.  It wasn’t the worst use of stolen goods, he had to say, but it still irked him.

He sat at a table with Mack and ate halfheartedly, still somewhat full from yesterday.  At one point Javi and Toby joined them, and the three of them joked and idly chatted, as though they’d completely forgotten that just a few days earlier Kurt had been dragged here by force with a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back.  Kurt couldn’t quite bring himself to join in the conversation, even if it would help him blend in.

When they were done, Mack said something along the lines of heading out to “work on the aqueduct” and Javi beckoned Kurt to follow him.  Javi was much less chatty than Mack, and didn’t attempt to get Kurt to talk at all as he led him out of the church and down a street away from the town center.  Still, Kurt’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked if Mack had been serious about the aqueduct.

Javi nodded.  “Yeah. We can only have people carrying the water for so long,” he said, as though it was obvious.  “Having the water come to us will make everything a lot easier.”

After passing through several blocks, they reached the fence near the main entrance.  Stretching along the fence was a barricade of abandoned cars, staffed with a few armed guards spaced out along the perimeter and standing atop the line of vehicles so as to have a high vantage point.  Right up to the edge of the line of cars, was a long and narrow expanse of freshly tilled soil. Already there were several people working, carrying bags and gardening tools and planting seeds for (presumably) vegetables.  Others still were carrying the same lidded white buckets Kurt had seen yesterday, bringing water to the gardeners.

A short, pot-bellied man in a sweaty, dirt-streaked t-shirt nodded to Javi in greeting.  He was manning a large wheelbarrow laden with lumpy cloth sacks, marking notes down on a clipboard as he surveyed the gardeners through his sunglasses.  “This the new kid?” he asked as Javi and Kurt approached.

“Kyle, this is Bruce,” said Javi with a half-interested introductory wave.

Bruce didn’t seem to care.  He hefted a sack out of the wheelbarrow and pushed it into Kurt’s arms.  “Here you go,” was all he said.  

Kurt’s legs nearly buckled under the sudden unexpected weight, and he struggled to keep from dropping the sack.

Bruce pointed to a woman on her knees in the dirt nearest the barricade, digging small holes with her fingers.  “Jessica will show you what we’re doing.”

“Are you working here too?” Kurt asked Javi.

Javi shook his head.  “Nah, I’m on guard duty at the armory,” he said, already turning to leave.

Kurt blinked.  “There’s an armory?”

Javi didn’t hear him, and went back the way they’d come.

Bruce raised his eyebrows over the rims of his shades.  “Go on,” he urged, jerking his head in Jessica’s direction.

Kurt did as instructed, more than a little annoyed that they seemed to continuously hand him off from person to person.  He didn’t at all enjoy feeling constricted and overly monitored, and wasn’t at all certain that he’d manage to find a gap in their system big enough to slip through.

“No!” gasped Jessica in exasperation when he walked over and set the sack down on the ground.

Kurt flinched, instantly looking down at his feet for something he might have been stepping on.

“Pick that up, will you?!”

Kurt lifted the sack again, and she immediately reached over and gently tried to straighten the little sprouts Kurt had accidentally crushed.  Instantly, Kurt felt guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, moving the sack away and making sure to check where he was putting it this time.

Jessica sighed.  “It’s fine, honestly,” she said, though it really sounded like it wasn’t.  “They’ll be okay.” She sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.  She was plump and pretty, apart from the various streaks of dirt on her face and arms, and had her dark hair pulled up and away from her face.  “Who are you?”

“Kyle,” he answered.  “They just said I should work with you for now.”

“Right, you’re the guy they brought in a few days ago,” she said.

Kurt shrugged.  Brought in seemed like a pretty tame way to describe a kidnapping, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“So what are we doing?” Kurt asked, kneeling across from Jessica and inwardly moaning over having to get dirty again.  After all, he’d literally just showered.

Jessica yanked open the top of the sack, and a pile of cut tubers spilled out.  “Starting a potato crop.”

“Santana?”

Santana sat on the floor in the corner of the cell, picking at a patch of peeling plaster on the cell wall.  It had started as just a crack in the paint, and was now expanded to the size of a basketball. Little flakes lay scattered on the floor around her feet like confetti.

“Santana.”

She flinched, looking up.  Dani sat cross-legged on the cot, staring at Santana with an expression that was unnervingly worried.

“I called you three times,” Dani said.

“I didn’t hear you.”

Dani only looked even more concerned.  “Are you feeling okay?”

“I guess.”  Santana shrugged, feeling sluggish.  Like she was swimming in molasses. She leaned her head against the wall and went back to picking at the paint.  The angry pain in her stomach from not eating had faded into a distant ache. She took fitful naps, barely staying awake at all but still only sleeping for ten or twenty minutes at a time.  She briefly wondered if this was anything like what Rachel had felt like before she’d died.

“Do you think they’re going to feed us?” asked Dani.

Santana didn’t answer.  Her hand dropped into her lap, her eyelids heavy.

“Santana.”

“Hm?”

Dani chewed on her lip, toying with her shoelace.  “I think we need to say yes.”

Santana let an exhausted, hollow laugh escape her chest.  “Right.”

“Santana, joining them is the only way we’re going to make it out of here.”

“Dani,” Santana said softly, feeling so heavy that she might melt into the wall at any second.  “There’s no point. They have armed guards, barbed wire… If we tried to get out, they’d just kill us.”

Dani glared at Santana, her eyes piercing.  “If it’s between dying in this cell, or dying trying to make it out, then I choose the second option,” she said coldly.  “There’s not much of a choice anyway.”

“And how far do you think you’re really going to make it?” Santana asked.  “We haven’t eaten in days. We can’t outrun anyone.”

Dani brushed a tear from her eye, her jaw clenching.  “Santana, I love you, but you’re making the worst decision of your life.”

Santana smiled sleepily.  “You never said ‘I love you’ before.”

“Don’t change the subject.  If you’re going to just give up, then you don’t give a crap about me, or Kurt, or Rachel—”

Santana’s eyes darkened.  “What the hell does Rachel have to do with any of this?  She’s dead.”

Dani swallowed, chewing on her lower lip.  “If you’re not going to push forward for yourself, do it for her.  She died trying to make it home. The least you could do is try as hard as she did.”

“Maybe I’d rather stay here than get killed after joining a group that murders anyone who disagrees with them,” Santana seethed.

“It wouldn’t be real, Santana!” Dani argued.

“It’d be real enough.”

Dani almost looked hurt at that, but through the fog clouding the back of Santana’s brain, she couldn’t be entirely sure.  It was quiet for several minutes, apart from the sound of Dani picking at her fingernails. When Dani finally spoke, she refused to look anywhere but at the concrete floor, and her voice shook with fury.

“If you die in here, I will never forgive you.”

The sun beat down on the back of Kurt’s neck, sweat dripping from his forehead.  The feeling of being clean after the shower had been so brief, much to Kurt’s lament, and now his hands and knees were covered in dirt.  Hopefully he’d have another opportunity to bathe before the end of the day, but he wasn’t counting on it. His back already ached from being hunched over, and his nails were caked deep with soil.  

Jessica was nice, if a little overly focused on the task at hand, and didn’t seem all that interested in making small talk.  She had given him a small knife and instructed him to cut the potatoes into chunks, making sure that each piece had an eye, and plant them one by one in the row.  This way, one potato could yield up to a dozen more. At least, that’s what Jessica said; Kurt was nowhere near an expert on potato farming.

As they and the other half a dozen gardeners worked, they remained under the ever-vigilant eye of the armed guards patrolling the fence, who seemed to be scrutinizing them just as much as watching for threats from outside the perimeter.  Only about a third of the guards were equipped with semi-automatics, while the rest had handguns or even shotguns intended for duck hunting. There weren’t as many guards here as he’d seen at the gate when he’d first been brought to Nazareth — only three or four within his range of sight — and if Kurt had to guess, it would be pretty easy to slip between them.  The main issue with making a break for it straight through the guards was the barbed wire fence.  Even if the guards were entirely absent, Kurt doubted he’d be able to squirm through the barbed wire at all, let alone climb the fence without being shot before he got to the top.

By the time Bruce called for a water break, Kurt was exhausted, and the promise of a few minutes’ rest was relief.  Jessica stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. The gardeners, Kurt included, all herded toward where Bruce was distributing cups from one of the white water buckets.

“You get one cup,” Bruce said to Kurt.

Kurt blinked in surprise.  “Seriously?”

“That’s the policy until the aqueduct is finished,” Jessica interjected, her tone warning Kurt not to argue.

As thirsty as he was, Kurt had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Jessica jerked her head in the direction of a shady spot under a tree near the sidewalk.  “Come on,” she said.

They sat on the root-mottled ground at the base of the trunk, cooling off now that they were finally out of the direct sunlight.  Kurt sipped his water slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible, and watched a spider crawl up the bark of the tree.  Jessica pulled a matchbook and a beaten pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and lit one, leaning back against the tree trunk.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, scratching a bit of dirt from the side of her nose and blowing smoke up toward the branches overhead.  The question was forced, as though she only wanted to fill the silence.

“New York.”

Jessica’s eyebrows shot up, interested for the first time since Kurt had met her.  “You walked all the way from New York?” When Kurt nodded, she stared at him for a moment in disbelief before following up with a second question.  “What the hell made you want to walk this far?”

Kurt paused, taking a long sip from his cup as he carefully selected a response that would be believable and not make her think he was trying to escape.  “The city was a death trap,” he said. Simple and straightforward, not to mention true. “People were looting, killing each other… I figured the further away from the city, the better my chances were.”

Jessica sighed, watching a robin hop through the grass a few feet away.  She tapped ashes onto the roots by her shoes.  “I’m sure you’re right.”

She went quiet, and Kurt finished off the contents of his cup.  By the time he noticed that she’d started crying, Bruce was calling for the gardeners to restart their work.

“Um… are you okay?” inquired Kurt, not sure what he could have said to offend her.

Jessica quickly swiped the tears from her cheeks, putting out the cigarette and sticking the remaining half back into the box.  “My sister’s in New York.” She cleared her throat, standing to head back to the garden.

Kurt watched her walk away for a moment before following.  Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that the people in Nazareth might be just as trapped as he was.

It was hard to stay awake in the cell.  Boredom and a lack of food combined into a truly profound lack of energy.  Dani had lost all natural sense of time, and found herself checking her watch almost constantly, as if it would make the day go faster.  Sometimes she’d look at her wrist and only a few minutes had inched by; other times, hours vanished without so much as a blink. Hunger gnawed at the pit of her stomach, making her head throb and her throat burn.

Santana was fading much faster than Dani.  Her head lolled intermittently as she fell unreliably in and out of sleep, her eyes glassy and unfocused even when she was awake.  She couldn’t easily follow a conversation, and Dani had to assume that the only reason Santana was being so goddamn stubborn was because she couldn’t think clearly.  At least, telling herself that was the only way Dani could keep from being absolutely furious with Santana for apparently giving up.

It was so quiet that Dani heard the front door of the police station slam shut in the distance and footsteps in the hall well before Ennis appeared.  The hair on Dani’s arms stood erect the moment he entered the room — he scared her much more than anyone else she’d met.  This time, though, he hadn’t brought his bat. Instead, Ennis was carrying a sandwich on a plate and a large glass of water.

Dani eyed the plate suspiciously, already salivating.  Santana lifted her head at the sound of Ennis unlocking the cell.

“So you’re feeding us now?” said Dani.

Ennis set the plate on the cot next to Dani and the water glass on the floor where it wouldn’t tip over.  “The whole point of this is to give you a choice. No sense in letting you starve to death before you make that choice.”

Santana laughed — a thready, hollow chuckle.  “As if we actually have a choice here.”

Ennis gave her a stony cold look.  “You do, and you should make the right one.”

“Go to hell,” Santana spat, sagging against the wall.

“See how far that attitude gets you.”  Ennis turned and stepped back out of the cell, locking the door shut behind him.  “And just so you know, there’s a lot more where that came from,” he added, gesturing to the plate of food.

Dani very nearly opened her mouth to tell Ennis that she was ready to join.  But she couldn’t leave Santana in here, all alone and resigning to die. Besides, she didn’t really know what was waiting for her if she did say yes.  Maybe this was all a game and they’d really been kidnapped to provide some sort of warped entertainment for the people of Nazareth. Maybe Kurt had been killed after all and they’d dumped his body somewhere Dani and Santana would never find even if they did escape.

Ennis left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Dani stared at the sandwich, if it could be called that.  It was two pieces of something that barely passed for bread with unrecognizable shredded meat in the middle, seeping juice onto the plate.  It didn’t look all that appetizing, but Dani didn’t care, her stomach screaming for her to grab it and practically swallow it whole. It was more food than Dani had seen in weeks, but it still wasn’t enough for her and Santana to share.

She looked at Santana, who had closed her eyes again.  At that moment, Dani made a split-second decision. She lurched to her feet, ran to the bars and banged on them with her fists.  “WAIT!” she shouted. “COME BACK!”

Santana lifted her head and frowned at Dani.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m buying us time.”

The sound of footsteps coming back towards the cell room echoed down the corridor.  “Please don’t do this,” Santana begged, lacking the energy to argue. “Don’t leave.”

Dani drew a breath, hoping she’d made the right choice.  “I’ll come back for you,” she whispered just before Ennis came back through the door.

“What do you want?” he said.

Dani gripped the bars, her knuckles white as she tried desperately not to look at the hurt and betrayal written all over Santana’s face.  “I want to join,” she said. “I’m saying yes.”

Ennis smiled, a smug, self-satisfied smirk, and unlocked the cell door.

“Dani, please,” Santana cried, her voice small and thready.

Dani swallowed, took a page from Kurt’s book, and ignored her.

Ennis brought Dani down the hall, leading her into Nick’s office once again.  Nick sat behind his desk, poring over a haphazard pile of engineering books. A handful of titles jumped out at Dani: Water Mechanics Made Simple, Irrigating Your Way To Healthier Crops, and Constructing By Hand: Old-Fashioned Carpentry.  All of them seemed new, like Nick had raided a Barnes & Noble only recently, but were already extensively dog-eared and bookmarked.  Nick was so deeply engrossed in The Drought-Resistant Farm that it took Ennis loudly clearing his throat to make him realize there was anyone else in the room.

“Oh,” he said, putting the book down.

Ennis steered Dani forward with a firm grip on her shoulder and directed her to sit in one of the chairs across from Nick’s desk.  “She said yes.”

Nick looked Dani up and down in a way that made her uncomfortable.  She didn’t know what was going through Nick’s mind, but she didn’t like being so closely examined.  It was as though he was measuring her up for a very specific purpose, like he was selecting just the right tool for a particular task.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dani.”

“Full name.”

“Dani Mitchell.”

Nick pulled a note-riddled legal pad from underneath A Guide To Crop Rotation: Utilizing Your Soil.  He flipped to a fresh page and began to write down everything Dani told him.

“Any health problems?”

Dani blinked, wondering if Kurt had been asked the same questions.  “Like what?”

“Anything you think is significant.”

Dani frowned, not sure that she and Nick would consider the same things significant.  “No.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And your friend who’s still in the cell.  How old is she?”

Something tugged at the pit of Dani’s stomach, not liking the fact that Nick was already interested in Santana.  “Twenty,” she answered.

“And what are your skills?”

Dani swallowed.  This was a test, and she had no idea what was required to pass.

Nick immediately sensed her confusion.  “Anything you can do that would lend itself to the community, I need to know about,” he specified.

“I grew up hunting,” Dani replied, feeling a pang of sadness as a memory of traipsing through the woods with her father flashed through the back of her mind.  Hunting had been one of the only things her dad enjoyed doing with her in tow.

Nick’s eyes sparked at that.  “So you know your way around a gun?”

“Just hunting rifles, and only a couple of models,” Dani elaborated.  “My dad liked his Rugers.”

After Nick noted the new information, he opened his mouth to ask her another question but was sidetracked mid-syllable, his eyes drawn to Dani’s wrist.  “Your watch is working,” he said, watching the second hand tick.

Dani almost laughed at him.  “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said.  “It’s a wind-up. Family heirloom.”

“Ah.”  Nick tugged on his earlobe, trying to rediscover his train of thought.  “Your friend,” he started again. “Does she know how to hunt as well?”

Dani shook her head.  “She’s never held a gun.”  As she watched him mark it down, it suddenly occurred to Dani that not knowing how to hunt would make Santana less valuable and more disposable.  She quickly amended her answer. “But she volunteered at a hospital for a few years. She knows First Aid. And she’s tough. She’s gotten us out of a couple of scrapes.”

Ennis scoffed behind her.  “She didn’t seem that tough.”

“She’s just stubborn,” Dani insisted, glaring at Ennis over her shoulder.  “She’ll come around.”

“I guess we’ll see about that in a couple of days,” Nick interjected diplomatically.  He opened the top drawer of his desk. “By the way… I found this in your backpack. Figured you’d want it back.”

Dani’s heart skipped.  Nick was holding the photograph that Kurt had pulled from Rachel’s hand when she’d died.  Rachel’s eighth birthday party, complete with balloons and cake and more than a few creases from being kept in a pocket instead of a frame.  Dani very nearly reached out to take it, but something nagged at the back of her skull. She distinctly remembered the photo being packed in Kurt’s bag, not hers.

Was this a test?  Or a genuine gesture of good will?

There was a very real possibility that Nick didn’t know whose pack was whose and was just trying to return a keepsake to its owner.  If Dani didn’t take it, he might throw the photo away and they’d lose any chance of giving it back to Rachel’s parents. On the other hand… if she admitted she knew the person in the photo and Nick knew it had come from Kurt’s backpack, their lie would be out in the open.

She decided to err on the side of caution.  “You found that in my bag?” she said, feigning confusion.

Nick nodded, still holding the photo out for her to take.

“It’s not mine.  I don’t know who that is.”

“No?”

Dani shrugged.  “Maybe you got our bags mixed up?” she suggested.  “I’d check with Kyle.”

“Hm,” Nick said thoughtfully, studying the image of eight-year-old Rachel grinning in front of her birthday cake with frosting on her nose.  He paused, then tucked the photo back into his desk drawer. He stood, hitching up his jeans. “How about we get you something to eat?”

She sighed, relief flooding her veins.  “Yes, please.”

“I’m glad you agreed to join.  You made the right decision.”

Dani’s reply was uncalculated and truthful.  “I hope you’re right.”

Santana wasn’t able to cry for more than a minute or so before her body couldn’t produce any more tears.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to drink, but was fairly certain it was before she’d been thrown into the cell.  Was it four days now? Or five? She didn’t even know how long a human being could reasonably last without water. She felt shriveled up and her skin was stretched taut over her joints, like she was rotting from the inside out.

So as soon as Dani and Ennis were gone, Santana crawled across the floor with as much energy as she could muster.  She seized the glass of water Ennis had left and began to drink in huge greedy gulps. Water dribbled down her chin.  Having liquid on her throat felt so good that Santana’s eyes rolled back in her head as she drank, taking desperate gasps for air between swallows.  The glass was empty far too soon, and Santana sat with her back leaning against the edge of the cot, breathing hard and waiting for her stomach to adjust to the shock of being hydrated.  A painful cramp spread from her belly, and she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and willed herself to breathe through it.

By the time the cramp faded, the smell of food was tickling her nose and the pain in her stomach had changed to screeching hunger, violently clawing through her gut and up her throat.  Santana shakily hoisted herself to sit on the cot, her heart thudding and her hands trembling. Her body was no longer asleep and every cell from the skin of her fingertips down to the marrow of her bones felt as though they were practically vibrating, screaming for the starvation to end.

The only thing that gave her any pause at all was the fleeting thought that the food might be poisoned, that her captors might have decided she wasn’t worth the effort and this might be the quickest way to dispose of her.  But she didn’t care. Not in the slightest.

She tore into the sandwich with an animalistic fervor, feeling like a freshly-awakened zombie.  Her teeth ground the meat and bread to a pulp, her esophagus burning with the effort as she swallowed real, solid food for the first time in weeks.  It was unseasoned and tough, and she bit into her own tongue by mistake more than once. Her jaw quickly grew sore — she hadn’t had practice chewing anything, really, since their supplies from New York had run out.

The pain in her stomach started again as it strained to accommodate the sudden onslaught, but she barely registered the discomfort.  Little bits of meat fell out of the sandwich and onto the plate; she picked them up and licked the juice from her fingers, frantically absorbing every last calorie.

Selfishly, she was glad Dani wasn’t here and she didn’t have to leave any of it for her.  If there had been any room in Santana’s brain to think of anything other than food, she probably would have felt guilty at the thought.

Eating was satisfying but exhausting work, and by the end of the meal Santana felt her eyelids already drooping.  She moved the plate, clean of every last crumb, to the floor just underneath the cot so that it was out of the way.  Laying down and tucking her legs close to her body, she felt a wave of cold course over her as if all her limited energy was drawing away from her extremities and concentrating inwards, toward her very center.  She shivered and yawned.

Within seconds, Santana had plunged into a sleep so deep and blissful and dreamless that it was as close to death as she had ever been.

Kurt was thoroughly drenched with sweat, his knees and shins covered in streaks of dirt, and hunger was beginning to creep into his stomach again.  He and Jessica had finished planting several long rows of potatoes by early afternoon, and Kurt was thoroughly exhausted already. When Bruce announced that it was time for lunch, Kurt nearly cried in relief.  He wiped his forehead on the back of his arm, fairly certain that he’d just rubbed more dirt onto his face. He fell in line beside Jessica, herding along with the rest of the gardeners back toward the church.

As they walked, they passed dozens of people carrying white water buckets to various stations around the town.  A handful more stood washing loads of laundry by hand in large barrels full of soapy water, clotheslines strung up between the trees punctuating the sidewalks.  Many of the storefronts had been emptied, as Kurt had observed the day before, but as they got closer to the church he saw that several had been converted into apartments instead — large storefront windows revealed home furniture and lived-in space, rather than retail racks or cashier counters.

Only one building stood out from the rest, two blocks before they reached the church.  The entrance was a large door set above a few concrete stairs, where two guards armed with semi-automatics were stationed.  The sign above the door read HAMILTON ARMS COMPANY, with a logo of two crossed rifles.  One guard noticed Kurt staring, and his hand tightened on his gun.

“Is that the armory?” Kurt asked Jessica.

She nodded.

“Makes sense, having it in a gun shop.”  Kurt glanced one more time at the guards, then kept his gaze forward.  “Is it guarded all the time?”

“Yeah, twenty-four-seven.  Nick monitors gun usage pretty closely.  We can’t waste bullets and it’s not a good idea for everybody to be armed.”

“Smart,” Kurt said, making a note of the armory’s location in relation to the church.  His mental map of Nazareth was slowly becoming more and more clear.

This was the first time Kurt had approached the church from the rear.  On the grass directly behind the building were four large mismatched grills, manned by a handful of people cooking.  The grills looked like they’d been taken from the average suburban backyard, but were being used to prepare more than just meat — vegetables, bread, and various pots and pans sat on the coals.  The fragrance of food hung in the air around the church like a heavy mist, and Kurt found his stomach rumbling again.

The church was already half-full of people digging into their midday meals, and for a moment it almost felt like Kurt had just walked back into the NYADA cafeteria.  Dozens gathered at tables to eat and talk, laughter punctuating conversations and rising up to the vaulted ceiling. It was loud.  Kurt had honestly forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by so much noise.

He filled a plate with food from the table in the apse and sat with Jessica at a table off to the western side of the church, the afternoon sun casting little splashes of color across the table through the stained glass window overhead.

“Do you work in the gardens every day?” asked Kurt as he tore into a piece of bread.

“Most days,” Jessica replied through a half-chewed mouthful.  “I work on the aqueduct sometimes. It depends on what’s needed.”

It felt shockingly normal to be having a casual conversation over a meal in a room full of people, and Kurt’s shoulders relaxed as he settled into the comfort of being somewhere that, amazingly, felt safe.

“This aqueduct,” he asked, because he was genuinely curious, “how much further does it have to go before it’s finished?”

“It’s halfway.  I’m looking forward to it being done so we can free up some more hands to help with the crops.”  Jessica bit noisily into a carrot. “Most of the systems we have right now are temporary solutions until we get the aqueduct finished.  Once we get a steady water supply, we can worry about everything else.”

“Was that Nick’s decision?”

“Nick and the rest of the precinct, yeah.”

Kurt paused in thought.  “Mack and Javi — are they cops?”

“Yeah.  Well, former cops now, I guess.”

“What about Julie and Toby?”

“Julie was too,” Jessica nodded.  “Toby’s just a kid, though. All he could talk about before he graduated last year was joining the police academy.  He volunteered after half the police department died in the blackout.”

Kurt chewed silently for a moment.  “You lost a lot of people here, then?”

Jessica shrugged with one shoulder.  “No more than most places, I guess.” She moved the food around her plate idly with her fork, suddenly seeming reluctant to eat.  “What did New York look like when you left?”

Kurt watched her, knowing she was hoping for a chance — any chance — that her sister was okay.  “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Tell me,” she said, which didn’t really answer the question.

Taking perhaps a little too long to chew his last bite, Kurt decided not to tell her about the pack of hyenas that had escaped from the zoo.  “Food was gone within a week,” he said, clearing his throat. “There was a lot of looting. Dead people in the streets.”

“Do you think a lot of people made it?”

Kurt sighed, having nothing truthfully optimistic to report.  “I think if they could turn the entirety of Central Park into a farm like you’ve done here, they might have a chance.”

She was quiet, pushing the rest of her food around her plate with her fork.

“Jess, why don’t you go look for your sister?”

“I’ve thought about it.”  Jess shook her head, swallowing.  “But my mother is here, and she’s too old to travel.  Besides, haven’t you seen what we’re doing? This town is the best chance we have.”

“Well, why couldn’t you go find her and then come back?”

Jessica huffed, anger seeping into her voice.  “You really think Nick would let me back in the gate?”

Kurt paused in confusion.  “He wouldn’t?”

“You can’t contribute if you’re not here, and if you can’t contribute, you’re not a part of any of this.”

“That’s insane.  This is your home.”

Her eyes bore into Kurt’s.  “Kyle, you can’t be so naive to think that any of this is built from sentimentality.”

Kurt pulled on an overgrown lock of hair behind his ear, suddenly feeling like the people around him were eavesdropping.  He lowered his voice. “I know it’s about surviving,” he said. “I just don’t get how Nick really expects this whole join-or-die strategy to work.  I mean, there must be people who aren’t on board with all this.”

“That’s not his strategy,” said Jess bluntly.

“What?”

She put her fork down and leaned forward conspiratorially.  “If they ran into you and just invited you to join, would you?”

“No.”

“Of course not.  Nick’s aim is to get you inside, and make you see how much we have to offer.  Protection, resources, expertise, jobs .  You won’t make it out there.  And even if you do make it back home, what the hell are you even going to do? ”

Kurt frowned, shaking his head.  “That’s not the point.”

“Yes, it is.  I don’t agree with the method any more than you do, but this is the safest option.  It’s the only option.”

Over Jessica’s shoulder, Kurt saw the door to the church swing open, and Ennis and Nick walked in.  A skinny, dirty, shaking figure followed behind them, and the breath rushed from Kurt’s chest as he realized it was Dani.  She had said yes. While Kurt knew he would not be able to run over and greet her without arousing Nick’s suspicion of them, at the very least she wouldn’t be starving away in a cell in the meantime.

Jess twisted in her chair to follow his gaze, watching Dani sit at a table in the corner with Nick and Ennis.  “Look, Kyle,” she said as she turned her attention back to Kurt. “Nick doesn’t actually give two shits about you.”

“I know that.”

“No, I mean you specifically,” Jessica insisted.  She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “He’s using you to get to the girls.”

The pit of Kurt’s stomach dropped.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed there’s way more men here than women?”

Kurt swallowed, feeling sick.  To what fate had he subscribed them by his act of desperation?  “Is… is he keeping them somewhere?”

“What?” Jess blinked.  “No. No, I meant that when Nick and the rest of the precinct took over, a lot of people left town, and most of them were women.”

Kurt frowned, surveying the crowd of people enjoying their lunches.  Five out of six were men, and Kurt felt more profoundly aware of the ratio than ever before.  “Why?”

Jessica shrugged.  “I don’t know. I think overall women are less likely to put up with this martial law crap.”

“You’re still here.”

“I told you, my mother’s here.  I’m not leaving her. Otherwise…”  Jess didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Kurt watched Dani greedily attack a plate at Nick and Ennis’ table, hoping Santana would be able to hold out just a little longer in the cell.

“My point is that Nick wants your friends to join,” Jess continued.  “He’s not desperate for people — he’s desperate for women. His goal is to build a city, and you can’t do that if the population isn’t balanced.  If the girls hadn’t been with you, he’d have gotten rid of you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kurt had to ask.

Jess gave him a look that seemed to say oh, come on.  “Kyle, all due respect, but you don’t have anything to offer this place.  You don’t know how to hunt, or farm, or shoot.”

“Neither do my friends.”

“They can still contribute to the population.”

Kurt made a face at the thought.  “Well, the joke’s on Nick, because they’re together.”

Jess was unfazed.  “They can still have children.  You’re disposable. They’re not.”

Dani was out of breath as she finished her meal, having been more desperate for food than oxygen, and she sat back to slowly savor the large glass of water that Ennis had brought for her.  She wasn’t sure what their after-lunch plan for her was, but she was determined to make this last as long as possible.

“Can I ask something?” Dani said, making both Nick and Ennis look up from their own plates.

Nick raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Why are you so keen on people joining you?  You’ve already got hundreds of people here. Don’t you think that might be enough?”

Nick’s mouth twitched, and he combed his fingers through his beard.  “If we only had, say, twenty people? Wouldn’t have to worry. Small groups work well together; they communicate and share labor equally.  This many is too big to manage.”

Dani blinked, not sure of his meaning.  “So… you need more people because you have too many?”

“Delegation is the key to running a city.  And with a community this size, there is a massive amount of resources that need to be brought in, managed, and distributed.  We don’t have delivery trucks coming in every Monday any more, and most of the people here don’t have any skills that would lend to survival on their own.  Ultimately, cities are built on two things: labor and social cooperation. Those are what we need most.”

“And you just kill anybody who doesn’t agree with that?”  Dani was unable to entirely keep herself from sounding bitter.

Nick leaned back in his seat, draping one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap.  “People are panicky, aggressive animals when they’re frightened,” he said levelly. “You can’t expect that aggression to not go anywhere, and if you don’t give them something to target, they’ll end up taking it out on each other.  Nothing unites a group as quickly or efficiently as a common threat.”

Dani swallowed, the back of her neck prickling.  So it boiled down to propaganda. That’s what kept the fences up and the residents inside.  She supposed that the threat wasn’t entirely invented from nothing, but it was certainly exaggerated.

“Do you know what the population of Nazareth was before the blackout?” asked Nick.

Dani shook her head, unclear on how the question was relevant.

“We had almost five thousand people,” said Ennis.

“Seriously?” Dani asked, surprised.

“What you see isn’t the whole town,” Nick explained.  “We’ve cordoned off this neighborhood to house the people that are left.  You can’t manage people when they’re scattered over too big an area.”

“What’s the population now?”

“Just about three hundred.”

Dani paused.  “…You lost four and a half thousand people?”

Nick pulled his fingers through his hair.  “A lot of them died in the blackout. I mean, you’ve seen the damage it caused — cars crashed, elevators fell, airplanes…   We must have lost at least a thousand just that first night. Most of the injuries people got if they did survive weren’t treatable, and we started losing hundreds more a few days later.  And then the food and water ran out. People were killing each other over a box of crackers.”

He sniffed then, swallowing like he was fighting the urge to cry.  Dani wasn’t sure if it was a genuine display or just an act to earn her sympathy.

“Ennis and I, we convinced the rest of the precinct that we had to keep order.  Set up new systems with new rules. Most people chose not to stay.”

Dani glanced at Ennis, but he didn’t seem to have anything to add, instead solemnly listening to Nick’s speech.  “How many people have died since you took over?” she asked.

“Just a few,” Nick answered, and it did sound honest.  “Sickness or injury, mostly. People work together now — we’re setting up farming stations, we’ve got an aqueduct halfway to completion from the nearest river, we’ve got a couple dozen people who know how to hunt… People need jobs to do and rules to follow so they don’t go crazy.  Organization is the key to survival.”

Dani sighed, reluctantly agreeing with Nick’s final point.  “That makes a lot of sense.” At the very least, Nick’s philosophy explained why his plan was effective.  Dani looked around the room, her heart skipping when she spotted Kurt several tables away. He was talking with a brunette who had her back to Dani, and even though it had only been a day since she’d seen him, Kurt already looked much better.  At the very least, he was cleaner, and the circles underneath his eyes weren’t so prominent.  

Before she realized it, Dani found herself wondering whether staying here really would be the worst thing.  Protection, food, water, a roof and a bed… all things that she hadn’t even thought about losing until just over a month ago.  She didn’t take them lightly anymore.

An image flickered in the back of her head of Rachel lying curled and cold at the base of the birch tree, and Dani felt sick.  She could chastise Nick and Ennis all she wanted for their brutal approach to strangers, but it wouldn’t change the fact that they were already surviving better than anyone else.  It was safety versus sentiment, and Dani wasn’t certain any longer of which was more important.

The next morning seeped into the town slowly, sticky and humid and oozing into every crack in the pavement without so much as a breeze for relief.  A few low-hanging clouds provided momentary shade, but Dani still found herself sweating profusely as she worked. Her first assignment was hard labor, building the aqueduct that stretched southward from the river.  She’d marched with the other workers nearly a half mile outside the gate to where the aqueduct sat unfinished. Worry tugged at the back of her head — she hadn’t seen Kurt since mealtime at the church the day before, and wasn’t sure where he was today.

The aqueduct was a far cry from the Roman aqueducts of old, with their high grand arches and perfectly laid stones.  Instead, what Nazareth was building was a structure only a couple of feet off the ground, made of salvaged lumber and PVC pipe. To Dani, who admittedly had limited engineering and plumbing experience, it looked like clumsy work by an undertrained contractor.  But at the end of the day it didn’t need to look impressive; it simply needed to function.

Flies buzzed and the air was stifling, filled with the banging of hammers and rasping of saws.  A man in his forties named Jason was acting as a foreman of sorts, directing the builders as he worked alongside them.  Nearby, a steady stream of dozens lugging water buckets flowed past the worksite, following the same path as the aqueduct itself from the river all the way back to town.  The water carriers looked like an unbroken line of ants, bringing resources home to the colony before going back for more.

It had not escaped Dani’s attention that the aqueduct worksite was unguarded.  Unlike the area inside the Nazareth fence, there were no armed gunmen patrolling here and no barbed wire to keep the workers penned in.  Neither were the water carriers guarded, and it occurred to Dani more than once that it would be all too easy to run and not be caught. But if she ran now, she’d be leaving Kurt and Santana behind, and after having been fed, clothed, and given a bed Dani wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to leave at all.

She was in the middle of hammering a wood plank into place when Jason called for a water break.  She quickly finished, then sat down to rest on the edge of the nearest lumber pile, wiping the sweat from the back of her neck.  A handful of water carriers broke from the line, and Jason passed out empty cups. Dani closed her eyes against the sun, relishing in the blinding light despite the heat and humidity.  After so many days in the cell, she’d not realized how much she missed sunlight.

“Dani.”

Her eyes snapped open.  Kurt was standing in front of her with a water bucket at his feet.

“Kurt,” she said without thinking, her heart leaping.

“Shh,” Kurt hissed under his breath.  “Here. Drink up.” He held out a water cup.

Dani finished its contents in only a few gulps, eyeing the other people taking their water breaks and trying to figure out if they were being watched.  Kurt gave her a refill, then filled his own cup.

“Are you okay?” Dani asked.

Kurt shrugged.  “My arms are pretty sore from water duty,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the ant line.  “Other than that, I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

Kurt stared into the bottom of his cup.  “We need to make a run for it.”

Dani blanched.  “What, now?”

“Of course not,” Kurt made a face, finishing off his water.  “No, if we go now we’ll never get Santana back. Later.”

Dani sighed, tugging at the split ends of her freshly-cleaned hair.  “Kurt, how the hell are we supposed to do that? All the gates are guarded.  And even if they weren’t, we’d never be able to climb them. At least, not without shredding ourselves on the barbed wire.”

Kurt squinted in the sun at the dozens of workers milling around, checking to see if anyone was listening.  “Do you think there’s any chance Santana will say yes?”

“No, I don’t,” Dani replied softly.

“Then we need to find a weak spot.  Fast.”

“How are we going to get her out of the police station?”

Kurt scratched at the underside of his jaw, his stubble rasping.  “We need a distraction.”

Dani swallowed, her throat dry and sweat dripping from her temple.  “We need more than that, Kurt,” she said solemnly. “Santana’s starving.  It’s one thing for her to sit in a cell and do nothing, but if she tries to run with us, she’ll pass out.  Or worse.”

Kurt was silent for several seconds.  “I know,” he eventually replied. “Any ideas?”

Dani shook her head.

“Ennis is going to take me hunting later.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never shot a gun before.  I need to learn.”

Dani was quiet for a while, watching the other workers rest and drink.  “Kurt, are you sure that running away is a good idea?” she finally asked.

Kurt stared at her.  “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you think it might be safest to stay here a while longer?  Convince Santana to join? Nick might let me back in the station to talk to her.”

She saw Kurt’s jaw twitch.

“I mean, they have resources, Kurt.  They have food and they’re organized.  That shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

Kurt fist tightened at his side, and then Jason called for the end of the break.  The workers began to stand back up and stretch. Kurt clamped the lid back onto his water bucket.  “I know you don’t have a family, Dani,” he said quietly. “Santana and I are leaving regardless of what you choose to do.”

Dani swallowed, fighting the sudden urge to cry.

“But when we leave, Nick is going to know that all three of us lied.  And if you stay, they very well might kill you for that.”

Kurt stood there for a moment, waiting for Dani to respond, but she didn’t have anything to say.  He hefted the bucket back off the ground and went to rejoin the line, only saying “I’ll see you later.”

Dani stood, wiping the sweat from the back of her neck with her palm, and got back to work with her heart thudding loudly against her ribs.

Kurt sat crouched on the side of a steep hill, shaded by trees and listening to the chitters and melodies of birds overhead.  Even under the canopy of the woods the summer heat was stifling, and sweat dripped down his spine and soaked through the back of his shirt.  He sat with his feet half-buried in the dead leaves and pine needles carpeting the forest floor, Ennis sitting to his left and Julie to his right.  Of the three, Kurt was the only one without a gun. Neither Ennis nor Julie seemed comfortable giving him a gun just yet, and so both of them sat with their rifles laid across their knees and out of Kurt’s immediate reach.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there, but Kurt was already bored out of his mind.  They were probably three miles from Nazareth and at least a mile from the nearest road. Kurt hadn’t been this far from pavement since his dad had tried to take him camping when he was thirteen, and the thought of potentially being lost in the woods made his stomach twist into knots.  As much as he hated Ennis, Kurt was at least confident that Ennis knew the way back.

A small click made Kurt look to his right.  Julie had opened a tiny makeup mirror from her pocket along with a pair of tweezers and was plucking her eyebrows, her elbows resting on her gun.

“What?” she asked in irritation when she saw him looking.

“Nothing,” Kurt said.  “You really care that much?  I mean, with everything else that’s going on?”

“So just because the world went to shit, that means I have to look like Frida Kahlo?”

Kurt almost laughed at that.  “I guess not.”

“Would you two shut the hell up?” Ennis snapped.  “Nothing’ll come near us if it can hear you from a mile away.”

Kurt shifted, stretching a cramp out of his leg.  “What exactly are we waiting for anyways?”

“Anything,” Ennis replied helpfully.

Kurt couldn’t suppress a roll of his eyes.

Ennis huffed a breath through his nostrils.  “Deer, mostly. They’re common in this area, and they go by this particular spot pretty often.”

“Squirrels will do in a pinch,” added Julie.

Kurt stared at her in horror, truly unsure whether she was joking.

Ennis smirked.  “Afraid of eating a little rodent?”

“Well, I—” Kurt stammered, wondering if he’d already eaten squirrel at the church without knowing. “I don’t know.  Just seems gross.”

Ennis shrugged, seeming more amused than anything at Kurt’s squeamishness.  “It’s worked for rural Appalachia for centuries. You eat what you can catch.”

“I guess.”  Kurt still shuddered at the thought.  He missed his Julia Child cookbook. He missed all of his old comfort foods, his smoothie blender and salad spinner.  He missed his microwave. All the pleasures of first-world home cooking seemed like not much more than a fleeting memory.

Ennis’ voice took on a more somber tone, and he said, “You’d best get over that soon if you want to live a while longer.  You eat what you get, that’s that. Or you don’t make it long term.”

“You’re right,” said Kurt.

“Honestly, it’s a wonder you even made it this far.”

Kurt frowned at that.  “Excuse me?”

Ennis gave a short, hollow chuckle.  “Oh come on, kid. You worked for Vogue.  You probably spent your free time ordering fancy coffees and making sure your iPhone was the latest model.  You have no skills that will serve you in this kind of world, and the fact that you’re still alive is just a fluke.”

“Are you saying I deserve to die because I don’t know anything about hunting?” retorted Kurt, the hair on his neck bristling.

“I’m saying that if you want people to provide for you for the rest of your life, then your life’s going to be very short.”

“I don’t want people to provide for me.”

“Then, son, you’d better learn fast.”

Kurt’s jaw clacked shut and he fell silent.  Neither Julie nor Ennis said anything more, and the air was once again filled with chirps and songs from the birds flitting between the trees above.  A soft breeze finally blew through the woods, the first breath of wind since yesterday. The leaves whispered overhead. The trees creaked. Abruptly Kurt’s nose caught a whiff of decay — something had died not too far away.  A chipmunk skittered across the forest floor a few yards to Kurt’s left, then disappeared down a tiny hole at the base of a maple.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but Kurt was fighting off another cramp in his foot by the time Ennis perked up, his hands tightening around the shotgun.  “Hear that?” Ennis said under his breath.

Kurt listened, and with a little strain his ears picked up an odd half-screech half-yelp, coming from somewhere to the right behind the trees.  It was quickly followed by a series of chirping warbles, and then another screech.

Julie smiled for the first time since Kurt had met her.  “Turkeys!” she whispered excitedly.

Ennis shushed her, then without warning pressed his shotgun into Kurt’s hands.  “Now’s your chance, kiddo,” he hissed.

Kurt’s heart skipped.  He’d never held a gun before, and certainly not one as large as this.  The metal was surprisingly warm, having been sitting in Ennis’ lap for hours, and the gun was heavier than Kurt had expected.  It felt like something he shouldn’t have touched.

“First lesson,” Ennis said, still keeping his voice low.  “Never aim at something you don’t want to shoot.”

Julie had already stood and moved to the nearest tree, bracing herself against it and aiming in the direction of the flock, whose calls were gradually growing louder.  Kurt quickly followed suit, leaning on an oak two yards down the slope from where he’d been sitting. Ennis crouched behind him. They could see the wild turkeys now, a flock of fifteen or so ambling gracelessly through the carpet of leaf litter, pecking at the ground as they went.  They chirruped at each other, so far seeming unaware of the hunters’ presence. The majority were hens, with a handful of juveniles and one hulking male, his tail feathers constantly flaring behind him and his wrinkled wattle dangling from his neck. The male gobbled irritatedly and ruffled his wings in warning when a chick got too close to him.

Kurt awkwardly lifted the rifle, his arms already straining to hold it steady, and braced it against his shoulder.

Ennis shook his head, correcting Kurt’s grip until the butt of the gun was solidly below his collarbone.  He reached around Kurt and flicked a tiny switch on the side of the rifle near Kurt’s trigger finger. “Safety’s off.  Aim with both eyes open,” Ennis said. “And watch for the kick.”

The big turkey bobbed his tiny head, pecking at an acorn.  Kurt let out a long, slow, shaky breath, staring down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

In half a second, Kurt was punched backwards and fell on top of Ennis, both of them slamming into the hillside.  There was a clamor of terrified screeches from the turkeys, followed by several quick gunshots from Julie.

“Ow!” Kurt yelped, clutching at his chest.

Ennis laughed, pushing Kurt off him and taking the gun back.  He switched the safety back on. “Kick a little too much for you?”

The turkeys had all fled into the brush by the time Kurt managed to pull himself back to his feet, already feeling a bruise forming.  Two dead birds had been left behind, sprawled on the forest floor with their necks and legs akimbo.

“Did I hit anything?” asked Kurt, wincing.

Ennis shook his head.  “Nah, you didn’t hit shit.  But hey, nobody hits anything the first time they use a gun.”

Once Julie had retrieved her kills, the three of them began to hike back towards town.  The breeze had been short-lived and the air was once again thick with humidity. Since the gunshots, the woods had gone quiet, birds silent and hiding in the branches until they were sure the threat had gone.  Eventually, they made it back to the road. Out of the forest cover, direct sunlight washed over them again, and within minutes Kurt already felt as though he was getting sunburned.

“Oh, hey, before I forget,” said Ennis as they walked.  He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out something small and folded.  “Nick wanted me to give this back to you.”

Kurt took it, realizing with a leap of his heart that it was the photograph he’d taken from Rachel’s hand.  It was more wrinkled now, but at least he had it back. He had assumed that Nick had thrown it away when he’d gone through their bags.  “Thank you,” he said, tucking it into his own pocket.

“Who is she?  Family?”

“Just a friend,” Kurt answered truthfully.

Ennis frowned.  “And you keep a photo of her?”

“She was a good friend.”  Kurt’s voice was tight. He didn’t want to talk about this with Ennis.

Ennis noticed Kurt’s use of the past tense, and nodded.  “Sorry for your loss,” he said, and didn’t press the issue further.

“So… the other girl who was with me,” Kurt started, changing the subject and hoping to use this opportunity to suss out a bit more information from Ennis.  “The one who hasn’t said yes yet.”

“What about her?”

“I’m just curious about the process.  How much longer are you giving her? Seems like after a while it’d be more effort to keep her than get rid of her,” Kurt said, hoping his tone was casual enough.  It was possible that, after what Jessica had said about Nick needing more women to balance out the population, they were giving Santana more time than they would have given a man, and Kurt wanted to know exactly how long they had to come up with an escape plan.

“That’s up to Nick,” said Ennis.  “I don’t imagine it’s going to be much longer, though.  She seemed like she was in pretty bad shape when I gave her a sandwich yesterday.”

Kurt blinked at that.  “You gave her food?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?  I thought starving her out was the strategy.”

“It is,” Ennis said.  He shrugged. “But you take someone’s food away for long enough, and the body kind of just goes to sleep.  Eventually, they stop feeling hungry. Giving them a single bite or two wakes up the stomach. Makes it hurt.”

“That’s cruel,” Kurt couldn’t stop himself from blurting out.

“It’s effective.”

Shuddering, Kurt wondered how Ennis knew that in the first place.  He didn’t say anything more, knowing there was nothing he could do to help Santana at this particular moment.  He just hoped she could last long enough.

DAY 37

The following day was even more humid than before, but it was colder as well, which provided some small relief.  The morning began with only a few clouds hanging low and heavy, but by mid-afternoon the entire sky was covered. Kurt couldn’t tell if it would rain or not, but it was nice to get a break from working in the sun.  He’d been assigned to the gardens again today, and so spent his time wrist-deep in the dirt alongside Jessica, his arms still sore from carrying water the day before, and his chest still slightly bruised from hunting.  (He was pretty sure that firing one shot and missing didn’t exactly qualify as hunting, but he didn’t know what else to call it.)

By the time he and Jessica finished their work for the day, it was almost chilly.  A bank of fog had descended on Nazareth, turning even the trees to shades of grey. The edges of the town faded into the mist, its residents meandering through the streets like ghosts.  There was still nearly an hour of daylight left, but beneath the fog it was already growing dark. Before they went into the church for dinner, Kurt and Jessica stayed outside to have a quick rinse at the shower stations.

Jessica yelped when the water splashed onto her shoulders, and all of Kurt’s muscles went rigid as he let it pour down his back.  The cool air and even colder water left Kurt feeling frigid and hyper-alert, like he’d just been electrocuted. His teeth chattered as he pulled his shirt back on, shaking the droplets from his hair.

“Jesus,” Jessica said through her teeth, rubbing her arms to warm back up.  “Winter’s going to suck.”

“I imagine there’ll be a way to heat up the water by then,” said Kurt.  He shivered, his gaze scanning what little of the town was visible. The fog was slowly growing thicker, the last inkling of sunlight turning the mist overhead a deep blue.  Kurt sighed, feeling the damp in his lungs. “Dinner?” he asked Jess.

“You go on in,” she replied, wringing the water from her ponytail.  “I’m going to go get my mom. Meet you inside.”

Once Jess had left, Kurt stood there in the chill for a few minutes, actually enjoying the quiet.  He could hear people inside the church, but it was muffled and far-off. He watched people slowly trickle toward the church from various work stations around town: gardeners with their soil-marked hands, builders stomping sawdust off their boots, water carriers delivering the last gallons for the day and piling the empty buckets alongside the outer church wall.  The guards from the fence were in the middle of a shift change, handing off their guns to their replacements before heading into the church for supper.

Javi was just leaving his sentry position at the gate and stopped when he saw Kurt standing by the church steps, frowning suspiciously.  “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for Jessica to get back,” Kurt answered evenly.

“You’re not hungry?”

Kurt shrugged.  “Not enough to start without her.  I guess I have manners.”

Javi snorted at that.  “All right, fine. See you later.”

Kurt rolled his eyes as Javi brushed past him and went inside.  It had been almost entirely a lie.  While it was true that Kurt wasn’t starving enough to rush the food table just yet, he didn’t care if Jess ate with him or not.  He just wanted Javi off his back.

Somewhere behind him and to his left, a familiar voice carried through the mist from close by, and Kurt turned to see Dani in the outdoor kitchen on the lawn at the rear of the church.  The cooks were just finishing up the last batches of food and were beginning to shut down the grills. So this was where Dani had been assigned, co-opted into a full day of food prep.  No wonder he hadn’t seen her since yesterday.

A whiff of smoke drifted into his nostrils, and suddenly a tiny spark of realization ignited in Kurt’s mind.

The fog.  He could barely see more than a block away, and sounds were deadened and short-lived.  People had been reduced to ill-defined dark shapes, impossible to recognize from a distance.  And as the sun went down, the fog was only getting heavier.

Kurt took a deep breath, his pulse pounding.  He turned on his heel, walking beneath the shadow of the church to where Dani was finishing up her day’s work.

“Psst!”

Dani’s head jerked up from where she was scooping a pile of roasted potatoes into a serving tray.  The last cook she’d been working with was just going inside through the back door, no doubt expecting Dani to follow behind her in a moment.  Kurt knew they didn’t have long, and so did Dani. She glanced at the door to make sure it wasn’t about to open back up again, then took a few quick strides over to Kurt.

“Dani, we need to go.  Now.”

“What?”  She blanched, her eyes wide.

“While the fog lasts,” Kurt insisted.  “Before curfew.”

Dani swallowed, staring into the mist.  The buildings further away were already disappearing into the dark as the night crept closer.

“Dani,” Kurt pressed, his palms sweating.  “We’re not going to get another chance like this.”

She drew a deep, slow inhale, her voice trembling only slightly.  “Okay,” she said. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“We need that distraction.”

Dani nodded, pursing her lips.  “What do you have in mind?”

“Start a fire?” was Kurt’s only suggestion.

“With what?” Dani asked.  She gestured vaguely to the water vapor clogging the air.  “Everything’s damp right now. Nothing would light.”

Kurt swore under his breath.  Dani was right. He desperately ran through the map of Nazareth in his head, searching for a weakness — any weakness.  There were no gaps in the barbed wire he’d been able to find, no points where the chain links were damaged. Perhaps one of the cars barricading the fence was obscuring a hole somewhere?  He quickly disposed of the idea; even on the off chance he was right, it would take far too long to search the entire perimeter. He wondered instead if there was any way to use the cars to boost themselves over the fence — a truck, maybe, or another taller vehicle that would get them high enough.  Of course, they’d still have the barbed wire to contend with, but it was a start.

Abruptly, his mind focused not on the fence, but on the cars.  The cars!   There had to be at least a dozen vehicles for each section of the perimeter.  He only needed one or two. Three, tops.

“I have an idea,” he said.

A savage smile crept across Kurt’s face.  There was one skill that Nick hadn’t realized Kurt had — and in truth, Kurt himself had forgotten about it until now.  All other talents aside, Kurt was the son of a mechanic, and he knew how to siphon gasoline.

Chapter Text

“Kurt, someone’s going to notice you carrying cans of gasoline,” Dani countered the moment Kurt had outlined his plan.

“I’m going to use the water buckets.  No one’ll bat an eye.”

Dani didn’t look like she believed him, but she didn’t argue any further.  In any case, what other choice was there? “How are we going to do this?” she asked instead.

Kurt looked up, at the church steeple looming overhead with its very top obscured in the mist.  “We have to burn the church.”

“What?!” Dani was incredulous, vigorously shaking her head.  “Kurt, are you crazy? There’s a lot of people in there.  No. Absolutely not.”

Kurt did not reconsider.  “Listen. We’ll start the fire in the back, near the kitchen and away from the front door.  Everybody inside will be able to get out, but the fire will be big enough to draw the whole town.”

Dani stared at him, listening to the muffled clamor of the dozens of people eating and talking inside.  

“It’s our best option, Dani,” Kurt pressed.  “The fire has to be big.”

Dani let out a long breath, closing her eyes for a moment.  “Okay. Okay, let’s do it. Before they figure out I’m not there.”

Kurt swore under his breath, having forgotten that there were people expecting him inside as well.  He’d told Javi he was waiting for Jessica, and if she walked in without him, Javi would probably realize that something was up.  They had to move fast.

“Any ideas for getting over the fence?” he asked.

“We can’t climb it,” Dani replied.  “We need to go through the gate. Out the front door.”

Kurt nodded in agreement.  Even if somehow he and Dani managed to scale the fence and scramble through the barbed wire without getting shot by the guards, he knew Santana wouldn’t be able to do the same.  “It’ll have to be a hell of a fire.”

“Yeah.”

“They could double down the guards on the gate.”

“We might have to hope for the best on that one.”

Kurt was quiet for a moment, scanning the few buildings still visible through the fog.  “Wait a sec,” he said quietly, gears spinning in his head as his plan morphed into something new.  “I have a better idea.”

“I’m all ears,” urged Dani.

“We don’t need a big fire.  We just need a loud one.”  Kurt grinned, his eyes glinting even in the shadows.  This plan would work. He was certain. “We burn the armory instead.”

Dani blinked in surprise.  “What about the guards?” was her only question.

“I’ll improvise.”  Kurt knew there was no time to come up with a strategy for the guards now.  They had already wasted enough time talking.

“I’ll get some food to bring with us,” Dani said.  “I saw where they keep their inventory today. Our bags are there.”

Kurt nodded.  “Okay. Good. Meet me at the corner across from the armory afterward.”

Dani pulled away from him and faded into the fog without another word.  Kurt breathed deeply, feeling the wet air pressing against his ribs from the inside, and struggled to keep his heart from leaping into his throat.  The evening was already closing in.

Taking a moment to scan the area surrounding the church to make sure there was no one within eyesight, Kurt snatched two of the white lidded buckets from where they were stacked on the grass along the church’s outer wall, waiting for tomorrow’s crew to put them to use again.  Kurt wished he could carry more than two, but he knew that a pair would be heavy enough as it was.

He peered around the corner of the building to make sure that there was no one still filtering into the church for dinner — the doors were shut.  Apart from the sentries at the town perimeter, everyone had already gone inside.  The din of the crowd eating and talking and laughing was suppressed by the walls, but Kurt knew it was loud enough that nobody would hear his next step.

Approaching the bathing stations on the other side of the church with his pulse pounding in his ears, Kurt ripped the hose out of the first shower rig, and then did the same with the second.  The water poured from the overhead buckets, splashing into the grass and creating muddy puddles. Kurt quickly curled both hose segments into one of his buckets, snapping the lid closed to hide them.  He waited for a moment, lurking in the shadows to make sure that nobody was coming to investigate the noise, then stashed his buckets by the church stairs and went inside.

The interior of the church at night was kept as bright as possible by lanterns and candles too numerous to count, but was still dim and crowded enough that Kurt was able to slip through relatively unnoticed.  He scanned the crowd, seeing Nick and Ennis sitting at their usual table in the corner, Javi and Julie eating with them. Finally, Kurt spotted Jessica and an elderly woman sitting at a table towards the back.

“Hey,” said Jess with a smile when he approached.  “I was wondering where you got to.”

Kurt leaned in close to Jess’s ear, speaking just loud enough for her to hear him over the white noise filling the church hall.  “Take your mom home,” he urged. “We’re getting out of here.”

Jessica stared at him solemnly for a moment, her expression unreadable in the lantern light.  “What are you going to do?”

“Something crazy,” Kurt replied.  “I don’t want you or your mom getting hurt.”

“Kyle, what are you going to do?”

Kurt paused, suddenly unsure of whether he should have said anything in the first place.  Maybe she was about to run and tell Nick what his plan was.

Jessica’s mother happily chewed a slice of potato, announcing “I think I’ll watch Jeopardy tonight.  Alex Trebek is just so handsome.”

“Kyle,” Jess prodded him.

“We’re going to start a fire,” he said.

She was quiet, staring at him as if trying to decipher exactly how serious he was.

“Can we watch TV now?” asked her mother.

“No, Mom.”  Jessica inhaled slowly, her fingers twitching on the table, then she reached into her pocket.  Pulling out a small object, she pressed it into Kurt’s hand. “Good luck,” she said.

Kurt looked down at his palm.  It was her book of matches. “Come with us,” he blurted out.  “You can still get out.”

Jess shook her head.  “I told you, I’m not leaving her.”

There was no time to argue.  “Okay,” said Kurt. “Take her home.  Now.”

Without waiting for them, he turned and slipped back out of the church, praying that nobody had noticed he hadn’t eaten anything while he was there.  He tucked the matches into his own pocket, snatched the buckets from where he’d left them by the steps, and darted across the square to the block beyond.

He almost passed the laundry stations lining this street before he remembered that he needed one more thing.  Since the entire day had been cool and humid and was now wetter than ever, the laundry from that afternoon was hanging on the clotheslines between the trees on the sidewalks, still too damp to be worn.  Good. Damp was better. Kurt snatched someone’s undershirt from the line, letting it sit in a wet ball on top of one of the bucket lids as he continued along the street.

The fog was thick, but not thick enough to entirely conceal him.  He still had to be careful, and as he finally reached the barricade, he had to quickly pause and duck behind the corner of the nearest building so as to not let the nearest guard spot him.  The sentry stood quietly atop an old pickup truck, yawning with his rifle hanging slack at his side. The shifts had only changed recently and this particular guard had not been there for more than fifteen minutes, but he was already bored and barely paying attention.  There wasn’t much to see, anyways. Beyond the fence was an empty, foggy void, and the guard didn’t seem concerned at all about threats from inside.

Kurt scanned the barricade, searching for the next guard stationed further down the fence, but it was too dark and too misty to make out even a silhouette.  Okay. This was it. Kurt skirted around the corner of the building, then crept into the open and raced as quickly and quietly as he could across the dew-laden grass and garden plots.  Pausing briefly in the shadow of the barricade to make sure the guard hadn’t heard him, Kurt moved further away, putting as much distance between himself and the guard as he could. When he was able to just make out the amorphous shape of the next sentry down the fence, Kurt stopped.  He knelt in front of a grey sedan with two flat tires. Setting one bucket to the side, he pulled the lid off the other and removed the pair of garden hose segments, then opened the sedan’s fuel cap.

Dad always said this would come in handy someday, Kurt thought to himself, and almost laughed out loud as he pushed both hoses into the tank with a practiced ease.  He wedged the wet tank top into the gaps between the hoses, effectively sealing the hole, then allowed one hose to dangle into the open bucket.  

Putting the other hose into his mouth, Kurt blew as hard as he could into the tank.  Gasoline flowed through the first hose, splashing into the bucket and releasing a cloud of fumes.  Kurt pinched his nose to suppress a cough, watching the guards to see if they’d heard him. Neither moved.  Kurt drew a deep breath and blew into the tank again, forcing more gas out while he kept the end of the hose submerged so as to prevent any more loud splashes.  Gradually and quietly, the bucket filled.

Five gallons.  That was the maximum capacity of each bucket.  The fuel tank for a car like the one Kurt was currently robbing was roughly twelve gallons, but he was only able to fill one bucket before the hose sputtered and the gas flow stopped.  Kurt was disappointed but unsurprised; finding a car with a completely full tank would have been a long shot.

He clamped the lid back onto the first bucket, then moved down to the next vehicle — a broken-windowed small pickup — and repeated the process of inserting the hoses into the truck’s tank.  Blowing hard into the hose, the gasoline splashed again into the empty base of the second bucket. This time, the guard down the fence to Kurt’s right stood alert, his head turning in Kurt’s direction.

Kurt quickly ducked between the pickup and the sedan, holding his breath and praying the sentry wouldn’t investigate.  The hoses dangled from the filler pipe, the buckets resting as close to the truck as possible. Kurt didn’t think either sentry had a chance of seeing him or any of his tools, but if they’d heard him and came to investigate… that would be a problem.

It was silent apart from Kurt’s pulse pounding his eardrums, until the guard called to his colleague.  “Hey, Shawn!”

“Yeah, bud?”

“I think I heard something.”

Shawn’s reply was through a yawn.  “Like what?”

The unnamed guard paused, scanning his surroundings and looking for anything amiss.  “Not sure.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Shawn called back.

“I think it came from out there.”

“Probably just a raccoon or something, then.”

Kurt felt a small wave of relief ripple through him.  The fog was interfering with sound, suppressing it and confusing its direction.  He exhaled slowly and waited.

“Should I go take a look?”

Shawn snorted.  “Dude, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t know, Nick would—”

“Nick is paranoid and you know it.  Relax.”

Kurt smiled in the dark.  Shawn’s laziness was the deciding factor.  The unnamed guard hummed in his throat, but stayed where he was.  Kurt waited a minute or two, then crept back out to finish his task.

Again, he kept the mouth of the second hose below the gasoline surface while he blew into the first, keeping it silent as the bucket filled.  This truck had a much bigger tank than the sedan, and thankfully did not run dry. Kurt let the bucket fill to its limit, then clamped the lid down and sealed it.  He stood and heaved both pails up, straining from the new weight, and walked as quietly as possible away from the barricade. He left the hoses and undershirt jammed into the truck’s filler pipe, not bothering to dispose of the evidence.  If this plan worked, then by the time it was found they’d already be gone. And if it didn’t work, then, well, they’d be dead anyways.

The streets were entirely empty and shrouded in mist, and Kurt felt like a ghost in limbo as he fumbled his way through the town back toward the armory.  By the time he’d made it only a few blocks, his arms felt about ready to rip from his shoulders. Gasoline was lighter than water, but was still plenty heavy enough to make Kurt’s muscles burn with the effort.

He found Dani waiting for him in the agreed spot near the armory, hiding in the doorway of what used to be a coffee shop.  She had one backpack over her shoulder and the other at her feet. “You got it?”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Kurt retorted, trying to catch his breath.

Dani chewed on her lip, her eyes black in the fog as she looked toward the armory, where two shadowy figures stood guard at the door.  The white-lettered sign overhead reading HAMILTON ARMS COMPANY was just barely legible.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to do this?” Dani asked.  “You don’t know how to use a gun.”

Kurt squinted through the fog, trying to see if he could tell who the armory guards were from this distance.  “I know where the safety is and I know how to pull the trigger. That’s all we need for this.”

“Kurt, this is risky.”

“I know,” Kurt sighed.  “But we’re out of time.”

Dani didn’t say anything, and a bead of sweat dripped down her temple.

Kurt gently gripped her arm.  “Dani, I know they look organized,” he said.  “But Nick’s been controlling this place for less than two months.  I doubt anyone’s going to stand up for him besides Ennis.”

“Okay, but Ennis is still pretty scary,” said Dani nervously.  “And they have guns.”

“In a minute, so will we.”  Kurt spoke confidently, refusing to leave any room for doubt or even the possibility of error.  “Can you handle all this stuff? It’ll look weird if I’m carrying anything.”

Dani nodded, looking like she was about to vomit.  “Yeah, I got them.”

“Okay, bring them to the alley in the back; I’ll open the door for you there.”

The fog pressed against Kurt’s clothes and skin as he approached the armory with his heart in his throat.  Mack and Toby were standing guard at the entrance, leaning against the railings on either side of the steps and looking just as bored as Shawn had been, if not more so.  Each of them had a rifle hanging from a strap hooked over their shoulders.

Kurt let out a breath.  It was now or never.

“Mack,” he said, striding towards them.  He held his spine rigid. “Nick needs you for something.”

Mack blinked, surprised at the deviation from the monotony of guard duty.  At the very least, he didn’t look suspicious. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but he’s over at the church.”

Mack frowned at that.  “He didn’t tell you?”

“Do I look like I’m part of the inner circle?” Kurt snapped quickly.  He hoped his voice wasn’t shaking. “He just said he had something to discuss and told me to cover your post.”

Mack blinked again, and this time he did look suspicious.  “Seriously? You haven’t been on guard duty before.”

Kurt summoned the resolve to maintain his lie.  “It’s standing in front of a door with a gun. It’s not rocket science.  Besides, Nick said it would take like fifteen minutes, and then you’d be back.”

Mack finally shrugged, glancing over to Toby.  “You got this?”

Toby nodded through a yawn.  “Yeah, we’re good.”

Mack stepped down from his position, handing the rifle over to Kurt, and headed off in the direction of the church.  Kurt slung the gun strap over his shoulder, taking Mack’s place opposite Toby. His heart was racing now, and he felt adrenaline coursing through his veins as he waited for Mack to vanish into the fog.

Toby didn’t try to make small talk, and it was silent for several seconds.  Any other sounds that might have floated their way from other parts of town were muffled in the mist.  It was so quiet and still that Kurt feared Toby could hear his heartbeat.

Kurt drew a breath, steadying himself.  The gun felt heavy and unwieldy in his hands.

And then he gritted his teeth, and swung the rifle up to aim directly at Toby’s head.  Toby blanched, reaching for his gun, but his startled hesitation gave Kurt the extra time he needed to switch off the safety with an audible click.

“You make one move,” Kurt said lowly, staring down the barrel of the gun, “and I will shoot you.”

Toby obeyed, frozen to the spot.  He didn’t raise his gun, instead lifting his hands open-palmed.  “O-Okay,” he said. He was shaking. He probably knew that Kurt wasn’t a great shot, but at such a small distance and with so powerful a gun, even Kurt couldn’t miss.

“Open the door,” Kurt ordered.

Silently, his hand trembling, Toby reached behind himself and twisted the handle.  The door swung open without so much as a squeak of its hinges.

“Inside.  Now.”

Toby stepped inside carefully, as though he was expecting the floor to disappear from beneath him.  Kurt followed him in, letting the door swing shut and locking it behind them.

“Drop your gun.”

Toby let his gun clatter to the ground, and Kurt kicked it away, skidding it along the concrete floor.

“Please—” Toby started.

“Shut up,” Kurt snapped, jabbing the nose of the rifle between Toby’s shoulder blades.  Toby flinched. “Sorry about this.”

“Wha—”

Before Toby could even finish the word, Kurt rammed the butt of the rifle into the back of his skull with a solid crack.  Toby immediately crashed to the floor with limbs akimbo.

Kurt let out a slow breath, flicking the safety of his gun back on.  He set the rifle to lean against the door. No going back now.

Taking only the briefest of seconds to push a sudden surge of panic to the back of his mind, Kurt went to the back door of the gun shop, unlocking the deadbolt from the inside and yanking it open.  Dani was waiting in the alleyway. Kurt ushered her in quickly, helping her carry in the sealed buckets while they left their backpacks on the ground outside the door.

“Whoa,” said Dani, setting one of the buckets down and staring at the walls upon walls of rifles, semi-automatics, and pistols.  One wall boasted a massive Jenga stack of ammunition boxes, and there were several shelves of police-grade weapons that had clearly been moved from the police station to the armory after the blackout.  “That’s a lot of guns.”

“Come on,” said Kurt, already struggling to heave Toby off the floor.  “Help me.”

Dani quickly grabbed Toby’s legs and together they carried him out the back door, dumping him on the ground in the alley before rushing back inside.

“Douse everything,” Kurt directed as he yanked the lids off the buckets.  Gasoline fumes poured into the air, making the insides of his nostrils burn.

“Do you have a preference?” asked Dani.

“For what?”

“For which ones we keep.”  She gestured to a wall of handguns.

Kurt shrugged.  “I guess whatever’s easy to bring with us?”

Dani selected two small pistols that could be wielded with one hand, and then quickly found the appropriate bullets from the display of ammunition boxes and loaded both, handing one to Kurt and shoving the other into the belt of her jeans.  Kurt did the same with his, trying to ignore the cold metal pressing against the bare skin of his hip.

“Okay.  Hurry.” He emptied the entire contents of one bucket into the middle of the floor, making himself and Dani cough as the fumes choked them both.

Dani pushed one display shelf from behind until it gave way, tipping over and dumping a pile of rifles onto the gasoline-covered floor with a loud crash.  Kurt took the second bucket and began to splash fuel over the walls, the checkout counter, the still-standing displays, and every gun he could possibly reach.  Dani began to grab boxes upon boxes of ammunition from the wall behind the counter, tossing them onto the pile and scattering bullets across the floor. For a minute, the metallic tink-tink-tinks of the bullets hitting the ground and the other guns made it sound as though Dani was slowly pouring out a large jar of coins.

“I saw this in a movie once, I think,” Dani remarked as she kicked a few stray bullets closer to the central pile.

Kurt snatched the large semi-automatic he’d left by the door and tossed it onto a particularly gas-soaked patch of floor.  He was determined to put the biggest possible dent in the Nazareth arsenal.

“You good?” Dani asked, glancing around the room like she was trying to figure out if she’d forgotten something.

Kurt nodded, his eyes beginning to water from the fumes.  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Dani pushed back through the rear door and into the alleyway, bending down to seize Toby’s shoulders and drag him from where he lay to a safer distance.  She left him next to a rusted dumpster further down the alley. Kurt pulled one of the backpacks onto his shoulders, handing the other to Dani. He was surprised to find the pack actually somewhat heavy — he didn’t know what Dani had stolen from the kitchen inventory, but it felt substantial.

Digging into his pocket to retrieve the book of matches Jessica had given him, Kurt paused, letting out a slow, nervous exhale.  Dani’s eyes were black in the dark of the alley, her mouth a tight line. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded wordlessly, her hand on the armory door handle.

Kurt struck a match, the tiny orange light illuminating both of their faces for a moment, then tossed it through the doorway.  Dani yanked the door shut just as the interior erupted with a roar into a column of flame, a wall of solid heat slamming outwards and singeing the ends of their hair.

“Run,” hissed Kurt, and he seized Dani’s hand.

They made it back to the main road just as loud POPs began to slice through the air, one after the other in rapid succession, as the bullets scattered on the armory floor began to explode.  There were shouts from every direction, sentries calling to one another as they scrambled to figure out what was going on. Kurt saw Nick run up to the armory, flanked by Javi, Mack, and Julie — they had realized Kurt’s intentions as soon as Mack had arrived at the church, but hadn’t made it back to the armory in time to stop him.

“Go get help!” Nick ordered.  “We need a bucket brigade! Use the drinking water!  Now! ”

Mack and Julie ran off at full speed, disappearing into the dark.

Flames burst through the windows, glass shattering outwards.  Smoke poured out and filled the air with a horrific odor. Even from where he stood a block away, Kurt could feel the heat rolling over him.  Within the inferno, the hundreds of bullets continued to POP POP POP-POP POP without any sign of stopping.  It was the loudest thing Kurt had heard since before the blackout, and for a moment he thought his ears might bleed.  He and Dani had created a miniature war zone.

Dani tugged on Kurt’s arm.  “Kurt, let’s go.”

While Nick and Javi scrambled to retrieve water from the nearest laundry station, Kurt and Dani left them behind, zigzagging through the streets and alleyways.  Even several blocks away, the roar of the fire and the popping of the bullets were still just as loud, but now they were combined with frantic shouts from all directions, people yelling for help and trying to quickly organize.  The few people they did pass didn’t think anything of the fact that Kurt and Dani were running away from the fire rather than towards it, let alone of the backpacks they were carrying. Finally, they made it to the sidewalk in front of the police station.  The mist overhead glowed a rosy orange, billows of embers rising into the sky almost like fireworks.

Together they dashed up the steps and pushed through the police station door, dodging just in time as a baseball bat swung at their heads from the shadows.  Dani yelped when it clipped her shoulder. Nick must have anticipated that they would go back for Santana, and had sent Ennis to lie in wait for them.

“You idiots,” Ennis snarled, his knuckles white around the handle of the bat.

“Let us by,” Kurt spat.  His hand gripped Dani’s like a vice, his feet firmly planted between her and Ennis.

Ennis laughed.  “I’m going to kill both of you.  And then I’m going to kill that girl in the cell.”  He lunged at them, swinging the bat again. “And then, I’m going to hang you by your heels in front of the church.”

Kurt let go of Dani’s hand, fumbling to yank the gun from his belt.  He wasn’t quick enough, and the side of his head exploded in pain as he slammed into the floor.  Ennis’ bat had found its mark and cracked against Kurt’s skull. Stars danced across Kurt’s eyes, blood roaring in his ears.  Somewhere in the melee there was a gunshot, and a scream from Dani. His vision blurred and the world swimming, Kurt saw Dani thrown into the wall and crumple to the ground, her pistol clattering from her hand.

A strong pair of hands seized Kurt by the shoulders, flipping him over like a rag doll, and clamped down around his neck.  Ennis loomed over him, teeth bared and snarling like some kind of deranged wolf. Kurt clawed at Ennis’ hands, gasping for air as the edges of his vision began to go dark.

“You know, if you’d had the upper hand in this situation, this might’ve been considered brave,” Ennis hissed.  “Maybe even noble. But as it is, it was really just plain stupid.”

For a moment, Kurt felt a wave of unconsciousness rushing up to greet him, and everything went quiet.  His fingertips prickled and went numb as his nails dug into the skin of Ennis’ wrists, and he was fairly certain that he was drawing blood.  Ennis’ face twisted and faded into an unrecognizable shape, and Kurt’s brain filled with static.

Then, like some kind of ghost, Kurt saw Dani drawing closer over Ennis’ shoulder.  She had snuck behind him, noticed by neither Kurt nor Ennis. With a desperate shriek, she raised her arms and brought Ennis’ own bat down onto his head.  Ennis’ grip on Kurt’s neck abruptly went slack, and Kurt sucked in a huge, ragged gulp of air, coughing and sputtering as his lungs opened again. Ennis fell to the side and hit the floor with a heavy thump.  Dani stood there wild-eyed and panting, Ennis’ bat hanging from her hands.

His arms tingling as his blood once again surged with oxygen, Kurt shoved Ennis away from him and retrieved his pistol before standing up.  “Thanks,” he said to Dani, still breathless and hoarse.

“Don’t mention it,” Dani replied.  She prodded Ennis’ ribs with the tip of her shoe, a look of disgust on her face.  “What a prick.”

Kurt made a noise of agreement in his throat.  “We need the keys to the cell,” he said. “They’re probably in Nick’s desk, so I’ll go look there.  You keep an eye on him.”

Dani nodded, picking up her gun from the floor and tucking it back into her belt.  She twisted the bat in her fists, seeming almost eager for Ennis to wake up so she could hit him again.

Kurt pushed through the door to Nick’s office, which was almost completely dark.  The sky outside the large office window was lit with a menacing orange glow, even this distance from the armory, but it wasn’t enough to see by.  Kurt groped over the surface of Nick’s desk, hoping Nick had just left the keys where they could be easily snatched, but there were only books, notepads, and loose sheets of paper.  Fumbling and blind, Kurt pawed through the contents of each drawer, not bothering to be quiet as he hoped for the sound of jangling keys against the plywood drawer bottoms. Nothing.

Outside, the bullets had stopped exploding, having all been spent in the fire.  It was getting quiet. Kurt knew the armory was still blazing, but they were running out of time.

Exasperated and beginning to panic, it suddenly occurred to Kurt that Nick might currently have the keys on his person, all the way back at the armory.  If that was the case, Kurt couldn’t think of a single strategy to retrieve them. Would they have to leave Santana behind? It wasn’t as though they had any chance of sawing through the cell bars — even if they somehow managed to get their hands on the proper tools, they had nowhere near enough time.

No.  They had to be here, somewhere.  Kurt wouldn’t accept any other possibility.  And they sure as hell weren’t leaving Santana to her execution.

Kurt returned to the station lobby.  Maybe Nick had hidden the keys in one of the abandoned officers’ desks in the main room.

“Kurt!” Dani hissed as soon as she saw him, her wide, toothy smile visible even in the gloom.  She lifted her hand, and from her index finger hung a heavy key ring, glinting in the shadows. “Ennis had them in his pocket.”

Relief washed over Kurt, and he could have kissed her.

In the holding room, Santana was already alert and clinging to the bars, having heard the commotion outside.  “Dani! Kurt!” she shouted the moment she saw them.

Dani rushed past Kurt to the cell, wrapping her hands around Santana’s through the bars.  “We’re getting out of here, babe. Right now.” She fumbled with the keys, testing them one by one until the correct key slid into place and clicked.  The door swung open, and Santana leaped forward, throwing her arms around Dani with enough force to almost send them both toppling to the ground.

“How did you do this?!” Santana cried, her voice choked up and shaky from lack of use.

“We’ll tell you later,” said Kurt.  “We need to go.”

“I have an idea,” said Dani, a ferocious grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Together, Dani and Kurt retrieved Ennis from the other room, dragging his body down the hall like a bag of concrete.  Ennis let out a muffled groan, stirring, and his eyes rolled in his head.

“Hurry, before he comes to,” Kurt urged, grunting with the effort of hauling such a large person.  Ennis had to be at least ninety percent solid muscle, judging by his weight alone.

Santana held the cell door open as Kurt and Dani dragged Ennis inside, letting him flop onto the cement floor just as he let out an indignant yell, swiping at their feet.  They leapt away from his reach, slamming the door shut before he could orient himself enough to grab them. Dani quickly locked the cell.

“You—” Ennis panted.  “You stupid sons of bitches.”  He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, using the cell bars to hoist himself up.  A trickle of dried blood ran down the side of his face from where Dani had hit him. He stood there glaring at them through the bars like a caged bear.  “They’re just going to shoot you at the gate.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Kurt snapped.

“Let’s go,” Santana whispered, tugging on Dani’s arm.

“You’re never going to make it out there,” Ennis taunted them as they turned to leave.  Kurt stopped, rage flitting across his face. “You were all dying of starvation when we found you.  We saved you.”

“You really think a kidnapping is the same as a rescue operation?  Just so you can get more bodies for your labor camp?” Kurt spat, venom dripping from his words.  “This isn’t World War Two.”

“Isn’t it?  You just ruined your best chance of survival.”

Then, in a move that surprised Kurt, Dani, and Santana equally, Kurt took the gun from his belt.

Ennis saw this, and laughed.  “You can’t shoot me.”

Kurt clicked the hammer, aiming with both hands.  “Do you think I won't?” His voice was unnervingly calm, as though a switch had been thrown in his head.

“No, I’m sure you hate me enough,” Ennis said with another chuckle.  “I just know you’re a terrible shot. You’ve never held a handgun in your life.”

Without warning Kurt lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of Ennis’ shirt through the bars and yanked him close.  The pistol’s nose dug into Ennis’ chest.  Dani shrieked, her hand over her mouth, and Santana’s grip on her arm tightened.

“How’s my aim now?” Kurt seethed.

Ennis looked genuinely frightened for half a second, and Kurt was honestly not sure if his finger slipped or if he intentionally pulled the trigger.  A spray of blood erupted from Ennis’ back, the bullet bursting straight through him and embedding itself in the concrete wall eight feet behind him before Kurt even registered the sound of the gunshot.  Ennis gurgled, his eyes wide as he sagged against the bars. Kurt released his hold, letting him sink to the ground with a deflated thud.

Kurt turned around, his shirt and face spattered with blood.  “We need to move,” was all he said.

Santana and Dani stared at him, utterly agape, and Dani looked as though she might vomit.  Swallowing and trying not to look at Ennis’ body, Dani tugged on Santana’s elbow. “Come on,” she said softly.  “Let’s go.”

Before they could go anywhere, thudding footsteps in the corridor made the girls scramble closer to Kurt.  Kurt aimed his gun at the doorway, pulling the trigger again just as Nick and Mack ran into the holding room, sooty from the fire and fully armed.  They ducked as the bullet hit the wall above the doorframe, a cloud of plaster raining over their heads. Without giving himself time to think or Nick time to lift his rifle, Kurt pulled the trigger again, aiming for Nick’s head.  Instead, the shot ripped into his stomach, tearing through skin and organs. Nick fell with an agonized cry.

Dani acted quickly, seizing the rifle from Nick’s weakened grasp and kicking it out of his reach.  He clutched his gut, blood already seeping through his fingers.

Mack was braced against the wall, his gun shakily pointed at Kurt’s head, and he looked like the absolute last thing he wanted to do was shoot.  Kurt, aiming straight back, had no such qualms.

“Nobody is stopping us from going home,” he said lowly, daring Mack to fire.

Mack’s eyes darted between Kurt, Ennis’ body in the cell, and Nick gasping near his feet.  His finger twitched near the trigger as he considered his options, and then finally flicked the safety back on and lowered his rifle.

Kurt did not return the favor and kept his pistol level and ready.  “Tell the guards at the gate to go help with the fire. We’re leaving.”

Mack looked down at Nick, who was spitting up blood onto the floor.

Kurt lurched forward a step, making Mack flinch.  “What did I just say?”

“O-Okay.  Okay, I’m going.”  Not eager to suffer the same injuries as Nick and Ennis, Mack quickly backed off, disappearing down the corridor.

At last, Kurt lowered his gun as soon as he was sure Mack was gone.  “Let’s go,” he said to Santana and Dani.

They rushed for the door, stepping over Nick without pause.  Dani yelped when, just as she made it to the exit, Nick’s arm lashed out and grabbed her ankle.  Kurt’s hand twitched around the handle of the pistol, ready to shoot Nick again at closer range, but Santana responded instead.  She swung herself around Dani and stomped on Nick’s wrist as hard as she could. There was a resounding crack as a bone in his forearm snapped, and Santana spit on him as she ushered Dani down the hall.

The last thing they heard from Nick was a wet gasp for air.

Outside, the air was odorous and heavy, and it was impossible to tell if the fog had lifted and been replaced by smoke or if the two were mixed in together.  Clinging to each other and keeping their eyes open for anybody who might try to stop them, the three escapees ran for the main gate. Mack had done as he’d been told — the gate stood unchained and unguarded.  No sentries lined the fence. Kurt ran ahead of the girls and pulled the gate open just wide enough for them to slip through, and didn’t bother to close it again.  

Guided only by the sound of their feet on pavement, they put Nazareth behind them, and didn’t slow until the firelight had faded from the sky.

Chapter Text

DAY 38

The morning dawned blue and soft.  As the sun began to just peek over the horizon, Kurt, Dani, and Santana found themselves on the bank of the Lehigh River.  They were in Laurys Station, a town that barely qualified as such.  The river was wide and deep, and the banks along both sides were shaded by dense tree cover.  As the sun gradually climbed in the sky and glinted off the trellis bridge half a mile downstream, Kurt sat at the water’s edge with his elbows resting on his knees and his gun on the dirt beside him.  A few feet behind him, Santana was sprawled on the ground, sleeping off the exhaustion from the night before with her arm draped over her eyes to block the daylight.  Dani had left the two of them on the riverbank in order to scout the nearby buildings for anything they might be able to use.

There was no breeze, and it was unbearably quiet.  If there were birds calling overhead, Kurt didn’t hear them.  He’d spent a half hour up to his waist in the river painstakingly scrubbing Ennis’ blood from his face and out of his hair.  He could feel a large, tender bruise on the side of his head where Ennis had hit him with the bat, and supposed he was probably lucky that the damage wasn’t worse.  He had tried to sleep, but was unsuccessful and had resigned to simply staring out over the water and waiting for Dani to come back.  The silence was oppressive, and it filled his ears, his skull, and his chest almost to the point of bursting.

He combed his fingers through his still-damp hair, trying to keep it out of his eyes.  He hadn’t had a haircut in two months and he was getting sick of it tickling his ears and the back of his neck.  Goosebumps coursed over his skin despite the early summer air.  The back of his head tingled with static, and he felt strangely detached from the ground underneath him, as though he was sitting high in a tree rather than on solid earth.

When a hand suddenly came down on his shoulder, he jumped and grabbed his gun, every muscle tensing as he readied to defend himself.

Dani flinched back, her palms up.  “Whoa, whoa, sorry,” she amended quickly.  “I said your name like four times.”

Kurt forced himself to relax.  He set the gun back on the dirt to his left, away from Dani.  “Sorry.  Spaced out.”

She sat next to him, crossing her legs.  “You okay?”

“Sure.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”  He could feel her staring at him.  “What?”

Dani cleared her throat.  “Well, you’ve hardly said anything since we left Nazareth.”

“I’m fine, Dani.”

“Kurt, you did what you had to do, okay?” she tried to assure him, reaching over to touch his forearm.

He yanked his arm away from her.  “I don’t feel bad about that,” he said flatly.

Dani pressed her lips together, falling quiet, and resigned to pulling split ends from her hair.  Behind them on the ground, Santana snored.

Kurt pushed his hair back out of his eyes and shifted to let his bare feet dangle in the water.  He laid back on the root-gnarled ground, closing his eyes against the sunlight winking through the treetops, and the silence crept back into his chest.

DAY 41

Carole felt sweat dripping from between her shoulders all the way down to the small of her back as the sun beat down on her from directly above.  There was no cloud cover today to give relief from the early summer heat, and in this part of the cemetery there were no trees to provide shade.  Armed only with a small pair of garden shears, she knelt in the overgrown grass and hacked at the weeds that had taken over Finn’s final resting place.  The grass had gotten tall enough to obscure his death date near the bottom of the short headstone, and Carole made quick work of cutting it all down to a well-groomed level.

Her hair was pinned back out of her face, and a bead of sweat fell from the tip of her nose into the soil.  She sat back for a moment to rest, allowing herself to breathe in the humid air and listen to the droning of insects and the calling of birds.  Oddly enough, the cemetery felt much more alive than the Berrys’ overcrowded house with its stale indoor air and shuttered windows.

She missed home.  Everything had gone so wrong so quickly, and she felt like she’d been snatched into some alternate nightmare reality.  Less than a year ago she had been enjoying family dinners with her husband and children, excited for what the future would bring her newly adult sons and looking forward to having an empty nest to enjoy with Burt.  Their lives were going so well.  And then she’d gotten that call from the hospital, and Finn was gone, and nothing was right after that.  Nothing was in her control any more, and now she didn’t even have her own house to try to feel safe in.

Here it was different, though.  Here, she could keep the weeds and grass in check, she could be close to Finn, and she didn’t have to worry about anyone trying to steal anything from her, since there was nothing in the cemetery worth stealing.  Without a doubt, this was the safest place in Lima.  She leaned over and snipped a clump of dandelions from the foot of the grave.

“Hi,” said a voice from behind her, and Carole nearly jumped three feet.

“Jesus, Blaine,” she said once she’d turned to see him standing behind her.  “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”  Blaine shifted awkwardly.  “What are you doing?”

Carole brushed some of the trimmings from her knees.  “I don’t want it getting too overgrown.”

“Can I sit with you?”

Carole couldn’t help but give a small smile.  “Of course.”

Blaine sat in the grass to her left with his legs crossed, picking idly at the blades near his feet.

Carole noticed that his pack sat flat and empty against his back.  “Were you on your way to the truck?”  They had slowly been building up a cache of food in the various closets throughout the Berrys’ house, utilizing the space wherever it could be spared.  The Target truck still had more than half of its contents neatly packed inside and clearly labeled, which made them feel spoiled in comparison to the rest of the Lima residents.

“Yeah, but I’d rather be here,” said Blaine.

She didn’t ask why and instead suggested that she could go with him to visit Cooper’s resting place, but Blaine blanched visibly at the idea.  “I just thought you might find some solace in it,” she quickly amended.

“It’s not that,” he said softly.  “I just don’t think I’m ready to see the house is all.”

“Oh, Blaine,” she sighed, reaching over to squeeze his wrist.  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”  After all, it wasn’t just Blaine’s brother buried on their property — she’d forgotten that his parents were still inside what was left of the house.  Guilt washed over her.  It had only been a little more than two weeks; how could she have been so insensitive?

Blaine swallowed and cleared his throat.  “I appreciate the offer,” he said diplomatically.

“Did Artie not come with you today?”  She didn’t want to make him feel smothered, but she didn’t like the idea of Blaine being out and about on his own, without anyone to help in case he ran into trouble.

“No, he went with Hiram and Leroy to get water from the lake.”

Carole wiped sweat from the back of her neck with her palm.  “I wish a real shower wasn’t too much to ask for.”

Blaine snorted at that.  It was the first time she’d seen him laugh since the blackout, and though it wasn’t much, it was a welcome sight.

They sat there for a while longer, silently enjoying each other’s company and the nice weather, until finally Blaine looked up at the sun’s position in the sky and said that he should get going to the truck.  He pulled himself to his feet, brushing bits of grass from the seat of his pants.  Carole stood as well and tucked the shears back into the small canvas bag she’d brought with her to the cemetery.  “I’ll come with you,” she said.  “That is, if you’d like me to.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”  Blaine fiddled with the straps of his pack, tightening them slightly around his shoulders.

“Okay, let’s go.”  Carole smiled at Blaine’s back as he walked in front of her toward the cemetery gates.  These days she had been feeling Finn and Kurt’s joint absence more profoundly than ever, but having Blaine nearby lessened the ache in her chest just a bit.  She only hoped she did the same for him, in the absence of his own family.

For the first few weeks after the blackout, Lima had been blanketed with a heavy odor — a pungent mix of decay and gas and charcoal.  It had emanated mostly from the plane wreckage in the middle of downtown, but any place where there was an uncollected body in the streets the smell was renewed.  Now, at last, it seemed to be dissipating.  Or, Carole thought bitterly, maybe they were just getting used to it.  But a breeze rushed past them as they walked, and it finally smelled clean.

The two of them meandered through the streets of Lima, winding their way past shuttered homes, looted shops, and now-useless cars abandoned where they’d stopped over a month ago.  Dust, leaves, and trash were collecting along the curbs, blown like tumbleweeds and maintained by nobody.  Carole peered into various vehicles as they walked by, hoping for a glimpse of anything useful.

Movement up ahead caught her eye, and the hairs on her arms immediately stood on end.  “Blaine,” she said sharply.

He stopped in his tracks, following her gaze along the road to where a group of people were heading towards them from a few blocks away.  They were too far away to be individually identifiable, but Carole instinctively knew in the pit of her stomach that they were trouble.  There were eight or nine of them, and that was enough to scare her.  She wrapped her hand around Blaine’s upper arm and quickly led him away from the street.

They darted over the sidewalk and up the nearest driveway, ducking down behind a pickup truck.  Carole consciously placed herself closer to the road than Blaine, wanting to distance him from a possible threat as much as she could, and hoped they hadn’t been seen already.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as they waited for the group to pass.  When the gang finally came into view, Carole felt a wave of nausea slam through her body.  They were dressed in jeans, flannels, and t-shirts and easily could have been a group of friends just going out and having fun around town, except for the fact that every single one was armed.  A couple had bats, one clutched a crowbar (Carole shuddered), and the rest had guns.  Carole hated to think where they might have gotten them.  Though they were grimy and unwashed, they didn’t look malnourished.  The two leading the group carried cans of gasoline.

Blaine inhaled sharply behind her, and she turned briefly to see him staring at the group in pure terror.  His eyes were dilated, an almost imperceptible tremor coursing over his limbs.

“Blaine?” Carole whispered, reaching down to grip his wrist tightly.

He didn’t reply, still staring at the gang.  His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.  Under her palm, his skin was freezing cold.

“Would you just shut the fuck up already?” snapped one of the older males in the gang, making Carole look back in their direction.  “We’ve got enough to deal with right now without you whining about everything.”

The man was short but brawny, his hair shaggy and pulled back away from his ears.  He was ambling along in the middle of the group, a gun on his hip, talking to a girl trailing slightly behind him.  She was a wisp of a girl, with dirty blonde hair tied in a limp ponytail and a nervous, shaky manner.

“But it doesn’t make any sense—” she was trying to argue.

“Kitty!” the man spat, his hand shooting up as if he was ready to strike her.  She flinched back, almost tripping.  “I said shut the fuck up.”

The girl — Kitty — swallowed, her hands curling into fists.  “We’re doing enough damage, Nolan.  Plus, it’s a waste of energy!  We don’t need to keep burning the houses!”

Nolan’s shoes scraped on the pavement as he stopped, allowing the rest of the gang to pull ahead.  They cast awkward looks in the girl’s direction, knowing she was in trouble but unwilling to help her, and kept walking.

“How many fucking times do I have to explain this to you?” Nolan seethed, his finger jabbing in her face.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t want to leave evidence behind and land us in jail for what we’re doing,” Kitty said, as mockingly as she could muster, though her knees were trembling.

“Exactly.”

She was exasperated.  “You can’t seriously think that’s still a risk at this point!  By the time the power comes back, everybody’s going to have bigger things to deal with than figuring out who was looting what!”

Nolan refused to listen to her, and instead demanded that Kitty hand over her gun.

“What?  Why?”

Instead of explaining, he grabbed her with one hand and ripped the gun from her hip with the other.  She yelped in protest, but before she could say anything else he let the nose of the gun hover dangerously close to her chin.  She froze.

“You’ll get this back when you decide to be less of a problem,” he said, then tucked her gun into the back of his jeans and turned to catch up with the rest of the group.

Kitty shivered, though it wasn’t cold, and she looked like she was about to start crying.  “You know, Mom would be really disappointed in you,” she said.  And without any further response from Nolan, she swallowed, squared her shoulders, and followed behind him.

Carole let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and stayed hidden with Blaine behind the truck until the gang had traveled far enough down the street.  Once she was confident they wouldn’t be seen if they moved, Carole stood up and stretched a cramp out of her calf.  Blaine was still crouched down with his shoulders taut and his knuckles pressing against the pavement.

“Blaine?  Honey?”  Carole leaned over, touching the back of his arm.

He blinked, drawing a small, shuddering gasp as he was jolted back to the present.  He shook his head and coughed.

“It’s okay, they didn’t see us,” Carole assured him, though she had a feeling that wasn’t the real problem.  “Come on.”  She gently tugged on his wrist, pulling him back to his feet.  He glanced furtively toward the road, like he was half sure the gang was going to hear them and come running back to kill them.  “Was that the same group that attacked your house?” Carole asked softly.

A muscle in Blaine’s jaw twitched, and he nodded.  His eyes were glassy.

There was nothing to say to make this better, so Carole did the only thing she could think of and drew him into a solid hug.  He didn’t cry, but he leaned into her embrace and rested his forehead on her shoulder.  At least for the moment, he trusted her to keep him safe.

DAY 42

The monotony of the desert at last had given way to sharply climbing foothills, green undergrowth and coniferous forests hugging the edges of the road.  Puck and Mercedes had climbed to a significant altitude, but their view was still obscured by mountains in all directions as the road snaked through valleys and gorges.  After more than a month trekking through the Mojave, the cool breeze and shade felt like nature’s reward.  They had changed their travel schedule once again, now walking during the day and sleeping at night, camped in the woods along the roadside after dusk.  Travel was slower now that they were climbing in altitude, but there was more food readily available for the horses and water was easier to find.  Food for Puck and Mercedes, however, was quickly running out.

What little food they’d managed to pack with them from the gas stations along the desert highway was already gone, and they’d left a trail of Chex Mix bags and granola bar wrappers in their wake.  The gifts they had received from Carter and June — cans of beans, dried jerky, sacks of oats for the horses — were quickly depleting despite their best rationing efforts.  On the one hand, Mercedes was amazed that they had managed to make it through the desert at all.  On the other, she had a feeling that it would likely be the easiest part of their journey.  They had slowed considerably as the terrain grew more rugged and it took more effort and more time to cross a shorter distance.  Colorado was proving to be much less hospitable.

At the edges of the desert as the land gradually sprouted into green mountains, the number of people increased.  They’d passed through Cortez, then Mancos, and finally reached Durango.  The streets were strewn with abandoned and wrecked cars, just like every town before, and the windows of houses had been boarded up in most places as people staunchly defended their homes from possible intruders – neighbors and strangers alike.  On the rare occasions that Puck and Mercedes encountered the locals face-to-face, they wanted nothing to do with them.  Instead, people would quickly hide, or stand their ground while pointedly holding a gun, and Puck and Mercedes would continue along the road without striking up a conversation.  In Mercedes’ opinion, they were lucky to have not been shot yet, and the last thing she wanted to do was die in the middle of nowhere at the hands of some trigger-happy redneck.

In Durango, they’d found a tourist center in the middle of town and broken in after tying the horses to a bicycle rack outside.  It was dusty and dim indoors, the only sunlight coming in from the windows at the front.  The shelves of snacks and the coolers of drinks were all empty, and even the vending machines at the entrance had been tipped over and smashed, leaving glass shards strewn across the linoleum floor.  But they weren’t here for food.

“Here we go,” said Puck as he strode over to the display of brochures up against the wall to their left.

“I’m going to check out the toiletries,” Mercedes said, already heading for the back of the center, which was a small store for travel necessities.

Puck didn’t say anything, already combing through the informational booklets.

Mercedes didn’t find much in the store, not that she was surprised.  She was desperate for some toothpaste and deodorant (not to mention shampoo, lotion, razors… all things she’d taken for granted just two months ago), but every place they’d checked had been ransacked.  She did manage to find hairbands and bobby pins, however, and she quickly gathered up a healthy supply of both and stuffed them into the front pocket of her backpack.

When she returned to the front of the center, Puck was on his knees with a huge map of Colorado and the bordering states spread out in front of him.  Mercedes set her pack against the cashier’s desk and knelt beside him.  She felt a ripple of disappointment when she saw on the map that Durango was much, much closer to the western side of Colorado than the eastern, and despite being in Colorado for a few days already they had really barely left Utah behind them.  She’d hoped that they were already close to Kansas, but she should have known better.

“So it looks like we’re heading for Pagosa Springs,” she said, her eyes following the biggest road heading east.

Puck apparently didn’t agree.  “I think we should go north, along here.”  He pointed to Highway 550, which stretched due north from Durango into the mountains, where the town names grew sparse and the color of the map turned several different shades of dark green.

Mercedes blinked and frowned.  “Puck, are you crazy?  We’re going east.  Why would we go north?”

Puck was strangely solemn.  “Do you really want to take your chances with the people around here?”

“What do you mean?”

He tugged on his earlobe and then sat back, crossing his legs.  “I think we need to avoid people as much as we can.  You saw how many guns there are in this region.  People are going to shoot first and they won’t ask questions.  We got lucky so far, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to count on that until we’re out of the Rockies.”

Mercedes was quiet, staring at the map.

“Look,” Puck continued, tracing his finger along Highway 550.  “Right here.  There’s a trail that cuts across the mountains and hooks up with Route 149.”  His fingertip ran over a thin dotted line meandering through the dark green patches of the map.  “We hit 149, then we follow that straight through to Monte Vista.”

“Puck, that’ll take longer.”

“Only by a day or two,” he countered quickly.  “If that.”

“Okay, but a hiking trail?  Anything could happen.  If we get hurt, there’s nobody around to help us.”

“Trust me,” Puck insisted.  “I’m way more scared of the people around here than I am of the mountains.”

Mercedes sighed, disagreeing with every fiber in her body.  But he was right — they had seen a lot of people with guns.  And she did owe Puck her trust.  It had been Puck’s idea to travel through to Mojave at night, which was likely the only reason they’d made it through.  Puck had been the one to get a horse, making travel easier.  He had worked hard to keep their little group safe and fed, not to mention the fact that he’d survived a Gila bite.  And she hated to admit it, but he was the only thing keeping her from losing her mind.

“Okay,” she said.  “We’ll do it your way.”

Puck was visibly relieved as he folded up the map and tucked it into his pack.

“But if we get eaten by wolves, I’m blaming you.”

“Fine by me.”

DAY 43

Five days after leaving Nazareth behind them, Dani, Santana, and Kurt had made it to Drehersville.  It was far too slow for Kurt’s liking, and he had been tense and snappish the entire time they’d been traveling since Laurys Station.  Dani couldn’t blame him too much considering that thirty-ish miles over the course of five days wasn’t exactly an impressive speed, but the fact was that they just couldn’t walk very quickly.  It was impossible.  Their time in Nazareth, despite being well-fed, hadn’t been nearly enough to rebuild Kurt and Dani’s strength, and Santana had lost a considerable amount of energy from being starved and caged.

So each day, they walked as far as they could and no more.  Dani examined the road map they had stolen from a gas station in New Tripoli and did the math, finding that they had covered less than sixty miles since Rachel had died.

Dani wondered if Rachel was still peacefully laying underneath the birch trees, or if she’d been scavenged and ripped apart by animals.

In Drehersville, they found a few deserted houses and combed methodically through them, guns at the ready until they knew nobody was home.  They stuffed anything useful and portable into their backpacks and left everything else behind.  Dani was once again shocked at how quickly their food was depleted – the canned goods and non-perishables she’d stolen from the Nazareth kitchen were already more than two-thirds gone.  In their fourth raided house, she was overjoyed to find a few Campbell’s soups collecting dust in the back of a cupboard.

“Nice,” Santana said with a smile as she pawed through the rest of the kitchen cabinets.

Dani grinned back and set the cans on the counter.  Santana’s face was gaunt and skeletal, her hair brittle and her arms barely more than twigs, but her smile still lit up the room.  “I’ll leave these with you,” Dani said.  “I’m going to go see if Kurt needs help upstairs.  You going to be okay?”

Santana nodded, then gasped and squealed in delight when she discovered a packet of matzos and a barely-opened box of baking soda.  Even the smallest victories felt like miracles.

Dani reached over to squeeze Santana’s hand, then kissed her temple and went in search of Kurt.

Upstairs, she found him standing stock-still in the entrance to one of the bedrooms.  Her stomach dropped, fearing that they’d found another rotting corpse like Edna MacCready in Easton.  But there was no overpowering smell of decay here, no buzzing of flies.  Dani approached Kurt cautiously — in addition to being terse, he had also been extremely jumpy and a little bit paranoid the last several days.  His gun was still in his hand, but it was hanging idly by his side rather than up and ready to shoot.

“Kurt?”  She spoke softly, trying not to startle him.

He didn’t flinch, fortunately, only saying a flat “Hey” before turning his attention back to the room.

Dani stood beside him, peering past him into the bedroom, and a pang of sadness rippled through her chest.  It was a child’s room.  Toddler’s toys were strewn across the floor and the bed was in the shape of a race car.  A calendar hung on the wall above a plastic play table, still on April, with the day after the blackout circled in marker and a note: GRANDMA VISITS!   The door jamb to Kurt’s left had three nicks carved into it in increasing heights.

Wiley, age 3

Nina, age 5

Henry, age 6

Dani swallowed.  It was dead quiet; she couldn’t even hear Kurt breathing.  “I’m sure they’re okay,” she whispered.  Somehow, it felt as though if she spoke any louder, the house itself would hear her lie.

Kurt didn’t reply immediately, instead pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his fingers outward over his eyes.  His hand lingered, palm covering his mouth, and then he brushed his hair back out of his eyes and let out a heavy breath like he’d been holding it in for a while.  Dani wasn’t entirely positive, but she thought he might have been fighting the urge to cry.

She repeated his name gently, reaching for his hand.  She had been about to offer to talk if he needed it, but he cleared his throat and tugged again on his hair.

“I’m all right,” he said, his voice hollow.

Dani studied him.  His hair was much too long and was covering his earlobes and the nape of his neck, filthy and a little bit matted.  His facial hair had already come back and coated his jaw, drawing his face downward.  His eyes had even changed color and were a paler blue than she’d ever seen, void of light.

“I got an extra blanket from the closet,” he stated, almost absentmindedly as he continued to stare into the child’s room.  “I don’t think there’s anything else here.”

“Why don’t we go back downstairs?” Dani suggested, reaching up to touch his shoulder blade.  “Santana and I found some good stuff in the kitchen.”

Kurt nodded, then finally turned away from the bedroom and walked toward the stairwell.  His gun still hung loosely from his hand like he’d forgotten it was there.

Dani went to follow him, then paused and ducked into the bathroom across the hall.  She opened the medicine cabinet and dug through the drawers beneath the sink until she found what she was looking for.  She unzipped her pack and tossed in a packet of men’s disposable razors, and tucked a small pair of barber’s scissors into the outer pocket.  Quickly, she shrugged her bag onto her shoulders again and went to catch up with Kurt.

The river in Drehersville was small and shallow, an easy current winding its way through the green.  As the day meandered into mid-afternoon, they found a comfortable place to sit along the shore, not terribly far from the road.  Here in the warm sun, watching a couple of mallards paddle by, it was almost enough to forget everything that had brought them here.  They stood with their feet in the water and rubbed fistfuls of baking soda into their hair, all over their skin until it turned grey with dirt.  The river wasn’t deep enough to fully dive in, so they each floated lazily in the current, holding on to the rocks on the streambed to anchor themselves.  In the heat of the early summer sun, the cold water was a relief.

Dani, however, being from further south than Kurt and Santana, was the first to begin shivering.  She gave her hair one last rinse and waded back out of the water, then found a sunny spot on the riverbank to warm back up.  She lay back, bare breasted and with her arms folded under her head so the hair in her armpits would dry.  As the sun gently melted the goosebumps from her skin, she dozed in and out, lulled by the rustling of leaves overhead, the chittering of nearby sparrows, and the water flowing past.

A little while later, Santana and Kurt returned from the water and joined Dani in the sunshine, both as naked as she was.  Nudity had become something ordinary, an unavoidable fact of the road and void of any sexuality or indecency.  If anything, being bare-skinned only served to remind them in no uncertain terms of how close they were to starvation, all skinny limbs and jutting bones.

“Looking good, Aphrodite,” Santana joked, poking Dani in the soft underside of her bicep.  She sat on the ground to Dani’s left and wrung the water from her hair.

With his skin still dripping, Kurt pawed through his backpack until he found his cleanest pair of boxers and jeans and tugged them on over his sharp-cornered hips.  Dani, who was now adequately dry, sat up and yanked a too-big t-shirt from her bag and pulled it over her head.  She didn’t bother with a bra; they hadn’t discussed stopping but she knew they were done walking for the day.  Here was as good a place to camp as any.  She withdrew the scissors from the front pocket of her pack, then patted the ground in front of her.  “Sit down,” she said.

Kurt stared at her like he wasn’t certain whether she was talking to him.

“Sit,” she repeated, holding up the scissors.  “It’s time for a haircut.”

He didn’t move.  “Why?”

“Kurt.”  Dani was more forceful this time, leaving no room for argument.  “Sit down.”

At last he obeyed, tentatively sinking down to rest cross-legged in front of her, still bare from the waist up.  Santana gave Dani a sidelong look and a small smile, like she knew what Dani was up to.  She didn’t say anything, however, and instead started munching her way through the box of matzo crackers.  Dani combed her fingers through Kurt’s damp hair and began to trim.  She was far from a cosmetology expert, but whatever she managed to do would be an improvement.  Bit by bit, little by little, he relaxed under her touch.

Together they sat quietly and watched the water flow past, sunlight glinting off the ripples.  Santana eventually put on some clothes and sat with her elbows on her knees and her head resting on her forearms.  She looked exhausted, but it wasn’t the same kind of exhaustion Dani had seen when they were locked inside the Nazareth police station.  It wasn’t the sort of angry and terrified tired that screamed just kill me already.  This was instead an unburdened, optimistic weariness, because they needed rest but still had so far to go.

Snippets of Kurt’s hair fell as Dani worked, collecting on his freckled shoulders.  It wasn’t until she brushed the hairs off, her palm ghosting over his shoulder blade, that she realized he was shaking.  “Kurt?” she said, now alarmed.  Her tone made Santana lift her head.

Kurt had clamped one hand over his mouth and nose, the other over his forehead, and he was struggling to breathe.

Dani dropped the scissors and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort him.  Santana scooted closer, reached for one of his wrists and pulled his arm down, clasping his hand between both of hers.

“Kurt.  You’re okay.”  Santana spoke firmly but kindly, a voice rarely heard.  “You’re okay.”

He choked on his next inhale, a shudder coursing through his body like an oncoming earthquake.  Dani drew him back against her chest in a solid embrace so that he wouldn’t have to support his own weight.  He didn’t fight her.  “We’ve got you,” she promised, and held him as he cried.

Dani wasn’t sure how long it took before Kurt’s breathing began evening out, but he’d exhausted himself completely, sagging in her arms.  Santana still held his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“I could have just left him.”

Dani blinked, not sure she’d heard him right.  Kurt’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the river.

“He was locked up,” Kurt said, clearing his throat.  “I could have left him.”

Santana’s eyes flashed in the sun, her grip tightening on Kurt’s hand.  “Kurt, they got what was coming to them.”  She opened her mouth to say something further, but Dani sent her a look that said Hey! Not helping!

Dani swallowed, choosing her words carefully.  “Kurt, I don’t know if it was the right thing to do,” she said.  She could hear Ennis choking on his own blood as he fell, and the squelch of Nick’s innards as he tried to hold them in.  She could hear the shots from Kurt’s gun, and the snap of Nick’s arm as Santana broke it.  Mostly, she could hear Kurt’s voice echoing in the back of her head and the cold, emotionless tone that she never wanted to hear again.  Do you think I won’t shoot you?  How’s my aim now?

“But if you’d left him,” she continued, forcing her nausea back into a corner, “somebody else would have broken him out.  And he probably would have come after us.”

She couldn’t see Kurt’s face and so wasn’t sure of how he reacted to the idea that Ennis might have hunted them down given the opportunity.  All Kurt said was, “I don’t think he would’ve found us, though.”

Dani shook her head, squeezing his shoulders.  “You can’t let yourself get hung up on the what-ifs.”

“Ennis was a bad guy,” Santana interjected.  “If it was you in the cell, he would’ve done even worse.”

Kurt sat up at last, pulling out of Dani’s hold and reclaiming his hand from Santana.  He leaned forward and drew his knees up to his chest, staring at the water flowing by.

“Kurt… shooting them might not have been the right thing to do, but it was the safe thing to do,” Dani assured him.  “And with everything else that’s happening, safer is better.”

“Killing them didn’t make us any safer,” Kurt replied hollowly.

“Well, I think you’re telling yourself that so you can punish yourself.”  Dani paused, her mouth pursed.  She glanced at Santana, hoping for an idea of what to say to fix this, but Santana seemed just as lost.  “You didn’t kill Toby,” Dani said, reaching for the first thing that came to mind.  “We could’ve left him in the armory.”

Kurt shook his head.  “Toby’s just a kid.  He’s our age.  He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Exactly.  Toby didn’t do anything wrong.  Ennis did.  Nick did.”

This didn’t seem to have any comforting effect on Kurt whatsoever, his spine remaining rigid.  Dani couldn’t say she blamed him; her own words weren’t making her feel better either.

“I just…” Kurt started, his head bowing as he rubbed a palm over the nape of his neck.  “I just miss home.  I miss my dad.  And Carole.  And Blaine.  And Rachel.”  His voice cracked, tripping over Rachel’s name like a rock caught underfoot.  “And I don’t feel like me anymore.  And home won’t be home anymore.”  

He drew a slow breath, and sighed.  There were no more ands.  Or too many to name.

“We don’t know what we’re going back to.”

Dani didn’t know what to say to that, the solid weight of everything they’d been through sagging against her back.  Santana, on the other hand, was not so encumbered with silence.

“No, we don’t.  But we are going back.”  Santana’s voice was hard and razor-edged like a newly minted sword, determination sharpening the line of her jaw.  It was the most alive Dani had seen Santana look in weeks.  “Like you said,” she continued, lightly touching Kurt’s arm with the back of her hand.  “Nothing will stop us.”

Highway 550 was a wide, two-lane stretch of pavement patched with years’ worth of repair work in the tar, nestled in a sweeping rocky valley between sharp green peaks.  The pine-covered mountains surrounding it cut into the sky like shark’s teeth, giving the blue a serrated edge.  Mercedes imagined that this particular place was especially beautiful in the winter, when it was capped with snow and bustling with skiers and snowboarders in goggles and puffy coats.  Now, watching the cracked pavement scroll by, scattered with a handful of abandoned vehicles collecting dust, she wondered if this place would ever see that kind of activity again.  The wind whistled past them, making the horses’ manes flap, and the sun was nearing the mountains lining the western ridge.

Mercedes shifted uncomfortably in Peach’s saddle, her buttocks and thighs aching.  “It’s getting late.”

Puck glanced at the sun, still not low enough to be considered evening.  “I saw a sign a ways back for a ski lodge or something,” he said.  “Shouldn’t be too far.  I bet we can camp out there.”  He didn’t argue with Mercedes’ unspoken request to stop earlier than they normally would have.  Maybe he was as much in need of a break as she was.

The brilliant blue sky overhead was only just beginning to soften, the shadows stretching longer across the road, when they spotted the lodge.  As they drew closer, Mercedes’ eyebrows quirked as she realized this place wasn’t so much a lodge as it was a massive luxury hotel complex, a veritable compound of five-star amenities cut apart from the wilderness of the woods by a high metal fence at its border.  Signs along the side of the road promised a full-service spa, a pool, one- to five-bedroom suites, and priority access to the ski slopes.  It was the sort of place visited by people in a higher tax bracket than Mercedes or Puck could ever hope to reach.

Mercedes couldn’t suppress a snort when she read the archway over the drive leading up the hill:  PURGATORY RESORT.

“Well, that’s a little on the nose,” she remarked.

They guided Peach and Mr. T off the main road and up the drive to the main building.  The buildings were still designed to look as rustic as possible without actually being rustic — lots of polished timber and antlers that were meant to look like hunting trophies but very well could have been plastic.  They tied the horses to the railing of the deck leading to the front doors; they would find a comfortable place for them later.  The lobby inside was spacious and boasted several plush seating areas and a welcoming front desk staffed by nobody, lit only by the sunlight cascading through the windows carefully placed for the best view of the mountainside.

Puck’s shoes scraped noisily on the floor and he smacked his hand over the little bell on the desk.  The chime echoed through the building, reverberating for longer than Mercedes thought possible for such a small bell, the sound disappearing into the emptiness.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get some service around here?” Puck said, throwing his hands up in mock frustration.

Mercedes thumbed her way through a brochure from the rack by the desk, detailing all the things offered in the spa.  “How much do you think a place like this costs a night?”

“No idea,” said Puck as he heaved himself over the countertop, plopping down where the concierge used to stand.  “Nothing any more.”  He rummaged through cupboards and drawers, searching for anything useful.  He let out a victorious “A-ha!” when he found a granola bar in the cash drawer, hidden and forgotten by the hotel clerk.  He peeled off the wrapper, broke it in two and gave half to Mercedes.  He left the cash neatly organized and valueless in the till.

The elevators at the other end of the lobby were useless apart from the sign in front of them detailing what could be found on each floor.  Puck tapped a finger at the top of the list.  “What do you say?” he asked.  “Penthouse?”

They climbed the stairs all the way to the top, six floors up.  The corridors here were narrow and smelled of stale air freshener and trash rotting in an unemptied garbage bin somewhere.  Puck pushed through the door to a suite and walked in without hesitation, Mercedes’ jaw dropping behind him.  The suite was bigger than most apartments, with a big squashy couch and a fireplace and more rooms branching off in either direction.  The far wall was almost entirely glass, with a double door leading out to a private balcony with deck chairs bleaching in the sun.

Puck stepped out onto the balcony, Mercedes following.  The view was spectacular.  The sky overhead was turning purple and gold, orange light bleeding into the valley from where the sun was sinking past the mountains.  The valley stretched below them, lush with evergreen and mottled with hills.  In the distance, Mercedes could see a herd of deer meandering across the road.  For a moment, she felt as though they were inside the eye of a giant — the mountains and ridges and colorful peaks an iris below the sky’s lens, looking up and into outer space.

She leaned on the balcony railing, looking down six stories to where she could see the horses still standing by the main doors.  The swimming pool, an unnatural shade of blue and hedged in by an iron fence, was full of debris.

Puck gripped the railing to her left, gazing out across the landscape and drawing a deep breath into his chest, looking like he was riding on the prow of a ship.  He held the air in his lungs for a second and then released a loud whoop that made Mercedes jump.  His voice boomed outward and then came back, carried by the wind and resonating in the hills.  He cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, and shouted again into the valley.

“What are you doing?” asked Mercedes.

Strangely, Puck didn’t answer.  He shouted again, listening to his echoes.

Mercedes watched a hawk circling a mile away, then pulled in a gulp of air and did the same, calling out into empty space.  Her voice rang out over the hills, higher-pitched than Puck’s and easily mistaken for a bird call.  Puck grinned at her, then threw his head back and howled like a coyote, and before she knew it she was laughing and joining in.

Together they stood at the top of the empty ski resort, howling and whooping into the wind and listening to the earth toss their voices back.

Chapter Text

DAY 44

Mercedes woke from restless sleep sometime after midnight and stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly in and out and praying for sleep to return.  The room was filled with moonlight spilling blue and heavy across the floor, up the walls.  It was dead quiet, apart from the occasional breeze brushing past outside, filling the corners of the window panes like a phantom looking for a way in.  Mercedes shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets, completely maladjusted to laying in an actual bed, let alone a high-quality hotel bed.  After weeks of sleeping on gas station floors or the bare ground, this mattress was entirely too soft.

She tossed and turned a few more times, but it only served to make her more alert.  The room was just so damn empty.

Mercedes finally threw the covers aside and stood, barefoot and exposed and shivering in the stillness.  She caught sight of her reflection in the big mirror over the dresser and nearly jumped — she looked barely more than a ghost.  Moonlight cast an eerie pallor over her, pulling her shape from the surrounding dark like something unearthed from the mud.  She looked thin, too.  Not skinny, exactly, but her skin hung looser from her frame, too big for the flesh underneath.  She supposed she should have expected it, given the lack of a proper diet for the past month and a half, but it was still startling.

She swallowed, fighting a sudden wave of nausea, and tore her eyes away from the mirror.  The wood floor was cold under her feet as she stepped closer to the window.  The mountaintops outside glowed a soft blue under the moon, light pouring through the valley in rivers thick as honey.  Mercedes found herself drawn to the balcony, and pushed through the sliding door and out into the chilly night air.

If the view had been spectacular in daylight, it was nothing compared to now.  The moon was just kissing the western peaks, a white so bright Mercedes could see every crater pockmarking its surface.  The stars were so brilliant and so many that she thought she might be able to reach out and brush them from the sky with her fingers.  A coyote yipped in the far distance, its barks echoing across the hills below like some kind of joyful specter.  A porcupine ambled onto the moon-gleaming road Mercedes and Puck had followed from Durango, shuffling across the pavement and into the trees beyond.

Mercedes leaned against the deck railing and was struck by the sudden fear that she might fall over the edge.  The building seemed to sway underfoot, the breeze tugging at her clothes and threatening to lift her and toss her away into the black.  She quickly leaned back again, looking up to the Milky Way.

She thought after weeks on end of traversing the Mojave under the cover of nightfall that she would eventually get tired of gazing at the sky.  She was wrong.  But this particular sky was different than any she’d seen over the desert.

As beautiful as it was, the desert sky had been a yawning chasm bearing down on them, lighting up the sand and rock and dust to remind them just how alone they really were.  But here in the mountains, the valley swimming in an ocean of starlight, the sky was soft and protective.  It enclosed everything beneath it in an embrace, seeming to say I’ll take care of you.

Loneliness still bloomed in Mercedes’ chest, however, as she wondered if her parents or brothers were looking up at a similar sky.  She doubted the sky looked anything like this in Ohio, even on the clearest night.

With a final deep breath of the crisp night air, Mercedes went back inside.  She should get more sleep, she knew, but the bed sat cold and uninviting in the middle of the room and she found herself stuck, her body refusing to crawl back under the covers.

Too damn empty.

Without thinking, Mercedes turned and exited the bedroom again, this time into the living room.  She crossed the plush carpet in front of the fireplace and tilted her ear against the door to the other bedroom.  Puck’s snores were just audible through the wood.  Mercedes gingerly twisted the knob until the door swung open with a light creak of its hinges.

This room was a mirror image of hers, the bed in the exact same location.  Puck lay there with limbs akimbo, snoring comfortably.  He wasn’t quite on the edge of the bed, but it was a king and there was plenty of room left.  Mercedes tiptoed to the opposite side and, careful not to wake Puck up, slid into the bed with him.

Leaving half an arm’s length between them and turning onto her side to face the window, Mercedes finally settled.  Outside, the moon had sunk halfway behind the peak of a distant mountain, its light beginning to ebb.  Mercedes breathed slowly, listening to Puck’s familiar snores fill the room, and at last closed her eyes.

Sunlight woke Mercedes in the morning as surely as any alarm clock, climbing over the eastern peaks and shining directly onto her face as though the sky itself was glaring at her through the window.  She sighed, scrubbing the grime from her eyes, and bolted upright when she realized she was still in Puck’s bed.  Glancing over to the other side of the mattress, she saw only rumpled covers.

“Puck?” she called, heart skipping.  There was no answer, and embarrassment crept up her spine as she clambered out of bed.  What on earth had she been thinking last night, crawling into Puck’s bed with him without asking?  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Not to mention presumptuous.  He probably woke up, freaked out, and immediately put as much space between them as possible.

She exited the bedroom into the suite lounge, finding it empty too.  No sign of Puck on the couch or anywhere else. 

A piercing screech from outside made her jump, her gaze whipping toward the balcony.  Sitting on the deck railing was an absolutely massive bird of prey, deep brown feathers glinting gold in the sun.  Its back faced the window as it scanned the valley below, head swiveling to and fro, armed with a long yellow-trimmed beak.  Large talons gripped the railing, and it looked as though it could easily tear Mercedes to shreds if it had a whim to do so.  The eagle — it was too large to be any other kind of bird — screeched again, following with several shorter calls that almost sounded like a small dog barking.

Mercedes edged closer to the glass door leading out to the deck.  The eagle’s feathers ruffled in the wind, flashing like sequins.

Another screech.  At that moment Mercedes must have moved and caught its peripheral vision, because its head abruptly turned over its shoulder to stare at her.  She flinched, its amber-colored eyes boring into her even from where it sat.  Her heart thudded in her chest, and she dared not move.

The eagle made no sound.  Its gaze didn’t waver, regarding Mercedes as neither a threat nor a target. 

And then, silent, it unfurled its gigantic wings and dropped smoothly into the air below, vanishing for only a moment before catching an updraft and soaring high.

Mercedes rushed to the door, sliding it open and stepping out onto the deck just in time to see it disappear past the treetops behind the resort.  The wind buffeted her hair, the trees swaying and creaking in the distance.  She stood there watching clouds roll past, searching for a flying silhouette against the blue backdrop, but the eagle did not return.

Eventually, Mercedes heard one of the horses whinny far below and remembered Puck.  Casting one final glance at the sky, she went back inside and slipped on her shoes, leaving the suite in the clothes she’d slept in.

The stairwell was dim and difficult to navigate, the stale air clogging her lungs a sharp contrast to standing on the penthouse balcony.  It took several stumbling minutes for her to make it to the first-floor exit, and when she walked into the lobby she found it lit by cascading shafts of light pouring in from the upper windows.  Motes of dust swirled from sunbeam to sunbeam.  A fly buzzed against a windowpane in the corner.

Mercedes crossed the dusty hardwood floor to the hotel’s main entrance, walking out to the wide porch and circling the corner of the building to where there was a large fenced-in grassy slope.  The area had clearly been intended by the owners to be a place for kids to run around, given the small playground placed near the gate, but it had served just fine as a place to let Peach and Mr. T roam untied.  The field hadn’t been mowed in over a month so there was plenty for the horses to eat, and Puck had left the saddles and bridles hanging over the fence.

Relief washed over Mercedes when she saw both horses were still here.  Puck couldn’t have left, not without at least bringing Mr. T with him.  Peach stood at the furthest edge of the field, tail swishing as he munched on a tuft of grass.  Mr. T was more interested in scratching a difficult-to-reach itch, rolling on her back on the ground with her legs kicking in the air.  The sight was enough to make Mercedes chuckle.

“Mercedes!” came Puck’s voice from behind her, and she turned to see him leaning out the front door.  A huge grin was plastered across his face.  “Hey, c’mon, I found something.”

He ducked back inside and Mercedes was quick to follow, overjoyed that he didn’t seem upset with her.

“What’s up?” she asked, tagging alongside him as he led her across the lobby to a large door opposite the front desk.

Puck pushed through to a large dining room.  Empty serving trays sat collecting dusty on a long buffet table, a large sign promising free breakfast from six-thirty to eleven.  “Come on,” Puck said again, ushering Mercedes toward yet another door.

The next room was the kitchen, lit only by a line of narrow windows near the ceiling along one wall.  The kitchen was clean apart from the layer of dust, though a heavy odor of rotting produce was emanating from the walk-in cooler, which Mercedes had absolutely no intention of opening.  Puck didn’t go for the walk-in and instead opened up what looked like a closet on the other side of a long steel prep counter.

He propped the door open and jerked his head toward the interior.  “Check it out,” he said, still grinning.

Mercedes did, and her jaw dropped.

The closet was dry storage for the hotel kitchens, and was stacked from floor to ceiling with nonperishable food.  Cereals, rice, oatmeal, canned soup and vegetables, peanut butter, granola, dried fruit, jams and jellies, crackers, coffee… The labels on the boxes swam in front of Mercedes’ eyes, too many to count.

They sat on the porch outside, watching the horses mill around the field and relishing in the fresh mountain air and eating peanut butter and crackers until their jaws were practically glued shut.  Puck had also smashed his way into the vending machines in the lobby and retrieved a few bottles of water to wash it all down.  He sat squinting into the sunlight with his feet dangling off the edge of the deck.

“I think we should stay here,” he said, sucking a stray bit of peanut butter from his thumb.

Mercedes blinked.  “What?”

“Not forever,” he amended quickly.  “I just mean for a couple days.  The horses could probably use the break, and so could we.  This is probably as good as we’re going to have it for a while.”

Mercedes leaned back against the porch rail, sipping her water bottle.  She gazed up the slope to the horses grazing in the sun.  “Don’t you want to get home as soon as possible?” she asked.

“I mean, yeah,” Puck said.  “But I still think we deserve a break.  A day or two can’t make that much of a difference.”

She sat for a moment, mulling this over.  They were better fed and better rested than they’d been since the blackout, but it still seemed odd to stop just when it finally felt like they were making real progress.  They’d already crossed California, Nevada, the corner of Arizona and the southern half of Utah, and Mercedes knew they had four more states to cover, not including the rest of Colorado.

Still, she supposed the hardest part was over.  They’d survived the Mojave.  She couldn’t imagine that anything between here and home would be nearly as dangerous.

“Okay,” she agreed at last.

The two of them sat enjoying the sunshine for a while longer, and when their snacks were gone Puck gathered all the cracker wrappers and empty peanut butter pats and dumped them into the trash can in the lobby.  The trash wouldn’t be emptied, but at the very least the little bits of plastic wouldn’t be blowing all over the mountainside.

“Come on,” said Puck, holding out a hand to help Mercedes up.  “Come help me brush the horses.”

At Puck’s whistle, Mr. T trotted down the grassy slope and met them just inside the gate.  She nickered a greeting and butted her nose affectionately into Puck’s chest.  Peach, on the other hand, was much less inclined to do the same.  Mercedes called his name and he raised his head, ears perking in her direction, and then he merely snorted and returned to grazing with a flick of his tail.

Puck laughed at Mercedes’ look of frustration.  “I’m sure he’ll like you eventually.”

Mercedes planted her hands on her hips.  “I don’t care if he likes me; I just want him to do what I tell him.”

“Well, maybe that’s why he doesn’t like you.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I doubt horses have the capacity for such complex thought.”

Puck handed her one of the two brushes Carter had given them before they left the Ring Of Fire.  “You’re only proving my point,” he said with a smug grin.  “Go on, get brushing.”

Mercedes huffed, resigning to fetch Peach from the far end of the field one they were finished with Mr. T, and went to work brushing Mr. T’s flank.  Puck did the same on the opposite side, pulling tangles from her mane as he went.

“Hey, Puck?” Mercedes ventured a minute or so later.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, making Puck raise his head with a perplexed frown.  “If I made you uncomfortable last night.  I just couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be by myself.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Puck blinked, watching her from across Mr. T’s back.  She swallowed, and was just beginning to regret saying anything at all when he shrugged, returning his attention to Mr. T’s dusty coat.  “I didn’t mind,” was his only reply.

DAY 46

Day after day, mile after mile, the small towns of Pennsylvania blurred into one another, identical from one county to the next.  When looking for food, they no longer bothered to check grocery stores or gas stations or restaurants — to do so would only waste time and energy.  Instead, they focused on empty houses left behind by their owners.  They were lucky nearly as often as they were unlucky, finding untouched pantries and food caches in a handful of houses in each town.

Schuylkill Haven was no different, small and barely occupied.  It was mostly Victorian-style houses, churches scattered throughout, and the Schuylkill River meandered lazily through the center, bordered by a large and well-groomed park.  The park was where Kurt, Dani, and Santana spent a portion of the afternoon, resting beneath a large oak tree as they ate their way through a family pack of Pop Tarts and a can of green beans they’d stolen from a house a few blocks away.

After finishing their lunch they continued westward under a grey sky threatening rain.  The air was thick and humid, the barometric pressure enough to give Dani a headache.

“The hell?” muttered Kurt from a few steps ahead.

Dani looked up, following his gaze to a brick church to their left.  Across the church wall, someone had spray-painted a message.

THE WEAK ARE MEAT, AND THE STRONG DO EAT.

If Dani hadn’t recognized it, the message would likely have been much more frightening, but fortunately she’d heard the phrase before.  “That’s a quote from Cloud Atlas,” she said.  “Probably just someone trying to scare people off and mark their territory.”

Santana eyed the church wall warily, edging slightly closer to Dani’s side as they walked.  “How do you know they’re not serious?”

“...Because it’s a quote from Cloud Atlas.”

“I never saw it,” Santana replied.  “It looked stupid.”

“Serious or not, best to avoid them,” Kurt interjected flatly, glancing furtively around the street as though whoever had spray painted the church might be lurking nearby.  “Come on.  I think we can make Roedersville by sunset.”

As they crossed from Schuylkill Haven into the neighboring borough of Cressona, the heavy clouds made good on their promise.  It began to rain, lightly at first, and quickly graduated to a downpour.  Within minutes, the three of them were soaked to the bone.  Water ran in rivers along the pavement, seeping into their shoes with every step.  

Dani tilted her head back, opening her mouth to catch the raindrops as she walked.  She didn’t mind the rain; it helped to alleviate the summer heat and wash a bit of the travel grime from their skin.  She wouldn’t have complained about walking in the rain for the rest of the afternoon, but Santana and Kurt weren't as keen.

“Over there!” Santana said, pointing to an awning over the entrance to a bookshop on the other side of the street.

They dashed for cover and huddled beneath the awning, all three crammed into the narrow doorway and out of the rain.  Santana shrugged off her pack and wrung the water from her hair, shivering.  Kurt peered through the glass door, cupping his hands around his eyes to see inside the bookshop.  He rattled the door, finding it locked, and then took his gun from his belt.

“Kurt, what the—” Dani started.

Kurt flipped the pistol in his hand and used the butt of it to smash through the glass pane.  He shrugged, reaching through to unlock the door.  “It’s dry in here.”

Glass crunched beneath their shoes as they shuffled in out of the rain.  Kurt was right; it was dry and warm, and apparently the residents of Cressona hadn’t yet considered books to be a lootable resource.  Nothing was out of place in the shop, and if Dani didn’t know better she might have thought at first glance that the store was simply closed for the day.

“Oh, hell yes,” Santana said, heading straight for the cashier’s desk where there was a display of varied candies for customers to buy on impulse.  She ripped open a packet of chocolate covered espresso beans and dumped a handful into her mouth, crunching loudly.

Kurt plopped down into a big squashy chair in the corner, releasing a comfortable sigh.  Dani wandered close to a newspaper rack against the opposite wall.

“Think fast,” Santana said, and tossed an espresso bean to Kurt, who managed to catch it in his mouth.

“I can’t remember the last time I had caffeine,” he remarked as he tilted his head back on the chair, savoring the candy.  “God, I miss coffee.”

Dani scanned the newspapers on the rack, all dated back to April.  The New York Times reported on the war in Iraq and the discovery of a century-old shipwreck in California, while the Philadelphia Inquirer spoke of a pizza delivery boy who had been shot by police.  At the same time, a small-time newspaper from Schuylkill County gave their front page to a local high school, championing their track star who had just won a cross-country race against Hazleton.

All these stories seemed so distant now, and utterly trivial.  Dani wondered if the boy who’d won the race was still alive.

Outside, raindrops battered the windows and poured off the awning.  Dani pulled herself away from the newspapers and leaned against the doorframe, watching the rain come down in sheets.  On the opposite side of the street, a possum trotted across the pavement, darting for cover.  It slipped over the edge of the road, heading for the train tracks that ran parallel to the street several yards further.

Santana tore into another packet of espresso beans and went to sit in the second armchair next to Kurt, kicking off her shoes to let them dry.  “Dani, you want some of these?” she called.

“I’m good, thanks.”  Dani watched the possum amble clumsily over the iron tracks and finally disappear into the bushes on the far side.

Suddenly an idea occurred to her, and she turned away from the doorway.  She made a beeline for the shelves, meandering up and down the aisles.

“What are you doing?” Kurt called, frowning at her from where he sat.  Santana looked equally confused, watching Dani search.

“I just had an idea,” was all Dani said.

She finally located what she was searching for, a shelf of maps and atlases tucked into the back corner of the bookshop.  Pawing through them until she found the geographically appropriate one, she grabbed it and returned to the front of the shop.

Dani knelt on the floor, unfolding the map completely on the thin carpet.  “Look,” she beckoned.

Kurt and Santana leaned forward, peering over Dani’s shoulders.  The roads of rural Pennsylvania were laid out in a tangled web across the state, color-coded to set highways and interstates apart from smaller routes.  Dani’s fingers traced across the map until she located Cressona, tapping it with a fingernail.

“Here,” she said.  Her finger followed a narrow black line leading westward, not quite straight but much more direct than the streets on the map.  The black line ran through open green spaces, only dipping occasionally into towns, and cut cleanly across roads both major and minor.

“What is that?” asked Santana.

Dani grinned.  “It’s a railroad.”

DAY 47

Back in the saddle, back on the road.  Mercedes and Puck left the Purgatory Resort in the midmorning, bags chock-full of food from the hotel kitchen.  The surrounding peaks glowed green and golden in the sun.  Barely an hour into the journey, Mercedes’ buttocks and hips were already aching, sweat dripping from the nape of her neck down between her shoulder blades.  Though there was a light breeze, it did little to abate the heat.

Still, Mercedes felt better than she had in weeks — months, even.  Having spent the last few days in veritable luxury (or at least as close to luxury as the circumstances would allow) she felt recharged.  Energized.  Ready and anxious to keep going.  Puck seemed to feel the same, as he’d been chomping at the bit all morning and now breathed easier, sitting straight on Mr. T’s back and squinting into the sunlight.  The food they’d taken from the Purgatory kitchens would last them a good long while, or at least Mercedes hoped so.

As eager as she was to continue their odyssey, to put as many miles behind them as possible, the idea of venturing off into the mountains still terrified her.  She couldn’t help but picture a myriad of dangers awaiting them at every turn of the trail — bears, for instance.  What the hell were they supposed to do if they came across a bear?  Neither of them had experience facing down any kind of large predator; they’d never exactly been an issue in Ohio.

Mercedes shook the thought from her head before it could spiral.  There was no use worrying endlessly about something that might happen, and to sit paralyzed in fear would only serve to slow them down.  She had food, she had Puck with her, and she had the confidence hard-earned by surviving the Mojave on foot.  For now, that was all she needed.

A few yards ahead, Puck began to hum quietly as he rode.  It wasn’t a tune she knew; it sounded like he was making it up on the spot.  Mercedes smiled to herself, enjoying the unfamiliar melody.

From far above, a sudden screech made her look up toward the heavens.  Gliding high against the blue was the golden silhouette of an eagle.  Mercedes’ heart leapt in her chest — she didn’t know how likely it was that it was the same one she’d seen on the Purgatory balcony days ago, but she couldn’t quite escape the notion that it was watching them, making certain they were traveling safely.  

She watched the eagle slowly wheel through the air, until its wing dipped and it turned northward, following the same path as the road until it faded from view.

Whether the eagle was truly an omen or not, Mercedes was determined to consider it a good one.

And so, by the time Puck pulled Mr. T to a stop and pointed ahead to the sign marking the trailhead, Mercedes was feeling much better about their chances.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Puck nodded, dismounting and taking Mr. T by the reins.  “Yeah,” he said. “I triple-checked the map.”

Mercedes followed suit, sliding down from Peach’s saddle less than gracefully.  Peach huffed indignantly at her as she led him after Puck.  The trail at its start was wide and gravelled, hard-packed from years of use.  It led due east, vanishing into the trees.

“You ready?”  Puck’s eyes were wide with apprehension and determination in equal measure.

Mercedes drew a deep, slow breath, and nodded.

Slowly, step by step, they guided the horses onto the trail.  Mercedes cast a final searching glance at the sky, hoping she’d see the eagle once again before the treetops blocked the sky from view.  For the first time in nearly eight hundred miles, they left the pavement behind them, and were quickly swallowed up by the forest.

In Lima, summer was in full swing, baking under the first real heat wave of the year.  There had been no rain for nearly two weeks, so they’d had to carry more water than usual from McClintock Lake, painstakingly boiling and filtering every drop in order to cook, drink, and bathe.  It was exhausting work, and today Blaine was grateful for the change of pace.  The sun bore down on his back as he and Burt trekked across town to Yoakam Road on a routine supply run.

Blaine scratched at the facial hair prickling on his cheeks — shaving wasn’t a priority these days, and it itched uncomfortably in the heat.  His arms ached from carrying water from the lake the last several days, but there was no use complaining.

Beside him, Burt walked apace, sweat-stained and grimy.  He pulled his water bottle from the side of his pack and took a long gulp.

“I’m thinking tomato sauce and pasta today,” Burt mused aloud.  “We could try to make spaghetti bolognese, and have an actual meal instead of just eating stuff out of the cans.”

Blaine chuckled.  There would be no meat to add to the sauce and it wouldn’t truly be bolognese if they did attempt.  However, Burt had a point.  Using and cleaning dishes when the food already came in its own container wasn’t a smart way to spend water, but every day they missed home-cooked meals a little bit more.  “Sounds good,” Blaine said, his stomach growling.

Despite the circumstances, Blaine liked having Burt with him.  Of the four adults in the Berrys’ house — Hiram, Leroy, Burt, and Carole — Blaine felt safest with Burt.  He didn’t really know Hiram or Leroy that well, though he was grateful to them for opening their home to him, and he had a closer connection with Burt than Carole.  Burt had told him that having Blaine around was almost like having Kurt back, and Blaine supposed the same was true in the other direction.

As they walked, Blaine kept his eyes open and constantly scanning, watching for any other people who might pose a potential threat.  He wasn’t keen to run into Kitty’s gang again, and he knew they weren’t the only people out there taking what they wanted by force.  His stomach twisted as he thought of the charred corpse at Sam’s house, and of Mr. Schue decomposing in the sun.

Fortunately, the route to Yoakam Road from the Berrys’ house didn’t pass by Mr. Schue’s body, and the few bodies they did see were nobody Blaine knew.

As they drew closer to Yoakam, Blaine walked straighter, taking longer strides.  He was eager to get to the truck and load up their packs, already looking forward to returning home.

For the past month, the Target truck had been a solace — a source of both food and security.  Whenever Blaine had begun to panic, lying awake at night and feeling alone and certain he was going to die, he could always circle back to this: they had a substantial cache built up at the Berrys’ house and plenty more still to unload from the truck.  They wouldn’t starve, or at least they wouldn't starve soon.

And now, as they rounded the corner onto Yoakam Road, Blaine’s heart dropped into his stomach.

Burt swore under his breath, slowing to a stop.

The truck stood exactly where they’d left it, the rear door wide open.  Empty cardboard boxes lay strewn and trampled across the surrounding pavement.  The inside of the truck was completely empty.  Not a single box remained.

“Damn it,” said Burt, his shoulders falling.  “Damn it.”

Blaine’s pulse pounded in his ears and fingertips.  “What do we do?”

Burt took off his baseball cap, agitatedly scraping his palm over the crown of his head.  “I guess we just head back.  We’ll figure something else out.”

Blaine drew a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.  They weren’t completely screwed — not yet.  They still had plenty of food stored back at the house.  “Okay,” he said, and followed as Burt turned and began walking the way they’d come.

“Damn it,” Burt said again, shaking his head.  “God, I hope Kurt’s not dealing with this kind of crap.”

Blaine bit his tongue.  He knew just as well as Burt did that New York was probably much, much worse off than places like Lima.  He’d tried not to think about it too much, because if he thought about it for long enough he was sure he’d never see Kurt again.  In all likelihood, Kurt had never made it out of the city, and Blaine wasn’t sure that keeping up hope would be less painful than assuming the worst.

Burt seemed to have the opposite philosophy.  “When the power comes back, I’m dragging his ass back here,” he said.  “I don’t care what I have to do, but he’s never living anywhere else again.”

Blaine smiled, easily able to picture the argument that would ensue if Burt tried to tie Kurt down to a place like Lima.  Of course, things had changed, and if Kurt was still alive, maybe he’d want nothing to do with New York even if the world did go back to normal.

“I talked to him,” Burt said, a faraway look in his eyes as he walked.  “A few days before the blackout.  Just a quick call; he was in the middle of running errands.  He sounded busy.”  Burt laughed, a fond smile tugging at his mouth.  “Too busy for his old man.”

“I was texting with him when it hit,” Blaine replied, his heart aching.

Burt stopped short, shoes scraping on the pavement.  “You were?”

“Yeah, a couple minutes before.”

Burt stared openly at Blaine like he’d just been given the meaning of life itself.  “What were you talking about?  What was he doing?”

“He was at work.  We were going to Skype later, but he got swamped and had to postpone,” Blaine explained.  “Something about a project deadline.  I don’t really remember.  But he was at the Vogue office when the blackout happened, I know that much.”

Burt was quiet for a long moment.  “That office was on the forty-first floor,” he said softly, almost to himself.  “God, what he must have seen…”

Blaine swallowed, grief spiking in his chest.  “Do— Do you think he’s still alive?”

Burt’s jaw twitched.  “Yes.  I do.”

“Really?”

“Really.  He’s strong, and he’s smart.  He’s always been a survivor,” Burt said.  “And I know these days that isn’t much of a guarantee, but… I feel it, y’know?  I feel it.  He’s out there.”

Blaine wanted more than anything to believe Burt, but all he could think of was how many people hadn’t made it, and how easy it would be for Kurt to be among them.

Burt’s face hardened, certainty giving his voice a rough edge.  “And you know what?” he asked, clamping a sure hand onto Blaine’s shoulder.  “We’re going to go find him.”

Chapter Text

DAY 48

Compared to the hot asphalt, following the railroad tracks was a relief for Kurt, Dani, and Santana.  The trees grew closer together, providing more shade, and without pavement to reflect the summer heat the air was cooler and easier to breathe.  A carpet of purple flowers hugged the tracks from both sides, rippling in the wind.  High above, clouds sailed across a brilliant blue sky, their shadows passing so quickly that it made the earth itself pulse with light.

Dani walked slightly ahead, holding her arms out to balance on one rail with the breeze tugging at the ends of her hair, her pistol tucked into the back of her jeans.  Kurt and Santana followed along atop the wood slats in the center, eyes scanning the trees for signs of danger as they walked.  

It did feel a little strange, Santana thought, being the only one of the trio without a gun.  Earlier that morning they had passed a railyard, a wide meadow of iron and gravel and trains that hadn’t moved in months.  They’d crossed through the yard quickly — there were people living, at least temporarily, in a few of the empty box cars.  And being weaponless, Santana was not eager to find out how territorial the train dwellers might have been.

Apart from the railyard, though, the train tracks provided a kind of shelter, a less confusing path to navigate, and — most importantly — isolation.  Guns aside, they felt more protected than they had in weeks.

Birds flitted to and fro between the swaying trees on either side of the tracks.  Clouds of insects wheeled through the air, occasionally landing on their arms or bags or heads for a moment before being swatted away.  At one point in the early afternoon a red fox ran across their path, pausing only briefly to stare curiously in their direction, then darted away into the underbrush.

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the westward trees ahead, making them squint as the afternoon headed toward evening, when Dani halted abruptly on her toes.

“Whoa,” she said, shielding her eyes against the sunlight.

Santana and Kurt slowed to a stop in turn, and Santana felt the pit of her stomach drop.

Straight ahead, where the tracks began to curve slightly to the north, was a derailed train.  Santana couldn’t tell how many cars it had; they sat in a twisted heap of steel, windows shattered, sides dented, wheels off the tracks or completely in the air.  Cars had been sent careening into the trees, knocking several to the ground and leaving scorched vegetation and burn marks blackening the metal hulls.

“Jesus,” breathed Santana.  She shuddered at the idea of being trapped on a train when the blackout struck, unable to stop or even slow down.  Given the choice, she would have jumped.

“Come on,” Kurt said.  He stepped off the tracks and veered to the right, working his way into the bushes and trees to go around the wreckage.

Santana quickly followed suit, squeezing Dani’s hand as she passed.

Closer to the half-charred train there was only a faint odor of soot; it had stopped burning weeks ago.  The branches of saplings grazed Santana’s face and neck, scrub brush scratching her calves.  Kurt craned his neck to peer into a broken window and instantly recoiled.

“Don’t look in there,” he said grimly.

Santana gulped, and heeded his advice.

It took several minutes to navigate around the debris field, stomping haphazardly through vegetation that was already beginning to grow over the steel.  Finally they were able to return to the track, where only three more cars lay at an angle to the rails.  The engine car had flipped completely on its side, and the conductor had been thrown several yards further ahead, where his corpse lay rotting amidst the purple flowers.

“Hold on,” said Dani, stopping beside the smashed-in door to the second car back from the engine, which was tilted on nearly a forty-five degree angle.

“What’s up?”

Dani tapped the dented steel shell, where the paint was badly scratched but DIN NG CA was still just barely legible.  “We might as well check while we’re here.”

Santana shrugged.  “I’m game.”

Kurt glanced nervously down the tracks like he thought the dead conductor might stand up and shout at them for trespassing.  “Okay,” he agreed.  “But let’s make it quick.”

Hoisting themselves up off the ground, one by one they clambered up the side of the dining car and squeezed clumsily through the door.  Inside, the floor was slanted and they had to brace themselves against the tables and benches bolted in place.  Rainwater had collected and pooled, rusty and stagnant in the lowest places.  If any of the passengers had been in this car before the crash, they had managed to get out.

The cafe counter took up half the car and the shelves behind it were empty, their contents thrown and scattered.  Bags of chips and pretzels and stale plastic-wrapped cookies were piled in the corners, some half-submerged in puddles.  Dani unzipped her pack and began stuffing it with anything undamaged and still edible.

Santana worked her way to the cafe counter, gripping anything she could to keep herself from slipping down the floor.  She grunted and pulled herself up around the end of the counter, and let out a sharp cry, flinching back and nearly falling.

On the floor behind the counter was the body of the cafe attendant, decomposing beneath a polyester blue apron.  As far as Santana could tell, the girl was roughly the same age as them, and had obviously suffered a fatal head injury when the train derailed.  A large patch of old blood decorated the interior edge of the counter.  With its broken windows the train car was well-ventilated and the rotting body still smelled, but the odor wasn’t nearly overpowering.

Dani and Kurt leaned with no small effort over the counter to see what had made Santana scream.

“That’s sad,” Dani remarked with a sigh.

Kurt made no remarks at all, and only pointed to the latched cupboards below the bolted-down Keurig machine.  “Check in there.”

Santana winced, but edged forward.  She propped a leg against the inside of the counter, careful to avoid stepping on the dead girl, and reached for the cupboard handles.  Once unlatched, the door fell open and a cascade of packaged sandwiches fell out, sliding across the floor and piling up against the attendant’s body.

“Those still look good, actually,” Kurt said in surprise.

He was right.  The sandwiches were all sealed in plastic and free of mold, as far as they could tell.  The bread and other ingredients had to be chock-full of chemical preservatives, which Kurt would have complained about in any other circumstance, but now it was a lucky break.

Santana began gathering sandwiches from the floor, handing them up over the counter for Kurt and Dani to pack, then unzipping her own bag to shove more inside.  When she went to close her backpack, Kurt stopped her.

“You missed some.”

Santana blinked.  The only sandwiches left were touching the corpse.  “You still want to eat those?”

Kurt shrugged.  “They’re plastic-wrapped.  It’s fine.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.  He had a point — there was little risk of germs — but she was still shocked to hear it coming from him.  “You know, three months ago you threw out Rachel’s almond milk because it was a week before its expiration date.”

“I stand by that decision,” Kurt replied smoothly.  “But if I’d found a corpse in a train car three months ago I’d also have been a lot more upset than I am now.”

Santana clicked her tongue, and opened her bag again.  Kurt was right.  They were in no position to be wasting food.  She gathered up the remaining sandwiches, careful not to touch the corpse herself.

In the small fridge behind the counter they found plenty of bottled water and juice, which they tucked into every pocket and spare space in their bags they could find.  And then, with the sunlight just beginning to fade from the train windows, they climbed back out onto solid ground.

“That was a good find,” Dani said, grinning as they passed the conductor’s body and left the train wreckage behind them.

Kurt made a noise of agreement in his throat.  “Yeah, it was,” he agreed.  “Remind me to listen to you more often.”

Dani laughed and reached to interlock her fingers with Santana’s while they walked.  Santana smiled, and felt lucky.

In the weeks since leaving the Mojave behind, Puck had gotten exceptionally good at building campfires.  They’d stolen matches and lighters every time they found them, but any time Mercedes tried to build one herself, the fire sputtered and faded within only a few minutes.  So instead, most nights she helped to gather kindling and firewood but stepped back to let Puck actually build the fire and get it going.  Without fail, his efforts invariably yielded a much longer-lasting, bigger, and warmer flame.

Here in the woods, after the sun had gone down, the fire provided a solace for Mercedes to focus on when her fears crept up behind her.  Any time she thought she heard an animal in the shadows, any time she imagined monsters lurking where she couldn’t see them, any time she worried that they’d fall off the side of the mountain and never make it back home, she clung to the light and warmth and safety of the campfire.  She watched the sparks whirl up into the atmosphere, disappearing among the stars, and breathed deeply.

Puck wasn’t nearly as nervous being in the middle of the woods at night — or at least, if he was, he hid it better.  He was quiet, though.  Quieter than she’d ever seen him.  Something about the mountains and the forest seemed to knock him deep into his own thoughts, and his words were few and far between.

The lack of conversation bothered Mercedes more than she’d have liked to admit.  It was far too easy to spiral into her own anxieties without Puck distracting her, and tonight was no exception.  The fire crackled, shadows flickering against the surrounding tree trunks, and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted.

On the opposite side of the fire, Puck lay back against Mr. T’s belly, head tilted up to watch the stars, moving slightly every time the horse breathed.  Peach had no such inclination to be close to Mercedes, and instead was tied to a tree close by.

“What are you thinking about?” Mercedes asked.  She hadn’t spoken loudly, but her voice still shattered the quiet as easily as a gunshot.

“Home.”

She sighed, tossing a twig into the fire and watching it burn, twisting and crackling in the heat.  “Yeah, me too.”

“What do you think Lima looks like now?” he mused aloud, still staring up at the stars with his head resting on Mr. T’s back.  It sounded like he wasn’t expecting an answer.

“The same as all the other towns,” Mercedes replied.  She shifted to a more comfortable position, stretching her legs out in front of her, warming her bare blistered feet.

Before she’d left home to go to Los Angeles, Mercedes had spent nearly every night on the couch with her parents, watching TV.  Jeopardy, Family Feud, The Voice, any other game show or reality show that might have been on.  Anything where they could shout out the answers and yell at the contestants on screen for making mistakes.  It was one of the few things both she and her parents enjoyed doing together, and whenever her older brothers swung back through town to visit, they joined in.  She’d give anything to be back in Lima right this second, lounging on the sofa in front of the TV, the living room filled with laughter.

She supposed that wouldn’t ever happen again.  Even if the power did come back, and even if everybody in her family was still alive, she couldn’t imagine going back to the same things she’d had before the blackout like nothing had happened.

Mostly, she was worried about Marcus.  Three of her brothers still lived relatively close to Lima; it wouldn’t have been that difficult for them to get home on foot.  But Marcus had just been finishing up his senior year of college in Miami, and Florida seemed so far away it may as well have been on another planet.  If he had survived the blackout without injury, he had nearly as far to travel as she did.

She let out a breath, trying to push the fear of never seeing her family again to the back of her head.  This was exactly why she needed Puck to distract her.

“I miss watching American Idol,” she said.

Puck yawned.  “I miss Deadliest Catch.”

“You think Simon Cowell is still alive?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Mercedes shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Don’t you think it’d be kind of weird to run into a famous person in the middle of all this?”

Puck made a noise of agreement in his throat, though he was only half-interested.  He watched the flames crackle and spark.

“I bet Lady Gaga’s alive.  She’s tough,” Mercedes added.

“Maybe.”

She tried to think of a name who might engage Puck’s attention.  “What about Charlie Sheen?”

Puck snorted.  “He’s either OD’d by now or he’s conquered half of Los Angeles.”

Mercedes laughed at the idea.  “John Cena?” she suggested.

“Definitely alive.”  Puck scrunched up his face in thought, watching the campfire smoke blot out the stars above.  “Tom Hanks?”

This was a game Mercedes could get behind.  She grinned, picking a bit of dirt from under her fingernail.  “He’s alive, but only because nobody wants to hurt him.  He’s like everybody’s grandpa.”

“Good point.  Okay, hold on, I gotta think of a good one.”  Puck lowered his position against Mr. T’s belly so that he was closer to lying down.  “Justin Bieber?”

Mercedes didn’t have to think about her answer.  “He’s dead as hell.”

Their laughter echoed out into the forest, disappearing into the trees beyond the firelight, and Mercedes wiped a mirthful tear from the corner of her eye.  It was much easier to wonder about the survival status of people she’d never met.  Puck sagged back against Mr. T, chuckling.

Out of the darkness, a scream cut through the air.

Puck and Mercedes jolted upright in an instant, laughter dying in their throats, and Puck reached to grab his bat from where it was lying beside their bags.  Mr. T raised her head, alert.  Peach sidestepped and probably would have bolted if he wasn’t tied to the tree.  He snorted, pawing the ground with a hoof.  The hairs on Mercedes’ arms and the back of her neck stood on end.

“What the hell was that?” Puck hissed, standing upright with the bat gripped tightly in his fist.

Mercedes’ heart pounded in her chest.  She shakily pulled herself to her feet, eyes wide and looking for any sign of danger.

Another scream, shrill and piercing, made them jump.  Peach whinnied, pulling at his reins.  Mercedes stepped closer to Puck without a second thought.  Some primitive instinct, handed down through the oldest fragments of her genetic code, told her to stay close to the fire, close to her pack.

“That sounds like a person,” Puck said, voice hushed.

The back of Mercedes’ head prickled, stomach twisting, fingertips tingling.  “I don’t think it is.”

“Neither do I.”

They heard the scream one more time, strident and unearthly and dissipating into the dark.  After that, it was quiet.

For the rest of the night, they barely slept.

DAY 49

The morning in Lima dawned sunny and humid, mist hanging heavy and low over the lake.  Carole’s clothes stuck to her skin as she walked alone through the suburbs.  It hardly looked like a suburb any more — after only a month and a half, lawns and gardens were overgrown, weeds poking up through cracks in the sidewalks.  Abandoned vehicles sat collecting dust in the middle of the streets and windblown debris piled up along the curbs.

Spencerville Road, where she and Burt had lived since they’d been married, was barely recognizable.  She felt a pang of sadness at seeing their neighbor’s homes in such a state.  Many had been broken into, others were boarded up.  One house had burned down, though she wasn’t sure if it had been an accident or another attack like the one that had killed Blaine’s parents.

Across the street from Burt and Carole’s, Sandra’s house sat with broken windows and the door smashed in.  It seemed like a cosmic joke, Carole thought, that Sandra had been desperate enough to rob their house only to turn around and have the same thing happen to her.  The house looked empty; whatever had happened to Sandra, Carole had a feeling she’d never see her old neighbor again.

Carole let out a breath and stepped from the sidewalk onto her own lawn, crossing the overgrown grass and ascending the steps to the porch.  Her heart ached to see the shattered window glass strewn across the deck and the front door hanging by only one hinge.  Instinctively, she wanted to clean it up, to keep taking care of her home, but it would be a pointless task that she had no time for anyway.  She had to get back to her group quickly.

Burt had offered to come with her, disliking the idea of her wandering town alone, but she’d insisted that he stay with the kids and Hiram and Leroy.  For this, she wanted to be by herself.  They had agreed on a meeting point by the edge of town and whoever got there first would wait.  The seven of them had spent most of the morning packing and tonight would be their first night on the road, but there were a couple of things still in her house that Carole wasn’t willing to leave Lima without.

Her kitchen was filthy.  Dusty and mud-tracked and in desperate need of a good scrubbing; she didn’t bother checking the cupboards she knew would be empty.  At some point a pigeon had gotten in and shit all over the sink, leaving feathers scattered on the counter.

The living room was dusty too, but not in such a bad state otherwise.  She went to the shelf by the TV and picked up the framed photo of her and Finn at the beach, swallowing the rock in her throat.  Despite being pressed for time, she couldn’t help staring down at the photo for a few moments, her finger tracing Finn’s little sunscreen-streaked face.  Once she left Lima, nobody would take care of Finn’s gravesite, and the thought of him being neglected made her want to dig her heels in and refuse to leave.

But her other child was still out there, and she was determined to bring the only parts of Finn with her that she could.  She flipped the frame over and quickly slid the photograph out, tucking it into her pocket and leaving the empty frame on the shelf.

She then climbed the stairs to the second floor, ears ringing in the quiet.

Kurt’s bedroom was pristine; he’d always been a neat freak and Burt had never had occasion to go into Kurt’s room without Kurt present.  The shelves of trophies and photos and other keepsakes took over an entire wall, impeccably organized, and it didn’t take Carole long to find what she was looking for: another picture frame.  This one held a photo of Kurt and Burt sitting in a booth at Breadstix during one of their family dinners, back when she and Burt had only just begun to see each other.  They were both mid-laugh in the picture — Carole had taken the photo herself and she wished she could remember what they’d been laughing at.  

She took the photo out of its frame and slid it into her pocket alongside the one of her and Finn.  Burt hadn’t asked her to get any photos of Kurt, but Carole knew he’d want one.  And New York was a big place.  Having a photo reference would be helpful, once they got there.

Pushing through the door to Finn’s bedroom, she found it as she’d left it.  The bed made, Finn’s school backpack still hanging from his desk chair and full of half-finished college assignments.  Carole fought off the urge to sit and just stay here — she didn’t have time, and clinging to Finn’s things without moving forward would do nobody any good, least of all her.

Instead, she opened the closet and dragged out the box labeled JACKETS & SWEATERS.  Her favorite of Finn’s hoodies, with its solid white and gray stripes, had been meticulously cleaned by Burt when she’d accidentally gotten blood on it after the shooting at the hospital.  It was badly wrinkled, having been folded and refolded so many times, but that was hardly a concern these days.

It was too hot to wear it outside, so Carole stuffed the hoodie into what little space was left in her backpack.  She closed the box and returned it to its place on the closet floor.

As she turned to leave, she paused for just long enough to kiss the tips of her fingers, then press them to the door jamb.  “I love you,” she whispered, and walked away.

Leaving the house wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be.  As much as the things inside it still belonged to her, the house itself didn’t feel like her home anymore.  Instead, her home lay elsewhere — with Burt, waiting for her at the edge of town, and with Kurt, somewhere in New York.  Wherever they were was where she wanted to be, and everything else could be left behind.

Walking eastward through Lima, Carole could feel the world changing under her feet.

She met up with Burt and the rest of their group at the corner of Reservoir Road and Fenway Drive, as promised, and couldn’t help but smile.  They were all packed and ready — even Caitlin, who carried a backpack nearly half her own size.

Carole was grateful that Artie and Caitlin had elected to come with them; their older brother was in Philadelphia, after all, and this trip would at least get them within throwing distance.  If they had decided to stay in Lima on their own, Carole would have worried every day, so at least she could keep an eye on them this way.  

Blaine had chosen to go too in an instant.  He was eager to find Kurt and, ultimately, he had nowhere else to be.  No other family beside the one that had adopted him in the absence of his own.

Hiram and Leroy were fidgeting, chomping at the bit, more than ready to go and find their daughter.

Burt smiled and gave Carole a kiss when she joined them, and asked if she’d found everything she needed from the house.  She pulled the photo of Kurt from her pocket, pressing it to Burt’s palm.

Burt’s eyes went a little glassy, and he held the photo like it was made of pure gold.  “Thanks, hon,” was all he said.  He cleared his throat, tucked the picture into his own breast pocket, then squared his shoulders and tightened the straps of his backpack.  “You ready?”

Carole nodded, reaching out to squeeze Burt’s hand.  “Let’s go find our son.”

The hiking trail leading through the mountains was rocky, narrow, and difficult to navigate.  Puck and Mercedes had both descended to walk on the ground and lead the horses by the reins in order to lessen the load, lowering the chances that one might stumble and fall.  It was slow going, though, and Mercedes didn’t exactly enjoy being out in the wilderness.  Still, by now she was at least used to it, and complaining wouldn’t get them home any faster.

The trade-off, of course, was that they were rewarded with stunning views whenever the tree cover broke long enough for them to see beyond the trail.  Sweeping slopes with dense forest glowing green in the sunlight, with granite and limestone ridges piercing through toward the sky at the higher altitudes.  Wind rushed through the valleys, up the hills, swirling around Puck and Mercedes like the mountains themselves were asking Who are you?  What are you doing here?

It was an hour or two past midday, after they’d stopped to rest and eat a quick lunch of stolen granola from the Purgatory Resort, when Puck stopped abruptly in his tracks.  He pulled Mr. T to a halt, brushing a hand down the long bridge of her nose, and waved for Mercedes to stop too.  He pressed a finger to his lips.

Peach snorted indignantly when she tugged on his reins, and Mercedes had a feeling he would have just kept going if Mr. T hadn’t been blocking the path directly in front of him.  Mr. T’s ears swiveled back and forth, tail swishing.  Puck scanned their surroundings, wide-eyed and alert.

“What is it?” Mercedes asked, half terrified that they were about to hear the same unearthly scream from the night before.  She hadn’t been entirely certain whether it was a person or an animal, and she wasn’t all that inclined to find out.

“Shh!” Puck hissed.  “I think…”

He trailed off, eyes darting to and fro, and then Mercedes heard it too.

Voices.

There were at least two, one male and one female, carried on the air.  She couldn’t tell how far away they were and she couldn’t see them yet, but they were close, and getting closer.

Instantly, Mercedes bit back a barrage of curses she wanted to hurl in Puck’s direction.  Instead she snapped, “Puck, the whole point of coming this way was to avoid people!”

Puck glared at her, throwing up his hands.  “Well, what do you want me to do about it now?!  We need to hide.”

She wanted to strangle him.  “We have horses, Puck!  Where the hell are we going to hide?!”

Puck opened his mouth to make some kind of clever retort, but it was too late.

Up ahead, from around the next bend in the trail, two people appeared.  A man and a woman, both young and in the middle of laughing at something one of them had said when they saw Puck, Mercedes, and their two unhideable horses.  They stopped short, smiles fading.

A long, tense moment passed as the strangers studied them, and vice versa.

Mercedes saw the man’s eyes linger on Puck’s baseball bat where it was poking out of one of the bags on Mr. T’s back.  Neither the man nor the woman were armed.  Rather, quite the opposite.  They had only baskets strapped to their shoulders, their hands dirt-streaked, and appeared to be in the middle of foraging for food.

The man was short, with curly black hair pulled into a topknot and a trimmed beard.  The woman was only slightly taller, with hair the color of straw and gold-rimmed glasses.  She gripped her partner’s hand tightly, as though she was expecting Puck or Mercedes to attack at any moment.

“Um,” said the man.  “Hi.”

Puck hesitantly raised a hand in greeting.  “What’s up?”

“We weren’t expecting to see anyone out here.”

“Neither were we.”

The man stared at the horses for several seconds, confusion knitting his eyebrows together.  “What exactly are you doing all the way out here?”

“We could ask you the same question,” Mercedes retorted, feeling bold.

“I’m a park ranger,” the man replied flatly, as though it should have been obvious despite his lack of a uniform.  “It’s literally my job to be out here.”

“We just want to get home, that’s all,” Puck said quickly.  “We’re trying to stay off the roads.”

The woman spoke for the first time.  “Where’s home?” she asked.

“Ohio.”

The man’s brows shot toward his hairline.  “And you’re taking a hiking trail through the Rockies?  With two horses?”

Puck shrugged.  “Like I said.  Trying to stay off the road.  We were hoping to avoid people.”

“Well done.”

The woman lightly slapped his shoulder, chiding, “Don’t be rude.”

“Babe, we don’t know these people, and for all we know they could just want to rob us at gunpoint,” the man protested.

Mercedes drew a breath to take offense and instead throw a few choice accusations at this stranger, but instead the woman had a rebuttal ready to go.

“They had no way of knowing we’d be here, and if they had guns they wouldn’t be avoiding the road,” she countered smoothly.  She then turned her attention back to Puck and Mercedes, adjusting her spectacles on her nose.  “Are you hungry?”

Mercedes blinked.  “What?”

The woman smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  “Look, no offense, but you two are obviously not outdoorsmen.  You don’t have the right clothes or the right shoes, and I’m guessing whatever food you have on you, you’re just hoping it’ll last until you’re out of the woods.”

Puck laughed awkwardly, patting Mr. T’s flank like his hands were looking for something to occupy themselves.  “You’re not wrong.”

“Our place isn’t far,” the woman continued.  “Why don’t you come and take a load off for a bit?  Stay the night if you want.”

“Your place?” echoed Mercedes.  She couldn’t imagine there were any houses out here.

The man scratched behind his ear, looking like he’d much rather not share this information.  “We moved into the ranger cabin when the blackout hit.”

“It’s not big,” the woman elaborated.  “But it’s got a roof and four walls.”

Mercedes shifted from foot to foot, every instinct shouting that she and Puck should just tell these people to shove it and then continue on their way.  “Well… we don’t know you.”

“I’m Elizabeth,” the woman said, her smile unfading.  “And this is Billy.”

“Okay, but I mean, you might want to rob us, too.”

Puck sent a warning glare to Mercedes over his shoulder.  “I don’t think it’s smart to turn down help,” he told her.

Mercedes swallowed, her jaw twitching.  But Puck had a point, and to be fair, Billy and Elizabeth didn’t really seem any more dangerous than they were.  Puck’s bat was the only weapon to be had between the four of them, so technically, Billy and Elizabeth were the ones at a disadvantage.

Mercedes thought of Carter and June, opening their home, giving them food and a second horse, providing a safe space for Puck to heal and Mercedes to rest.

Finally, she nodded.  “Okay.  Thank you.”

Elizabeth was right — the ranger cabin was not very far.  Barely half a mile down the trail from where they’d met, Billy and Elizabeth turned from the main trail onto a smaller secondary path branching off to the left, heading up the slope through the trees.

Between the horses’ bulk and the trail growing narrower, the pace was glacial.  But only another ten minutes or so later, they found themselves standing in front of a small wooden cabin outfitted with a chimney and a low porch.  The trees broke apart below the porch, giving the cabin a sweeping, stunning view of the mountains to the east.

“All right,” Elizabeth said, trotting up the steps onto the porch.  “Home sweet home.”

“Nice view,” Puck remarked.

“It’s so we can watch for fires during the dry season,” Billy replied, as though to him the natural wonders of the Rockies were about as interesting as a grocery store cereal aisle.

He shouldered off his basket, setting it on the porch, and pointed to a spot near the rear of the house where the ground was even and there was several yards’ clearance before the trees closed in.  “You can tie the horses up back there for now.”

Once the horses were somewhat settled, Mercedes and Puck followed their hosts inside.  The interior of the ranger cabin was exactly what one might expect, rustic and cramped.  It was one room, with a bed barely big enough for two built into the far corner, and a small wood stove constituting the kitchen.  A cast-iron pan and a kettle rested atop the stove.  There were only two windows but plenty of sunlight, and a couple kerosene lamps sat on a shelf above a line of well-worn books.  In the middle of the room was a wooden table, and Billy and Elizabeth hoisted their baskets up onto its surface.

“Make yourselves at home,” Elizabeth said.  “You want some tea?”

Mercedes shook her head, feeling awkward and claustrophobic.  The cabin didn’t even seem big enough for two people, let alone four.  “What’s in the baskets?” she asked instead.

“Dinner.”  Billy took his basket and tipped it, letting its contents spill out across the table.  It was a strange, dirty pile of random plants and fungi that Mercedes didn’t recognize at all.

“All of that is edible?”  Mercedes leaned over the table to peer at their haul.

Billy nodded and began to explain, picking up one after the other and naming them as he went.  “We’ve got oyster mushrooms, chanterelles, wild leeks, wild mustard, nettles—”

“And,” Elizabeth cut in, pulling a large red mass the size of her hand from her basket, “a lobster mushroom!  These are hard to find.”

Puck sat down at the table, staring at the hoard in awe.  “How do you guys know all this stuff?” he asked, picking up a bright golden chanterelle to inspect it more closely.

“We got lucky,” Billy said as he brushed soil from a bunch of wild leeks.  “We were already into foraging before the blackout hit.  We used to do this for fun, every weekend.”

Mercedes wandered closer to the small bookshelf by the front window, inspecting the titles.  A couple of novels were mixed in, but the majority had titles like Identifying Wild Edible Plants and Rustic Shelters for the Rustic Camper.  The spines were a bit faded from use, and most of them had library tags.

“I stole those from work,” Elizabeth said with a grin, coming to stand beside Mercedes.

“What?”

“I’m a librarian,” she elaborated.  “After the blackout when Billy and I decided to come out here, we raided the library and took everything that seemed useful.”

Mercedes stared at the line of books, nearly all guides on living without electricity in some capacity or another, and felt like an idiot.  “I can’t believe Puck and I didn’t think of that.”

Elizabeth laughed.  “You and everybody else.  Nobody thinks of the library as a resource when something like this happens.  Trust me, books are the best advantage we have.”

The day faded into evening quickly, and Billy cooked dinner on the wood stove, a fantastically filling goulash of mushrooms and leeks and leafy greens.  It was by far the most flavorful and satisfying meal Puck and Mercedes had eaten since before the blackout, and they devoured their servings in short order.  By then, Billy seemed to have warmed somewhat to the idea of having guests, and was friendlier.

As the moon rose and the stars came out, glittering against the black, Elizabeth went to bed, and Mercedes laid down on the cabin floor once they’d moved the table to make room for her and her blankets.  Belly full and muscles exhausted, she was asleep in minutes.

Outside, Puck and Billy sat on the porch, drinking tea from metal mugs and watching the night sky.  Clouds were moving in from the east but rain was still distant, at least a day away.

“I’ll never get tired of this view,” Billy said, staring upward at the stars.

“It is nice,” Puck agreed.

Billy took a long gulp of tea and adjusted himself to sit back against the porch post.  “So you’re trying to get all the way to Ohio,” he said. “Where’d you start from?”

“Los Angeles.”

Billy whistled lowly.  “Jesus.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised we made it this far too,” Puck chuckled.  Off to the right and behind the cabin, he heard one of the horses snort.  “What d’you think happened?  To the power, I mean.”

Billy shook his head, tapping his fingertips on his kneecap.  “I don’t know.  I’m not sure it matters, really.”

Puck frowned in surprise.  “You’re not sure if the apocalypse matters?”

At that, Billy drew his eyes away from the night sky and met Puck’s gaze evenly, seeming overly patient.  “This is not the apocalypse,” he said.  “The world is fine.  People might not be, but the world is.  You really think the blackout qualifies as the end of the world?”

Puck swallowed, wanting to argue that yes, anything that caused the deaths of millions and left the living with barely any means to survive would be the very definition of the end of the world.

Billy only turned his attention back to the stars, watching a meteor flare and streak across a few degrees of sky before winking into nothing.

“As far as potential apocalypses go, we’re lucky it was this one,” he said definitively, in a tone that made Puck think that Billy had spent a lot of time evaluating the pros and cons of different world-ending scenarios.  “People have lived without electricity for a lot longer than they’ve lived with it.  We can learn how to do that again.”

Perhaps Billy had a point, but Puck couldn’t help feeling resentful of Billy’s apparent philosophy — could it be called nonchalance? — and when he spoke, he spoke harshly.  “It sounds like you didn’t lose anyone,” he snapped.

Billy turned again to meet Puck’s gaze, unoffended but unyielding.  “Statistically, do you think that’s likely?”

Puck blinked.  “What?”

Swallowing the rest of his tea and placing the empty cup on the porch beside him, Billy let out a long breath and rested his elbows on his knees.  “My sister died,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Your sister?”

“My mom and dad live in Georgia,” Billy elaborated, picking bits of dirt from under his nails as he spoke.  “And my sister was on her way to visit them.  Her plane took off from Denver at six-thirty, and the blackout hit half an hour later.”

Puck’s heart sank, his mug feeling cold in his palm.

“My guess is her plane went down somewhere in Kansas.  Maybe Oklahoma.”

Puck scratched behind his ear, eyes prickling.  “I have a sister too,” he said, and was surprised that it came out sounding choked-up.  His throat hurt.  “She’s ten.  But I have no idea if she’s alive or not.  Her name’s Sarah.”

Billy nodded in understanding.  “My sister’s name is Millie.”

Before he could stop himself, Puck snorted.  “Millie and Billy?  Seriously?”

For the first time since they’d met, Billy grinned widely.  “Yeah, our parents weren’t the most creative.”

Puck laughed, leaning back to watch the sky.  He lifted his mug in a salute and said, “To Millie.”

Billy smiled again, raising his own empty cup, and replied, “To Sarah.”

As Puck drank the rest of his tea, sitting here on the cabin porch and staring up at the stars overhead, his thoughts traveled thousands of miles eastward, out of the mountains and across the endless patchwork of cornfields and farmlands of the Midwest.  He could picture his mother and sister watching TV every evening, his grandmother occasionally joining for dinner.  He could see the lights of his house as easily as if he were standing in his own kitchen right now, fridge open as he rummaged for a soda or a beer, his mom’s cat continuously getting underfoot.

He always hated those nights, when his mom insisted that he join them to watch whatever stupid show had caught their attention that night, that he not spend his time in his room by himself.  Now, he’d give anything, sacrifice anything, to be back home, eating crappy microwaved dinners that his mom had picked up at the gas station and arguing with Sarah about who got to hold the TV remote.

The last time he’d seen her, Sarah had tried to show him her hair — she’d been watching tutorials on YouTube and had finally figured out how to do a French braid — and he’d dismissed her, wholly uninterested in girly things like that.  He’d jokingly suggested that she shave her head into a Mohawk like he’d done, and she’d gasped in horror and clutched the top of her hair like she’d expected him to try to snatch it from her scalp.  He thought, if she were sitting on the porch right now beside him, he’d offer to try to braid her hair for her.

His thoughts were interrupted, then, by a piercing scream.

Puck, slammed instantly back into the present, sat ramrod straight.  The scream was the same he and Mercedes had heard the night before, shrill and unearthly and not quite human.  Behind the cabin, Puck heard one of the horses stomp and snort.

Billy, on the other hand, was alert but otherwise unperturbed.  He sat up straight, turning his head to try and pinpoint the origin of the scream, but didn’t appear afraid.

The scream repeated, raising the hairs on Puck’s neck and arms.  “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a mountain lion,” Billy answered calmly.

“What?”  Every muscle in Puck’s body tensed, instinctively wanting to run.  “Shouldn’t we go inside, then?”

Billy shook his head in a manner that Puck thought was probably a little too casual.  “Nah.”

Aghast, Puck flinched as the mountain lion screamed again, sounding closer than before.  “What do you mean, ‘nah’?”

“Puck, we’re fine,” Billy said with a hint of a chuckle, which Puck did not appreciate.  “The lion’s not hunting.”

Puck was unconvinced.  “How do you know?”

“Because if it was, we wouldn’t hear it,” Billy replied, and the creature shrieked again as if to illustrate Billy’s point.  “It’s just communicating — a mating call, or something.”

“That’s how they talk?”

“Freaky, isn’t it?”

The hairs on Puck’s neck and arms stood erect, his heart thudding away in his chest.  Another scream reverberated through the air, and somehow, knowing the source made it that much more terrifying.  “Are you sure it’s not hunting?”

“Yeah.  Cats are ambush predators.  Their whole attack repertoire is being quiet.”  Billy flapped a hand in the direction of the woods, like he spent his time constantly fending off mountain lions and bears and this was just an average weekday for him.  “Look, if a mountain lion is hunting you, you won’t know it’s there until it’s too late.”

This, incredibly, did not make Puck feel better.  “Should we do something about the horses, then?”

Billy made a face and said, flatly, “Like what?”

Puck huffed, his gaze searching the woods for a flash of predatory eyes in the dark.  There was no barn, no stable, no room in the cabin.  If the mountain lion decided it wanted to eat Peach or Mr. T, there was nothing Puck or anyone else could do about that, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

The moon gradually drifted westward, and the world fell quiet again.  Whether the lion had moved on or if it was lurking nearby, waiting for the opportune moment to attack, Puck had no way of knowing.  Billy eventually stood and dumped the last few drops from his mug, recommending that Puck get some rest.

Puck let out a long, anxious breath.  It seemed he had no choice but to leave the horses unguarded for the rest of the night.  With no small amount of effort, he convinced himself to head inside.

As he restlessly slept on the floor alongside Mercedes, Puck dreamed again and again and again of monsters silently leaping from the shadows, with huge claws and massive teeth.

DAY 50

Summer was in full swing now, sunlight bearing down on the top of Santana’s head as she trailed behind Kurt and Dani.  Even with more tree cover over the railroad tracks, it wasn’t enough to fight the June heatwave that had taken over this particular area of rural Pennsylvania, and both the temperature and the humidity were edging on unbearable.  Sweat poured from Santana’s skin, and she was sure she’d never smelled so badly in her life.

Rather than focus on the discomfort, she concentrated on the tracks beneath her feet.  With an obvious path to follow, they’d covered more miles in a shorter amount of time than they had in weeks.  Not only did they not have to spend precious minutes poring over paper maps and weighing the pros and cons of different roads, but Santana could feel the knots of newly-developed muscles in her shoulders and her lower back, the hardened swell of her calves and thighs.  She saw similar changes in Kurt and Dani — the little rolls of fat that smoothed out the contours of their figures were all but gone, the shapes of muscles stark beneath tightening skin.  Their bodies were slowly but surely adjusting.

Santana kept her eyes on Kurt and Dani’s backs a few yards up ahead, preferring to follow rather than lead.  It wasn’t that she was tired — she was exhausted, but no more than usual, and she was sure the others felt the same — but rather she had reached the dawning realization that she felt calmer, less afraid, and all-around better if she could keep Kurt and Dani within view.  If they were behind her or even just out of her peripheral vision, it was far too easy to forget they were there.

It was just after midday when Kurt slowed to a stop, frowning and turning in place.

“What’s up?” Dani asked.

Kurt shook his head in confusion and sniffed the air.  “Do you smell that?”

Santana raised her nose and took a deep inhale, but all she could smell was her own odor.  Dani did the same, with similar results.

“What are you talking about?”

“Really?  You don’t smell anything?” Kurt said, surprised.

Santana sniffed again, and made a face.  “I smell us.  Not much else.”

“Wait a sec.”  Dani scrunched up her nose and took a long breath, and her eyes widened.  “It smells like burgers!”

Santana blinked, and again breathed in as big a gulp of air as she could manage.  This time, she did pick up on it — a distinct aroma of grilling meat.  “You think there’s people nearby?”

“Gotta be,” Kurt answered.  “Let’s be on the lookout.”

They continued forward, remaining alert.  While Santana was somewhat hopeful that whoever was cooking might be willing to share, should they actually find the source, mostly she felt apprehensive.  The only time they’d encountered anyone manning a grill since leaving New York was in Nazareth, and she knew all too well that groups of people had the potential to be extremely dangerous.

As they walked, picking up the pace, the aroma only grew stronger.  Santana’s stomach growled.  

And then, they heard a sound they’d not heard in months.

Music.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the trees lining the railroad, someone was playing a guitar.  Santana felt the apprehension and fear drain from her body, fading away into the earth underfoot in an instant.  Amazingly, the music immediately conquered whatever suspicions she’d harbored about the nearby people, and all she wanted to do was run straight toward it.

Kurt and Dani seemed to have a similar reaction, as they exchanged an astonished glance and stepped off the tracks.  The three of them paused for a moment, just listening, until they heard people calling back and forth to one another, layered over the guitar’s melody in the background.

In unspoken agreement, Kurt, Dani, and Santana left the tracks behind and pressed into the woods, through the knee-high ferns and saplings, heading for the sunlight on the other side.

The moment they broke free of the vegetation, stepping out onto an open grassy field, Kurt was hit directly in the face with a soccer ball.

Chapter Text

“OW!   What the—!”

Kurt staggered, clutching his nose and nearly losing his balance.  Santana quickly grabbed his arm to keep him from tipping.

“Oh my God!  Are you okay?!” a voice shouted.

“What the fuck?” asked another.

“Ow,” Kurt said again, wiping a smear of blood from his upper lip.

Apart from the nose, Kurt was all right, but Santana refused to let go of him as she took in the scene ahead.  Dani stood close on her other side, tense and wide-eyed.

Immediately in front of them was a lush green field, where a handful of people had been in the middle of a soccer game.  A young man had caught the ball when it bounced back toward him, and now held it against his hip as he stared at the three of them with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.  His expression was matched by the others, men and women alike, and there were children too.  On the other side of the makeshift soccer pitch a heavily pregnant woman rested in a folding beach chair, and a man with a guitar on his lap had abruptly stopped plucking the strings.

Past the field was a colorful sea of tents, dozens upon dozens blanketing the hill as it began to slope down to a wide glittering river.  They could see people walking between the tents, going about their business and not seeming to notice from a distance that there were any newcomers.  Smoke rose from a few different fire pits scattered throughout, and Santana could smell cooking food.

Beyond the tents the land climbed upward again, and atop the hill sat a gleaming white farmhouse and a massive barn.

“Hey, go get Sinclair,” a woman instructed a younger boy, who immediately nodded and sprinted off toward the sprawling tents.

Santana guessed that there could be as many as a hundred people living here, temporarily or not.  It was inhabited and alive and beautiful.

“Who’re you?” asked the man holding the soccer ball.

Dani was the first to remember her manners, and cleared her throat.  “I’m Dani.  This is Kurt and Santana.”

“Do you guys need help?”

“Well, you broke my nose, so…” Kurt snapped, wincing as he prodded at the bruised cartilage.

“We can have the doc look at you,” the man replied.

Santana blinked.  “The— You have a doctor here?”

“Yeah, of course,” the man said, like they shouldn’t have assumed otherwise, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

A moment later, the young boy returned with a new person in tow, a muscled woman nearly six feet tall.  Here was another surprise: she was obviously military.  Her clothes were at least partially uniform, camo trousers and Army-issued boots, and a gun strapped to her hip.  She had her hair neatly pulled back underneath a camo-print cap, and though she didn’t draw her weapon, it looked as though she was ready to do so at the slightest provocation.

“What do you want?” she asked, point blank.

Dani frowned.  “Nothing.  We just heard the music.”

The soldier — Sinclair — cast a glare over her shoulder at the guitarist, who only shrugged back at her.  She seemed to be the only person on the soccer pitch who was at all concerned about a potential threat from outsiders.

“Since we’re here, though,” Dani continued boldly, “and since you have a doctor, we have an injury that could use some attention.”  She gestured pointedly to Kurt’s bloody nose.  You hurt him, you fix him.

“Yeah, that might have been my fault,” said the man holding the soccer ball.  “I figure the least we can do is patch him up.  You want me to take ‘em to see Morley?”

Sinclair huffed and shook her head.  “No, I’ll take them myself.”  To Kurt and Dani, she said, “Give me your guns.”

Instantly, Kurt backed up.

“We’ll give them back,” she assured him impatiently.  “It’s just a precaution while you’re in the camp.”

Reluctantly, Kurt and Dani placed their pistols into the soldier’s hands.  Santana swallowed, hoping that wouldn’t come back to bite them.  At the very least, Sinclair didn’t try to take their packs.

Sinclair gave a curt, satisfied nod.  “Right.  Follow me.”

Under the curious gazes of the others on the soccer field, Kurt, Dani, and Santana fell into step behind Sinclair, who led them off the pitch and toward the sea of tents.

“So — what is this place, exactly?” asked Dani.

“What does it look like?” replied Sinclair.

“It looks like a refugee camp.”

“Well, there you go.”

Santana couldn’t help staring as they walked, following a grassy lane between rows of tents.  Dani wasn’t wrong — a refugee camp was exactly what this looked like.  The tents were somewhat organized, leaving wide paths for people to pass through in groups.  Oil drums were scattered throughout the camp, unlit in the middle of the day, but Santana could smell the soot; they were clearly used for heat and light during the nights.  

People meandered to and fro, attending to various jobs — cleaning, carrying firewood, cooking.  Santana wrinkled her nose as they passed a man gutting a freshly slaughtered deer, the entrails stinking on the ground.

Toward the center was a large area kept clear as a gathering place, with a massive fire pit in the middle.  The space had been so heavily used and trampled that there was almost no grass, only packed dirt and layers of footprints.

This was organized, Santana realized, but a far cry from Nazareth.  There were no fences, no armed guards, no supervisors to make sure laborers didn’t go astray.  Plenty of people were working, but none had a watchful eye keeping them on task.  The camp had an open, flowing sense to it.  Fear didn’t hang in the air here like it had in Nazareth, or any of the countless towns they’d passed through on their journey from New York.  It almost seemed like the camp had sprung up accidentally, unplanned but welcoming to anybody who might find themselves in its midst.

At the far edge of the tents, they passed another pair of ex-military.  A man and a woman, both in the same half-uniforms as Sinclair, in the middle of constructing an organized pile of firewood.  The man was very short and stocky, dark hair clipped close to his scalp, and the woman was of Middle Eastern descent with curly hair tied into the neatest bun she could manage.

Sinclair whistled sharply at them, barely slowing down as she barked their names.  “Grey.  Alko.  With me.”

Immediately, Grey and Alko abandoned their task and fell into step, bringing up the rear.  Santana’s neck prickled; she felt like a sheep herded by dogs nipping at her ankles.  If they suddenly needed to run, they wouldn’t make it far.

Despite their weapons, Grey and Alko didn’t seem as on-edge as Sinclair.  Curiosity flashed in their eyes, examining, but any questions they may have had were held back.

Sinclair led their group up the hill, along a recently-worn path between the camp and the farmhouse at the top of the slope.  The farmhouse stood bright and undamaged, looking out over the grassy field and the river below.  Before the blackout the house might have been considered small or even quaint and cozy, but now as they approached it may as well have been a fortified castle.

The boards creaked underfoot as they stepped up onto a wide shaded front porch, which was populated with several wooden chairs meant for enjoying the view.  Sinclair pointed to the chairs and ordered Dani and Santana to sit.

When they hesitated, she made a face and said, “If you want your friend to see the doctor, then sit.”

Kurt and Santana exchanged a glance and he gave a slight nod, a silent I’ll be fine.   There was already a significant bruise forming on the bridge of his nose, darkening the skin beneath his eyes.

Santana and Dani sank into the chairs, and even Santana couldn’t deny how good it felt to sit down and get off her feet, however briefly.  Sinclair handed their guns to Grey and Alko, and with a final “Keep an eye on them,” she took Kurt inside, the screen door slamming shut behind them.

Alko gave Santana and Dani a smile that was probably intended to be reassuring.  “Don’t worry,” she said, though she was standing between them and the exit.  “The doctor will take good care of him.”

Inside the farmhouse, Sinclair directed Kurt through the entry hall and to the right, where he found himself in what used to be a living room.  The space was still surprisingly homey, but had been re-made into a doctor’s office.  In the center of the floor was an exam table of sorts — a sturdy wooden dining table with a clean sheet thrown over it.

They had interrupted another patient, but that didn’t bother Sinclair.  Patient privacy was likely a thing of the past.

A little boy no older than five was receiving a bandage on his wrist; an injury sustained during playtime, no doubt.  His mother rubbed his back comfortingly as the doctor finished her work, glancing up at Sinclair and Kurt for only a moment before returning her attention to the child.  “All right, buddy, you’re all done.  Good job!  Just be careful when you’re climbing trees, okay?”

The boy tearfully agreed and was carried from the room by his mother, and Kurt was left with Sinclair and the doctor — who, amazingly, actually looked like a doctor.  She was short, black, with soft features and a stethoscope hanging round her neck.  On top of her regular clothes she wore a white coat, which was slightly wrinkled but impressively clean.

“Got a new patient for you,” Sinclair said by way of introduction.

The doctor took in the sight of Kurt’s bruised face.  “I see that,” she replied flatly.  “Well, come on over, let me have a look.”

Kurt did as she directed, feeling awkward as he hoisted himself up to sit on the exam table.

“What’s your name?”

“Kurt.”

“I’m Dr. Morley,” she said, tilting his head back to get a better look at his nose.  “What happened?”

Sinclair answered for him.  “Greg hit him with a soccer ball.”

Dr. Morley’s mouth twitched like she was about to laugh.  “Greg does have quite the kick. I’m surprised this doesn’t look worse.  I’d offer you an ice pack but we don’t have any ice.”

“Is it broken?” asked Kurt.

Dr. Morley prodded at his face, and he did his best not to yelp.  “No, it’s not.  Might take a while for the bruise to heal, but you’ll be right as rain.”  She looked him up and down, taking in the filthy state of his clothes, the collarbones showing through his shirt, the several-day body odor.  “You’ve been walking a long time?”

He nodded.  “From New York.”

“He’s got two friends outside who don’t look much better,” Sinclair added.

If this surprised Dr. Morley, she didn’t show it.  She only nodded, like it was the answer she’d expected.  “Take off your backpack,” she said, reaching for a box of gloves on a side table.

He frowned.  “What?  Why?”

“I’m just going to do a quick exam.  I’d like to make sure that you’re alright before you continue on your way.”  The gloves snapped against her skin.

As Kurt set his pack aside and, following her instruction, took off his shirt, he suddenly felt self-conscious.  “Sorry, I know I smell bad.”

“That’s hardly my most pressing concern,” Dr. Morley replied smoothly, placing the buds of her stethoscope in her ears.  She listened carefully to his lungs, poked and prodded, searching for injury or infection over every inch.

“Why do you bother with the white coat?” Kurt had to ask.  “It’s not like you work for a hospital anymore.”

“It’s familiar,” she answered, her fingers combing through his hair as she checked him for lice.  “Times like these, people like to see things they know.”

Kurt hissed in pain as she brushed the spot where Ennis’ bat had struck him.

“What’s this bruise from?”

He swallowed, shifting uncomfortably.  “I got hit.”

Dr. Morley only raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I don’t suppose you’ve encountered anyone from Nazareth.”

Sinclair straightened, alert, where she still stood sentry by the door.  “Why do you say that?”

“We were stuck there for a while.  We got—” Kurt cleared his throat, the hairs on his arms stood erect.  “I guess ‘kidnapped’ is the word for it.”

Sinclair stepped forward from the door, listening closely as Kurt explained.

“They’re rebuilding the town, and I guess they snag anybody who wanders too close.  They were trying to grow their labor force.  We broke out, but that’s when I got hit.”

Looking him up and down, like she was trying to calculate exactly what he might be capable of, Sinclair pressed for more information.  “How did you manage that?”

Kurt released a long breath, not eager to rehash the memory of killing Nick and Ennis.  “I shot the people in charge.”

Dr. Morley blinked in surprise, but Sinclair didn’t seem to get hung up on the idea of him murdering people.  “You said they were rebuilding?” she continued.  “How many people did they have?”

“Hundreds.”

“And they had the resources to support that many?”

“I guess so.  They were pretty well-organized.”

Dr. Morley interjected before Sinclair’s questioning could continue.  “Lieutenant, would you mind not interrogating my patient in the middle of the exam?”  Sinclair opened her mouth to protest, wanting to know more, but the doctor continued without leaving room for argument.  “You’re only here as a precaution.  Please let me do my job.”

Sinclair’s lip curled in annoyance, but she did as the doctor said and exited the room.  Kurt could see her shadow lingering near the door.

“I apologize for that.  She’s just abundantly cautious.  Wants to know everything immediately.” Dr. Morley said, not caring that Sinclair could easily hear her from the hallway.

“I get it.”

Dr. Morley re-focused her attention on the task at hand, her fingers testing the flesh under his jaw to see if his glands were swollen from fighting a cold.  “Any other injuries you’re concerned about?”

“No.”

“You said you came from New York.  Was it only the three of you?”

Kurt hesitated.  “Why is that relevant?”

Dr. Morley stepped back and regarded him with a measured look.  “Because if you had any deaths in your party, especially recent ones, then I need to know if it was because of a contagious illness.  I can’t have anything spreading in the camp.”

Kurt swallowed, and finally gave a shaky nod.  “We lost someone, yeah.  But it wasn’t anything contagious.  She had an infection.”

This didn’t surprise Dr. Morley, and Kurt hadn’t expected it to.  “Can you be more specific?” was the doctor’s only question.

“She cut her foot, the cut got infected, and no matter what we did it didn’t get better.”  Kurt’s words rushed out of him like a bandage being ripped off.   “She just… died.”

Dr. Morley nodded solemnly, her hands hanging in the pockets of her white coat.  “I’m sorry you lost a friend.”

Kurt fought a rock in his throat, swiping sudden tears from the corners of his eyes.  Rachel’s body laid beneath the birches flashed through his head.  “Everybody’s lost people,” he said.

“Everybody going through the same thing doesn’t mean that thing isn’t difficult,” Dr. Morley replied, gentle and measured.  “You need the time and the space to grieve.”

Kurt forced a chuckle through his teeth.  “Were you a therapist too?”

Dr. Morley smiled, a genuine and comforting expression.  Something in her face reminded him of Carole.  “No, I’m an otolaryngologist.  But it doesn’t take an advanced psychologist to know what trauma can do to a person.”

Kurt was quiet for a moment, because he didn’t know what else to say.  Nothing he could do would make it better, nothing would bring Rachel back.  Nothing he could say to make it okay that she was gone, or that they’d just left her in the woods.  That his friend was dead for a stupid, senseless reason.  That her parents had lost their only child, and still didn’t know she was gone.

“I just—” he started, halting. “I just don’t understand.  I don’t understand why she died.  We — we found meds for her.  I thought she was getting better.”  He sniffed, wiping his eyes again.  “I mean, she even told me her foot stopped hurting.”

Dr. Morley studied Kurt with a softened gaze.  “How long was it between when she was injured and when she passed?”

“About… two weeks, I think.  I’m not sure exactly.”

“Two weeks with an untreated infection?” Dr. Morley repeated, her eyebrows shooting upward.  “To be honest, I’m surprised she lasted that long.  Infections are nothing to mess around with.”

Kurt carded his fingers through his hair, wincing when he brushed over the bruise again.

“She must have been very strong,” said Dr. Morley.

All Kurt could do was nod, looking out the window to the rolling hill sloping to the river.  “She was.”

The doctor cleared her throat and leaned back against her desk.  “She said her foot stopped hurting?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, a couple hours after we gave her the meds.”

“And how long was it until she died?”

“It was that same night.  I’m not sure when.  We were all asleep.”  Pain spiked in his chest, aching and angry.

Dr. Morley regarded him silently for a few moments, seeming to collect her thoughts.  “Kurt, if her foot had stopped hurting… her body had already begun to shut down.  You have to know it was already too late for her.  I don’t know what kind of medication you gave her, but even if it was the right medication, by the time you found it her whole body was infected.  A few pills wouldn’t have helped anything.”

Kurt took this in with a long, slow breath.  He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“And can I give you a piece of advice?” she continued, making him meet her gaze.  “The reason your friend’s pain disappeared is because her body had given up.  By the time death is absolutely inevitable, the body doesn’t have any use for pain.  If you’re in pain, you’re not about to die.”

Dr. Morley reached across and squeezed Kurt’s shoulder with a solid grip.

“If it hurts, lean into it,” she said.  “It’ll keep you alive.”

A day since leaving Lima behind, and Blaine’s mind was already screaming from boredom.  It wasn’t just that they had nothing to do besides walk — walking, walking, walking, nothing but walking — and it wasn’t because their progress was slower than they’d hoped.  He’d already lost track of the steps, the hours on the road, the houses and streets passed by.  Burt, Carole, Hiram, and Leroy were all old enough to need relatively frequent breaks to alleviate strained knees, sore tendons and aching backs, combined with Artie’s ability to only go so fast in his wheelchair made for a sluggish pace.

Mostly, the boredom stemmed from the scenery.  Ohio was flat, flat, flat.  There was nothing interesting to look at as they followed the miles of pavement.  All the houses looked the same.  All the fields identical.  The road unchanging.

Blaine almost wanted to break into a run, to take off down the road and not look back until he reached New York.  The only thing that kept him apace with the others was the unbearable knowledge that if he did take off, he’d be alone.

But dear God, it was slow.  A day and a half, and they’d just barely made it past Ada.  Less than twenty miles behind, a thousand more to go.

Last night, they had found shelter inside a raided farmhouse a ways back from the main road, following Hiram’s suggestion.  He’d insisted that the broken windows and bashed-in door would convince anybody else wandering down the street that the house had nothing left to offer, and fortunately he’d been right.  They had slept restlessly but undisturbed while rain pattered the roof until the sun rose.

Instead of drowning in the monotony of the road, Blaine did his best to focus on their target.  He’d always thought New York City sounded so far off, so magical, worlds away from the bland, flat towns of western Ohio.  Now that dream was gone.  He had no idea what New York would look like when they made it — if they made it — but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

And if they made it, what then?  Finding Kurt and Rachel in a city of millions would be nearly impossible.  But their parents were determined to try, and so was Blaine.  All he could do was hope.  All he could do was keep going.  One foot in front of the other, toward the only family he had left.

Outside on the farmhouse porch, Santana bit anxiously at her fingernail, leg bouncing.  She didn’t know how much time exactly it would be to fix Kurt’s potentially-broken nose but she was positive it was taking too long.  Dani reached over and wrapped her fingers around Santana’s hand.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she said.

Santana nodded and took her fingernail out from between her teeth.  “Yeah, I know,” she replied, then glared pointedly at Grey and Alko and added, “These seem like such nice people, after all.”

Alko didn’t miss the sarcasm, and actually looked slightly offended.  “We’re just trying to help.  Dr. Morley is a good doctor, I promise.”

Santana wanted to make another snappy retort, but she kept her mouth shut instead — talking back hadn’t helped their case in Nazareth, and it was unlikely to help now.  She was still on the fence about whether this could be a trap.  Grey and Alko seemed nicer than Nick and Ennis had been, but they were blocking the exit and they still had Kurt and Dani’s guns.  It was difficult not to feel caged in.

After what felt like ages, the door to the farmhouse finally swung open and Kurt stepped out, followed by Sinclair.  The blood had been cleaned from his upper lip but the bruise was steadily growing darker beneath his eyes.

“I’ll give you a minute to talk,” Sinclair told him, jerking her chin in Santana and Dani’s direction before going to stand with Grey and Alko.

Santana quickly stood, her stomach twisting as she braced for some kind of bad news.  “What’s going on?”

“What’s the verdict?” asked Dani.

Kurt waved her off.  “Not broken; it’ll be fine in a week or so.”  He cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the three soldiers waiting by the porch steps.  “Listen, um… Dr. Morley’s made us an offer.”

The hairs on the back of Santana’s neck prickled.  “What kind of offer?”

“She says we can stay here, for however long we want.  They’ll give us a tent.”

The girls were both quiet, absorbing this.  Swallowing, Santana asked a question she dreaded.  “In exchange for what?”

Kurt shook his head.  “Nothing.  It’s not a labor camp; they’re just trying to help people.”

Dani shifted uncomfortably beside Santana, crossing her arms.  “Do we trust that?”

“I mean, I don’t see any walls or armed guards here,” replied Kurt, gesturing broadly to the sweeping green hillside.  “Do you?”

“Sinclair and her cronies have guns,” Santana retorted.

“Yeah, but they’re military.  And it doesn’t look to me like they’re trying to keep anybody from leaving.  Actually, I think Sinclair would prefer it if we did leave.”

“Are you forgetting that they literally escorted us here and took our guns?” Santana snapped, her voice dropping to a hiss.

Kurt released a heavy breath, his shoulders falling.  “Santana, I really think that was just a precaution.  Dr. Morley said we’d get the guns back right away, whether we stay here or not.”

Nervously Santana tapped her fingers against the back of her arm.  “I don’t know, Kurt, I just — we need to be careful.  And we need to get home.”

“I know,” Kurt said, softening. “I know.  But let’s face it, we aren’t doing well.  We’re starving.  Ever since Rachel, the most ground we’ve been able to cover in a single day has been what, eight miles?  It’s not sustainable.  We need rest and we need food.  At this rate we’re going to die before we reach Pittsburgh, let alone Lima.”

Dani sighed.  “He’s got a point.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to stay long,” Kurt continued, “but we need to take some time and build up our strength before we hit the road again.  A few days, at least.  Maybe a week.”

“And what if our families are dead before we get home?” Santana snapped.

Kurt paused, exhaling slowly, and what he said next seemed to take some effort.  “If they are, then staying here for a bit to get our strength up isn’t going to change that.”

She swallowed hard, anger and fear and frustration boiling in the pit of her stomach.  He was right.  He was right and she hated him for it.

“I want to get home as much as you do, Santana,” he said.  “Let’s make sure we actually make it.”

Santana released a long breath, her shoulders falling.  She looked out from the porch across the sweeping green hillside, the dozens upon dozens of tents shining all colors in the sun, and the river beyond, making its way steadily southeast.  A breeze rushed rippling across the meadow.  Santana reached for Dani’s hand.  “Okay,” she said.  “Okay.”

Only two days after leaving Billy and Elizabeth’s cabin behind, Mercedes’ shoes finally gave out.  Walking on pavement had eroded them plenty, and despite the soles being worn down so thin that she could feel every pebble and every tree root, they’d somehow managed to hold on this long.  Puck’s workman boots were more resistant to damage, but Mercedes’ sneakers were simply not designed for a hiking trail through the Rocky Mountains.

Shortly after midday her toe caught a stone in the path and the sole of her right shoe peeled away from her foot with a dreaded snap .  She spit a tangled string of swears onto the forest floor, catching her balance on Peach’s flank.

Puck halted up ahead.  “You okay?  What happened?”

She nodded, though she felt like crying.  “I’m fine.  Can’t say the same for my shoe.”

“Oh, crap,” Puck said, watching wide-eyed as she pulled the shredded shoe from her foot.  “You didn’t bring any extras, did you?”

Mercedes made a face.  “Do I look like someone who owns hiking boots?”   She huffed, fighting tears, and glared dejectedly at the garbage in her hand.  That’s what it was, after all.  Just trash.  Thousands of miles between her and home, stuck in the Rockies with a guy she’d barely tolerated in high school and two smelly horses who shit more than they were worth, having constant nightmares of mountain lions and grizzly bears and wolves, food supplies running ever lower, and now she was halfway barefoot.

“God damn it,” she croaked, her throat aching.  Her eyes welled up and spilled over.  “God damn it!”  She released a frustrated scream and launched the ruined shoe into the underbrush as hard as she could.  It flew several yards, spinning like a maple seed, until it struck a tree trunk and vanished into the vegetation.

Puck paused, letting her breathe, and asked again, “You okay?”

Though the answer was obvious, it took Mercedes several long, slow breaths to finally reply, “Yeah.”  She wiped the tears from her face and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, chin trembling.  Her skin was dried out.  Her hair was filthy and would take days to fix.  She wanted a real bed and a warm meal from a grocery store, and a scalding hot shower.  She wanted her clothes.  She wanted her impractical fashion-first shoes.  She wanted her wide array of skin and hair products.  She wanted to be back in her crummy little Los Angeles apartment, watching TV and worrying about whether she’d make the rent.  She wanted to call her parents and hear their reassuring voices through the tinny speaker of her phone.  She wanted home.

“You want a hug?”

The offer caught her off-guard and made her laugh, overwhelmed by the sheer incredulity of her situation.  Barefoot in the Rockies.  She wiped her eyes again, staring down at her shoeless foot.  Her big toe poked through a hole in the dirty sock.  Releasing a long, shaky exhale, she braced her hands on her hips.  “So what do we do now?”

“Well, you gotta make it at least to someplace that’s got a camping store or something,” Puck said as he came to stand beside her, managing to squeeze past Mr. T’s bulky frame which took up most of the trail.  “I don’t know how long it’ll be before we hit pavement again.”

It wasn’t anything she didn’t know already, but Mercedes nodded like he was giving her new information.

Puck rubbed a palm over the back of his head.  His brow was deeply furrowed in concentration.  “I think you’re gonna have to ride.”

Instinctively, Mercedes wanted to shake her head and reject the idea out of hand.  But, to put it simply, there were no good options to be found here.  She could either walk the whole way with her foot completely unprotected, vulnerable to cuts and bruises and almost certain infection, or she could ride perched precariously atop her horse and just pray the animal wouldn’t misstep and send her tumbling down the mountainside to her death.  Both choices would put her physical wellbeing in serious jeopardy.  Both would slow them down considerably.

Puck dug into one of the bags on Mr. T’s back and pulled out one of his t-shirts.  Before Mercedes could ask what he was doing, he began tearing the shirt into wide strips, each at least twice the width of his forearm.  “It’s not great,” he said, kneeling on the ground in front of her and nudging her ankle to make her lift her foot.  “But I figure this’ll at least give you some padding.”

She held onto Peach’s saddle horn with one hand to keep her balance as Puck carefully and deliberately wrapped her foot in layers upon layers of cloth.  Unlike a bandage intended for a specifically located wound, Puck made sure to cover her skin from heel to toe, tying each strip snugly before reaching for another one.  Context notwithstanding, it was a strange image, and she found it hard to suppress a smile.  “I feel like Cinderella,” she said.

Puck snorted, knotting the final strip around her ankle.  “Okay, princess, you’re set.”

She placed her foot back onto the packed earth of the trail, and already felt a little better.  It wouldn’t get her all the way back to Ohio, but it was a better solution than going completely barefoot.  “Thanks,” she said as Puck stood and brushed the dirt from his knees.

As Puck helped her clamber up onto Peach’s saddle, she thought, just maybe, everything might be all right.

Before they knew it, Kurt and the girls had been provided a sizable tent near the riverbank, on the northernmost edge of the camp.  The tent was bright blue and designed for four people to sleep parallel and cramped, which meant their trio had just enough room to spread slightly without overlapping.  It had been pulled from some storage space in the farmhouse and they were left to figure out how to set it up on their own, which resulted in more than a few profanities traded between the three of them, but after a struggle they had an erected shelter complete with a tarp footprint and a taut rain fly.

They piled their meager belongings into the tent and went to rinse off in the river.  The only thing they brought with them to bathe was the baking soda from Santana’s pack and their guns, which had been returned to them as promised.  While they were just beginning to feel at ease, it didn’t seem the wisest idea to leave loaded weapons unattended where any wandering child could stumble onto them, and so they’d agreed to keep the guns within eyesight at all times.

As they settled, the sounds of children running to and fro, of the river meandering past, birds flitting between the branches of nearby trees, and the occasional distant bout of laughter filled the humid air.

Night fell over the camp.  

Unlike the seemingly endless string of nights behind them, this particular evening crawled across the sky slowly, stretching into an hours-long fading.  The sunset glanced off the river in shards of pink and gold and the smell of cooking food wafted up from the established fire pits.  Folding tables had been set up and a handful of people distributed bowls of venison stew and steaming canned vegetables.  Kurt, Dani, and Santana fell into step with the rest of the camp residents, receiving their meals in turn as they filed past the tables.

Following the crowd, they found themselves in the vacant space in the center of camp, sitting cross-legged on the packed earth while they ate.  The food was hearty and well-seasoned, and Kurt guessed someone must have raided a nearby grocery store’s spice aisle.  As they filled their bellies and listened to the hum of people — buzzing conversations in every direction — the sky above grew darker.  Before long, someone struck a match and lit the pile of wood and kindling in the heart of the clearing.

The flames burst upward and beat the night back again, pulsing light and warmth and sending swirling sparks into the black.  Someone on the far side of the clearing whooped joyfully.  The tinfoil glow of the moon was nothing against the ten-foot bonfire.

Kurt realized something then with all the shock of a lightning bolt tearing through his chest.  Here, surrounded by people and light, he felt… safe.  Safe.  The idea was alien to him, but he felt it all the same.  Nobody was forcing him to be here.  Nobody held a gun to his head.  The shadows at the edge of the clearing held no monsters.

“How’s everything with your tent?” said a voice to his left, startling him out of his thoughts.  He turned to see Sinclair sitting an arm’s length away, scraping at the last of her dinner.

“Smells like cigarette smoke, but other than that it’s great,” Kurt replied.

Sinclair grimaced, her features softer in firelight.  “Yeah, sorry about that.  Last guy who had it was a bit of a chimney.  We kept telling him not to smoke in the tent but he just said that it was the end of the world and he could do whatever he wanted.”

An abrupt laugh jumped from Kurt’s chest, surprising him.

Equally surprising, Sinclair smiled back.

“What happened to him?  The smoker guy?”

“Oh, nothing,” she answered.  “He just moved on.”

Kurt blinked.  “Moved on?”

Sinclair nodded, setting her bowl on the dirt and resting her elbows on her knees.  “Yeah, his kids lived in Boston, I think.  He was on his way there when he found us.”

“So… are most people just here temporarily?” Kurt asked, scanning the faces gathered in the clearing.

“Hard to say,” she sighed.  “It’s difficult to give up a safe place these days.  Some people leave after a day or a week, some people say they’ll leave and then don’t.”

Kurt took this in, mulling it over as he leaned back and stretched his legs out ahead of him.  “What about you?”

She shrugged and picked a piece of food from between her teeth with a thumbnail.  “I don’t have any family.  I was a kid straight out of foster care when I enlisted.  Nowhere to go, really.  But I like it here well enough.  It’s pretty.  And I can take care of folks.”

Kurt studied her for a minute, and abruptly understood her.  For all Sinclair’s brusque attitude and suspicion, protecting her people was all she wanted to do.  If he’d ever been inclined to enlist in the army, he knew he would have been glad to have her on his side.

“This place is so different from Nazareth,” Kurt thought aloud.  Even in the somewhat relaxed atmosphere of the converted church, Nazareth had had such a tangible pall of fear hanging over its residents.  Here, the firelit faces surrounding the clearing were unworried, none looking over their shoulders for what might be lurking in the dark, even with no fences to separate them from the world outside the camp.

Sinclair regarded him with interest.  “About that.  You said you shot the people in charge.”

Kurt swallowed, slammed instantly back into the reality of their situation.  “Yeah.”

“Did you kill them?”

He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on the hard ground.  “Why?”

“I’m just curious.  And impressed, if I’m honest.  You took a huge risk and you very easily could have died.”  She shrugged, digging dirt from underneath her fingernails.  “It was brave to even try.”

Kurt shook his head, refocusing his gaze on the fire.  “Didn’t feel like bravery.  Just felt like there was no other option.”

“I’m sure a lot of people could say the same thing,” Sinclair agreed.  “So how did you do it?”

On the one hand, Kurt really didn’t want to talk about this.  On the other, he felt somewhat indebted to Sinclair and thought it might be rude to straight-arm and shut her down completely.  So haltingly, trippingly, awkwardly, he recounted their escape from Nazareth with just enough detail that he hoped Sinclair would be satisfied and let the subject lie.

“You blew up their gun stockpile?” Sinclair echoed a few minutes later, eyes wide with shock.

“We didn’t blow it up,” Kurt corrected her.  “We just… set it on fire.  Quickly.”

Sinclair whistled lowly.  “Still.  It was smart.  You would’ve done alright at West Point.”

Kurt said nothing, less than eager to continue with this particular conversation.  He scooped the last of his dinner from his bowl.  Nearby the man with the guitar had begun to play a soft melody.

Voices around the clearing calmed to murmurs.  The music intertwined with the crackling of the bonfire and the nearby river current, and Kurt sat and simply listened.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d listened to his surroundings without being afraid of what he might hear.  Belly full and skin warm, he leaned back and breathed in the aroma of campfire smoke.

At his side, Santana thoughtfully watched the fire with the flames reflected in her eyes, and somehow Kurt knew she felt the same.  Dani laughed at a joke someone had just told her.  Their lives in New York — full of the hurried day-to-day minutia of paying rent and going to class and clocking in at work and remembering to pick up milk on the way home — were worlds away, another existence reduced to a distant dream.

To his surprise, a soft but clear voice began to sing along with the guitar, ringing like a bell.  It was the pregnant woman, sitting in a folding chair beside the guitarist with her hands resting on her swollen belly.

“If today was not an endless highway, if tonight was not a crooked trail… If tomorrow wasn’t such a long time, then lonesome would mean nothing to me at all.”

The people of the camp didn’t stop talking or eating, but the activity quieted and made room for them.  The woman smiled at the guitarist as she sang, her voice rising with the embers and smoke.  This wasn’t the kind of singing that Kurt had studied at NYADA or performed at McKinley.  They weren’t performing at all, only singing for its own sake.

“Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting, and if I could hear his heart a-softly pounding, only if he was lying by me, then I’d lie in my bed once again.”  The woman’s eyes slipped closed, and her voice wavered slightly.

Sinclair leaned over to Kurt for a moment, saying just loud enough for him to hear, “Gretchen’s husband was killed in the blackout.”

“I can’t see my reflection in the water,” Gretchen continued, and Kurt’s heart ached along with her.  “I can’t speak the sounds that show no pain.”

Then, as unexpectedly as a miracle, a second voice joined Gretchen’s.

“I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps, or remember the sound of my own name,” Santana sang, leaning on Dani’s shoulder, “Yes, and only if my true love was waiting, and if I could hear his heart softly pounding, only if he was lying by me, then I’d lie in my bed once again.”

Together, Santana and Gretchen harmonized as though it had been planned.  Someone sitting nearer to Gretchen began playing a fiddle they’d retrieved from their tent.  And somehow, despite the darkness beyond the clearing, here at the bonfire was so bright it may as well have been the middle of the day.

Kurt reached over and wrapped his hand around Santana’s, a rush of relief flooding his chest when she squeezed his fingers.  Finally, finally, here was a glimpse of who they’d been before the world had fallen apart.  Rachel was dead, Kurt had killed, they had all fought for their lives, but they weren’t completely lost.

The song gradually wound down with a refrain from the fiddle player, and as the fire snapped and crackled, the music shifted to something different — something faster and more upbeat.  A man to Gretchen’s side began to drum a rhythm on an overturned plastic bucket, and the guitar picked up its pace.

This time the man with the guitar sang the words, his voice untrained and a little harsh, but steady like a rock.  “Lost, am I broken?  Falling over and over and wondering why I stand, feeling abandoned and alone—”  His face broke into a smile, the melancholy words overshadowed by the melody.  “—but I know in my suffering, that when the sun falls the night time arises for the day, and good things are always on their way.”

Gretchen’s voice rejoined his, weaving in and out as the tempo increased and the music swelled.  The guitarist strummed a rapid progression of chords in harmony with the fiddler, and the drummer’s feet beat the ground in time.

“I’ll grab the reins, carry the fight!  And the sun will rise!”

With a startling crescendo voices from around the clearing joined in, shouting along with the words, and a handful of people rose to their feet, pulling each other into the clearing around the bonfire to dance.  Others clapped in time, whooping and cheering.

“I won’t let go!  I will tread until my blood is in the road!  Shout what I know: I will scream until my lungs give up my soul!  And on this I hold: I won’t let go!”

Kurt found himself laughing as he watched this unbridled display — fear, love, and determination all rolled into something that shone brighter than the fire at their center.  

“Seek, and I have found.  The darkest hour is lonely but leads you to the day; press on, the light is on its way!”

At his side, Santana and Dani sat straighter, and even Santana’s hand tapped her knee in time.

All the horrors of the road forgotten in this moment, Kurt reached out and grabbed Santana’s wrist.  “Come on,” he said.  There had been so much misery since leaving New York, so few moments of happiness, and he refused to let this one pass them by.  He yanked Santana to her feet and without waiting for her to protest, pulled her into the circle.

Santana let out a hysterical shriek of a laugh, mostly from surprise, but went with him just the same.

“I reach out until I can touch the sky!  The sun will rise!”

He gripped her hands tightly and whirled her around the fire, following no pattern and no previously agreed-upon steps.  They’d danced together before in choreographed routines to planned setlists, but this was so far beyond anything they’d done in the past and it felt nothing but freeing.  The embers spun into the black above, and they held onto each other and danced as though they didn’t have a thousand more miles to cross.

“Hold fast, a storm is always near… Fear floods the heart, but I won’t drown!”

Santana’s face glowed with the kind of clinging desperate joy that could only come out of grief, like a sudden spotlight in a darkened theater.  She laughed like she felt ridiculous but was having fun anyways, and Kurt twirled her under his arm, which only made her laugh more.

“I will tread until my blood is in the road, and on this I hold: I won’t let go!  Shout what I know, I will scream until my lungs give up my soul!”

Kurt pulled her close again, a smile plastered across his face and certainty in his heart.  He leaned close and said with every fiber in his being, “We’re going to make it, Santana.  We’re going home.”

“The sun will rise!  And on this I hold: I won’t let go!”

She smiled back, bigger than he’d ever seen her smile before, and nodded.  “Yeah.  I know we are.”

Kurt knew she was telling the truth.  She wasn’t bluffing or putting on a brave face.  She was sure.  And so was he.  He’d never been so certain of anything in his life.

Chapter Text

DAY 54

As the sun swung gradually across the mountains, Mercedes became less and less certain that they’d ever see pavement again.  It was stupid to leave the road behind.  What had they been thinking?  Neither she nor Puck were experienced hikers, and horses were creatures meant for open plains, not trails rocky, narrow, and steep.

Between the terrain, the horses, and her lack of proper footwear, their pace dragged like a sandbag through mud.  They should not have taken the shortcut.

Whenever the trail leveled enough so that one misstep wouldn’t send them tumbling down the slope to their deaths, Mercedes rode in Peach’s saddle and let Puck and Mr. T lead the way.  Most of the time, however, she was forced to walk, regardless of footwear.  She thought her feet had hurt before she’d lost her shoe.  That pain was nothing compared to now.  The strips of cloth padding wrapped around her foot offered nothing in the way of arch support, barely protecting her skin from the ground below, and her blisters had all cracked open and bled anew.

It was nearing midafternoon when the green light of the forest began to brighten and the tree cover grew more sparse.  For a brief moment, relief tugged in Mercedes’ chest and she thought they had finally reached the road.  She should have known better — they hadn’t descended far enough yet.  

Unobstructed sunlight momentarily blinded her, stepping from underneath the dense canopy into open air.  The trail continued for only another few yards before it abruptly vanished underneath stones.

Directly ahead of them was a massive scree field, several hundred feet across and gleaming in the sun.  Jagged shards of rock and gravel and broken bits of shed stone sitting in a slow-moving avalanche down the mountainside, leaving no room for trees or any kind of vegetation in its path.  Far on the opposite side of the scree, where the tree line began anew, Mercedes could see a tiny fleck of blue on a tree trunk — the next trail marker.

“Crap,” said Puck, summing up Mercedes’ feelings perfectly.  “I guess we just take this really, really slow.”

Contrary to their first assumption, the trail did not in fact vanish entirely beneath the scree.  Instead, it left a faint outline of footsteps in years past, other hikers who had trodden the gravel and stones into a barely-navigable path to follow across the rocky expanse.

Still, the scree was far from stable.  Inching along little by little, they had to choose their steps with extreme care.  Behind Mercedes, Peach brought up the rear huffing and puffing, snorting in indignation every time his hooves slipped in the slightest way.  Mercedes could hardly blame him; she had very little confidence in the ground below and, thinking of the previous hikers who had come along this trail, couldn’t imagine anybody doing this for fun.

Far, far below them, the scree field led steeply into a deep green valley.  It was so far down Mercedes felt dizzy just looking in that direction, and had to tear her gaze away before she threw up.

“I hate this, Puck,” she snapped.

“Don’t talk too loud, you’ll start a rockslide,” he retorted over his shoulder.

Mercedes made a face at his back in annoyance.  If she died here, she’d haunt his ass.

Every tiny slip of the rocks sent a shower of gravel skittering down the slope, and every time Mercedes’ heart beat faster than before.  Her pulse pounded in her chest, loudly enough that it could have been coming from inside the mountain itself.  There was too far to fall, and it would be far too easy to misstep.

Suddenly her foot rolled, ankle twisted.  A sharp piece of rock cut her lower calf.  She stumbled and nearly lost her balance, instinctively seizing Peach’s rein with a flail.  He squealed in protest and jerked his head up and away from her, which in turn nearly made her lose her footing again.

Heart thumping, breath heaving, Mercedes clutched Peach’s neck with sweaty hands, staring down the mountainside where her body would certainly end up once gravity claimed her.

Just ahead, Puck stared at her agape, gripping Mr. T’s lead with white knuckles.  “Still alive?” he asked, falsely light.

Mercedes took her time responding, drawing shaky, slow breaths.  “I… I think so.”  She swallowed around a boulder in her throat, mouth dry as the Mojave.  “Let’s just — just get this over with quick.  Please.”

Without another word, Puck nodded and pulled Mr. T forward.

Step by treacherous step, the tree line inched closer.  With every movement, Mercedes knew they were tempting fate.  The ground beneath them did not care if they lived or died, and would just as soon toss them down the slope to their deaths as let them cross safely.  And what a stupid way to die this would be.

Beneath a swirling cloud of worst-case scenarios Mercedes kept her eyes on the rocks underfoot, choosing each step with religious caution.

The minutes ticked past and they made their progress at a speed that would have made a glacier groan.  But finally, finally, finally, the sunlight broke behind the trees and they found themselves standing on the far side of the scree field, safely in the shade of the trail.  Only then did Mercedes release the largest breath she’d ever held, her legs trembling with adrenaline, and she had to brace her hands on her knees.

The horses seemed relieved too, ears swiveling and tails swishing as they crowded onto the trail and out of the sun.  Peach snorted impatiently and stomped a hoof as if to complain that he hated hiking as much as she did.

Puck, on the other hand, released Mr. T’s rein, sidestepped around her and wrapped Mercedes in a crushing hug.

Shocked, Mercedes didn’t speak immediately, and Puck’s hands dug into her shoulder blades hard enough to lift her onto her tiptoes.  “...Puck?” she said, muffled in his shirt.  He smelled awful.  But, of course, so did she.

“I thought you were gonna die,” was all he said, and his arms tightened.

At that, Mercedes could only lean into the embrace, holding him in return and relishing in the only connection she’d had since leaving Los Angeles.

Her heart still thudding away as the adrenaline slowly dissipated, Mercedes didn’t let go until Puck did.  When he did, his eyes were glassy.  He shook his head and rubbed his stubbled jaw.  “This was a mistake,” he said.  “We shouldn't have come this way.  We should’ve stuck to the road.”

Instinctively, Mercedes wanted to say You’re just coming to that conclusion now?   But Puck’s anxiety was palpable, almost making the air ripple around him.  Instead she kept her voice level and, for once, put logic before her frustration.

“Well… we can’t exactly go back, Puck.  We have to keep going.”

“This was really stupid.”

Mercedes reached out to grip his wrist, hoping it would help to anchor him before letting him spiral into a not-unreasonable meltdown.  “It’s okay, Puck.  Just breathe for a second.  We have to keep going.  We’ll find the road eventually.”

He stared at her for a long moment.  She watched him pull himself together with a deep breath, restructuring himself from the inside out, and when he nodded and spoke, his voice was even.  “Let’s take a break for a couple minutes, then we can go.”

Puck’s sudden display of emotion astonished her, so far removed from the brusque machismo he’d maintained throughout high school.  He’d been so stoic since the blackout, barely wavering, keeping them both safe and fed and figuring out their next course of action, that Mercedes had forgotten.  

She’d forgotten that he was missing his family too and that he was just as terrified as she was.  She’d forgotten that he also didn’t want to die.

Evening swept up the mountainside quickly, barely leaving them enough time to find a place to camp and build a fire before the night fell in earnest.  The darkness seemed heavier tonight.  The fire had to work harder to keep it at bay, crackling in exhaustion every time Puck jabbed it with a stick to move the firewood to a better burning position.  An owl hooted in the trees above, and in the distance they could hear a stream bubbling along.  They had considered finding a place to stay closer to the water, but decided against it in case of any large territorial animals coming to take a drink in the middle of the night.

After they’d left the scree field in their wake, a bitter tension had settled over the pair of them.  The fear of nearly falling to their deaths had ebbed and what had taken its place was a simmering frustration — the opposite of cabin fever, an annoyance at the natural beauty surrounding them and a sickness of the trail.  They wanted asphalt and manmade structures and road signs to clearly state where to go.  They wanted out of the woods and off the mountains.

Trail boredom and homesickness aside, there was also the very real concern of their depleting supplies.  Food for the horses was low, but at least they were able to supplement their diet with vegetation found alongside the trail.  Puck and Mercedes, however, were nearly out.  Their rationing was much more restricted now than it had been the previous week, and their stomachs rumbled audibly as they tried to settle in for the night.

Mercedes sucked the last bit of peanut butter from a packet, a remnant of the stash they’d stolen from the Purgatory resort.  She resisted the urge to reach into her bag for more, saving what little was left for tomorrow and the next day, and praying that they would return to the road before they completely ran out of food.  Since meeting Billy and Elizabeth, they now knew there was an abundance of edible plants all around them, but the irony was neither Puck nor Mercedes could distinguish the edible from the poisonous, and only knew enough to not take the chance.

Puck huffed as he settled on the ground, tugging his blanket tighter around his back.  Rain was in the air, chilling them both.

Some nights the quiet between them was comfortable and soothing.  This was not that kind of night.  Despite her bone-deep exhaustion and aching joints and blistered feet, Mercedes didn’t feel like she could go to sleep, so she reached for something to fill the silence.  “So, what do you think?” she asked.  “Is Lebron James still alive?”

Puck didn’t reply.  He only stared into the flames, uninterested in their usual game.

Mercedes swallowed.  “No?”

He scraped a hand over his face, fatigue pulling at his features.  “I really don’t care if Lebron James is alive.”

Mercedes’ jaw clenched.  “Well, sorry for trying to lighten the mood.”

“Lightening the mood is something you do when one person is having a bad day.  We’re both miserable.  Let’s just be miserable.”

Heat climbed in her cheeks, and Mercedes knew it wasn’t from the fire.  “You don’t have to snap at me for trying to make the situation better.”

“You don’t have to make it better,” Puck spat.  “The situation is crap.  Pretending it’s not is dumb.”

“Why are you taking it out on me?”

He rolled his eyes.  “I’m not taking anything out on you.  I just don’t want to act like we’re camping for fun.”

Mercedes irritatedly pursed her lips.  Her stomach growled, the blisters on her feet spiking in pain.  “None of this is fun for me, Puck.  I’m just trying to stay sane long enough to get home so we can find our families.”

Puck glared at her across the fire.  He looked thinner than she’d noticed before, shadows in the hollows of his cheeks.  “Mercedes, there’s a good chance that everyone we know is dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Not for sure,” he countered.  “But do you really think even a few of them are still alive?  Forget Lebron.  Is Artie still alive?  Is Rachel?  Is Kurt?”

Each name felt like a barb lodged in Mercedes’ chest, and she knew Puck had chosen those names intentionally.  She spoke through her teeth.  “You’ve seen everything I have.  Smaller towns aren’t as bad as big ones, and Lima’s not that big.  Their chances were better there than ours were in L.A.  We got lucky.  Why couldn’t they?”

Puck made a noise of disagreement in his throat, shaking his head like she was an idiot for the suggestion.  It wasn’t a great argument; she knew Kurt and Rachel were in New York.  But her parents and siblings were in Lima, and she had to believe they were surviving.

“Hoping isn’t stupid, Puck,” she argued.  “God’s got a plan.”

At that, Puck’s eyes flashed in the firelight, anger surging in his voice like he’d been struck by lightning.  “Wait, you still believe in God?  After all this crap?”

Every muscle in Mercedes’ body instantly tightened.  “Do you have a problem with that?”

“I just think it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Well, what I believe and what gets me through ‘all this crap’ is none of your business, all right?  Screw you.  Just worry about yourself.”

The words were out of Mercedes’ mouth faster than she could think them through.  Puck blinked, his jaw twitching, and without another word he turned to lie down with his back facing her, yanking the blanket up and over his shoulders.

Mercedes swallowed any thoughts of arguing further, or even just saying good night, and laid back on the ground to stare upward into the dark.  Anger and terror and unspeakable homesickness swirled in her veins.  She laid there for what must have been hours, tossing and turning and trying not to cry, until sleep finally came for her.

When Mercedes woke, Puck was shaking her shoulder.  “Get up.  Mercedes, get up right now.”

Disoriented, she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and immediately felt something strange.  She looked down at herself and found she was covered in a light dusting of powder.  “What the—?” she started.  “It snowed last night?”

Confusion set in.  She wasn’t cold.

Puck stood over her with panic etched into every line of his face.  “Come on, get up.  We have to go.”

Looking around their campsite, every tree and rock she could see was coated in a thin layer of snow.  Even the horses were dusted with it.  Something was off.

Still struggling to fully wake up, Mercedes clambered to her feet, ignoring how they screamed in protest.  The air smelled different.  She plucked a flake from her shirt and rubbed it between her fingers.  A little black streak was left imprinted on her skin.

“It’s not snow,” Puck said, breathless with fear.  “We have to go.”

A chill settled into the pit of Mercedes’ stomach.  Puck was right — it wasn’t snow.  It was ash.  

That sudden realization was immediately followed by another in rapid succession: the air smelled different because it was full of smoke.

Overhead, birds cawed and flapped and fled east.  From the trail behind them, an orange glow lit the trees, growing brighter.

Mercedes swore and tore into action, shoving her few belongings into their bags and throwing them over Peach’s hindquarters.  Puck quickly helped her into the saddle and then ran to Mr. T and hoisted himself onto her back.

“Come on!” he cried, and kicked Mr. T into a run.

Mercedes didn’t have to urge Peach to follow them; he took off after Mr. T and tore along the trail close on their heels.  Sparks and embers fell like raindrops.  The air grew thick, burning leaves carried on a hot breeze.

Barely breathing, Mercedes clutched Peach’s mane and prayed.

The trail grew wider and flatter and up ahead, Mr. T’s speed picked up, the distance between horses increasing.  A glimpse over her shoulder sent horror tearing through Mercedes’ body — flames leaped from tree to tree, jumping faster than the horses could run.  Their campsite was already gone.

Mercedes’ ears were filled with a roaring-spitting-cracking-tearing as the flames ate through the forest, sucking through the air and rupturing tree trunks as it went.  The fire was catching up.  It surged and pulled the oxygen from the atmosphere, towering high above the canopy like a huge creature hunting them for its dinner.

The air itself turned red.  The blue sky vanished.

A low, dark shape darted out of the flame-riddled woods, dashing past Mercedes and Peach.  With a flash of a whipping tail and powerful legs, Mercedes realized fleetingly that it was the mountain lion.  For the briefest of moments she thought the lion would leap up and take Mr. T down with a slash of its claws, but instead it ran past Puck and Mr. T and disappeared into the smoke.  Against a wildfire, they were all prey.

Mercedes screamed Puck’s name, but he couldn’t hear her.  She could only kick Peach in the sides and hope he could keep up.

The trail dropped lower, flattening and widening further.  Flames leapt past and rapidly overtook them.  A column of fire lashed out and singed the ends of her hair.  Heat stretched her skin over her bones, until she felt she would burst.

The entire mountainside was on fire — flames in every direction, even overhead.  Seconds later, they ran past the mountain lion’s burning body laid beside the trail.

Mercedes choked, smoke filling her lungs.

The trail dropped lower and lower, widening until they could run at breakneck speed.  The mountain itself was gone — they galloped across a huge open meadow, but the flames walled them in still, like they were running in the eye of a hurricane.

Smoke swirled around them, prairie grasses alight, and Mercedes had to squeeze her eyes shut against the stinging heat.

She heard a scream and opened her eyes just in time to see Puck engulfed in flames.

With a jolt, Mercedes jerked out of sleep, nearly sitting bolt upright.  Her breath heaved and a cold sweat had pooled in the divot between her collarbones.  The phantom smell of smoke lingered in her nose, now receding, and she stared upward at an overcast sky.  The air was damp — heavy with the aromas of moss and rotting leaves like what often came before rain — and it was quiet.  Not even birds sang.

Watching the treetops above sway in the flameless breeze, it took her several minutes to slow her heartbeat.  The wildfire had been nothing more than a nightmare, and yet the effect was real enough that she had to brush her hand over herself to check for ash.

Slowly, she was able to orient herself back into the present moment, and she finally sat up with a deep breath and a prolonged stretch.

When she turned to look towards the other side of their campsite, however, her heart immediately began to pound again, and the terror returned.

Puck was nowhere to be seen.  His belongings were packed up and gone without a trace.

She hauled herself to her feet and turned to see the tree where they’d tied the horses last night.  Peach stood in place, tail swishing, alone.  The only things left were a slight imprint on the ground where Puck had slept, and hoof prints heading away along the trail.

A sob wrenched out of her chest, and Mercedes had to brace her hands on her knees to catch herself.  

She shook her head at the ground.  Tears blurred her vision, slipping down her cheeks.  She couldn’t believe it — Puck had left.  He’d just… left her behind, like she was a piece of equipment he decided he didn’t need anymore.

Mercedes clenched her fists against the wave of loneliness that threatened to crash through her.  The surrounding quiet pounded in her ears, ringing so loudly it filled her head to bursting.  In this moment, she was so incredibly small.  And the woods, the mountains, the world were so incredibly vast.

Gritting her teeth, she instead drew a long, slow breath and allowed a spark of anger to ignite.  She inhaled, and exhaled, and allowed it to blossom into a rage, and then a fury.  How dare Puck leave her to die on a mountain somewhere in southwest Colorado.  It was completely unacceptable.  

She couldn’t sit here and cry and give herself any time to process.  Doing so would only guarantee her death.  The only thing she could do now was survive anyway.  Maybe she could catch up to Puck and give him a piece of her mind.

She began packing up her belongings, what few they were, and slung her bags over Peach’s rump.  She took a moment to re-wrap the filthy cloth padding around her shoeless foot and hissed in pain as it aggravated her blisters.  Her other shoe was worn almost clean through the sole, but she could do nothing about that until she’d returned to civilization — or, at least, what was left of it.

Untying Peach’s lead from the tree, she walked him the few feet to the trail and tried her best to climb up into the saddle, but it was no use.  She’d always had Puck help her with this part.  There was such an extreme height difference between her and the horse that without the flexibility of a gymnast, reaching the stirrup was nearly impossible.  Peach huffed, as if to laugh at her for trying.

One or two attempts proved unsuccessful, and she began looking around for a stump or something nearby to use as a stepstool.  Frustration bubbled in her veins.  She fought another rush of tears.

“...Mercedes?”

At the sound of her name, Mercedes jumped and whirled on her toes.  Puck stood on the trail with Mr. T at his side, an expression of utter bewilderment on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The breath gusted out of her lungs so quickly that she felt lightheaded, and — foot pain be damned — she ran to Puck and seized him in a vise-tight hug.

“Um…” was all Puck could say, hands hovering in the space above her shoulders, completely unsure of what to do.

“I thought you were gone.”

Awkwardly, Puck returned the hug.  “I just took Mr. T down to the stream for a drink,” he explained.  “You were tossing and turning all night.  I figured I’d let you sleep.”

Relief and joy and guilt for assuming the worst eddied in Mercedes’ head, all blending into an overwhelming cocktail of feelings she barely knew what to do with.  She squeezed him tighter.

“Why would you think I left?”

Swiping tears from her cheeks, Mercedes finally released him and stepped back, embarrassment now added to the mix.  “I just— After last night, I didn’t know…”

Puck’s face was strangely solemn.  She’d never seen him look like that before.

“You really think I would up and leave because of that?” he asked.  He sounded hurt, and he had every right to be.  He’d done nothing to earn anything but faith from her.  “Mercedes—” He stopped, then shook his head and started over.  “You’re literally all I have.  Don’t ever tell me to just worry about myself again.”

Mercedes swallowed, her throat aching.  “I won’t,” she promised.

For a moment, she thought Puck might ream her out further, but he only jerked his head in the direction they were heading.  “We should go.  We’re losing daylight.”

There was another thousand miles to go between them and home, more terrain to cross and more obstacles to overcome.  More threats lurking in the dark or hiding in plain sight.  The only possible way they would make it home was by having each other’s backs, and whatever disagreements they might have along the way had to be secondary to their joint survival.

As she fell into step behind Puck, setting forth on the trail for yet another day, Mercedes felt like she had an awful lot of growing up to do.

DAY 56

The trail wound ahead, turning and returning, dipping and rising, crossing streams and gullies and occasionally vanishing entirely until they could spot the next trail marker.  Misery followed Mercedes with every step.  Every part of her body ached — sore muscles still not acclimated to hiking daily and stiff from sleeping on the ground, hips protesting each minute in the saddle, head pounding from stress and a likely vitamin deficiency — but none of it compared to her feet.  Her remaining shoe provided no support and little padding between her foot and the dirt and rocks beneath, and the metatarsal bones hurt so much that the pain had climbed up into her shin, almost to her knee.  Her other foot was even worse.

Their food officially ran out when they stopped for lunch.  It didn’t amount to much of a lunch, really.  Just the last few peanut butter packets — a desperate shared plea for protein — and then Puck shook out the empty bag and confirmed one of Mercedes’ worst fears: there was nothing left until they made it to the end of the trail.

And to top everything off, it was raining.

Not just rain, either.  The skies were well and truly pouring.  The clouds that had been brewing slowly but surely for the last two days had at last opened up in a torrential downpour that turned the trail to mud and sent rivers gushing down the mountainside.  All four of them — Puck, Mercedes, and both horses — were soaked through to the bone.  They didn’t have any of the proper rain gear (the hardcore kind, typically reserved for mountaineers with a lot of disposable income to spend on GoreTex) but even if they had it would have been made redundant.

The one and only thing that gave them any hope was that the trail seemed to be finally going down more frequently than it was going up.  

Mercedes clung to that hope like a buoy in a storm.  For hours she perseverated on the singular desperate eddying thought that there were only two outcomes here: either they would find the road today, or they would never make it out of the woods alive.  She threw all her energy into the first possibility and each time her anxiety drifted toward dying, she dragged it back with a heaving effort.

So deep in her own thoughts, Mercedes almost didn’t notice when Puck stopped ahead, and nearly bumped into Mr. T’s rear.

“Mercedes,” Puck said, his voice hushed, barely audible through the pouring rain.

“What’s up?”

“Come here.”

Mercedes frowned and after a moment’s hesitation dropped Peach’s lead.  Peach wouldn’t go anywhere; his herd instincts kept him near Mr. T and it’s not like a horse could easily navigate away from the trail.  She sidestepped around Mr. T’s haunches, feet squelching in the muck.

Puck put a hand on her shoulder and pointed ahead.

Her heart skipped with such a shock that she felt abruptly lightheaded.  She grabbed Puck’s arm.

Up ahead, the trail grew wider and flatter, more graveled.  Standing erect at the trailside was a large wooden sign with a shingled roof overhead, rainwater cascading off its edges.  The sign was informational, with a large topographical map in its center and educational blurbs about local wildlife along the borders, as well as weather bulletins and safety warnings.

Apart from the ranger cabin, it was the first sign of human activity since they’d left the road nine days ago, and Mercedes wanted to cry.

On the same token, she didn’t want to get her hopes up if they still had a long way to go.  Part of her thought the sign might be a mirage, teasing a return to a world they would never reach, and as they passed by she had to reach out and touch it to make sure it was real.

But barely another quarter mile further, the trail spread out into a wide flat space.  The tree cover broke.  They found themselves in a small dirt parking lot patched with splashing puddles, with a scattering of wooden picnic tables and even a vibrantly green port-o-potty.

Mercedes shrieked at the top of her lungs and ran to Puck, and before they knew it they were both jumping up and down, clutching hands and whooping in relief.  “We made it!  We made it!  We made it!” she cried.  The pain in her feet was completely forgotten.

Just beyond the parking lot entrance, they could see honest-to-god pavement.  It was manmade and unnatural and the most welcome thing Mercedes had ever laid eyes on.

They took a rest at one of the tables for a short time, delighting in their accomplishment and in the fact that they were still alive, allowing themselves to breathe easily.  As they sat the rain at last petered out and lightened to a soft drizzle, then a sprinkle, and then just a few drops here and there, leaving only a mist behind.

The trailhead and parking lot would have made for an excellent campsite if they’d had any food left, but despite being thoroughly soaked and exhausted they elected to keep pushing forward in the hopes that they might reach a town or at least a gas station before sunset.  Personally, Mercedes wanted to put as much distance between themselves and the trail as possible.

The mist pressed against their damp skin and wet clothes as they headed for the road and Mercedes barely noticed, so relieved to finally be riding without the fear that she would fall to her death.  She never in her life thought she’d be glad to be on horseback, but here she was, and the most beautiful sound she’d heard in months was the horses’ hooves finally clip-clopping on the asphalt.

“Which way?” she asked as they stepped out from the trees at last, into the grey sunlight filtering through the heavy cloud cover.  The road stretched and vanished into mist in both directions.

Puck scratched his head for a moment, considering, and finally tugged Mr. T to the left.  “Come on,” he said, his voice barely carrying through the thickening fog.

Mercedes followed, and only a couple minutes later a bright blue directional sign appeared on the roadside, blooming out of the fog like spilled ink through paper.  As they drew nearer and the writing on the sign became legible, Mercedes’ heart leaped in her chest.

LAKE CITY — 9 MILES

Nine more miles, and there would be buildings where they could find shelter and search for food.  Nine more miles, and they would be safe.  Nine more miles and they could be done with the mountains for good.

Realistically, Mercedes knew there were more mountains to come, but she and Puck had learned their lesson: stay off the trails, stay on the road.  Nothing down the road could offer a bigger threat; at least, none that she could think of.  While she was still worried about other people and what dangers they might pose, the mountains and the woods frightened her more.

It was difficult to tell what time of day it was in this weather, but Mercedes was sure that even if they didn’t cover nine more miles today, they would arrive in Lake City early tomorrow.  They could go without dinner for one night now that reprieve was near.

Far ahead, at the edge of what they could see through the fog, a shadow of an animal moved in the center of the pavement.

Mercedes rode alongside Puck, picturing all the things they might find in Lake City.  New clothes that weren’t filthy, stashes of food, and shoes!   Shoes were a must.  Maybe the town would have a proper camping store where she could get boots like Puck’s, but even just a pair of sneakers to last another few hundred miles would be heartening.

And to sleep indoors!  They would find a gas station or an abandoned house or even an unlocked shed.  Anything with a roof would be a palace.

Puck made a low hmph noise in the pit of his throat, breaking Mercedes’ train of thought.  He was frowning ahead, eyebrows knitted in concentration.

“What?” she prompted him.

“What kind of animal is that?” he asked, squinting to try and discern the exact shape of the creature on the road.

Mercedes followed his gaze, scrutinizing it more intently.  It was low to the ground and seemed to be rolling, or at least moving in a way that wasn’t typical of an animal crossing the road.  She shrugged.  “Probably just a porcupine or something,” she dismissed.

Puck hmphed a second time, but they continued, following the painted yellow lines along the road.

A minute later, Mr. T abruptly halted, her ears swiveling back and forth, then Peach did the same.

Peach anxiously huffed, and Mercedes felt the hair on her arms stand erect, although she couldn’t understand exactly why.  Mr. T sidestepped, pulling Puck further away.

“What the—” Puck started, and then Mercedes saw his expression melt from confusion to a dawning terror.

She looked ahead just in time to see the animal in the road pull apart into two.  It wasn’t a single animal; it was a pair, playing and wrestling with each other.  Two bear cubs.

This realization only had a half second to marinate, and then there was an ear-splitting roar and a crunching-snapping-breaking as an enormous mass of fur and teeth burst from the trees directly to their left.

Puck swore at the top of his lungs and Mercedes screamed, freezing in horror.  She didn’t need to react, though — Peach took off instantly at a gallop, and Mercedes hunkered down and desperately gripped his mane.  She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to watch herself get torn to shreds by a bear, and clung to Peach’s neck.

All she could do was hang on for dear life and pray.  She listened to the pounding of Peach’s hooves and his heaving breaths and the wind whistling past her ears.  Somewhere in the mix was the thudding of her own heart, pumping adrenaline into every cell of her body until her skin was on fire.

She prayed for the bear to leave them alone.  She prayed that she would live to see another day.  She prayed to see her family again.

Of all the ways she could have died, mauled by an angry mother bear was not one Mercedes would have predicted.  This had to be a nightmare, conjured up by constant stress and fear.  This couldn’t be real.

But as the seconds ticked by, she didn’t wake up.

She lost track of time — it might have been only a few minutes, but she wouldn’t have known.  It could have been an hour or more.  Peach eventually slowed, his hide matted with sweat, and Mercedes couldn’t tell where her heartbeat ended and his began.

She couldn’t bring herself to sit up and open her eyes.

She didn’t hear any snarling, or claws scraping on the pavement.  No audible signs that the bear had followed them.  No noise at all, other than Peach’s hooves on the road.

Mercedes breathed intentionally, focusing on inhaling and exhaling in long, measured pauses as she tried to calm herself down.  She listened to the steady clip-clop-clip-clop beneath her, letting Peach be a metronome to which she could align herself.  One-two, one-two.

Eventually, a creeping sense of dread wound its way into the back of Mercedes’ head, slowly, like tree roots taking hold in stone.  The hoofbeats were wrong.  One-two, one-two.   Not enough.

One-two, one-two.   She could only hear four hooves.

Mercedes at last sat up in the saddle, forcing her eyes open.  The fog was thick and suffocating, the surrounding trees reduced to ghosts.  The sun and sky invisible above.  The air in her lungs felt tight, lacking in oxygen.

She pulled Peach to a stop, twisting to look behind her only to see a completely empty road.

She was alone.

Chapter Text

Mercedes waited.

And waited.

And waited.

She listened for something — anything — to indicate that Puck was okay, that he was on his way and would appear from around the bend, a little shaken but otherwise intact.  She listened for Puck shouting her name, for approaching hoofbeats or footsteps on the pavement.  She listened for screams.

She sat plagued with visions of Puck laying in the road with his guts spilled across the asphalt, ripped apart and left for the vultures.

The only sounds were birds chirping, air whistling softly through branches.  Her own breath, and Peach’s beneath her.  For a brief moment she thought she might have heard the bear roaring in the distance, but it was so faint it could have easily been her imagination.

The persistent fog pressed against her skin, thickening the air.  It felt like she was drowning.

Eventually, as the grey light began to darken toward evening, a terrible realization wound its way into her head: she would have to choose.  She could go back, retracing the road until she found Puck (whatever remained of him), or she could forge on ahead to Lake City.

Each option came with its own set of risks.  Continuing alone would mean just that — she would be alone, and she’d subject herself to all the dangers that came with having no one at her side.

But if Puck wasn’t coming on his own — and Mercedes was almost certain that he should have caught up with her by now — then going back to find him would waste valuable daylight.  And worse still, if he had been mauled and left to bleed out, or torn to bits, or eaten… That wasn’t something Mercedes thought she could withstand seeing with her own eyes.

A bottomless pit yawned in her gut.  Whether it was hunger or grief, she couldn’t tell.

A call of a bird somewhere above made her turn to the sky, but nothing was visible through the mist.  Somewhere overhead, the sun was waning, heading for the western mountains.

Mercedes drew a long, deep breath, heart in her throat.  With tears threatening to spill and guilt churning in her stomach, she tugged the reins and finally turned toward Lake City.

DAY 57

Blaine woke to sunlight and the sharp odors of motor oil and hard rubber.  Scrunching his nose against the smell, he scraped the gunk from his eyes and stretched.

“Mornin’,” said Burt from a few feet away, where he sat idly flipping through a catalog in the light streaming in through the shop windows.  “How’d you sleep?”

“Terribly,” Blaine answered through a yawn.  Burt humphed a half-laugh in agreement, then turned the magazine page.

The previous evening their group had taken shelter in Upper Sandusky, which was a small town that seemed to mostly consist of farm supply stores.  This particular one had an attached garage where tractors could be repaired, with gigantic tires stacked in the far back and a grimy cement floor.  They had slept in the cleaner retail portion of the store, with grain and feed bags piled high on pallets and racks of clothing meant for field work.

“Are you planning on investing?” Blaine asked, nodding to the tractor catalog in Burt’s hand.

Burt snorted, slapping the magazine closed and tossing it aside.  He was seated in a folding chair he’d found behind the register, and it creaked as he leaned back.  “Well, a tractor would get us there quicker, that’s for sure.”

“Even tractors have electric parts, I assume.”

“Everything has electric parts.  Honestly, the only cars that would work would be about a hundred years old.”  Burt clicked his tongue against his teeth.  It sounded like he’d been considering this for a long time.  “And even if you had one of those in good enough condition to drive, good luck getting the gas for it.”

Blaine twisted to see where the others had laid down for the night.  Carole was still dead to the world, insulated by extra flannels from the clothing racks, exhaustion shadowing her face even in sleep.  Hiram and Leroy were awake, but barely, stretching and pulling the kinks from their backs.  Caitlin was curled up where she and Artie had slept beside a tiered shelf of work boots, which was marked with a sign announcing a forty percent discount.

“Where’s Artie?” Blaine asked.

“Must be outside.  He woke up before I did.”  Burt yawned, scratching at the stubble on his face.  “You should take him some breakfast.  I found a whole section of protein bars over that way.”  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the corner of the shop nearest the cash register.

Spurred on by the prospect of food, Blaine finally stood, joints protesting, muscles aching.  As Burt had promised, there was every flavor of protein bar imaginable, all advertised to be for men who made their living through hard labor.  They had broken into the shop after dark the previous evening, guided only by moonlight, and had missed this treasure trove until now.

Blaine grabbed as many as he could carry and pushed out the front door of the shop, stepping into blinding sunlight.  The sky was clear and blue, the landscape only broken up by another farm equipment store and a used car dealership, the pavement already shimmering in the morning heat.  A cluster of crows pecked at something dead a ways down the road — whether it was old roadkill or something fresh, it was too far to tell.

Just as Blaine began to worry, he spotted Artie to the right.  In his wheelchair, he sat beneath the huge awning that shaded the massive garage doors intended to allow tractors inside for repairs, gazing out into the sunshine and watching the dust eddy along the asphalt.

Blaine walked over and dropped a handful of protein bars into Artie’s lap.  “Eat up,” he said by way of a greeting.

Startled, Artie picked up a bar like he didn’t quite think it was real.  “Where did you find these?”

“They were selling them inside.”  Blaine leaned back against the cement wall, already chewing a peanut butter bar.  “Are you doing okay?”

Artie looked tired, to be sure.  They all did.  But for some reason, there was a nagging feeling in the back of Blaine’s head that something else weighed on Artie’s shoulders.  Artie selected chocolate chip from the pile in his lap, but bit into it halfheartedly, more important things on his mind.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” was all he said at first.

Blaine stood, chewing and wishing he’d thought to bring a water bottle from inside.  Artie watched the crows, and the dust, and the wind rippling through the barren cornfields on either side of the road.  The blackout had hit so early in the spring that Blaine didn’t think any corn had actually been planted — while grasses sprouted and lent the fields a green tint, there were no cornstalks or telltale rabbit-ear leaves reaching for the sun.

“I don’t know if I made the right decision, is all.”

“About what?”

Artie swallowed, then adjusted his glasses on his nose.  “I don’t know if Caitlin and I should have come.  Maybe she and I should go back.”

Blaine stared at Artie for several long seconds, a variety of knee-jerk reactions warring in his brain.  Incredulity that Artie would suggest this now , of all times, when they were just far enough from Lima that turning back wouldn’t make any sense.  Anger that Artie could be stupid enough to think that he and Caitlin would be better off on their own.  Hurt that his friend might want to leave.

Finally, he settled for a question instead of a reply.  “Why?”

“I mean…” Artie said slowly, the words as dry as the spinning dust in the breeze.  “This is crazy.  From here to Philadelphia is an insane distance to cross on foot, let alone in a chair.  And the likelihood that we’re actually going to be able to find my brother is just… it’s not great.”

A weighted silence hung between them, reality bearing down with a twice-powerful gravity.

“And you’re all going to leave anyways,” Artie added, almost in a whisper.

“What?” Blaine straightened in shock.  “What do you mean?  We won’t leave you.”

“Yes, you will.  You and Carole and Burt are looking for Kurt, Hiram and Leroy are looking for Rachel.  Caitlin and I are the only ones who need to go to Philadelphia.  At some point, we’ll have to split up.”

Blaine didn’t know what to say to that.  Artie was right.  They couldn’t stop in Philadelphia and comb the city looking for Isaac, which would delay their arrival in New York by a significant amount of time.  The only possibilities were to either bypass Philadelphia entirely and then stop there on the return trip, or to leave Artie and Caitlin there on their own.  Neither was fair.  Neither was kind.

“Do we really need to figure that out now?” he asked in lieu of a solution.  “I mean, we’re weeks away from Philly, probably more.”

Artie released a long breath.  “No, I guess we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”  He picked at a scab on his hand, wincing.  Somewhere off in the cornfields, a killdeer screamed.  “I thought the end of the world would be different than this.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Artie shrugged and squinted out toward the cornfields.  “I thought it’d be louder, at least.”

Blaine laughed lamely at the remark.  He wasn’t sure if the blackout qualified as world-ending, exactly, but it was certainly close enough.

Artie scratched at a second scab on his palm, and for the first time, Blaine realized that Artie had multiple scabs on his hands, and especially on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.  “Whoa, whoa, what happened to your hands?”

“It’s nothing.”  His dismissal was betrayed by a hiss of pain as Artie accidentally lifted a scab that wasn’t ready to shed.

“It’s not nothing, Artie, what the hell?”  Without waiting for permission, Blaine reached for Artie’s hands and turned them palmside-up to examine them.  “These look awful.  Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to slow us down.”

Guilt tugged at the base of Blaine’s throat.  They’d all been so focused on making headway that they hadn’t realized how much Artie was struggling to keep up.  Blaine knew Artie was more muscular than he let on, simply for the fact that he used his upper body for absolutely everything, but even Artie was not conditioned for traveling so many miles day after day with only the occasional short rest.  His pre-blackout callouses weren’t thick enough and had been worn into new blisters, most of which were now actual wounds.

“I’m sure this place has a first aid kit somewhere,” Blaine said, standing straight up again.  “I’ll go find it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do, you could get an infection or something.”  There were no answers for the problems they would face a thousand miles down the road, but this, at the very least, was something Blaine could fix.

He turned despite Artie’s protest, already heading back inside to look for a first aid kit, and then paused before re-entering the building.  “The next time your hands start hurting like that, ask me for help,” Blaine said firmly.  “Don’t just shut up and take it.  You don’t need to.”

Artie began to shake his head, already opening his mouth to argue.  “I can’t ask you to push me all the way to Philadelphia.”

“If that’s what you need,” Blaine countered, “then I don’t mind.”

A moment, then Artie’s mouth closed.  He nodded.  “Okay.”

“Okay, then.”  

Without waiting for Artie to change his mind, Blaine went back inside.  It didn’t take long to find a first aid kit behind the front counter in a cupboard beneath the cash register, and by the time Blaine walked back out, Carole and Caitlin were awake and getting ready to leave.

Blaine knelt in front of Artie, carefully bandaging his hands as best he could to protect the wounds while still allowing for movement and dexterity.  “Well, other than your hands, how’re you doing?”

Artie shrugged.  “Fine.  Sore.”

“Yeah.  Me too.”

“I think by the end of this I’m gonna look like Arnold Schwartzenegger from the waist up and Slenderman from the waist down.”

At that, Blaine laughed, and was a little surprised that it was genuine.  It felt strange to laugh honestly.  “Look, Artie…” he said as he wrapped a strip of gauze around Artie’s left palm.  “We’ll figure out what to do when we get closer to the city, but we’re not just leaving you behind.”

Artie drew a long, deep breath, staring out into the sunlight rippling on the road.  “Yeah, all right.”

For a second, Blaine opened his mouth to say I promise, then closed it again.  It wasn’t something he could promise, not really.  But it was a problem for a later day, a thousand miles down the road, and there would be plenty of other problems between now and then.

In the camp by the river, a week slipped by in barely a blink.

Kurt, Santana, and Dani found themselves reaping the rewards of previously unappreciated luxuries: a tent to shield them from wind and rain, warm meals daily, the heat of a bonfire against the chill of the night, readily available water to drink and bathe, and people.  It was incredible how much of a difference it made, simply having people to talk to.  Their trio had had each other since New York, but there wasn’t much left to discuss between them when every single moment of the day was jointly experienced.

They still spent hours together here and there, dangling their feet in the water to cool off when the heat of midday became too much.  Other than that, they relished in finally having a break from one another.  Dani played soccer with the other campers, running and laughing until she got so exhausted she could barely stand.  Santana swam in the river every time she wanted a quiet moment to herself.  Kurt found himself helping out with meal prep for dinners and breakfasts, relieved to be useful without the threat of being killed otherwise.

Early summer had taken hold on the surrounding trees, black locusts shedding their blossoms.  Cottonwood fluff snowed over the field and river, eddying across the water until it caught in ripples and was swept downstream.  The blizzard of pollen triggered Dani’s allergies — she coughed and sniffled day and night and waved off anyone who asked if she was all right.  It was just the season, she said over and over again, and there was nothing to be done but wait it out.

The misery, terror, and slogging fatigue that had followed them along the road from New York gradually subsided in the wake of safety and socialization.  They stood straighter, lighter.  They laughed more easily and — to their own surprise — made friends.

Gretchen, the pregnant woman who had lost her husband in the blackout, had walked from Williamsport in an attempt to reach her mother in Baltimore, and had accepted after she arrived in the camp that she was simply unable to make the journey before giving birth.  Nate, the man with the guitar who played at the bonfire every evening, had made it from Philadelphia and was eventually heading to Erie to find his brother.  The one who’d taken charge of meals for the camp was Ellie, a woman in her fifties who prayed every night to reach her children in Atlanta.

There was also an elderly woman who — as far as anyone could tell —  was named Xiu Li.  She couldn’t speak a word of English, but since nobody in the camp spoke Mandarin, it was impossible to know where she’d come from or where she might have been going.  She spent most of her time watching the children as they played in the field or by the river.  Kurt got the sense that she was missing her own grandchildren.

New people showed up every now and again, appearing suddenly at the edge of the camp much like Kurt, Santana, and Dani had done.  Unlike them, however, strangers would turn up from the road in the other direction instead of the train tracks, and would be drawn by the colors of the tents visible from a distance where the pavement crested over a hill.

Every person in the camp had a place they were going and someone they were hoping would be there when they arrived.  Relatives or friends, hopefully still alive, scattered from one coast to the other, and all paths intersecting here.

Every person also had a theory for what had caused the blackout in the first place.  Most conversations meandered back to the same subject: What do you think happened?  What do you think did it?  Guesses ranged from a solar flare to terrorist attack to an alien invasion, each speculation less likely than the last.

One night over dinner, another camper (who had consumed an entire twelve-pack of beer by himself) drunkenly told Kurt, “I think it’s just America.  The rest of the world finally got fed up with us and decided to take everything.”

Kurt sent a knowing glance to Santana a few feet away, who was stifling a laugh.  “You believe in a lot of conspiracy theories, don’t you?”

The drunkard shrugged, shoveling venison stew into his mouth with a grace befitting a bull mastiff.  “Whatever, man,” he said through half-chewed food.  “I heard they’re just fine over in Africa.”

“How exactly would you have heard that?”

A guffaw spit from Santana’s mouth, which she quickly disguised as a cough.  Kurt changed the subject, instead asking the drunk man where he had gotten the beer.

“I brought it with me,” the man replied.  “You can’t have any.”

“Okay, then.”

On their eighth day in the camp, Kurt stood alongside Ellie preparing the midday meal, opening cans of vegetables and dumping them into pots for a rudimentary stew, when Grey and Alko approached them.  Both had rucksacks strapped to their shoulders, guns on their hips, and heavy-duty boots laced up tight.

“Where are you off to?” asked Ellie, her hands gory with venison.

“Supply run,” Grey replied, tightening the shoulder straps of his pack.  “We’re running low.”

“We’re always running low,” Ellie remarked with a raised brow.  “You look like you’re ready for more than a quick supply run.”

Alko shrugged.  “Most of the places near here are depleted.  We have to go a little further.  Might not be back for a couple of days — we’re just stopping by to stock up on road snacks, if you have anything.”

“Where are you going to look?” asked Kurt.

“Dunno exactly.  We’re gonna head east and we’ll see what we can find.”

Ellie rummaged around for a few minutes in the coolers they’d collected to store food (they had no ice, but they at least protected the stockpile from bugs and other pests) and gave them what little she could spare without making the rest of the camp go hungry.  Alko packed the food into her rucksack quickly, bid Kurt and Ellie goodbye, and headed off with Grey marching along behind her.  In the distance, Kurt could see Sinclair waiting for them at the edge of the camp.

“Oh, I hope they stay safe out there,” Ellie said, worrying at her lower lip and wringing her hands.  She toyed anxiously with the wedding band on her finger.  “You can’t trust anyone nowadays.”

Kurt watched the three soldiers until they disappeared around a bend in the road.  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.  I mean… they’re armed.  They can take care of themselves.”

“There’s always someone out there with a bigger gun,” Ellie remarked.  “You just got to pray you don’t meet them.”

Swallowing a sudden wave of nausea, Kurt returned to his culinary task.  He didn’t want to talk about guns any more.

“By the way, I heard your friend coughing up a storm last night,” Ellie said, and Kurt was grateful she’d switched topics.  “Tell her to come find me for some tea.  I have honey stashed somewhere.”

“Oh, she’s okay, it’s just her allergies,” Kurt replied.  He dumped a can of corn into the stew pot.

“Allergies or no, I’m sure her throat hurts and she needs to sleep.  I’ve got tea when she wants it.”

Kurt smiled at her, genuinely touched.  Down the slope on the riverbank, he could see Santana and Dani sitting together, hands linked, feet in the water.  They were much too far away for him to hear what they were saying, but he could see Santana laugh and lean in to give Dani a kiss.  Ellie might have been right that trust was a rare commodity, but even just saving some honey for someone who was having a rough night was enough to make Kurt think the world wasn’t so bad.

The warmth of the day hugged his shoulders, cottonwood snow carried on the breeze.  It was safe here.

DAY 58

Lake City was, as Mercedes discovered, not aptly named.  There was no lake — really, it was more of a puddle, or it could be called a pond on a good day.  And it certainly was not a city.

The town was small enough that had Mercedes learned that the population was only a few dozen she would not have been surprised.  Most of the streets were numbered, not named.  Only a handful of buildings were more than one story high.  The few vehicles collecting dust in the road were all pickup trucks.  She saw no people, heard no voices.  There were no bodies, either, or at least none that were immediately visible.  The surrounding hills gave the impression that the town had abruptly sunk into a crater sometime in the distant past.  

The gas station had already been picked clean, no food (junk or otherwise) left on the shelves.  She checked the general store and was just as unlucky, and also found nothing in the diner on the main road.

She was too short and too sore to keep mounting and dismounting, so despite the screaming pain in her feet she walked and led Peach by the reins.  While she searched for places that might hold hidden stashes of food, she scanned for people at the same time.  Truthfully, even if she had seen someone she would’ve had no hope of hiding, so there was no real security in keeping watch.  She couldn’t conceal the horse and she couldn’t run with only one shoe.  The town was small enough that anybody who spotted her would have realized immediately that she was not a local, and likely would have considered her an intruder worth shooting on sight.

The center of town was bisected by a trickle of a river running parallel to the main road.  She followed it northeast and prayed for a supermarket.

Movement ahead caught her eye and she flinched, instinctively grabbing Peach’s reins more tightly, but quickly realized it was a couple of deer crossing the road.  They tiptoed across the asphalt, heads raising and lowering, ears swiveling.  One paused and looked in her direction for a minute, then continued after its partner.

There was no supermarket.  The buildings thinned out and she neared the far edge of town with nothing to show for it.  Panic pricked at her back, like a spider climbing up a wall.  She did her best to breathe and think clearly.

Making it to the next town was not an option.  While the geography was all new to her, she did know that towns were scattered few and far between in this part of the country, and she would absolutely starve to death before making it to the nearest human settlement.  It was Lake City or nothing.  This was it.

With a sinking dread, she knew that her only choice was to search the houses.  Breaking and entering was a dumb idea in the best of circumstances.  In a post-blackout world, it was suicidal.  She’d have to be completely desperate to even think of trying it.

She was completely desperate.

The panic surged up again, choking the air from her lungs, and she tamped it back down with her fingernails cutting into her palms.

As she turned back southward again, she stopped short and noticed a storefront a few buildings away.  The sign above the deck in front read DENBOW’S HUNT & FISH SUPPLY in clear, blocky letters.  Her heart skipped and without further hesitation, she tugged Peach’s reins and made straight for the shop.

She tied Peach to a post just outside the storefront and reached for the door handle.  The door rattled in its frame, but didn’t budge.  Mercedes swore, pulling on it harder, as if that would make the lock give out.  No such luck.

The door was made of solid wood with glass panels near the top.  Even if she smashed through and managed not to cut herself, there’d be no chance of reaching the lock through the window.  She drew a deep, long breath through her teeth, squared her shoulders, and followed the edge of the building around the corner.  There had to be another way in.

At the back, she found a second door, this time made of solid metal with no windows, a heavy fire door — unbreakable without very specialized tools.  She swore again, frustration clouding her vision.  In a fit of anger rather than logical thinking, she yanked on the handle.

It swung open without resistance.  Unlocked.

Relief swept over Mercedes so suddenly and heavily that her knees nearly buckled.  In a town as small as this, there was probably no need to lock every door.  Perhaps her luck was changing at last.

She pushed inside and, as the door closed behind her, stood for a minute to allow her eyes to adjust to the sudden dark.  It was a stock room full of cardboard boxes, a few file cabinets, and a tiny desk crammed into a corner with a huge outdated computer collecting dust.  She took a few hesitant steps, fumbling in the murky light until she found a second doorknob.

The building opened up then into the main store and Mercedes couldn’t keep from clapping once to herself in excitement.  Little windows along the upper walls allowed sunlight to spill in and illuminate racks of clothing, shelves of boots, fishing poles erected like rows of corn, tackle boxes, rifle ammunition, and anything else a Coloradan hunter or fly fisher could want.

Fleetingly she mused that a few months ago she’d never have been caught dead in a shop like this.  Now, this sort of place was an oasis in the desert.

She reached down and untied her one sneaker, peeling off her filthy socks and her bandages and resolving to walk barefoot now that it was safe to do so.  She pulled off her shirt, which was reeking and heavy with dirt, and tossed it aside.  Eager to be rid of them, she left these items on the floor and didn’t bother to neatly pile them out of the way.

The pain in her feet lessened immediately now that there was a flat, smooth surface to walk on, and she sighed audibly in relief as she crossed the floor.

Mercedes pawed through racks of shirts — there wasn’t much variety in style, but for the first time in her life she was shopping purely for function.  She yanked on a shirt without caring if it was for men or women or if it fit her well, only paying attention to whether it would cover her skin.  It was the first time she’d had on a clean shirt since before the blackout.

Weirdly, she abruptly felt cold.  She didn’t know if the extra dirt in her previous clothing had built up enough to actually provide insulation, or if her adrenaline level was finally lowering, or if it was simply being out of the sun.  Still, she shivered and found a wool anorak to pull over her shoulders.

Idly she wandered through the fishing section, admiring different models of pole and lures glinting in the light without any sense of what each was specifically used for.  Perhaps learning to fish was something she should work on.  She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for hunting, but in a non-electric world she would probably need to do something.

She spent a few minutes curiously examining the guns on the rack at the back of the store, debating whether it would be worth it to take one.  Eventually she decided against it.  She had no idea how to wield even a small gun, and these were all rifles nearly as long as she was.  Even if she’d known how to hold, load, and aim it, she’d never be able to carry enough bullets to make it worth the weight.  It would only take up room and increase the likelihood that she’d shoot herself by mistake.

Shaking her head and ridding herself of the gun idea, she went back to the clothing racks and began more carefully selecting a handful of items to pack with her.  She found shirts, a pair of pants to replace her worn-through leggings, and socks!   New, clean socks without holes, that would cover above her ankles and offer real padding for her feet and keep her toes warm at night.  She piled them by the front door, then stood on her tiptoes to peer out the little window in the door and check on Peach.

Peach still stood at the post, tail swishing away flies.  Assured that her mode of transportation was still where she’d parked him, she returned to the task at hand.

She turned away from the door, and instantly froze.

A man stood in the shop with her, aiming a gun at her face.  The door to the stockroom swung shut behind him.

Terror gripped Mercedes by the throat as she raised her hands.

The man was old — mid-seventies, maybe — with a gray bushy beard and skin leathered by wind and sun.  His eyes were dark, staring her down like a wolf eyeing a rabbit.

“Please,” was all Mercedes could choke out.

The man said nothing.  He cocked the gun.

She flinched, fighting tears.  “Please, please don’t shoot.”

A long pause fell between them.  He didn’t seem particularly twitchy, and his finger hovered steadily over the trigger.  He only watched her from behind the rifle in his hands, keeping her in the scope.  Mercedes’ heart pounded violently against her ribs.

“Who’re you?” he finally asked.

“My—” she started, choked, then restarted.  “My name is Mercedes.”

It was strange, because it was the only possible reply she could give, but it didn’t truly answer his question.  She didn’t think he cared what her name was.  He didn’t ask another, not right away, and just stared at her like he was more bewildered than anything.

All the fear, the hunger, the grief, the loneliness filled Mercedes to the brim.  She could not hold it in.  Tears burst from her eyes, and despite her best efforts she cried.  She couldn’t keep her hands up.  Instead, she covered her face.  Her entire frame shook, terror and starvation taking over, and her legs could not support her.  She sank to her knees, sobbing into her hands.

The stranger and his gun faded into the periphery.  All she could think about was Puck, and her family, and her friends back home.  They were all dead.  They had to be.  She could only imagine them that way — eaten by animals, wasted into nothing, killed and left to bloat in the sun.  

Everything she had survived up to this point had been so scary and so, so hard, and she wasn’t even halfway to Ohio.  She was completely alone, lost in the mountains, and home was so far away that she may as well have been stranded on the moon.  And after all that struggle, here she was about to be shot and killed and nobody she loved would ever know what happened to her.

The shot didn’t come.

When she finally caught her breath, her fingers tingled from too much oxygen.  She could barely keep herself upright, and she wondered if she’d already been killed and her soul had come unstuck from her body.  She drew a deep, shuddering gasp of air.

Eventually she looked up and realized that the man was still standing there, still staring at her.  Now, though, his gun had been lowered, the nose on the floor.  His hand rested on it like a cane, fingers nowhere near the trigger.

Abruptly self-conscious, Mercedes wiped her face, sniffling.  “I’m sorry.”

The man shook his head, lifting a hand in a dismissive don’t worry about it gesture.  “Are y’okay?”

Mercedes blinked, confusion setting in.  She nodded.

“I’m Judd,” he said.  His voice was graveled from decades of smoking.  “This is my store.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, wiping her running nose.  “I wasn’t trying to steal from you.”

Judd tilted his head, bushy brows knitted together.

“Well— I mean—”

“I know what ya meant.”  Weirdly, Mercedes thought she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes.  He set his rifle down against the wall by the door to the stock room.  “Stand up,” he said.

Mercedes stood as quickly as she could, joints aching, bones feeling made of jell-o, and had no idea what he was about to do to her.

“You’re gonna need boots.  Good, solid boots.”

She hiccoughed, not sure she’d heard him correctly.  “...What?”

Judd was already heading toward the footwear section.  “What size’re ya?”

The gears in Mercedes’ head turned slowly, not quite comprehending.  “What?” she asked again.

He let out a gruff, rasping noise that she thought might have been a sigh.  He was making a show of being patient.  “All this stuff’s just sittin’ here,” he explained.  “Might as well give it to ya.”

Mercedes could only stare at him, so dumbfounded by the idea that just a moment ago he’d been threatening to kill her.

Judd crossed his arms, waiting, and glanced down at her blistered bare feet.  “O’course, if you don’t want ‘em…” 

She coughed, her breath still moving in and out of her lungs unsteadily.  “No, I—  Thank you.”

“So.  Size?”

“Uh, eight?”

“Okay.  These should do ya.”  Judd grabbed a pair of boots from the shelf and set them on the ground, then went about gathering other essentials in addition to the items she had already chosen — a few more pairs of socks, a proper raincoat, a sunhat, and even a couple of tools including a Swiss army knife and a fire starter.

Mercedes watched him assemble the items with a mix of astonishment and anxiety.  She remained suspicious of this strange old man, not entirely ready to let go of the notion that he was going to kill her.  But at the same time, there would be no point to him giving her a bunch of stuff now only to shoot her later.

“That your horse outside?” Judd asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s skinny.”

Mercedes nodded, unsure of how else to reply.

Judd seemed to have finished finding things she’d need.  He stood there for a moment like he was trying to think if he’d missed anything else, and Mercedes stood just as awkwardly.  The pile of new clothes and tools sat on the floor between them.

Finally, Judd released a heavy puff of air through his nose, making his mustache twitch.  He looked Mercedes up and down once, and said, “You don’t know what you’re doing, do ya?”

Mercedes swallowed, hands shoved into the pockets of her stolen anorak.  “No.  I really don’t.”

Judd’s tongue clicked against his teeth.  “Okay, then.  My house is ‘round the corner.”

“Huh?”

“My wife’d never be happy with me if I didn’t at least feed ya.  C’mon with me,” he jerked his head toward the door, already kneeling to gather up the pile.

Mercedes’ heart leapt at the prospect of food, and she finally spurred into motion, collecting the first things she’d grabbed for herself from the floor by the front door.  She then reached for her ratty sneaker out of habit, but Judd quickly stopped her and shoved the new boots in her direction.

“Don’t y’dare put on that crappy shoe again,” he ordered.

It took a second to figure out the laces, but once she did, she could almost hear angels sing above.  Her feet were suddenly snug and supported from all sides.  She’d never felt such joy from a simple shoe before, and she wondered how on earth she’d managed to make it this far without real boots like these.  

A noise came out of Judd’s chest that might have been a chuckle.  “Ain’t ya ever worn hikin’ boots before?”

Mercedes shook her head, dancing from one foot to the other to test them.  “No, I don’t like hiking.”

At that Judd did release a hearty, croaking laugh.  “Well, for someone who don’t like hikin’, ya sure climbed a lotta mountains to get here.  I s’pose ya don’t like horses neither.”

“I really, really don’t.”

Her answer caught Judd by surprise, and he clearly had meant the horse remark as a joke.  His laugh dissolved into a full-body guffaw.  He slapped his knee, releasing a little cloud of dust from the denim of his jeans.  “Kid, you’re somethin’ else,” he said.

Mercedes smiled — not quite happy, but finally feeling more at ease.  A strange, unfamiliar calm settled over her as she followed Judd outside.

Judd slung his rifle over his shoulder and waited for Mercedes to untie Peach from the post out front.  “I hope your wife isn’t too surprised by me coming back with you,” she said.

“Oh, my wife passed ‘bout two years ago.  She’s buried o’er that-a-way,” Judd explained, gesturing toward the eastern edge of town.  “But I know she’d be pretty pissed if I just left ya to fend for yourself without so much as a meal.”

Mercedes swallowed, a rock lodged in her throat.  Here was the promise of food and shelter and help and wrapped up in it all was a shade of guilt.  Whatever blessings this stranger saw fit to give her, she would receive them alone.  And, though it was difficult to even think, it was possible she was only receiving these gifts because she was alone.  The guilt sat heavy in her heart, filling her chest like black-lung.

The entire walk to Judd’s house, Mercedes looked over her shoulder, watching for Puck’s silhouette on the road.