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Chapter Text

Wednesday

May 15th 2013

5:32pm

Just outside of Columbia, South Carolina

There's a solid, arrhythmic thumping on the wall to the left that Olivia is doing her best to ignore. Taking a deep breath as she closes her eyes, her hand squeezes harder around the gun in her lap – a gift from Dad shortly after they arrived in the States. Exhaling a steady stream of air, Olivia forces her eyes open and her body to relax. It's OK to be afraid, she tells herself, but she won't be afraid of the fear.

The pounding tapers off and Olivia stops breathing when the silence descends. Hard to believe that just three days ago this place was a plethora of sounds as people scurried about trying to get to safety. They're all gone now, or at least Olivia is fairly certain they all left. She hasn't ventured outside the hotel room to check, but she’s heard nothing but the moans of the dead and her own breathing since her father's final lucid moment, when he locked himself in the room next door, abandoned hours earlier by a frightened elderly couple, with his own pistol and her promise she wouldn't enter. The right wall is always quiet.

The memory aches, but it's a distant feeling somehow, her mind distracted in a way it hadn't been the weeks following the death of her mother. She's got survival to think about now. The thought tastes like a betrayal even as it rings true and Olivia uncurls her legs, socked feet touching cheap carpet as she pushes off the generic bed spread.

She touches the framed photo on the bed-side table out of habit as she stands, barely glancing at the happy couple within. The tiny trash bin is threatening to overflow with just two days worth of rubbish. She's going to need to take it out, although how she hasn't worked out yet. Her supply of food, if you can even call the chips and Little Debbie snacks "food," is dwindling. Olivia's breath quickens slightly at the realization that she's going to have to leave for supplies, even as her stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought of making a meal out of the aptly named "junk food" again. She hadn't been able to eat when her dad left, not wanting her to witness his final act of defiance against the deadly fever ravaging his body. But half-way through day two her stomach had rumbled in protest of her grief driven neglect.

Squaring her shoulders, Olivia sets her revolver down on the bed, moving with purpose to the tiny trash can. Careful to keep her movements silent, she carefully removes the plastic bag from the metal basket. She freezes as an almost unfamiliar sound reaches her ears. Her breath sounds loud in the empty room as she strains to hear, wondering if she imagined-no, there it is again. Just over seventy-two hours of only the sounds of the dead being all she heard, the voice of a living person is unmistakable, even as faint as it is.

"-ling?"

Olivia's eyes widen as she straightens, task forgotten, her whole body leaning towards the hotel door.

"...fr-....Interpol. You he-?" Olivia jumps as the dead person next door starts banging against a wall, trying to get at the source of the noise. It's enough to spur Olivia back in motion, quickly taking the two steps back to the bed and retrieving her gun with shaking hands. Her breathing sounds too loud to her ears as she rushes to her own door. Pressing her ear to the warmed wood in an effort to catch the voice once more.

"Agent Sterling?" a woman calls, and Olivia's hand wraps around the doorknob without thinking. Her dad, they were looking for her dad.

Looking out the peephole and not seeing anything in the darkened hallway, Olivia strains to hear more, to figure out how close they are.

"Agent Sterling? It's Emi-"

Olivia practically rips the door open, stepping out into the hall and about five feet away from a dark-haired woman holding a flashlight and a gun. The woman jerks her own gun up a few inches higher before realization dawns. She's wearing dark pressed slacks, and has black, slightly wavy hair framing a narrow face. Carefully, the woman lowers her gun until it's pointed downward, large dark eyes flicking down to the revolver in Olivia's hand.

"Hello." Her voice is calm, steady and soothing.

"He's dead." She's not sure what the woman was expecting, but Olivia is pretty sure that was not it. And maybe she should have started with a greeting, but she didn't want this woman to ask for her father again. "He was bitten," she adds, her voice cracking at the last word.

"I'm sorry." For all the woman's voice is gentle and sympathetic, Olivia gets the feeling the woman didn't know her father very well. Something in the way the death doesn't affect her, like it happened to a stranger.

<"Thank you." The response is automatic, she's been through this before.

"I'm Emily," the woman steps forward, and Olivia automatically moves her gun to her left hand to reach out her other to shake Emily's hand, feeling strangely wired in the adult's sudden presence and much younger than her eighteen years. God she must look a mess, blonde hair unwashed and clothes rumbled from spending the day curled up on the bed.

"Olivia," she manages, her voice surprisingly firm despite the sudden jittery feeling in her limbs.

Emily shakes her hand firmly before gesturing behind her. It's only then that Olivia notices another person still coming down the darkened hall several feet behind.

"This is Mr. DiNozzo, -"

"Please," the older man interrupts, a charming grin coming up and crinkling the skin around his blue eyes. "Call me Anthony." He's about four or five inches taller than her, an inch or two higher than Emily, with a head full of white hair and what Olivia recognizes as expensive Italian shoes.

"Olivia Sterling," she says, automatically falling into habits when meeting Robert's potential business partners.

"A lovely name to go with a lovely young woman," he replies with another smile, taking her offered hand in both of his in greeting before turning back to Emily.

"Seems I lucked out," he tells them, eyes twinkling, "the world falls apart and here I am surrounded by beautiful women." He chuckles good naturely.

Emily answers with a grin of her own, looking like an amused audience member at a show. "You are a charmer."

Olivia smiles back, small and at least half-faked. It's the fact that it's half-real that surprises her most.

"Why were you looking for my dad? Did Interpol send you?" Hope blooms, strange and nearly foreign in her chest. It dies at the sympathetic look on Emily's face.

"Perhaps we should take this inside," Anthony says, "We've been shutting doors behind us, but," he gives a slightly wide-eyed, tight lipped shrug. Olivia steps back from where she's been keeping the door propped open, the electronic keycards having stopped working when the power failed.

Once inside and the door safely closed behind them, Emily speaks. "I was in the country for a meeting when all this," she gestures towards the curtained window, fingers flicking over to the left wall where the groans and banging have become more frantic, "happened. Your dad was there. After everyone left town I tried to find who I could. This was listed as Sterling's hotel."

Olivia nods, trying to stifle her disappointment, arms crossing over her chest as she rubs her hands over her upper arms. She turns back to the bed, sitting on the end. Her stomach takes that moment to growl and she glances at the small stack of junk food. She must have had a look on her face because the next thing she knows Emily is before her, holding a familiar red and black bag in front of her face. She's never been so happy to see beef jerky.

-

Anthony, it turns out, likes to tell stories.

"...and as I was checking in I noticed a woman to my right. And lo and behold it was Emily from the airport." He shoots the agent a grin. "Of course, at this point, the hotel was almost completely booked and I couldn't get my usual suite."

Across the room Emily is looking uneasily at the wall-papered wall, the other room's occupant still scratching and pounding away with unnerving focus. There hasn't been this much noise since the frantic rush to get out.

"But it turned out to be a blessing in disguise," continues Anthony, "because I was just down the hall from Emily. I treated her to dinner, since our flights were cancelled and we were both stuck in town for the evening. Well," he leans forward in the hotel room's desk chair, "I was stuck in town. She was stuck in the country." He laughs quietly, grinning that eye crinkling grin again before settling back, the chair making a vague creaking noise. "We got to talking and discovered we both knew people in Virginia. My son," his voice takes a note of pride that makes Olivia smile, and even Emily loses some of her pinched worry at the old man's tone, "is an NCIS agent in Quantico, and Emily," he turns, pointing across his body at the woman in question, "used to be an FBI agent. Her old team is in Stafford. Just fifteen minutes south of where my son lives." He grins happily, flashing white teeth at her. "Junior's got an amazing apartme-"

"I hate to cut you off," said Emily, her voice holding the same hint of worry that's echoed on her features, "but we should probably get going." She looks at Olivia as she says the last part, and the teen is surprised by how her heart starts to pound even as she smoothes her features into a neutral expression.

"Did you have someplace..." Emily trails off, realizing what she's asking. "You should come with us. It's safer in a group and..."

"Yes," Olivia replies, voice neutral even as her green eyes light up. "I don't have any place to go," she adds. "Mom died a few years ago. Dad was all I had left."

Emily's face softens once more, even as Anthony stands up with a clap. "Well, that's great. That you're going with us," he's quick to add, his eyes crinkling in worry for the first time before he switches back to that charming grin he sports the majority of the time. Olivia's beginning to think it's his default expression, much like her neutral one. Or maybe he's just naturally a happy person. "It's been years since I've had a proper road trip. Always flying, you know." She and Emily begin gathering what little possessions she has, packing them in her small suitcase she'd brought with her on her dad's business trip and listening to Anthony's tale of his and Junior's last road trip.

Emily led the way, opening the hotel door with her gun held in one hand, flashlight in the other and held just on top. Anthony insisted on following behind the two women, quoting lines about chivalry. "I've become a bit of an expert door closer," he jokes as they all file into the hall.

The hall is even darker after the light from the hotel room is muted. Their only light sources are in Emily's hand and the eerie red glow from an emergency exit sign above the stairwell door that they are heading too.

The metal door opens without issue, and Emily heads inside, the others following her slow deliberate pace. Olivia and her father where only on the second floor, so it takes no time at all before landing on the first floor, where the emergency stairwell branches off into an exit outside and one to the lobby.

"We're parked out front," Emily says in a low, rough whisper, turning to look at the young girl. "We'll go through lobby." Olivia barely nods before they are moving again, Emily's gun a little higher this time.

The door opens quickly, and Olivia barely hears the snarling, only just catches a glimpse of the corpse's hands out, fingers curled into claws before a loud shot rang out, body falling backwards with a trail of dark red following. Green eyes stare in a kind of muted fascination at the dead woman, hotel uniform still in place, lying prone of the floor before them before a warm hand starts urging her forward. She moves without much thought, following Emily's quick moving form through the almost bright lobby.

The glass covered front doors are just up front of them, the large windows on either side letting in the late afternoon sunlight, and the small group nearly jogs their way to it and through. Outside there's a new dark blue, four door car. Emily moves around to the driver's seat with her gun still drawn as Anthony takes her suitcase.

"Ladies up front," he says, his charming grin looking strained for the first time, "I insist." Olivia doesn't argue, just opens the passenger door and slides her still shaking limbs into the leather seat. Emily gets in last, gun finally placed in its side holster. Olivia's own gun is in her suitcase, but surprisingly she misses it. Or maybe misses isn't the right word. Her hand feel empty without it, unsure what to do now that there's nothing to hold.

"We just have one more stop to make," Emily says once they are on the road, and Olivia is ridiculously happy that she's not asking how she is. Makes her feel normal. And it seems to be all that Anthony needs as he begins telling them about his visit to Morocco last spring. The sun is warm on Olivia's face, Anthony's voice low and pleasant as the road passes below them and slowly she begins to smile.

Chapter Text

Saturday

May 18th, 2013

1:15am

Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

"She down?" The voice comes from the front of the room, softly spoken and Javier can just barely make out jean clad legs by the beam of light coming from the tactical torch being held downward.

"Yeah," he whispers back, slowly easing his hand away from his service weapon. If JJ notices, she doesn't say anything. They're all on edge these days.

He moves closer to the door, keeping little Sara in his sight range, before catching full sight of the FBI agent. The slight glow from her service torch is brushing her high cheek bones and creating shadows on the upper half of her face.

"You on watch?" he whispers.

Gold-blonde strands brush against his arm as she shakes her head. "Morgan," she states simply.

Javier's still unsure how he feels about the unspoken leader. The senior felid agent is steady, but has spent most nights on watch and Javier knows firsthand what constant protective worry can do, especially after the losses his team has felt so recently. He can still remember the face of the dark haired agent who'd stumbled across him and a crying Sara. He was dead on his feet from lack of sleep, had nearly shot her when she walked in. Agent Blake saved them, of that he has no doubt, and he never even learned her first name. He helped dig her grave though, a small thank you for the woman who brought them into her team, into safety.

"I couldn't sleep," she breaks into the silent. She's staring into the room towards the wadded up bright green sleeping bag that’s currently being used as a bed for his goddaughter.

Easing himself down and sitting on what feels like a fairly nice carpet, back to the wall, he motions JJ to do the same.

"You can keep me company then." He adds a charming grin to his words, more for his own benefit than hers. Everything feels too quiet. It's been nearly ten days since he fled the city, Sara in the backseat of his car and his partner's words still echoing in his ear. A week of running and hiding and trying desperately to keep the two of them alive while the dead rose and the world went to hell.

He tries not to think of those he left behind. Ryan had told him to go, get out of New York before traffic got bad, and he had obeyed with a snarky comment about overprotective new parents. He barely crossed the bridge before he saw the planes. He pulled over in time to see the first bomb drop and Manhattan lighting up with fire and smoke, which prompted him to dial his partner's number repeatedly on a call that would never go through.

"It gives me hope," JJ says suddenly, after the silence had gone on long enough to become something familiar. Her back is to the door jam, knees brought up to her chest, a couple of fingers lightly interlaced on top. "What you did for your partner. Taking Sara and leaving the city." He looks at her, brown eyes meeting blue and she gives him a closed mouth smile.

"You have..." he trails off. Ryan had talked about what being a father meant, after the hospital where Jenny and the new pink-faced Sara Grace were admitted, about the new weight of responsibility. Javier had thought it sounded like Hell and couldn't quite understand the joy and awe that traced his partner's voice. He gets it now, looking at the sleeping baby, feeling the weight transferred to his shoulders, and it's terrifying. But there's a clarity to it, a narrowing of his priorities that puts the role of "parent" into a whole new light of understanding.

JJ nods, glancing back into the room and at the sleeping child within. "A son. Henry. He's five." The agent takes a deep breath, letting it out in something that sounds a bit like relief. Or resignation. "He's with his father."

"Back in Virginia?" He turns more of his attention to the agent, trying to imagine the pain of not knowing and comes up short.

She nods again, her face momentarily cracking before she pulls herself back together. "Will's a cop. Detective actually." Her nod is firmer this time, her voice growing in strength, but her forearms move to wrap around her stomach. "If anyone can make it -" She blinks rapidly twice, moving her gaze into the darkness of the hall.

"I'm sure they're fine. Didn't you say you had more of your team back at Stafford? I bet they all met up an-" he cuts off, because the best case scenario is that they are hold up like his little group is now, hungry and scared and have the barest silk thread of hope to cling too. "I'm sure they're fine." It hits him then, as the words leave his mouth to sit stale and stagnant in the air, how it feels. Not knowing. He's nearly positive that Kevin and Jenny are dead. He remembers the texts from his girlfriend Lanie, who still felt guilty for cancelling on him after coming down with a fever from a risen's bite. The guilt-tripping and bribes Kevin did to get him to agree to baby-sitting three month old Sara while the Ryans went out for the first time since the baby was born. All gone. The others unknown.

He clenches his teeth, turning away to stare at the wall before flicking his gaze down to the rise and fall of Sara's chest. It's was never a choice. Sara needs him to keep her safe, and he couldn't keep going on just him and the girl, never sleeping because there was no one to watch his back, and running himself ragged trying to keep them alive. The feds are going south, back to Virginia, back to their friends and family, and he is going with them.

If he sleeps that night, he doesn't know it.

-

Breakfast the next morning is a dull affair, granola bars and a jug of apple juice to share. Javier has Sara balanced in the crook of one arm, bottle of formula held in his other hand. JJ sits on his right, and Morgan, hidden half in muted shadows, sits across the table facing the front door, dark eyes blood shot and well formed forearms against the table. Dr. Reid's lanky frame is half bent over a map spread across the table, his glass of apple juice untouched as one hand traces road lines while the other messes absently with his already fizzing light brown curls, which is another reason Javier keeps his own black curls cut so short, even his Puerto Rican blood can't fight what humidity does to hair.

"You need to eat," Morgan speaks up, finishing the last of his crunchy honey and oats bar and tearing his eyes away from the silent front door to look at the younger man next to him.

Reid doesn't respond, barely glances up for a moment before looking back at the map.

The other two FBI agents exchange concerned looks and Javier leans back slightly, glancing down at Sara's peaceful face and debates the odds to being able to subtly leave the room.

Just as he decides against it, more because he doesn't want to disturb the already half-dozing girl in his arms, JJ leans forward, trying to catch the young doctor's eye.

"Spence-"

"We should avoid 78," Reid says suddenly. "With evacuation protocols and the inevitable wide-spread panic caused by the outbreak, the chances of an accident with that many people is roughly eighty-seven point six three percent. That's not calculating those too panicked to make sure they had enough fuel, or traffic leaving the surrounding major cities. The estimate of vehicles probably stranded, combined with those who won't be able get around those vehicles, means 78 is most likely backed up to here," one finger comes out to touch a spot on the map, and both JJ and Morgan lean forward to see where, "it's possible that it's clear further up ahead, but it's unlikely. Our best bet would be to take the side roads."

There's another exchange of glances, a silent conversation Javier can't follow that causes a sharp pang of longing in his chest.

Morgan's hands drop to the table, and something seems to lighten in him as he turns his full attention to the younger man. "Which road would be best then?"

"This one," Reid replies, tapping what Javier assumes in a street on the map. "County road 390. It goes south east for 337.9 miles before meeting 170. Which turns east into Virginia, just south of Washington. It'll add some time, " he looks up, glancing around the table at all of them with sharp eyes, "but should keep us from having to back track more than necessary."

Javier nods, absently bouncing Sara who’s fussing quietly in protest to the voices around her. He hasn't been with them long, but he's gotten used to the doctor's rambles, spouting out numbers and statistics like they're last night's game highlights. It's the only time the younger man speaks, at least that he's heard, since they buried Blake behind a gas station at the state line.

"One more thing," the genius adds, "I've calculated the amount of fuel we have, and with the miles between here and there, we'll run out of fuel about here," he taps another spot on the map Javier can't see, "depending on gas mileage and any back tracking we might need to do. Now," he sits up further, both hands coming up at his sides as he explains, "we'll probably find abandoned cars, but we'll need a hose to extract the fuel. If we combine the gas from both cars," he looks at Javier at this, "than we can make it into West Virginia before needing to get more. Either way, we need supplies."

Morgan is nodding slowly, his eyes far away as he processes the information. "We could use some more food too. Don't know about the rest of you," he adds with a grin, "but I'm getting a little tired of these oat meal snack bars."

"I could use some more formula," Javier adds casually, placing the now empty bottle on the table and lifting Sara up to burp her. "And no offense, bro," he teases, "but I prefer orange juice for breakfast."

-

The sun is at midmorning height, peaking over the trees and shining off of Morgan's shaved head as they step outside. Javier thinks about making a crack about being blinded, but decides against it as he puts on his own sunglasses. The lack of sleep is more evident on the senior agent in the bright sunlight, his skin, usually a few shades darker than Javier's own walnut coloring, has a gray tinge to it and his well built form is tight with tension. It's Reid though that the sun truly reveals the toll the last few days have had on the group. He's painfully thin from skipped meals, and the dark circles under his eyes are a deep purple that has the detective thinking the older fed isn't the only one not sleeping.

"We can take my car," Javier speaks up, shifting Sara in his arms - she's surprisingly heavy for such a tiny thing. He carefully hands the baby to JJ as they all pile into the dark blue four door, watching with a sharp eye as she straps the three month old into the car seat. The detective still can't bring himself to look at it without the image of the squirming dead thing that had once been strapped into the seat coming to mind. He shakes off the memory as he starts the car, following Reid's directions until they come across a small grocery store.

"GPS will probably still work for another six months or so," the doctor says as he pulls into a parking space. "The computers keeping it calibrated to the exact location have stopped working, but the satellites themselves are completely self sufficient. Garcia would be able to tell us...." He trials off, eyes widening as his head drops, quickly getting out of the passenger side, hands tucked into his pockets. Morgan looks stricken for a split seconded before his jaw tightens and he steps out of the vehicle, while JJ just looks sadly after the pair.

One hand still on the baby in the middle seat, she stops Javier as he begins to step out of the vehicle. "I think I should stay here. She's asleep." For a just a moment he wants to angrily protest, wants to climb into the back seat and snatch Sara away from the woman's reach and hold her close. It fades almost as fast as it hit him, and the detective shakes it off before agreeing.

The parking lot is near empty. Three other cars are parked farther back and none of the risen are in sight. They all pull out their weapons as they approach the door, habit or precaution Javier doesn't know, but the Glock feels right in his hand.
The doors open with a push, the soft brush of it against the linoleum familiarly as they file in, Javier just behind Morgan.

"Register," the agent barks, already squeezing off a shot. Javier turns, aiming in the other direction and covering Morgan's flank.

"Clear," he calls. Reid steps behind him.

They fan out, Morgan covers the left, Reid the center and Javier taking the right with firm steps and bodies crouched slightly as they scan for more of the dead.

It's the scraping of a foot being dragged that alerts him. Javier turns down one of the shadowed aisles and see a risen at the end. He squeezes the trigger, shoots and watches the body drop with a hard smack before stepping over it, careful to avoid the spreading dark red puddle.

He rounds the corner, quick check on both ends before lowering his weapon when he sees no movement. "Clear," he yells, hearing the answer call from Reid overlapped by another sharp crack from further in the store.

"Clear," Morgan calls a few moments later.

He heads towards the baby aisle, passing Reid who’s contemplating a stand of jumbo chip bags.

He's just managing to get three things of diapers in his arms before realizing that he's going to have to make more than one trip. He looks towards the front, wondering if there are still grocery bags when he hears a sound. He almost drops the diapers, fingers twitching with want of his service pistol before his brain catches up with the steady alive steps coming towards him. Turning, he sees the sure stride of Morgan in the darkened aisle, bundle of what looks like a watering hose over his left shoulder and his flashlight on in one hand, a dark bunch of fabric in the other.

"Thought you might need one of these." He lifts the bundle into the light of his torch. Two backpacks in different shades of blue dangle from the other man's hand and Javier awkwardly begins trying to put the diapers back on the shelf.

"Thanks, man," he says, reaching out and taking one of the packs. He gestures with his chin to the hose, already shoving the bag with various baby supplies. "That work for gas?"

"Kid says it will."

Javier nods, zipping his bag shut now that it's full and grabbing a couple more things that he can carry out. The two men turn and begin walking down the aisle, Morgan pulling things off the shelves and filling the bag in his hands as they go. A couple of baby goods end up in there as well as some bar-b-que supplies from the other side.

"He says it's not going to end," Morgan states suddenly, and Javier turns his attention to him. "That this is it. The world is over and mankind will either go extinct or adapt and build a new society around all this." His jaw is clenched, eyes still scanning the shelves even though his pack is already zipped. "Either way," he adds, finally turning to look at Javier, "it won't ever go back."

There's a denial on his tongue. He wants vehemently to argue, to say that they just have to get through this, but he can barely open his mouth to protest let alone form the words. He finds himself looking out the front, towards his car, towards Sara, and something heavy lands hard in his lower chest.

"We should finish this up. Find the doc," he says after a moment, hitching the bag higher on his shoulder and moving his items around his hands. Morgan doesn't reply, just walks with him as they head towards the front, Reid already up there and awkwardly moving past the register like he's unsure he should be doing it this way. He gets how he feels, the pack with unpaid goods reminding him vaguely of his childhood before the army turned his rebellious teenaged self into a man who wanted to protect people, but it still feels off, just walking out the door with a badge on one hip and stolen baby supplies over his shoulder. He shakes it off before he reaches the car, opening the back hatch so they can place the bags within.

-

Movement up ahead catches his attention, as well as the vehicle's passengers, on their way back to the house. There's a man on the side of a road that was vacant on their way to the store, the upper half of his body hidden in the shadows of the raised hood of a silver Jaguar. The rest of his body emerges as they approach, Javier automatically slows down.

Morgan, who had claimed shot-gun when they got into the car, lowers his window, and Javier leans over him slightly to call out, "Car trouble?"

The man takes a few steps closer, stopping a couple feet away before nodding, a baseball cap shielding him from the sun's harsh glare. "Yeah." He looks to be in his mid-thirties, narrow face with high cheek bones and a trimmed black beard. He's handsome, with skin the color of milk chocolate and wide eyes. High-quality dark washed jeans encase his legs and brightly colored t-shirts are layered under a thin jacket. "Alternator just went out on me. No warning." He gives the car a scathing look, before glancing back at them and sighing. "Look, normally I wouldn't do this," he shoves his hands in his front pockets, "I'd just call for a tow or hike my way to the closest auto shop, but with the dead up and moving..." He shrugs helplessly.

"Where you headed?" Morgan asks, stepping from the vehicle.

"Supposed to meeting some people in Dale City. Sort of southeast of DC from what I can tell."

Morgan nods, reaching out his hand to shake. "We're headed in that direction. Derek Morgan." He gestures behind him, indicating each person as he names them off. "Javier Esposito, Jennifer Jareau, and Dr. Spencer Reid." They nod in greeting, and the man doesn't bother to hide the relief that spreads across his face.

"Alfredo Llamosa. And thanks. Really. You may have just saved my ass."

"No problem." They two men grab Alfredo's stuff, placing the two suitcases and duffle in the back, before Morgan gestures for Alfredo to take the front seat. Something in Javier's chest loosens slightly. It's a tight fit, the back seat only equipped to hold three, but Reid scrunches over and JJ pulls the car seat as close to her as the seat belt allows and they all squeeze in.

"Packed quite a bit there," JJ chimes up from the back, small smile dancing on the corner of her lips.

"Oh, yeah," Alfredo says with a chuckle, "gotta friend, sorta. Real genius type. Gave me the heads up when the outbreak first hit the news. He told me to get outta town. I'm from Manhattan."

Javier glances at him, grin tugging on his mouth. "Really? Me too."

A wide smile spreads across Alfredo's face at the words. "Glad to see someone else got out before the bombs dropped. I went back, when the power fell. Bridges were all gone and the city..." he shook his head, looking out the windshield, "looked like ruins."

Javier's good mood evaporates, remembering the smoldering city, the skyline all wrong. "Yeah," he says softly, and there must have been something in his voice because Alfredo was silent for a moment.

"Sorry about that," the other man says after a moment. "So, where are you guys headed?"

"Stafford," JJ answers, and Alfredo turns to look at her, "a little south of Dale City."

"Looks like I lucked out then," he says as Javier pulls back into the house, shaking off the ghost of New York and the blackened ruins he left behind.

Chapter Text

Sunday

May, 2013

7pm

Quantico, Virginia

With an unhappy grimace, Ziva sees the house up ahead. Her feet try to slow, but she forces herself to keep her steady pace, hitching her bag up a little higher and hearing the chink of the spray paint cans tucked in the side pocket. She's not covering enough ground, not nearly enough. Between collecting food and supplies, avoiding the eaters, and searching for more survivors, she's barely making it into the city.

It's with a new found determination that the NCIS officer reaches the front door, pushing the ornate wood inward as she steps inside. She can hear little Henry off to her left, in the sitting room, smashing his toy cars and making child-like explosion sounds to accompany his play.

"Ziva?"

She closes the door behind her before turning to see Breena coming down the front hall.

"I'm back," Ziva breaths out, subtly checking the blonde's appearance. She finds no signs of tears, and feels something in her untwist. The younger woman still appears withdrawn and pale, once golden strands lying limp around her heart shaped face, but Ziva will take any improvement at this point.

"Fornell?" she asks.

"Fighting with Emily." Ziva moves past her on her way to the kitchen, dropping her backpack on Ducky's (and they still belong to the NCIS medical examiner, even if the older gentleman is still missing) counter while Breena follows close behind. "I think they woke up Henry. Will brought him down around noon."

She nods as she pulls a loaf of bread and a half a dozen cans of peaches out of her pack. It's not easy for Breena, being around Will, who misses his wife and talks about her constantly – not since Jimmy. Funny, loyal, quirky, stupidly in-love Jimmy, who’s buried in Ducky's garden and...Ziva gives an internal shake, careful to keep her thoughts from expressing themselves on her face.

Her team, her family, is out there. Maybe not all of them, but if there's one thing being in the States had taught her, it was not to always assume the worst, no matter how this new world reminds her so much of the life she left behind in Israel. But her signs are up, spray painted along every building she could find, telling any of them where to find her and the others.

"Dinner's been started?" she asks, breaking the silence as she sets her pack by the wall.

"I think Agent Fornell's still skipping meals, but the rest of us were waiting for you to get back."

"And now here you are, and we can eat," comes a low slow voice from behind them. Glancing over her shoulder she sees Will, dark messy hair over hooded eyes, five o'clock shadow darkening an otherwise gentle jaw, leaning casually against the door jam with a five year-old blonde boy pressed against his leg.

Ziva gives them both a look before turning back to the cabinets. "I'll see what I can make."

-

Dinner that night is some warmed up chicken, the last meat from the cooler, and steamed broccoli. Henry falls asleep in Will's lap, and Breena picks at her food while both Fornells pointedly don't talk to each other, but Ziva still feels something in her settle at the view of them all around the dining room table, blankets covering the windows to trap in the glow from the battery powered lanterns.

Will and Ziva had kept up a steady conversation between them, occasionally trying to engage the others in their conversation, until Henry had fallen asleep and Will's voice faded out.

"I've been meaning to ask," he brings up suddenly as those that ate finish up, "if you needed any help out there. With tagging and such." Ziva can't help but freeze a moment before years of training kick in and she finishes her bite. She could use the help, it would cover more ground and they have the spray paint. It's logical and a good tactical strategy. She hates it.

"Do you have training?" she asks instead of the negative she wants to give. It's an emotional response, irrational, and no matter how much she wants to turn the man down, she knows better than that.

Will gives a wiry half-grin. "I am a homicide detective, ma'am."

"Noise attracts them," she fires back, voice firm and clipped. She likes Will, she does, but at this moment the idea of taking him out there churns something in her stomach. She tries not to glance at the sleeping boy in his arms. "It's best to say quiet and to the ground. A tactical knife is your best bet. If you run into trouble." He meets her gaze, blue eyes to her own dark brown and Ziva gives a small nod. "We'll leave in the morning. Stick together the first time, until you get a feel off it."

"Of it," corrects Breena, small smile tugging the corner of her lips, and Ziva lets out a frustrated breath, looking at the young widow. English is by far the hardest language she's encountered.

"That hardly makes any more sense than what I said."

Across the table, Emily, Tobias' fourteen year old daughter, has broken her angry sulk to grin in Ziva's direction, reaching out to grab of piece of barely touched chicken off her plate and popping it in her mouth. It's good to see her smile. She lost her mother in the evacuations, and her father is still too lost in his own grief and anger to be of much support to her at this time.

"Maybe I could learn?" she says suddenly, flipping red hair out of her eyes as she looks steadily at Ziva. "How to fight, I mean."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Tobias' voice is clipped if soft, eyes trained on his glass as he takes a measured sip.

Emily takes a visible breath, pulling herself together in the way teenagers do when they begin learning to use logic to argue their point.

"It could be. Knowing how to defend myself, you know, just in case." Her voice is slightly questioning at the end before she glances at her father's set jaw. A flash of frustration crosses her features and a similar clenching appears along her own jawline.

The entire table has gone quiet. Will slowly leans back, trying to easy himself and the still sleeping Henry out of the room. Breena grabs hers and Ziva's plates and takes them to the kitchen.

It's the wide-eyed look on the younger woman's face that has Ziva picking up the remaining plates and following Breena into the kitchen.

"Same fight as before?" she asks when they are safely out of ear shot.

"Yeah," the blonde says sadly, glancing back at the dining room. "Poor girl. She just wants to help."

"He's her father. His job is to keep her safe."

"But he can't," insists Breena. "Nothing he does can protect her." Her voice rises, becoming more insistent, her eyes taking on a light that had been lacking the past week. "She's not safe, and the sooner they both learn that-"

"He is her father," Ziva cuts in firmly, lips pursing and shoulders unconsciously squaring as she faces the smaller woman. "A bond like that, no matter what it goes through," she pauses, taking a steadying breath as she looks at the fragile woman before her, arms crossed over her stomach as the fire that filled her moments before disappears faster than it came. Feeling a mixture of guilt, exhaustion and frustration, she forcibly relaxes. "No matter how we feel," she continues in a quieter tone, "Emily is still his daughter and we have to respect that."

-

Her Mossad training taught Ziva how to continue past exhaustion and the smallest amount of sleep she can handle before it negatively affected her performance. To say she hadn't slept that night would be a lie. Even her years with NCIS hasn't dampened her ability to force her body into rest.

She throws her dark curls back in a pony tail before heading downstairs into the kitchen. It doesn't surprise her when she finds Emily already there, heating up oatmeal and staring at a can of bright yellow spray paint – Ziva knows what the body can do when determined enough.

"Agent David," the girl says when she sees Ziva enter the kitchen. "I was hoping you could do me a favor." Her voice is surprisingly strong, even as her eyes plead with the older woman.

"I believe your father made it clear-"

"I know what Dad said," she cuts in before hurrying on to make her case. "And I'm not trying to go against him. I don't want you to take me with you or anything." She takes a breath and Ziva begins preparing the cooking torch to make coffee. "I just want you to train me. You're this badass assassin," Ziva glances up sharply but Emily ignores her in that stubborn way she has, "and I need to learn something. Even just a couple of moves. Please?"

She watches the dark liquid seep through the coffee filter and into her mug as she thinks. "Alright. But," she adds quickly, "if your father says one word against it, we stop."

"Yes! Yes. Absolutely yes." She grins widely, lunging across the counter and wrapping her arms around Ziva in a hug. "Thank you!"

"Alright," she says after they disengage, taking a careful sip of her coffee to test the temperature on her tongue. "Go wake everyone up for breakfast."

She eyes the cereal. There's no milk. It all went bad by now, but Ziva's beginning to develop a taste for the crunchy sweetness of Lucky Charms. She pours herself a bowl, watching the frosted shapes and dehydrated marshmallows bounce against Ducky's fine china bowl. She fishes out a horseshoe, popping the sugary treat into her mouth as she goes over what she can teach the young girl. She's small, slight build, but there's potential for muscle there. They'll start with jabs; it learns how to channel strength into getting free. Perhaps-

The scream wrenches the air and rips through Ziva, blood pounding through her ears as she drops her bowl onto the counter and rushes from the kitchen on quick, silent steps, kitchen knife in one hand.

Another scream, tapering off into a sob as she rounds the corner into the mud room. The sight before her makes her pause in horror. Emily stands there, face twisted in pain and fear, her raised hand dripping red where the dead woman's teeth are tearing the flesh free.

Ziva reacts, knife lifted as she rushes forward, smooth upward motion as she slides the blade under the eater’s ear and into the skull. It's easier than killing a man somehow.

She hears the snarls, louder than Emily's sobs, and catches site of at least a dozen more through the doorway to the garage. She lunges towards it, slamming it shut and throwing the lock as the thump of bodies land against the metal. Pressing her back against it, she looks at Emily. Just below the girl's elbow is a mess of red and white, the flesh missing down to the tendon, and Ziva's mind stutters and blinks as she takes in the wound. There was a time when looking at someone and seeing their death written out would have put her in a calm place, a clarity that death was an everyday occurrence in life. Now all she can do is stare in a kind of detached denial.

"Emily!"

Ziva's head whips around, seeing Tobias standing in the archway. Will's dark head is behind him.

"Daddy," Emily sobs, arm cradled close to her body as Tobias pulls her close to him.

"W-we'll. We'll get you patched up," he mutters at her. Behind Ziva, the thumping grows louder.

"What happened?" asks Will, looking at the body on the floor.

"Eaters in the garage." The door gives a creak as another body hits it, the wooden frame splintering around the lock. Ziva presses back harder.

"That's not going to hold," Will says suddenly, the detective in him coming into action as his gaze focuses on the cracking frame. Another thud sends Ziva jerking forward.

"She's hurt," says Tobias, frantic eyes looking back and forth between the two. "We need to get her help."

"She's been bit," Will says softly.

"We need to get out of here," Ziva cuts in. She presses off the door, pushing Emily and Tobias through the archway, Will already rushing ahead of them. He disappears in the direction of the front of the house, Tobias dragging Emily towards the hall bathroom.

"Get her outside," Ziva commands before turning towards the kitchen.

She catches sight of her pack, still sitting against the center island, all but sprinting towards it. Her hand wraps around the strap when she catches sound of it. Footsteps. Uneven and heavy, Ziva glances back to find an eater stumbling towards her, gaining speed as it catches site of live prey. The agent turns, bringing the kitchen knife up as she twists. It buries in the dead man's jaw, glint of metal visible through the snapping teeth six inches from her face. Cool hands cling to her, fingers digging dark sleeves of her top as it tries to get closer.

Her other hand comes up to hold it back by the chest. She's at a bad angle to get it's knee, needs to twist a bit more to make it go down. Her knife digs further into the eater's flesh, thick, dark blood seeping sluggishly from where the blade is buried. She thinks about shoving harder, turning the knife up slightly to ensure a path to the brain. It'll fall forward, may still have just enough "life" in it to snag its teeth on whatever skin it finds on its way down.

"Ziva!"

There's a meaty thunk, jarring Ziva's arm as the dead man jerks forward. Behind it, Breena is holding an antique wrought iron fire poker like a baseball bat, a look of horror widening her eyes.

The knife rips free as the eater's shifted focus gives Ziva the opportunity to jerk it out. Quickly twisting it back to burying it into the skull, past the resistance of bone, before reaching the brain.

Breena screams slightly as the body crumples with a heavy thud onto Ducky's tile.

Snatching up her backpack as she steps forward, Ziva places one hand on the still trembling woman.

"You did really good," she says, already grabbing another cutting knife and putting it in Breena's hand before heading towards the front of the house, the noises of the dead growing closer. "Stay close."

She flips the pack around, rooting with her left hand for her service pistol while keeping her knife ready in her right.

She hears Tobias before they enter the front hall, angry words indistinguishable with the violent sounds of the eaters. There's a gunshot as they cross into the hall. Practically sprinting, Ziva takes in the chaos; Will is barely visible at the top of the stairs, Glock out and aimed as he takes out eaters. Emily is beside her father, the entryway table balanced between them and the growing mass of bodies attempting to climb the stairs after them. Ziva raises her gun, firing twice and taking out two of the dead. Breena's frantic tugging draws her attention to the ambling bodies coming up behind them. Ziva pushes the other woman behind her, backing the two of them up and towards the front door.

"Check outside," she barks, taking careful aim at the closest eater.

She focuses on her tasks. Taking out any eater that gets too close with her knife while firing at those surrounding the staircase.

The morning sun is soft on her back. It filters through the open door, casting the dead in harsh relief and darkening the slashes of shadows. She takes couple of backwards steps, still firing into the now thinning crowd of eaters when a flash of ginger hair and a scream catch her attention as Emily disappears under three of the dead. A wordless cry erupts from Tobias, the older man forsaking his upward climb to charge into the mass of bodies before Ziva can call out. She looks for Will but doesn't see him.

A soft calling of her name spurs her on, taking the final steps out the door and pulling it shut behind her. There's two dead men at the base of the porch, another half a dozen lazily stumbling around the open garage door.

"Harah," spits Ziva. She tucks her gun into the back of her sleep pants. Not giving the dead time to react to their sudden appearance, Ziva attacks. Kicking out with her leg before burying her knife into the skull of the dead man on her right, a blond jogger missing a chunk of his calf. She turns before the body hits the ground to find Breena viciously beating the second eater with the fire poker, knife discarded in the grass. Letting the blonde woman take care of it, Ziva turns her sights on the others slowly making their way over.

"Pick up your knife," she commands at the other woman as a few eaters come closer. "Aim for the head."

A shout comes as the first eater gets within twenty feet, Ziva looking up towards its source to see Will's head through a second story widow, Henry in his arms.

"You need to catch him," he yells, hitching his son higher before aiming with his gun and taking out the closest eater. Moving quickly, Ziva gets into the position. The boy is red faced and crying, clinging to his father as Will tries to unclench Henry’s little fingers from his shirt. He says something into his son's ear before holding him out of the window. Ziva sends up a prayer as she holds out her arms. It's quick, one moment the child is dangling from the window, the next, Ziva is letting out a harsh breath, knees buckling, as roughly forty pounds of crying toddler lands in her arms.

"There's more," says Breena, breathing heavy as she holds out the knife and fire poker in front of her. A quick glance shows that the number around the garage has doubled, even more heading down the street towards them.

"I'm coming down," Will shouts, both women backing up. He turns, lowering himself by his arms, fingers locked on the window sill.

A pale hand snatches out, grasping at Will's shirt sleeve, dead mouth lowering as the eater comes into view. Will drops, letting go in surprise, a ripping noise issuing as he falls. He lands roughly, falling to his knees and the women run to his side.

"Did it get you?" asks Breena.

"Nah," Will mutters, checking his arms, "I'm alright." He winces as he puts weight on his leg. "Well, maybe not completely."

Henry is squirming in Ziva's arms, trying to get his dad to hold him, heavy cries still issuing forward.

"We need to get to a car," she says, shifting Henry to keep from dropping him. A heavily leaning Will, propped up on Breena's shoulder, reaches out and tries to take him. "You can barely walk."

"And you can't fight with a kid in your arms." He takes him, Henry clinging to his father as his father clings to Breena.

There's a hiss as another eater gets closer, teeth snapping as it moves frantically towards them. Flipping her knife around, Ziva leads the way, taking down the eater before it can get too close. She doesn't know where a car is at. She doesn't know how they can outrun the dead with an injured Will. She doesn't know how to keep everyone alive. The thought fills her, even as she moves forward with sure steps and sinks her blade into another eater’s skull, pulling it out with a wet snick. The dread fills her chest like a balloon, and she fears that just behind it is that cold acceptance that let her execute her brother on her commander’s orders.

Another body falls, her knife coming free with a quick tug.

"Hold on," calls Breena, panting and strained, "you're going too fast."

The tactile move would be to leave Will behind. They can't all make it to a car. Not at the pace they are going.

"Ziva?" Breena calls, a bit of desperation hinting her voice.

There's two eaters in front of her, a third not far behind them as Ziva raises her arm. The knife slides roughly into the temple of the first one, before she turns, coming full circle to bury it into the eye socket of the second. Never leave a man behind, she thinks grimly, crouching low in preparation for the third.

A bullet rips through the center of the dead man's forehead, knocking his head back with a snap and Ziva whips around. There's a truck, coming up fast on the road behind them, a man standing in the back with a rifle. The morning sun glints of silver and black hair. She can make out his features as he drops the gun, looking at her with piercing blue eyes that could stare down her father, were he still alive.

"Gibbs?"

Chapter Text

May, 2013

Around 6pm

Just outside of Jackson, Tennessee

Sam can't decide if life should feel different, or if it should feel like this is all more of the same. And perhaps that's why it's so easy for him to forget sometimes, that the apocalypse they'd all been so gung-ho to stop had somehow gotten derailed by a different apocalypse. (Or perhaps not. Kind of hard to tell with demons abandoning Earth like rats from a sinking ship and their link to the heavenly side of things well and truly severed.) It's been easier to remember recently, with their little party of mostly-two-sometimes-three increased by double, at least for now. Mostly Sam's just thankful for learning how to hit a moving target between the eyes at the age of eleven and for a lifetime spotting a diner in the middle of nowhere; they're less picked over than the ones in town and fewer of the walking corpses about. (They're pretty divided on what to call the possibly nature based, possibly human created phenomenon.)

He glances up from the map he's been steadily not studying for the last five minutes as Father Paul drops the curved blade of a switchblade on the table in front of him and picks up a shotgun. He's not the best of shots yet, but he's learning. Dean's in the parking lot, siphoning gas from the abandoned vehicles and keeping watch, while Aimee's scouring the back for supplies. Both doors are propped open to let the breeze in and for quick escape routes if need be.

Standing a few feet away Cas is having what might be a staring contest with the newest (temporary) member of their little party. She's heading south once they reach the edge of Georgia, while the rest of them are going east to find a possible demon, possible frenemie's possible teenage daughter. This is not the strangest life has been, but it's close.

Father Paul is busy organizing their firearms and ammunition. Ammo's going to become tricky, and sound seems to attract these suckers (which is just one more reason Sam's convinced they're not zombies and shouldn't be called such), but both the Winchester brothers trained in how to use a blade to kill the baddies, and Aimee had come to them having faced enough of these things to be proficient with whatever blunt object she has at hand, and the good Father has proven to be a quick study, so Sam's not overly worried about it just yet.

"You're a vessel." The angel's low voice is enough to startle the younger Winchester out of his thoughts, slanted eyes darting over to see the stare down between the two mostly silent members of their party has morphed into a stare down plus speech.

"I was," Michonne responds. There's no surprise on the dark-skinned beauty's face, just the same careful mask as when they found her. One booth over, Father Paul has paused in his organizing to watch the duo. He still mostly thinks their group is delusional, nodding absently with an indulgent expression when they bring up talk of hunting or Castiel's angelic origins. Aimee barely blinked the first time Cas had pulled his "I'm an Angel of the Lord" shtick, quoting Revelations at him before offering a seat in her truck to anyone tired of the Impala, something Dean took a bit of offense too. (Sam's already asked about the dead rising in the end of days and Castiel had been mostly certain that this wasn't what the Bible meant, but he's not about to correct the woman if it keeps things running smoothly.)

The two are quiet just long enough for Sam to think they've gone back to attempting (and quite possibly succeeding) to communicate their thoughts telepathically, when the angel replies, "My sister left you behind?"

There's a long slow blink from the young woman, before she lets out a harsh breath through her nose. "I said 'yes,'" the word is harsh, almost angry, "before all....this. After...." she makes a sharp gesture, and Sam remembers Jimmy and his confusion during his brief bought of freedom. "She kept her word," the words are quieter, chin softening and her eyes dropping. Years of interviewing victims has given Sam a knack for reading body language. This would be the point where he'd offer puppy dog eyes and consoling words to coax information free. But this isn't a case. "I-I woke up." Her hard stare is back, voice steady. "In a refugee camp, with a sword on one side of me and them," she jerks her chin to where the two not-zombies are chained up outside, "freshly bitten and locked in a devil's trap on the other."

Sam's gaze jerks outside, eyes widening and he takes in the implication. He tears his attention away to look at Castiel, seeing the angel's stare locked unwaveringly on the two armless corpses outside.

"They were demons?" The words fall from his own lips, voice a mix of disbelief and soft surprise. Castiel had proven to be immune to a corpse's bite, something they'd all been grateful for, even as the younger Winchester had wondered what this meant for Lucifer's big plans for him, but both Sam and Dean had seen demon possessed victims take bullet wounds and more without so much as a blink.

Dark eyes hit him with a hard stare, her head barely moving as her gaze takes him in. Had he been anyone else, raised by anyone else, he thinks he'd probably have felt it more.

"They're dead," Castiel's voice has no infliction, but Sam files this piece of information away, interest piqued as he looks away from the sword wielding woman and focuses on their angelic companion. He's not sure how useful it'll be, but with the colt taking specially made ammo and the knife being singular in existence, he makes a mental note to enter this new method of demon-killing into Dad's journal.

Father Paul makes a soft sound of disbelief in the back of his throat, gaze firmly back on a revolver they picked up one state back with a disapproving glare. He'll either learn or he won't, but this isn't the time for a lesson.

"Think ah can get one of you boys ta give me a hand," Aimee's voice reaches them before she's through the swinging door, Kentucky drawl softening the edges, and reddish brown hair flipping around her shoulders. There's a cardboard box in her arms, the clank of can goods barely discernible as Father Paul and Sam both stand and start heading towards the back.

"I'll go," Sam says quickly, "you stay and finish up..." He makes a gesture at the contents of the table, watching for a moment as Father Paul glances down at them before making a soft "ah" sound and settling back in the metal chair.

Father Paul starts gathering up the pieces carefully as Sam disappears behind the swinging door to a room considerably darker without the florescent bulbs to brighten it. He spots the boxes Aimee means almost immediately, placed conveniently nearby in the beam of sunlight from the propped open back entrance. Canned vegetables and other various edibles are all neatly stacked into the containers the young woman had brought in with her. That is something he never thought he'd miss – diner food, cooked hot and ready when he ordered it, or at least, heated up in some fashion before shoved on a plate and brought to him by a usually cranky waitress.

Snatching up a stack of two boxes while shoving the third through the swinging door, he reaches back and kicks the back exit closed, cutting off his light source. He moves back into the main dining area quickly, vaguely noting that Castiel is awkwardly holding the remaining box as they all head out front.

"'Bout time," Dean mutters, green eyes squinting into the light from the west. "Beginning to think I'd have to go in after you." He shoots his brother an automatic smirk, barely taking his eyes away from the horizon. "That good, huh?"

"Yep," replies Aimee with a extra bit of pep. "An' here's the best part." She sets her box in the back of her truck, lifting the faded blue tarp a bit to half-slide it under before reaching in and pulling out a large can. "Meat."

Sam glances over at the container she's displaying, seeing the words ‘HOT Chili’ in bold, red font with cartoon flames surrounding the letters. Underneath the picture of what he recognizes as chili in a simpler type are the words "made with real beef," half torn off but still legible.

"How many is there?" Sam asks, placing his own boxes in the tail of the truck and sliding them backwards until they bump up against one of the duffle bags.

"Ten." The happy note increases as she gives him a grin. "And we can mix it in with some of the other's. Make it last."

He nods, leaning against the side of the Ford and tucking his hands into his pockets. Cas' box has disappeared and he's unsure if the angel simply willed into the truck or somehow got the box in when no one was looking. He shrugs it off, giving a quick glance over to the priest still holding the bag of hand-held weapons in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Sam hopes Paul isn't thinking of trying out the pump action. He isn't there yet.

The older man catches his gaze as he puts the bag into the trunk of the Impala, carefully tucking it into the corner where it won't get in the way of the weapons compartment beneath, and Sam nods slightly before joining his gaze on watch with his brother.

It's nice, being able to relax for a bit, standing next to Dean with an equal purpose again. It can't last. They've been delayed long enough having to backtrack – scrounging for gas, fighting their way through when they could and going around where they can't. It all added up to lengthen would should have been a one day trip.

Sam sends up a silent prayer to anyone that might be listening (although he's fairly certain God's just as much of a dick as his winged children at this point) that they aren't going through all this for a trap.

"Zombie alert," Dean warns, casually indicating to the stray staggering figure coming towards them.

"They're not zombies," Sam replies back automatically, pulling a slightly curved blade from the sheath on his side. Dad's journal had an entry for "zombie" already, hell it even had the freakin' spell to raise one, and Death had skipped town with the rest of the horsemen. Sam's not about to give a paranormal based moniker to what Castiel assures them is not supernatural.

Behind him he hears Michonne unsheathe her sword.

"Then what are they? Hmm." Dean has an entirely too smug look on his face as he removes the crowbar from its resting spot across one shoulder, swinging it back and forth lightly to warm up his wrist. "How many?" he asks their heavenly companion.

"Four." Cas' ability to sense the things is spotty at best and extremely limited, range wise, but it had saved their lives when this thing broke out and Sam's not going to question it now.

Sam moves forward, quickly dispatching of the still-not-a-zombie as it lumbers in arm range, eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. He can just make out possible movement through the trees.

"Why don' we jus' go with Castiel's 'tainted ones' suggestion and leave i' be?" Aimee speaks up, baseball bat held up and ready as she stands between the brothers and the rest of their little group.

"Stay or go?" Father Paul asks, moving around to the passenger side of the truck. It's a thought that hadn't even crossed Sam's mind, and he knows it hasn't crossed Dean's. Their training says stay, hunt the threat.

"Just three," Dean answers, already turning to where two of the damned things are wondering in from the surrounding trees, feet shuffling a little faster than normal now that they have prey in sight.

The brothers move forward, each with their weapons raised, and he can hear the others behind him shifting. The arms of what was once a middle aged man in a rather dirty business suit reaches for him, and Sam jerks his arm to the side, knocking the creature's arms with his elbow as he swings his knife in a backhanded stroke, blade digging through the temple and into the brain. He yanks the blade free as the body falls, hear the steady wet thunk as his big brother smashes the head in on another.

Sam's already stepping forward as the last two clear the trees, strange groans and hisses coming from their dead throats. A quick swipe upward and he's dispatched the one closest to himself, turning just in time to see Dean bring the crowbar down on the back of the other's head. Sam takes a quick step back, checking his shirt for splatter – that last one had been closer than he thought. He finds a few drops of red but nothing that can't be washed out.

Dean is grinning like a loon, a little too happy and a little too smug about getting to play wack-a-monster in Sam's opinion.

"Dude, gross."

His big brother just snorts, glancing over the carnage before turning back to the cars.

"We thinkin' of crashing around here tonight?"

Sam shoots his big brother a look, before stopping to think about it. It's late-afternoon, evening is closing in fast and none of them know the area well.

"There's still quite a bit of the day left," he says quietly, squinting up at the sky before glancing back at his brother. The girl waiting on them goes unspoken.

Dean gives him half-hearted shrug. They turn to look back at their party, watching Father Paul hovering near the passenger door of the truck and Michonne taking over the role of look out, while their two remaining companions seem to be in a, probably fairly one-sided, conversation.

"We'll keep going," Dean finally states. "At least until we hit the Georgia boarder and drop off the ninja." He makes a jerky half gesture vaguely towards the woman in question, face twisting for a split second into a half-grimace before smoothing back out.

They pull out of the parking lot a few minutes later, the loud growl of the truck only matched by the Impala's own feral purr. Both vehicles really are too loud, but even Sam can't bring himself to say anything. He may not have the same obsessive "relationship" with the dark Chevy, but she was still just much his home as she was Dean's.

-
"Georgia," says Dean a couple hours later, pointing out the blue state sign, before flicking the volume dial. The beginnings of Beating Around the Bush coming through the speakers.

Sam glances behind them, reaching one arm out his open window as he does to signal to Aimee they're stopping.

Michonne's in the bed with her two dead men. Sam gets out in time to see her hop down, pulling each of the once-living beings after her. It amazes him how casually she touches them. It shouldn't, since he's certainly touched worse things in his life, but civilians (and no matter how well she handles herself, she's still no hunter) have a natural aversion to dead bodies, particularly moving ones.

"You sure you don't want to come with us?" he asks, gesturing to where Dean is still jamming out in the car. His brother probably wouldn't thank him for offering her a place with them, having not quite warmed up to their temporary traveling companion, but Sam can't help but ask.

Dark eyes narrow at him for a moment before she replies, "I'm good," and after a moment's pause adds, "thanks." Then she turns and begins walking towards the forest surrounding the county road they're on, the slight tug on the metal chains causing her pack wielding not-zombies to follow at their own awkward gait. Sam watches her for a moment before getting back into the Impala. They have a five hour drive and a possible demon trap ahead of them.

Chapter Text

Monday

May, 2013

7:36am

Quantico, Virginia

He can see Castle by the gate as he comes up the drive, reluctantly slowing down to allow the writer time to open the entrance. As soon as the truck is safely inside the fence, Tony is throwing it into park and all but jumping out, with Beckett getting out the passenger side to greet her fiancé. Tony rushes around to the back of the pick-up, hazel eyes already locked on the woman climbing down from the bed. Ziva's dark curls are pulled up in a pony tail, sweaty strands sticking to her curve of her cheek and a dried smudge near the prominent widow's peak on her forehead. She helps Palmer's wife down from the back before Tony's arms are around her, pulling her close and breathing in the fact that she's alive and here.

"God, it's good to see you," he breathes into the side of her head.

"Dinozzo!" snaps Gibbs, drawing Tony's attention away from their formally missing team mate. "Dr. Hayes."

He locks eyes with Ziva, trying to communicate in that one look how much he missed her before turning and running into the small one-story retirement community, calling for Savannah as he goes.

"What happened?" Dr. Hayes asks, coming out of her rooms, first aid kit already in hand. They turn back towards the drive way as the doctor follows him at a fast clip.

"I-I don't know," he admits. She shoots him a look, but doesn't comment.

They get back to find Beckett conversing quietly with Breena. The tall brunette is strikingly clean next to the other woman, and for the first time Tony notices that they're all wearing blood smeared night clothes, feet bare and dirty.

Dr. Hayes, a pretty woman with dark almond shaped eyes, makes a beeline for the man sitting on the lowered tailgate, right ankle swollen, holding a small blond boy in his lap. Castle is gently talking to the kid, friendly smile in place as he helps soothe the boy. It's good to see Rick grin. Although Tony can't blame the man for his usual tightly strung worry; he'd come down to visit his fiancé, leaving his nineteen-year-old daughter at home when everything hit. He's been half-way out the door since and would have already been gone if Gibbs and Beckett hadn't convinced him to wait.

Gibbs' normally stoic face is tinged with relief now that the necessities are taken care of. He's listening as Ziva recounts the incident, his gaze flicking to Palmer's wife before coming back to focus on her. He looks over as Savannah reaches the man in the back of the truck, catching sight of Tony and excusing himself from Ziva with a firm hug of his own.

Tired eyes lock on him, and Tony gives a soft jerk of his head. Ziva nods, saying something to Breena before coming over to him, bottom of her still bare feet against the hot concrete of the small parking lot.

Tony can't seem to help touching Ziva, one hand coming out to rest on in the middle of her back once she's near him, steering her towards the front porch. But his elation at having found her alive is dampened with the conversation he knows has to follow.

"We saw the signs. Ducky?"

"I don't know," she says simply, "He was gone when we got there."

"Palmer?" But he already knows. It's there in Breena's too thin face, grief still carving deep lines around her eyes. Ziva just shakes her head.

"Fornell and Emily were with us," she says as they come under the shade of the overhang, both pausing before the front door. She looks at him, eyes sad but detached in a way he hasn't seen in a long while. "They didn't make it."

He nods feeling a knot trying to form in his throat, a burning in the back of his eyes, but he pushes it down, focusing on the brown Welcome mat for a moment before looking back up at Ziva.

"Gibbs know?"

"Told him on the ride over." They pause a moment, letting the sorrow ebb some before she asks him about the others.

"McGee's still missing," he answers roughly, throat burning as the knot tries to work its way up. "His place was pretty trashed, but there was no blood. Vance...." he looks away, jaw clenching at the memory of the NCIS director lying on his couch, blood dripping from the side of his head in thick red lines and a service weapon still in his hand, while his daughter's body lay stiff and cold. "Kayla was infected. He took her and then himself out," he says quickly, trying to get the words out. "No sign of Jared." He doesn't need to add how bad that is; how unlikely a child is to survive out there on their own, or how their tough director wouldn't have given up if he hadn't lost both his children.

"Abby's here," he adds, moving onto a happier topic. "Probably going to give me hell for not getting her right away." He adds a chuckle, mostly forced, but it works to dispel the air of grief around them.

A grin tugs the corner of her lips, but her eyes are flat when she looks at him. She reminds him of who she was when she first came to them, when cargo pants and combat boots were standard, and games were for small children who didn't know better. Before she fell in love with a hair straightener and learned to play air guitar.

He looks away, glancing back at the truck and people surrounding it. "What about them?" He gives a jerk of his head towards the back of the truck.

"Will LaMontagne and his son Henry. They're from Stafford. He's a homicide detective. Wife's in the FBI." He gives her a questioning look and Ziva shakes her head. "She's in New York."

Tony nods absently, eyeing the small group outside before turning back to the woman before him.

"Com'on, let's find Abby."

Ziva brings Breena, a quick gesture at the woman and the blonde had hurried over and practically glued herself to Ziva's side. Tony raised his eyebrows in question but otherwise withheld a comment.

There's not much to show the two women. It's a fairly simple complex. A single building with a reception area, nine apartments and a communal rec room. There's a fence though, five feet high of sturdy metal running along a modest sized property.

"This is Beckett and Castle's place," he says as they pass apartment Bluejay. Tony will never understand some people, and the person who named the rooms of this place is one of them. "You've met them. He's the one who opened the gate, and Kate was riding with us. Nice couple. She works for the Department of Justice, and he's a writer."

They pass Cardinal next, Tony pointing to it with a bit of smirk. "Remember Mike Frank's granddaughter?" He doesn't wait for Ziva's nod, grinning charmingly at them as he continues. "This is them. Leyla and baby Amira. Leyla's mom's here too, but she's got a room of her own down the other hall."

They keep going, through a set of double doors that lead to the rec room, a large happy grin already spreading across his face as the scientist within looks up and catches sight of the two women.

"You're alive!" Abby shouts, low pig tails flying around as the forensic scientist all but launches herself across the room and throws her arms around Ziva. "And Breena!" she exclaims, releasing the still stunned woman to wrap their blonde companion in a hug.

Tony watches, still smiling while Abby pulls Ziva into another hug, babbling all the while about how she hadn't given up.

"What ya workin' on, Abs?" he interrupts, cutting off the questions he knows are coming.

"Hair dye," she replies off handedly, still grinning happily at the two women. "I started making my own in high school. Do you know how fried my hair would be if I went to a professional?"

She turns to lead them back to her table, surface covered in various bottles and bowls, explaining the properties of the black dye. Tony smiles, not quite at peace but closer than he's been in weeks.

-

That evening feels like a party. Abby cooks up a warm, fruity drink with a child's chemistry set. Leyla is watching as five-year-old Amira plays with the new kid, Henry, while her mother Shada stares on with a fierce disapproving frown and Gibbs watches them with his own small smile. He took responsibility for his former partner's family on the man's death, adopting Amira as his own grandchild and counteracting Shada's dislike of her daughter's marriage to a white American with his own silent, stubborn acceptance of the entire family.

Savannah is keeping Will company as he keeps his leg elevated, and even the worried writer has torn himself away from his fiancé's side to have a drink and chat with the doctor and her patient.

Abby is talking to Ziva, a silent Breena close to the pair studying what looks to be a kitchen knife. As Tony watches, Abby stands, coming up to him and bumping her hip against his.

"It's nice," she says, "having them here."

Tony hums in agreement, wrapping one arm around her shoulder in a half-hug. "How you holding up?"

"I'm not fragile, Tony." Her words are an admonishment, but she wraps both arms around him to give him a proper hug so he doesn't worry too much.

"I know," he says with a sigh, releasing her to lean back against the wall and watch the others, "but you're...you. And I don't want...." he trails off, not knowing how to express the unwanted notion of the scientist's almost child-like bubbly optimism being damaged.

"It's the not knowing," she says after a moment's pause, her voice soft but steady, arms dropping, but her head stays resting on his shoulder. "Jimmy's gone. And that's awful, but-Ducky, McGee, Carol. Although," her voice wobbles a bit, "I can probably guess about her. She was an investigator for the CDC. Did I ever tell you that?" She looks up, unshed tears shining in the low light and Tony shakes his head. He had met her best friend a hand full of times, but could barely remember more than a smart mouth and lab coat. "She would have been front and center of-" She cuts off with a shaky exhale, turning so she can look out at the room. "I just wish I knew."

"I know, Abs."

-

After the impromptu party dies down, apartments are sorted and supply lists are made. Will and Henry take the remaining left hall apartment and, after some debate, it's decided Ziva and Breena will share apartment Barn Swallow. Abby offers them both her place, but there's a single full sized bed in each apartment and even their happy goth knows that won't work.

"We're running out of room," he tells Gibbs on his way back to the rec area.

"Yeah."

"If we find more survivors, that's going to be a problem."

Gibbs gives him a look and Tony quickly corrects himself. "When. When we find more survivors. That's what I meant," he's babbling, steady stare causing the words to flow without much thought. "And not so much a problem per say. More like a tight fit. Cozy. Cozy fit. And who doesn't like cozy?" He chuckles, grinning at his boss as Gibbs takes another sip of his drink.

"We'll rearrange some people," the older man replies simply, finishing his drink and turning towards the front door. "Make it work, DiNozzo."

"On it, Boss," he calls back.

-

The problem is taken from him the next morning when Castle and Beckett announce they're leaving, heading back to New York. There's a couple of half-hearted arguments against it, but they understand.

"You're welcome to come with us," Castle says to Will after the decision is announced, "try and find your wife."

"Naw," the other man replies softly, looking at the couple, "her home is here. She'll come back to us. Ain't no reason to set out and risk us passin' each other."

Hugs are given, Tony surprised to find himself sad to see them go. He hadn't realized how attached he'd become to the couple they found camping out in a pet shop.

"You don't know what this means to me," the writer says gesturing to the supply filled vehicle that Tony, Gibbs and Kate had procured a week ago.

"We really can't thank you enough," adds Beckett, shaking Tony's hand.

He grins charmingly at her, winking at Castle before saying to Kate, "Well, you batted those eye-lashes at me and I couldn't resist." She chuckled, wrapping her arms around his neck in a quick hug.

"Take care," Kate says firmly before looking at the others, smiling at them each in turn. "All of you."

She gets in the driver's seat, Castle climbing in the other side with one last good-bye wave. Will opens the gate as they start up and pull away.

"Think they'll be safe?" Tony asks Gibbs.

His boss turns to look at him before glancing back at their little group of survivors. "Are any of us?"

Chapter Text

Monday

May, 2013

Late Afternoon

Somewhere just in south Pennsylvania

The wind is cool and moist on Joan's face, promising rain, and the consulting detective makes a mental note to check that everyone has rain jackets before night fall. The last thing they need is for someone to get sick.

Long, straight black hair shifts around a lightly freckled face as the wind changes direction and Joan turns towards it, taking a quick breath through her nose to test for decay. She may not have Sherlock's finely honed senses, but when downwind she can still smell the infected before she sees or hears them.

The air is clean, fresh and wet smelling. The country air is a nice change from Manhattan's usual grimy scent, but still her eyes sharpen, scanning the horizon for any sign of the dead. When they first left the city in her car, messages left in everybody they knew's inbox to get out of the city, it took everything they had to stay ahead of the large number of infected in and about NYC. And after the bombs were dropped in an effort to contain the virus (and how Sherlock know the USA's infection control protocols, she isn't ready to question) the herds of dead they needed to avoid became nearly overwhelming. It's better now, not much, but enough. The herds have moved on, dispersing across the state or country, allowing them time to gather themselves and begin making their way south towards Dale City and Sherlock's promise of a survivable area, instead of darting around the rural areas of the New York and Pennsylvania.

"Watson."

She turns, watching her partner come closer, wool coat buttoned to his neck and dark scarf already in place. His facial hair, usually stuck on permanent scruff, is slowly turning into a full grown beard, and Joan finds herself adding razors to her mental shopping list.

"No sign," she replies as he gets closer, coming up to stand beside her, "thought I smelled something earlier, but..." She shakes her head, gaze going back to the horizon. Beside her, Sherlock begins sniffing noisy quick bursts of air as he tries to catch a whiff. Eyes the color of gun metal squint in concentration as he scans the area, quick jerks of his head as he looks around them.

"We should probably move on," he says after a moment, looking back at her car and the two others left in their little group leaning against the back bumper, a map between them. Sean Hotchner, a thirty-something bartender who got out with Marcus and Andre, is squinting in confusion at where Alexis Castle, a young, college student they found at an abandoned gas station outside of Bethlehem, is pointing to a city on the map.

They had left NYC with three others, but herds had separated them from Detective Bell and his brother Andre, and killed Harlan almost twelve days past. Now it's just the four of them, and Joan is starting to question if they can keep going on with just her and Sherlock providing defense.

"You smell something?" she asks, her own gaze glancing at the two by the car.

"No," he says after a pause, "but rain is coming and we're at least an hour's drive from any suitable shelter."

Joan nods, turning to follow her partner back to the car. "I want to pick up some things before the rain hits."

He nods absently, heading around to the passenger side when they reach the car and asking the pair waiting there, "Find anything?"

"She did," Sean replies, pushing his tall frame off the car and flipping a dark blonde lock of hair out of his eyes. "I'm used to GPS. This-" he gestures at the map- "isn't exactly my area." He gives a self-deprecating smile, hands tucking into dark washed jeans as he shrugs his shoulders.

"There's a small town about fifty miles southeast of here," Alexis says simply, pointing to a spot on the map. "The population wasn't that big, so as long as we don't run into any groups, we should be fine." The young woman looks at Joan before turning her pale gaze onto Sherlock. She grins when he nods, letting Sean take the map as she pulls her bright red hair back into a quick, messy bun. They pile back into the car, Sean folding the map into a half-hazardous mess while Joan follows Sherlock's verbal directions.

-

Glennview, a small fishing town off the coast, is fairly deserted. They park on the edge, seeing a handful of the infected shuffling around a bed and breakfast. Of all of them, Joan is the only one with any experience with a firearm – her father being an ex-military man had insisted on giving his children training – but she hasn't fired in years. Sean worked as a bartender, usually relying on his six foot plus height and well built physique to keep trouble down, but had no real experience with any form of weapon, and Sherlock grew up in London, where gun laws are strict. Unfortunately, Joan didn't own a gun when the outbreak started and they hadn't come across one yet.

Sherlock and herself each grabbed a singlestick, the wooden weapon perfect, if messy, for bludgeoning the infected. Joan hears the back door open as she starts advancing on the first of the dead. She turns to look over her shoulder, seeing Alexis going around the trunk where she pulls out a tire iron.

"I want to help," the young woman says as Sean gets out as well, looking with concerned alarm between the infected and the people around him.

She opens her mouth to protest when Sherlock calls her name. With an unhappy look at the pair, Joan turns back to the approaching dead woman.

"Alright," she replies over her shoulder, advancing towards the infected, "but stay by the car."

It's messy – messier than a night in trauma doing back to back surgeries. Her singlestick makes contact with a wet thunk, brain matter and blood staining her shirt in dark, sticky splotches, and Joan mourns the death of her black Tracy Reese boots. She learned quickly not to wear her good clothes when taking these things out, but her boots had gotten her through finding dead bodies in Manhattan winters and chasing murderers over the streets of New York, so having their last days be in the middle of a tiny town because of diseased corpses is just sad.

She takes out two of the infected, grimacing slightly at the sticky feeling of cotton against her skin where the sleeve of her top got a particularly large amount of the dead woman's blood on it. She scans the area, seeing a still twitching corpse at Alexis' feet, the young woman bringing her tire iron back down with a meaty crunch while Sean looks away in disgust. Sherlock is checking the windows of the bed and breakfast before bending down to pick the lock. There's a dark stain on his singlestick, shining wetly in the sunlight, and three more bodies scattered on the sparse grass.

Joan makes her way onto the porch, with Alexis and Sean a few steps behind her. The door unlocks with a soft click, Sherlock calling into the house. Nothing moves, no sound or smell or sight of the dead. Joan allows herself to relax, turning to nod at the others.

There's a faint, musty scent of neglect, and a fine layer of dust covering the otherwise pristine living room and entrance way. Early afternoon sunlight filters through lace curtains, touching on pale wooden furniture and butter yellow walls. Stepping up to the couch, Joan can see a breakfast nook visible through an open archway, large windows behind it and the ocean just visible in the distance. It's peaceful – a strange contradiction to the world outside. It feels alien to Joan, like stepping into a foreign land.

She can hear Alexis shifting through the kitchen cabinets, while Sean settles onto the couch. A wooden creaking alerts her to Sherlock climbing up to the second level.

She finishes checking the bottom floor quickly, double checking to make sure there is no basement before hurrying after her partner. The one-time surgeon jumps slightly when Sherlock comes out of a bedroom when she reaches the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Empty," he says, ignoring her jumpiness and gesturing behind him.

"You shouldn't go off by yourself," she scolds.

"There were no signs of an infected," he counters logically, "I decided it was an acceptable risk to go alone. Besides," he adds when her eyes only narrow, "I could easily call down to you should I have needed assistance."

"You need to discuss things like this with me before deciding it's an 'acceptable' risk." Dark eyes harden as she gazes steadily at him. Sherlock doesn't learn from anything less, she learned that quickly enough after moving in with him.

"Apologies."

He steps around her, crosses the hall and into a small bathroom. "Although," he adds, opening the medicine cabinet, "in the future there may not always be an occasion for me to consult with you beforehand. But I will do my best, which is no small amount." He's pulling out various bottles, mainly seeming to be over the counter medicines, but Joan watches with hawk like precision. He used to tell her if he's feeling tempted to go back to his old method of coping, but this is a new world now and she's not sure what all could send him over.

"Relax, Watson," he says softly after noticing her watching him, "I need my wits around me far too much at the moment to resort to getting high."

Accepting her partner's words for now, Joan glances down the hall counting doors. Assuming the smaller door on the right is a linen closet, that leaves two guest rooms and a master. It's a good place to stay the night, close to town while being a way off the highway, tucked behind some trees. There's a quaint sign out by the main road pointing the way, but Joan is fairly certain it will be ignored by most travelers.

"We should head into town," she says after a moment, "let the others set up here for the night."

Sharp eyes glance at her through his peripherals, hands still sorting the various items found in the cabinet into a pattern only known to him. "Hmm, yes. Ms. Castle shows an aptitude for this sort of thing, but for now lacks the training. And Mr. Hotchner is feeling a bit useless, being the only one not contributing." He grins at her, bright and happy. "They should be adequate at holding their own, should the need arise."

"The fragile male ego," Joan mutters.

"True. Although in this case, I believe it to be more a desire to prove himself over the fact that she is young and female. Although, I suppose those could play a factor."

Joan spares him a look before heading downstairs to bring the rest of their stuff, and Clyde, whose been stuck inside a shoe box, inside.

-

They come across a second hand clothing store and Joan pulls over, putting the car in park while Sherlock looks around. She didn't tell him about her list, but then again she doesn't have to. If she's made a mental note of it no doubt Sherlock's already realized she wants it.

"Look for rain jackets," she says, getting out of the car and walking briskly to the door. "And some layerable clothes. Weather's changing." Her and her partner prefer layers, a pleasant little quirk that has come useful now that their wardrobe consists of a shared suitcase, but Sean seems to prefer fashion over practicality and Alexis had only an overnight bag from where she'd been planning on a studying with a friend. They've picked up a little along the way, but it's not going to be enough.

He nods, and they head inside.

-

A couple hours later night is falling and they are heading back, new items stuffed into her trunk until Joan had begun worrying they were going to have to remove some things. They have jackets though, five total and none will be a perfect fit, at least one is too big for any of them and the smallest is going to be too long on Joan's petite frame (she has no illusions about her size, at 5' 3" and barely 105 - she's the smallest of their group by far), but beggars can't be choosers. Joan found several lightweight tank tops that will work well when the summer months hit, three pair of sturdy pants that will last into winter, along with a couple pair of shorts for herself and Alexis, and more socks than Joan could carry. It's shoes that prove to be the issue, since sizes are difficult to place just right, but Sherlock had found a couple potential fits.

Sherlock had taken to the neighboring hardware store, grabbing things Joan couldn't fathom the use of with an insistence that left her unwilling to question the necessity. But it was the book store that Joan had to put her foot down, reminding Sherlock that he left his own extensive collection behind for a reason.

By the time they pull back into the bed and breakfast, sunset is just beginning. Grabbing an armful of clothes from the back to have the others try on, Joan turns back to the front door, slowing her stride long enough for Sherlock to catch up before they make their way briskly inside.

"We should begin teaching the others on basic combat soon," Sherlock says suddenly, "I was wanting to wait until after we arrived at Dale City, but there were more delays than I anticipated and I think it best not to put it off any longer."

Joan takes a moment to think about it, discarding her initial reaction of questioning how he plans to teach them on the road, and begins trying to think of how to begin. After all, she can't just randomly jump out at them the way Sherlock did to her, when his own fear for her safety drove him to pushing her to accept his training, because she already knows she'll be giving shooting lessons.

"Alright," she concedes and Sherlock relaxes marginally, nodding softly when he sees he has her consent.

"Excellent," he says excitedly, taking a few of the shoes from her arms. "Shall we begin tonight?"

Chapter Text

May, 2013

Noon

Somewhere in northern Missouri

Eliot is trying to ignore Sophie's questions coming through the earbuds, Hardison having found a way to keep them working after the cell towers fell. They have a limited range, anything more than four miles and they cut in and out horribly, but it's better than the complete cut off they had at first.

It's harder to ignore his teams bickering than it usually is, with his senses on high alert for threats and the small bits of static keeping him from turning their voices into white noise. He's at the front entrance of a sporting goods store, blue eyes staring hard at the parking lot and a beanie resting low on his forehead that's hot in the sun but keeps the his hair out of his eyes. He's going to have to let it grow out again so he can pull it back.

"Not being seen is what I do," cuts in Parker, voice cracking over the ear piece.

"Technically it's no ...tealing. In cases where a disaster..declared-" starts Nate.

"No one's questioning your abilit...," Sophie cuts in, "but this isn't a job. We shouldn't be ...eparated." The grifter's voice rises slightly, tension coloring her normally warm tone.

They've been lucky. There's no denying that. Hardison's paranoia when the breakout first appeared on the news, a quick hack into the CDC, and Nate enacting Plan R43 saved their lives. (Eliot didn't even know their mastermind had plans for non-con related events, let alone for a world ending epidemic, but somehow he wasn't surprised.)

"I found the water-proof sleepbags, but the silk and satin hunting knife-"

"Silky Yoki Chopper Machete."

"...Eliot wanted is still a no show."

Stifling a growl of frustration and crossing his arms over his chest, Eliot calms himself by doing another scan of the vacant parking lot through the front windows.

"Just find me a damn machete, Parker," he snaps.

He has confidence in his ability to take down an opponent with his hands if need be, prefers it actually, but these things don't experience pain, and he'd feel better about being able to protect his crew if he had a longer range weapon than his fists. And sadly they rushed out of Portland with only Hardison's van and whatever they could grab from their respective apartments.

A flash of blonde and black signals him to Parker arriving by his side, slap of leather covered sheath against his chest as the professional thief adjusts her duffle bag across her shoulder.

"That do?" she asks, blowing a wisp of hair that had gotten free of her messy pony tail out of a shadowed face that gotten her mistaken for a model during the fashion week con.

Unsheathing the knife reveals a blade as long as his forearm, and Eliot doesn't bother to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

"Yeah," he mutters quietly as they make their way out of the store, already twisting his wrist to get a feel for the weight.

"Still don't se... why I gotta give up all my ...aptops," complains Hardison through the comms. "These are my babies. Bay-bees. I ...n't see ya'll asking Parker to ...ive up her lock picking kit."

"Hey!"

"Babe, y... know I love ya, but these," Eliot can picture the hacker gesturing at his computer equipment, ,"but these are my children. Ya'll can't aks me to give up my children!"

"You can have your lover's spate later," he growls, one hand on the thief's back to usher her to the waiting car. A twist of the slender woman's screwdriver in the ignition starts up the sporty two door with a soft purr and they're on their way back to the others.

Hadison's van is parked just out of town at a children's summer camp – their people having claimed the counselors' cabins for the evening. Their hacker is sitting in the open doorway at the back of the vehicle, staring with an infuriated pout at the general surroundings. Nate comes out as Eliot and Parker get out of their car, wooden screen door swinging open at the first of the three cabins they had to clear out, full bag in one hand while the other scratches absently at his frizzing curls. Sophie comes down behind him, stepping down with an elegance at odds with rugged terrain, new high heels on and fresh satin blouse in a dark blue in place. Eliot doesn't want to know who decided to pack that for summer camp. It's good to see her back to her usual self though, walking across the grass like she owns the ground she's standing on and with a look that says she knows it.

"You weren't followed?" Nate asks, placing the bag and clothes on the park table by the van and reaching up to turn his earbud off now that everyone is back together. The rest follow suit.

Eliot shakes his head, dropping the duffle Parker had handed him onto the wooden surface. "No other survivors either," he adds. They had avoided others at first, keeping to themselves as they followed Nate's instruction, and after the first week the only people they had come across had been unfriendlies.

"Good."

"We're going to need more room than this," Eliot says to Hardison after a quick glance at the still packed rear of the van. There won't always be abandoned cabins for them to crash in.

"I told ya'll, I can't-"

"We all have to sleep back there, Hardison-"

"-these are my life's work. I need this-"

"-my back can't take another night in the passenger seat-"

"-do you know what's on these computers?"

"-Internet's gone anyways, not like you can-"

"Just take the hard drives out," Parker practically shouts.

Hardison turns to his girlfriend, gesturing wildly behind him as he does. "Woman, do you know how much this equipment costs? Millions. Of. Doll-ars. Millions."

"Actually," Nate cuts in, casually tossing a yellow polo shirt to one side, before picking some kind of gyms shorts, "after the government fell, so did the nation's currency. All of that," he nods toward the darkened interior of the van before going back to the items in the bags, "is basically worthless. We'll go back to the barter system." Pulling out a bundle of rope Nate tests is strength absently. "Water, food, weapons; those things will be worth the most. Although," he looks around the grounds, frowning in concentration, "we should find a permanent set-up."

"What's wrong with here?" asks Sophie, looking every inch her noble blooded British roots as she perches on the table's edge. "Room, shelter, indoor latrines."

"Open border," answers Eliot. "Those things can just waltz in here at any time. And there's no clear sightlines. We wouldn't see them coming until it was too late."

The grifter pales slightly as she hugs herself, dark wide eyes looking around at the trees surrounding the camp site, and Eliot would feel guilty except of all of them, she's the least equipped to survive this. He looks away, focusing on Nate as the mastermind thinks.

"Eh, eh." Hardison's grin is wide and bright as he reaches behind him and pulls out a laptop. "See," he says as he opens it and starts typing, "I can use the 'worthless computer' to find the closest safe place. I just need some parameters to search...."

"There's no internet," Sophie says with soft concern, turning to their hacker with a gentle expression.

"No need," he replies with another grin, a touch of Haridson's usual technological arrogance coming through. "See, without power the servers themselves are down, but I have direct access to the satellites. I may not be able to get to any websites, but anything stored up there," he lifts one hand to make a swirled gesture at the sky, "now that I can access. GPS, satellite images, Google Earth. All of it mine now, baby." He flashes his teeth at their grifter in a wide, cheesy grin.

As the self-professed geek dives gleefully into his digital world, Nate finishes sorting their gathered supplies, Sophie "supervising" him and Parker climbs into the back of the van with one of the sleeping bags. Eliot begins scanning their surroundings. The openness and lack of clear sightlines makes him jumpy.

The sound of muffled banging and Hardison's sudden sputtered squawking protests brings his attention back to the van.

"You have a laptop," Parker snaps back at whatever it was Hardison said, tossing another monitor onto the lawn. Even Eliot has to wince as it lands at a bad angle, screen cracking on impact. "One printer. One laptop. One of your little," she makes a chopping gesture in the air, "card swipe things. What more do you need?"

Going to take a step towards the van, the former mercenary hears the soft crackle of undergrowth. Freezing in place as his ears strain, he can barely catch the distinct, irregular rustle of leaves and steady hiss of feet being dragged over foliage. No time like the present to try out his new knife.

-

Despite his best efforts there's blood and other bodily fluids on his shirt. Not a lot, but enough to smell. His new blade worked out though, so there is that. Weight's not perfect for a man of his strength and height, but he's frequently fought with worse.

It's fairly quiet when he gets back to the cabins. Hardison is brooding at his laptop, steadily ignoring the pile of computer equipment on the ground, so he guesses Nate stepped in. Eliot pauses by the hacker, waits until the other man looks up and gives him a "I'm fine" shrug before asking, "You find someplace?"

"Maybe," Hardison replies, watching the numbers across the screen with his shoulders still tight with resentment. "There's a theme park a couple states over. Schematics put it with a fence to keep people from sneaking in, and the pictures I managed to pull showed a couple of decent buildings we could stay in."

"Depends on the fence," he muses, "and the size. Cleaning it out might be an issue. And the right person could get in without being detected." Hardison looks at him, a question in his eyes Eliot doesn't want to answer, so he moves on, leaving the hacker to do his thing.

He doesn't see Parker until he gets to the van, finding the blonde thief flat on her back on a rolled out sleeping bag staring at the ceiling.

"You didn't tell anyone you left," she tells him without moving.

He starts to reply, before realization hits and he curses harshly. It's his own stupid rule; no one can go anywhere without telling someone where and for how long, and preferably with someone. Nate's going to have words waiting for him. It's not so much that their leader worries, although he does, just about some more than others, but Sophie has been hyper nervous about any of the team disappearing and Nate's been attempting to keep his fiancé's fears down.

He moves towards the cabin, readying himself to face Nate's lecture when their leader comes around the corner and the hitter suppresses a grimace.

"You went off by yourself," he says tightly, voice kept at carefully controlled volume and Eliot fights the urge to drop his gaze, feeling suddenly like a kid caught cheating on his homework. "That was your rule," he reminds him, each word bitten off as Nate leans into him. Something feels off, he searches Nate's stormy features before glancing away still unable to put his finger on why he's so on edge.

"I know," he says, "I wasn't thinkin'."

"No, you weren't." There's a beat of intense silence by Nate, stretching just long enough for Eliot to really feel it before the older man adds quietly, "Sophie didn't notice yet. I kept her distracted." He feels the words like a punch to the gut. Nate's quiet anger, so unlike his usual hot-blooded shouts, makes sense now. Sophie's has always been emotional center of their team, taking on an almost maternal role in their patchwork family. Even during her and Nate's temporary retirement she was the one they counted on to walk them through the more psychologically challenging jobs.

"It won't happen again," he says roughly, meeting Nate's eye so he knows that Eliot gets it.

"Good."

-

This is not something Eliot wants the rest of the team around for, clearing out the other cabins. They know what he does, and, though he's never asked, Eliot's pretty sure Nate knows what he used to do (Nate knows people, knew Monroe, and it doesn't take a genius like him to put the pieces together) but there's a big difference between knowing he's taking out the previous occupants to the children's cabins and watching him take out the dead things still in there. But there's safety in numbers, and Nate is still sore at him for wandering off earlier so Hardison and Parker are by his side as he comes up on the first cluster of cabins.

They approach quickly, Eliot leading the way up the set of wooden steps leading to the front door. It's not until Parker appears around the side that Eliot even realizes the thief had disappeared.

"No one inside. Hardison's on watch," she says flippantly, slipping easily in the space between the two men.

"You want me to be look-out?" he says with a scandalized look.

Parker just nods, turning back to the door as Hardison locks eyes with Eliot in a moment of confusion. The hitter shrugs, not understanding but having learned to trust Parker's judgment on such things. There's a reason Nate left her in charge during his short lived retirement.

As Hardison turns to head back down the steps, eyes already scanning their surroundings, Parker looks at him and Eliot sees the way her shoulders are held carefully back, the crease between her eyes. He doesn't say a word, pushing open the cabin door enough to get inside, letting the thief slip in behind before purposely shutting the door.

>It's a simple cabin, four sets of bunk-beds with messy sheets against the walls, items tossed carelessly across the floor and two windows along the back wall. The smell is faint, buried under musty clothes and sweat, but unmistakable. The remains are on one of the lower bunks, mostly sinew and bone, and small enough that there's no mistaking it for one of the counselors. There's teeth marks barely visible in the shadows, but Eliot doesn't need a closer look to tell they're not an animal's.

"Come on," Parker says, cutting in front of him to start digging through the bags by the other bed and Eliot begins searching.

-

They find mainly clothes, unsurprisingly, the majority of it only fit for Parker's small frame, but there's a couple baseball bats and some fire starters, which makes Eliot feel like this was less a waste of time. It's not enough, not compared to other places they've been, but Eliot grabs what looks useful anyways.

It's as they nearing their third cabin, just coming up to the steps that they hear it; a muted thud and the quick rustle of movement. It's too frantic to be one of the dead, the sound of feet scrambling over wood too steady. Holding one hand out to quiet the others, Eliot creeps forward silently, Parker already sneaking around to the side of the door to crouch below the window and Hardison lifting one of the bats found in cabin two behind him. Eliot silently opens the door.

His reaction is instinctual, the shout and sudden flash of blue as a body launches at him. He's turning, twisting the (living) person into himself as one arm wraps around a slim frame while knocking a make-shift weapon from small fingers. It's only as he registers the small stature and slight body that he manages to change his momentum from injuring to restraining. A rapidly beating pulse against the palm of his other hand, wrapped firmly around a small throat, and the high, angry cries only confirm his suspicions.

"Jesus," he breathes as the child struggles against him. It's a boy, no more than twelve with dirt bedded nails digging into Eliot's arm hard enough to draw blood. Roughly seventy pounds of swinging, screeching child desperately twisting to get loose in Eliot's grasp, sneakered feet kicking back and teeth snapping when he removes his hand from the boy's neck.

"Hey, hey," says Hardison, quick and hurried and directed at the boy. Eliot secures both arms down, lifting the child up to remove his leverage and reduce the risk of harm being done to either of them. He opens his mouth to explain, to tell the hacker why he can't just let the kid go, but Parker steps forward, ushering them back into the cabin.

The blonde thief goes to the back wall, standing between the two windows while Hardison shuts the door. Eliot releases the boy, stepping back to the hacker's place in front of the door while Hardison moves around to face the kid. He's wedged himself against one of the bunk beds, leaving room to dart in either direction, dark eyes behind dirty glasses darting around the room for an escape.

"It's alright," says Hardison softly, lowering himself down to the boy's eye level.

"We ain't here to hurt ya, kid," Eliot adds, trying unsuccessfully to keep the scowl off his face. He's thin, smaller than Eliot first thought, dark skin stretched over the delicate bones of a face that should be plump with childish youth, and wide eyes full of fear and suspicion. His jeans and t-shirt are too large for his small frame, sound of his rapid breathing harsh across chapped lips and Eliot's trying not to think of what it all means. He could drive himself mad thinking of what this world has become, what it will become.

"We have food," Parker says bluntly, "and none of us are into kids."

Hardison makes strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes widening as he stares at their thief for a moment before they slam shut, breathing deeply and then looking back at the kid after composing his features.

"We have two others back at our camp," adds Parker, "they won't hurt you either. We can help. It's what we do."

"You're cops?" His voice comes out cracked, strangled slightly at the end.

"Not exactly," Eliot says before Hardison can say anything. The hacker's forged badges are works of art, no doubt, but the boy has Coached written in every movement. Probably has family in law enforcement, was taught what to do in case of an abduction and what not to fall for. And the "our badges are back at camp" line will only raise red flags. "But we've worked with cops before."

Dark eyes study him though dirt smudged lenses before he slowly steps forward. "OK, but I leave if I want to."

"Deal."

Chapter Text

Late May, 2013

Mid-Morning

Half a day's drive from Stafford

The sun is uncomfortably hot on the left side of Emily's face while the AC keeps her right side in goose pimples. The muggy outdoors is kept at bay by the car's windows, but that doesn't stop it from affecting her rapidly frizzing hair or her skin from feeling sticky against the leather of the seat beneath her. There's a smattering of bug bites along the back of one knee, itchy and irritated by her inability to keep from occasionally scratching. And she's fairly certain she's beginning to smell. They all do at this point, several days stuffed in a small car with water they've only used for drinking.

One hand goes out to turn the A/C up, shifting the vents in a futile effort to blast the cold air more fully on her face. Her back gives a happy-ache to the small stretch, having started aching the day before last; her lips are also chapped and there's a painful zit forming on the side of her nose, but Emily's choosing to focus on their more pressing issues. Even Anthony isn't immune to the rough trip, having given up the last of his happy mood yesterday to stare silently out the back passenger window.

"We should stop," she says to the silent car, radio nothing but static and the CD player on the fritz. "Maybe try driving at night for a bit."

"Alright," Anthony says simply, eyes never leaving the window next to him. He looks oddly sad without his usual grin.

To her right, Olivia just nods.

When Emily's not cataloging her own issues or making sure they have enough food, water, and gas, she's worrying about Olivia. The young woman is way too reserved for a teenager, even one as on the cusp of adulthood as she is – face too stoic and body poised, practically disappearing into the background as she quietly observes those around her with too observant eyes. All of Emily's profiler training pings at her, but she isn't a BAU agent anymore, and this isn't a case.

-

The auto shop she pulls up to is the name-brand chain kind – smooth glass front, only lightly smudged with dirt, and a landscaped area just becoming unruly. She pulls the car into an open garage, letting the vehicle idle for a moment to see if it draws anyone, alive or dead.

They get out slowly, the humid air sticking to their skin like a moist towel. Their movements drag, each step taking more energy than it should as the oppressive heat saps their strength. Emily and Anthony head over to shut the garage door, as Olivia makes her way around various mechanical equipment towards the glass door leading into the main waiting area with a handful of water bottles.

She's broken out into a fresh sweat by the time they catch up to the teenager, pausing to scan for movement through the glass and push a sticky strand of hair from her jaw. Drawing her weapon, Emily pulls the door open slowly. There's no blast of cold air and no sound from within the shop as she moves further in, while the others tentatively follow behind. Emily breathes a sigh of relief, putting her weapon away and collapsing into a cloth rolling chair behind a desk, wanting nothing more than a shower and a good night's sleep, but settling for watching her companions spread out into different corners.

-

Her water is beginning to taste stale, and normally that is the point where Emily throws it out, especially now that it has gone past room temperature and into warm, but she's unsure when they'll find more.

They're waiting for the afternoon to pass. Olivia is curled up on a vinyl loveseat in a shadowed corner with a paperback from an abandoned car a day back, and Anthony is jotting something down in the little notebook he keeps on him. Emily had dozed, get a light nap in before the sun shifted and woke her. Now she's occupying her time going through the desk, looking for anything useful.

Shutting the last drawer after finding little more than a couple of pens and some stale, half-melted candy, Emily lets out a soft grumble at the lack of painkillers. The telltale twinge behind one eye warns of a headache, the pain softly radiating outward.

She almost doesn't hear the growl of engines until the vehicles are almost in view. Jerking up and to her feet, she hurriedly makes her way to the front windows, sticking to the shadows, in time to see a black car and a faded red pick-up pull into the parking lot.

They pull into the side spaces, leaving on the back bumper of each visible to the store front, but Emily watches in stunned silence as two men come around and into view. Both are tall, with broad shoulders and sure steps, moving in the direction of the garage while doing quick scans around them. The taller one, whose greasy, dark hair is falling into his eyes, pulls out a long blade just before they leave Emily's sight line.

Something in her stirs, instinct and training combining, and Emily tucks herself further into the shadows, one hand coming up to connect with her side-holster.

Seeing her stiffen, or perhaps feelings the tension, the others freeze. With careful movements, she signals to Olivia and Anthony to move back. There's a breakroom, behind the reception desk, and a small bathroom next to it, but they'd have to pass directly in front of the doorway into the garage to get there. They tuck themselves into the furthest corner instead, out of direct sight of both the front door and the garage entrance.

Keeping her breath controlled and her feet silent, Emily slowly moves toward the glass door into the garage. Back pressed low and against the wall, she tries to see into as much of the open work space as she can. A few molasses moments drag by before a flicker of light and movement hit the corner of her view. The temporary sunlight falls back into muted shadows as steady footsteps can slowly become clear.

Voices, muffled by distance and cement walls are too muddled to make out, filter through tow her. Emily holds her breath for a beat before letting it softly escape, ears straining to catch the stifled brush of boots over concrete.

She nearly jumps at the muted crackle as one of the men starts moving, steady steps coming progressively closer in a steady pattern across the floor. Emily slowly draws her service weapon, cradling the fire arm in both hands as she waits. The edge of a shirt sleeve, worn and pale gray, with a sliver of tan skin becomes visible at the edge of the door. The man is still several feet away, seemingly stopped to examine something in the garage.

Olivia's soft gasp brings a painful thump in Emily's chest – a feeling of panic and dread prickling up her spine and onto the back of her neck leaving a bite of metallic behind her teeth.

With a twisting stomach, Emily slowly turns, seeing the shorter of the two men by the front door, coldly pointing a revolver at her head, cruel curl to his full lips as he watches her.

Scenarios run through her head, images of herself diving behind the front desk (it's a few feet, she'd make it before he'd get off a fatal shot, leaving her in the direct sightlines of the man in the garage) of moving forward to engage the man, distracting him until Anthony and Olivia could get to the back (assuming the other man isn't too quick, getting in here to stop them. And once she's out, neither of the other two have defense) and what feels like a hundred other plans all discarded as quickly as they form.

There's a woosh of warm air brushing across her cheeks as the door she's crouched by opens. She looks up as the man with dark hair's shadow falls across her, the barrel of another gun pointing at her head while narrow eyes look down at her. His free hand comes forward, pulling her weapon from her reluctant fingers before he moves around her, staying just to the side of his partner's sight line as he tucks the now extra weapon into the back of his loose jeans.

He's turning towards the door when he pauses, almost tripping as he jerks around, weapon coming up, to face where Olivia and Anthony are hiding against the far wall. Emily tenses, adrenaline spiking her veins and saturating her body in a rush of cool pinpricks. But the hardness leaks out of his face, turning him from cold and dangerous into an awkward young man before her eyes. His gun hand wavers as he slowly takes in the frightened old man and teen huddled in the corner.

"Shit."

The curse breaks through the room, shattering the hostile tension as the gun gets put away and the man turns towards the door with hurried steps, leaving Emily wide-eyed and strangely jittery.

He unlocks it with quick hands, murmuring something to his confused partner in a soft voice and gesturing to Emily's companions. His partner, whose own hard features have relaxed into something closer to suspicious confusion, let's out his own curse. Rubbing at his mouth while taking in the two in the corner before looking at Emily still crouched by the door, the partner grimaces, dropping his own weapon down by his side.

"Sorry 'bout that," he says sheepishly, giving them a wincing half-grin. He doesn't look nearly as dangerous, hard eyes warming into a mossy green while broad features lose their cold edge. "Can't be too careful nowdays." He frowns a moment at Olivia and Anthony before he shrugs it off with another grin.

"Dean," he says, aiming the words at Emily, "and this is my brother Sam." He indicates to the one who took her weapon, who’s sheepishly standing just behind his brother. Sam hands Emily her gun back as she stands, his face the very picture of apologetic. He quickly moves back, standing out of everyone's eye line and reminding her oddly of a scolded puppy.

"Winchester?" Olivia asks before Emily can say anything. All eyes turn towards the teenager. "Sam and Dean Winchester?" The brothers nod slowly. "My dad talked about you. You sometimes worked with," she stumbles for a moment, mouth half-forming broken syllables before her shoulders go back and a familiar poised mask falls into place, "his roommate."

Sam and Dean look confused, glancing at each other before turning back to the girl.

"It was of a time-share deal," she says carefully, looking mildly uncomfortable. "Possession sort of deal," she mutters grimacing softly and glancing briefly away. But the brothers seem to know what she means, realization coming across before they exchange meaningful looks.

"You're Olivia?" Dean asks, "Crowley's kid?"

Olivia, who had started to smile, suddenly narrowed her eyes at the newcomer.

"I'm Jim's daughter," she says tersely, chin rising as she glares at the two older men. "They had an agreement. I never met him. Or his...associates. And Dad was very clear I never would."

A silent conversation passes between the Winchesters, one Emily can only half see and less than a quarter understand. Amused disbelief is in there, but that's all she could get.

"We were looking for you," Sam says, taking over while Dean rolls his eyes and turns away, looking at Emily.

"You a cop?" Dean asks, moving closer as his brother explains how they got a phone call from her dad, or maybe Crowley, Emily isn't quite sure. "The way you moved back there, crouching by the door..." he trails off with a half aborted hand gesture towards the glass door behind her.

"Interpol," she corrects, keeping it short and simple. Now that the danger has passed, she can feel her headache coming back and her lower back is complaining about the crouched position from earlier. And there's something about these two that keep her on edge, or maybe it's just the lack of sleep.

Dean nods as if that explains everything before looking back at his brother. Anthony is rubbing Olivia's back, Sam watching with soft sympathy as old grief bleeds around the edges of her suddenly carefully held self, but her smile is polite, if watery, and Emily knows it has more to do with the reminder of her father than anything the tall man had to say.

"We have other people outside," Dean directs at the group, beginning to head towards the door, "I'm gonna let them know it's safe to come in."

Sam gives him a nod of acknowledgement, turning back to where Emily has joined Olivia and Anthony, rubbing lightly at her temple in an effort to ease the pounding there.

"Where are you guys headed?" Anthony asks suddenly, giving the other man his charming grin, even as it's still drooping a little in the heat.

"We haven't had much of a destination beyond finding Olivia," Sam says. "Not sure where we'll go now."

"You should come with us," Anthony says happily, having apparently already forgiven the men for holding them at gun point. Emily chokes back a protest, gun hand twitching. She takes a steadying breath, jaw clenching a moment before she forces herself to relax.

"If they want to follow along," she says, "they are more than welcome, but really," she aims at Sam, "don't feel obligated."

"I'll have to talk it over with Dean and the others," he says carefully, "but we don't really have anyplace else to go." He looks vaguely disturbed for a moment, as if the thought hadn't truly occurred to him until now.

The door opens with a rough brush over the concrete as Dean returns, three others following behind. A man, just a bit shorter than the brothers' admittedly tall frames, is the first to enter the shop, sporting windswept, black hair and a tan trench coat on despite the heat. He looks at each of them a moment, face unreadable. Behind him is a man in his early forties, with short brown hair, tired eyes, and about two days’ worth of growth along his jaw. His white t-shirt and loose jeans are clean, if a bit wrinkled. Lastly comes a woman, mid-thirties with auburn hair and a sharp bone structure, sensible work boots clicking slightly against the tile of the lobby.

"Aimee, Father Paul, and Cas," Dean introduces, pointing first at the woman and ending with the man in the trench coat.

Anthony grins, introducing himself and the two ladies with him before stepping forward to shake hands, the happiest Emily's seen him in days.

Chapter Text

May, 2013

3:28pm

3 miles from Virginia's state line

Alfredo is clinging to the grab-bar in the backseat as Javier does a screeching reverse turn. The outside blurs in a mess of greens and yellows, and the former car thief pictures the two vehicles colliding in a shattering of glass and crunch of metal. It doesn't happen. Their driver gets the vehicle under control, facing the other direction and pulling away in a squeal of tires. Behind them Derek does the same.

They hadn't expected a large crowd of the risen clogging up the road when they chose this route. They've had their fair share of the dead, small groups of walking corpses forcing them to retreat and go around until they'd gone through three states more than originally planned.

With a sharp twist of the wheel they turn down a side street, narrowing and pot marked, but much straighter than the curvy road they were on.

"Should I look for a place?" Javier calls back at them.

"Where?" yells JJ, one arm’s around the car seat in an effort to stabilize it.

"I think anywhere works at this point," Alfredo points out, body jerking as they hit another pothole.

"How far back are they?"

Turning as much as he can with the seat belt gluing him to the seat and the jerks of the vehicle allows, Alfredo looks back at where Derek is close behind. He focuses behind them, the jerking of the car turning it all into a jumble of shapes.

"Don't see them."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he nods slightly, realizing belatedly that Javier can't see him. "Think we lost 'em?"

"No," JJ replies, body swaying as the car swerves around something unseen by the two in the back. "They're mindless. They'll just keep heading in the direction they saw us until something distracts them. We need to hide out until they pass."

"There's something up ahead," Javier calls back, his hands a death grip on the wheel.

As the vehicle hits another divot hard enough, Alfredo's seat belt becomes the only thing keeping his head from hitting the ceiling. He hears the baby next to him let out a cry. He reaches out the arm not holding onto the grab-bar and throws it across the baby's car seat, doing little to keep the contraption from moving. He just gets the seat secured to him as Javier takes a sharp turn, gravel spitting as the back tires try and retain traction on the new surface.

The car comes to a slamming stop, seat belt digging harshly into Alfredo's collar bone.

Slamming back into his seat, Alfredo takes moment to try and figure out where they are. Javier yanks open JJ's door, the blonde woman pulling out the now crying baby and handing her over to the frantic man before freeing herself from her seat belt and getting out.

Quickly exiting the vehicle as the other SUV comes to a sudden stop in its own cloud of dust behind them, they all half-run towards a visible side door in what appears to be a modest sized home.

Derek gets to the door first, one booted foot slamming by the handle and banging the door against the wall.

"Noise," JJ warns as a telling groan reaches their ears from inside the house.

"Dammit!" the man hisses, putting away his gun and grabbing a dirty cleaver off the counter of the kitchen they've entered.

Alfredo shuts the door as they all hurry in, grabbing up a kitchen chair and shoving it under the knob as Derek takes care of the risen entering the room.

He turns back to the kitchen, watching a tense Javier softly bouncing a slowly calming Sara. Derek drags the now still corpse into a darkened room behind the kitchen they're in, and JJ and Spencer are nowhere to be seen.

"Checking the rest of the house," Javier answers the unspoken question.

Derek comes back a few moments later, cleaver held in one hand slightly away from his body.

"Rest clear?" he asks, placing the knife in the half full sink and wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel.

"Looks like," answers the New York detective.

Alfredo takes a seat at the kitchen table, all of them listening intently for a few moments. Sara makes soft, shuffling noises as she settles in Javier's arms.

The minutes tick by, Alfredo glancing at both men in intervals before JJ comes in quietly.

"They're just visible," she whisper. "Be here in about ten minutes. Me and Spence will keep watch." She eases back into the shadows, heading towards the front where she left her partner.

Alfredo can hear the steady thumping of his heart, slower now that their frantic race to shelter is done, keeping time to the seconds ticking by. He breaths carefully, ears straining for any sound. The minutes tick by slowly, stretching out into brittle strands while the three men wait in silent tension.

What feels like hours later, Alfredo hears it; the muffled scuffles and distant noises of the large group of risen going by. It's so faint he thinks he's imagining it at first, product of straining ears and fearful anticipation, but it grows louder.

Glancing at Javier, he finds the other man holding Sara to his chest, absently rubbing her back as she stares out with wide, blue eyes. She whimpers softly, squirming a bit before snuffling her face against the detective's dark shirt.

Time ticks by, minutes dragging like the dead outside as they wait. It's only as his lungs burn that Alfredo realizes he's been holding his breath. Letting it out slowly, he tries to relax, forcing his hand to unclench and placing it flat on the table top.

By the time the sounds of the risen are past, Alfredo's shoulders are tensed, lines bracket Derek's mouth and Javier is clutching a now fussy Sara, the baby slowly working her way into a good cry.

JJ comes in a few moments later, giving the all clear.

-

The dashboard clock reads a quarter past six when Alfredo sees the sign for the Dale City exit, and something eases in his chest.

"I've got an address," he says before anyone can ask and Javier pulls over.

Spencer has the GPS, loading the address into the device and waiting for it to give a route while Morgan and JJ keep guard. Once it's loaded they all pile back into the vehicles, Derek's taking lead. The next twenty minutes go by quickly as they steadily skim the edge of town.

At first glance, Alfredo is fairly certain it's an old cemetery. There's a worn brink wall about ten feet high, greenery climbing the side, the base thickly choked with weeds. About twenty feet down they find an old, rusted iron fence half hidden under a barrage of vines.

They pull up behind Derek, carefully getting out of the vehicles, nervous eyes glance around for any of the risen.

Alfredo heads straight for the gate, letting those with a familiarity with firearms scan their surroundings. It's only as he approaches that he notices there's something behind the gate. Visible through the decoratively twisted bars is a painted piece of what appears to be plywood. He blinks as he takes in the details; lush green trees, stone statues, and a handful of fading tombstones all peak out at him in the swirls of paint. Feeling inexplicably uneasy, Alfredo reaches out one hand and slowly pushes the door open. It slides surprisingly easily, nothing inhibiting it, before catching suddenly, a thick, shiny chain wrapped three times around the inner gate handle and connecting to the inside of the wall. In the gape now created, Alfredo can see a hand-made sign reading: If alive say Hello

Glancing back to see the others still watching their surroundings, Derek with a focused intensity Alfredo finds mildly worrisome, he turns back to the entrance.

"Hello," he calls out firmly, and he can practically feel his companions giving him startled looks at the sudden noise.

A few moments later there's the sound of feet, harsh and steady thuds against the ground before a woman's voice calls out, "Someone there?" He goes to reply, the others already moving closer to stare at the gate. "Please state your name and where you're from."

"Uh, Alfredo Llamosa," he calls out after a brief hesitation. "I'm from Manhattan. I have some people with me. A couple FBI agents and a detective from the NYPD." He pauses, but adds after a moment, "Sherlock sent me."

There's some muffled rustling before someone approaches.

"I need to unlock the chain," she says before giving the gate a small push, and Alfredo takes an automatic step back as she closes it.

A few seconds later, the soft clank of metal can be heard before the gate swings fully open.

Standing before him is a woman, short in statue with medium brown hair pulled back in a tight bun at the base of her neck. She's wearing a police uniform, her face studying his for a moment before another officer comes up behind her, male and tall, with assessing eyes and a long thin frame. That seems to spark her into movement, quickly ushering the group inside while introducing herself as Hannah Gregson.

It's not quite what he expects. The walls are much thicker than he originally thought, nearly a foot in width, and there's a building, squat and wide and made of the same worn bricks as the fence in the center. A small pond is tucked into the back right corner, tall reeds at the bank and butting up against the corner fence. The small yard has areas of patchy grass, weeds sprouting up high enough to brush the knees, but there's a path of cut grass going towards the building's front door. It's no bigger than a child's soccer field.

"What is this place," JJ asks as more people come around the building and the two cops start leading them inward.

"It was supposed to be a cemetery, before some paranoid nut bought it a bunch of years back," the other officer answer, thin features twisting in distaste.

"How many are here?" asks Derek. Beside him Spencer is frowning in concentration.

"Eight," says Hannah, "including us. Sherlock told most of us," she adds, voice matter of fact, "other's were brought by people he warned."

"The cars?" asks Javier, shifting Sara in his arms carefully so as not to wake her.

"We haven't found a place for them yet," Hannah replies, "but you can pull them around the side if you want. Or there's a field around back."

Looks are exchanged, a silent conversation before Derek shakes his head.

"We won't be saying long," the man says, "just giving Alfredo a lift. Then we've gotta get home."

"Is he here?" Alfredo asks, "Sherlock, I mean."

"Not yet," says Hannah shaking her head. "He called to warn my dad, when the break out just started. They worked together. Didn't always get along, but he listened to Sherlock. Said the man was a pain in his ass, but the bastard was always right." Her smile is rueful, but sad, grief touching her features and Alfredo realizes he hasn't seen a man old enough to be Hannah's father around. "Dad got me, my sisters, and Nathan," she indicates to the cop beside her, "out before things got too bad. Haven't heard from Sherlock since though."

The front door is steel, flat and gray, not much in the way of decoration so much as the kind meant to keep something in, or out. It swings open easily enough under Hannah's hand and Alfredo walks in to find a drab, beige room. There's a small window on two sides, letting in just a little sunlight, the rest of the light coming from strategically placed electric lanterns. The floor is sealed stone, walls smooth and undecorated. There's an open doorway leading further into the building, but Alfredo can't see beyond more beige walls and the soft glow of more lanterns. In the center of the room is a table, wooden and sturdy, and sitting at the table is a woman with a child.

Behind him Javier lets out an angry noise, hand fumbling with his weapon's holster for a moment before Hannah cuts in.

"We know who she is," she barks, giving them each a stare down.

"If you know who she is," hisses back Javier, "then why is she here? She should be in prison. In fact, I thought that's where she was."

"I got out during the outbreak," the woman speaks up in a crisp British accent, looking up at the group with a calm at odds with the tense surroundings and still brushing the little girl's hair in her lap. Her own blonde locks fall around her pretty face in soft waves, and she gives the girl a crooked smile when she turns to look at her over her shoulder.

"Did you really expect to stay in there when my daughter was in danger?" she asks with an amused smirk. Her hands are delicate, almost graceful as she pulls the child's brown hair back into some complicated updo. "Surely you would understand." She eyes the baby in Javier's arms significantly before turning back to her own little girl.

Javier doesn't relax, but he doesn't try and reach for his gun again either. He looks unhappy, staying in the corner while the FBI agents slowly move further into the room, keeping their eyes on the apparent criminal.

Alfredo, having spent the last several days in a car, doesn't take a seat, but he does move further into the room than the law enforcement officers.

"So," says the woman, having apparently finished with her daughter's hair, "Sherlock sent you?"

"Yeah," Alfredo says, shifting slightly as the woman focuses her attention on him. "You know him?"

"Hmm," she hums in confirmation, "we were lovers. And he was the one who caught me." She says the last part with a sly grin, as if it was some great compliment to have caught her. "Jamie Moriarty," she says suddenly, holding out one hand for him to shake.

"Alfredo."

"Pleasure to meet you, Alfredo. And this," she says, turning her attention to the girl, no more than ten, features softening into a less mocking tone, "is Kayden."

"Nice to meet you," the girls says quietly and in a surprisingly American accent.

"Nice to meet you too," Alfredo says back, looking between the two for a moment. "She has your eyes."

Jamie's smile is soft this time, a hint of pride coming through as she absently strokes the girl's arm. "Thank you."

-

It feels strange, saying good-bye to a group of people he's known all of four days. He's relieved, in a way, watching the group pack up their two SUVs with what little the Dale City group offered. Primarily baby supplies, which Javier had been extremely grateful for, even if the man had remained tensed the entire time in the walls. Jamie had even given the detective a bundle of cloth diapers that he accepted with all the care one would when receiving a venomous viper. Alfredo expects the other man probably searched them for explosives once outside.

He's reluctant as well, wanting to climb into the back seat or ask them to stay. They won't. JJ has her husband and son waiting, the other's their loved ones, back in Stafford.

"You all are welcome back here, you know, after you find your families," he says to JJ as the last of the stuff is loaded up. The offer had already been made from Hannah, her partner looking on in stunned disbelief, but he think it'll mean more coming from him.

"Maybe," she says, glancing at the other two. "And hey, you're more than welcome to come with us."

"Nah," he says, "this was my goal. I'm good here." She nods, like she didn't expect a different answer before shaking his hand good-bye.

Between the final "take care's" and the "watch yourself", Alfredo feels more and more lost, warring urges mixing uncomfortably that by the time they pull away he's left feeling strangely hallow. He hopes Sherlock gets here soon.

Chapter Text

May, 2013

Mid-Morning

Retirement Community, Quantico, Virginia

Savannah finishes rewrapping Will's foot with a quick tuck of the clothes end. She gets up from the couch to settle the appendage onto the truly horrendous floral pattered throw pillows on the coffee table.

"You're lucky you didn't break it," she chastises, "might still be fractured." It's too swollen to tell much of anything without an x-ray, but she has been able to rule out a break for sure this morning after Will had kept his foot elevated for the last several days. "Still can't put any weight on it, and continue using your crutches." They're lucky they even have the crutches; they were found stuffed in the back of a closest of one of the now occupied rooms and Tony had almost thrown them out until Savannah had decided to hold onto them, just in case.

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a nod, watching as she packs up her medical kit.

A knock on the front door of the apartment sounds as Savannah straightens, both looking towards it as it swings open to reveal Ziva. It's a habit with the new comers, coming into each other's living spaces like they are nothing more than bedrooms – a side effect of spending those weeks in a house together.

"Hey," Will greets as Ziva frowns at the slowly closing door. She pushes it back open with a stubborn glare.

"You should get one of those...." Ziva concentrates a moment, one hand coming up as she searches for the word, "doorstops."

A slow grin spreads across his face for a moment and Savannah picks up her box, moving over a few steps so she's no longer caught between the couch and the coffee table.

"I'll keep an eye out for one."

Ziva just nods, coming in a little further when the door begins to close once more.

"Gibbs, Tony, and myself are going on a run for supplies. I'm going to change the signs and create some new ones while we are out. Anyone other than your wife you want me to address?"

She seems suddenly formal, slipping into a brisk authority Savannah associates with the other two agents when work needs to be done.

After a moment's thought, Will shakes his head, giving a soft negative.

"And yourself, doctor?"

Savannah pauses in surprise, staring at the other woman a moment before she looks away in thought. Her family are all in New Mexico and are unlikely to travel here to find her and, she realizes with suddenly burning eyes, that almost all the friends she made here were working with her at the hospital the night the military came in.

Ripping her thoughts away from that night and the rapid fire of gunshots echoing in her ears at the memory, she focuses on the question. She thinks a moment of Derek, the man she saw sporadically who'd been called away on case somewhere else with his team. She never asked where they were going.

"No," she says after the moment stretches on, feeling a heavy weight settle in her chest, "there's no one."

Ziva nods once, face emotionless as the doctor composes herself. "If you change your mind, we leave in one hour." She turns and exits the apartment without another word.

-

Amira and Henry are playing a gleeful game of tag around the rec room while a smiling Leyla looks on.

"Will's got you watching Henry I see," Savannah tells the other woman.

"It's nice," Leyla says after a moment, indicating with her cup towards the happily screaming children, "that Amira has someone to play with. And Henry is no trouble."

Savannah just smiles, taking a seat next to the woman at one of the tables, feet firmly planted on the bench below.

"How's the allergies?" She regrets asking almost as soon as the words leave her mouth. She's proud of her profession, and the years and hard work it took to achieve her title, but the relationships around her are based on strong friendships and mutual experiences. Placing herself into the permanent role of "Dr. Haynes" has left her uncomfortably isolated.

"They're good," Leyla responds with a sip of water from her cup. "They should fade the further we get into summer," she adds.

Savannah nods, trying not to look at the other woman to catalogue any remaining symptoms.

"How is Will?" Leyla asks, watching as Amira tackles Henry to the ground in a playful tumble.

"Good," she replies, hesitating before adding, "it's only a sprain. He should be back on his feet in a couple of weeks. Sooner if we can find him a brace." The words feel strange, ethics and laws telling her to hold back, but...she wants to share. Wants to be something other than the doctor treating their minor aches and pains.

"I am glad," Leyla says with a smile, "We are having lunch with him. Will you join us?"

With a small smile, Savannah accepts.

-

Tony, Gibbs, and Ziva don't make it back that night. It happens sometimes, and they all assure Breena of this – that sometimes the group is forced to stay out longer than originally planned – but Savannah can see the worry in the group.

When a second day and night passes with no sign of them, Abby locks herself in her apartment and refused to speak to any of them.

"Gibbs is tough," Leyla says, sipping on a mid-morning cup of tea on the third day with no sign of the group, "I have a hard time believing anything can take that man down. Even all this," she makes a vague gesture around them.

Savannah says nothing, taking a handful from the bowl of peanuts between them.

"And Tony has his back," she continues. "Those two make quite the team. Or so I have heard." She frowns, swirling her cup a moment.

The doctor debates about whether to change the subject and take the woman's mind off her worry or to let her get it all off her chest and out of her head.

"I've heard stories about Agent David too," she says, voice light but wavering slightly at the end.

"I'm sure they're all fine," Savannah says calmly. "Is Henry coming over today?"

-

The sun is setting and Breena is beside her as they wash and dry the dinner dishes, both having eaten with Will that evening. The blonde is quiet, rubbing the hand towel absently over each dish. Savannah opens her mouth before closing it without saying anything. She doesn't know much about the woman who is usually close by Ziva's side. Doesn't know much about any of their most recent residence, but the young woman is reserved, reluctant to leave the company of those she knew from before.

"We're going to need more water," Breena says after a moment.

"We have enough to finish these," she replies after a quick look into the soapy dish sink.

"No, I meant," she pauses, carefully placing a couple of forks on the dish rack. "The jugs for the dishes are running low. We're going to need some more before the week is out."

"I'm sure water was on the list Gibbs and them have."

Breena hums softly before picking up a clean cup, drying it without a word.

-

It's a few hours after night has fallen that Savannah hears it. To be fair, it's Abby who hears it, all but running into the reception office where Savannah is making notes on what first aid supplies are running low and grabbing the doctor's hand with frantic fingers.

"They're here!" Abby half shouts, already tugging the woman after her down the hall. "They could be hurt or injured or something," she adds desperately over her shoulder.

Savannah hurries after, just barely making out the rumble of an engine over the other woman's babble and their quick footsteps.

A pair of headlights are visible at the front gate. As the two women exit the building, a shadowed figure jumping out of the passenger side, the bright lights throwing the legs into black shadows as the figure crosses in front of the vehicle to open the gate.

Abby sprints towards the oncoming car, slipping through Savannah's fingers as she tightens her grip. The headlights are low.

The "wait" catches in her throat as her hand reaches and her eyes widen. There's a crunch of tires over gravel as the vehicle comes closer. Abby stops with a small happy bounce where they normally park the truck.

Savannah takes half a step forward before swaying back. Her heart is pounding loudly in her ears and her breath is coming harsh in her ears as the dark silhouette of a boxy four-door becomes visible. Suddenly Abby isn't moving.

She vaguely hears the door opening behind her, breath catching as the unfamiliar vehicle comes to a stop, dark, shadowed figures barely visible inside.

Soft footfalls and flash of pale hair alert her of Breena's presence. With a clenching stomach and a hitching breath, Savannah watches the unknown intruders come forward.

Chapter Text

Spring, 2013

Exit to Stafford

Around noon

There's a gold four-door ahead of them, and Aimee's red pick up behind, and Dean keeps having to shake off the feeling of being caged in. It's not that difficult to ignore the utter lack of a quick escape route, although it's made more difficult by the extra body currently residing in his baby.

Whatever, at least the old man had hitched a ride with Aimee. Emily had not been pleased when Anthony asked to ride with them, her pinched frown only lessening the bare minimum when he asked to ride with Aimee over Sam and him. Surprisingly, Cas had followed the old man with the angels' equivalent of fascination, leaving the backseat of Dean's car occupied by Father Paul. (A surprise in and of itself, given how much the holy man thought Dean and his brother belonged in the nut house.)

"We shouldn't be doing this," Dean says as Stafford's exit sign appears and he pulls onto the off ramp. Sam looks at him, one eyebrow raised until Dean elaborates. "Not all of us. Stafford isn't a small town. Population's at around a hundred and thirty thousand," he says remembering the sign from a few miles back. "Probably wasn't bombed, but still a good sized population. Zombies gotta be all over this place."

"Emily doesn't seem the type to sit back and let other's do her dirty work," Sam counters, watching the gold car navigate around the abandoned vehicles and wandering dead.

"I don't exactly like it either," Father Paul adds.

Dean gives the man a crooked grin over his shoulder, turning to Sam to point out that even the good Father agreed with him.

"We can't leave the others behind," his brother points out before Dean can say anything.

"Ain't exactly safe to take them with us either." Truthfully, Dean's not sure how he feels about leaving the civvies behind, just knows it doesn't sit right with him to be taking them into danger. There's no good option – fucking story of his life.

It's all a moot point anyways, since Emily has already lead them this far into the city.

Fifteen minutes later and they are pulling up to a house in the suburbs. Emily parks in the driveway, while Dean settles his baby along the curb with Aimee just behind him. Bright green lawns and white picket fences surround them. It's the kind of place Dean imagines Sam dreams about.

The movement and sound has drawn a small crowd of zombies all shuffling their way closer, speeding up as live meat comes into sight. Dinner time, Dean thinks with a twist of his lips.

He sighs, throwing his baby in park and pulling out a black hunting knife from his boot.

"Let's do this," he says before turning to pin Father Paul with a hard look. "You stay here. And don't mess with my car." He gets out before the priest can reply and goes after the closest zombie with a quick stab to the creature's temple before moving on to the next. A glance over his shoulder shows Sam on the other side of the driveway doing the same.

There's maybe three dozen rushing from different directions towards them, more trickling out from around the suburban homes.

There's a gunshot as Dean is taking down his fourth zombie, causing the hunter to spin around in anger.

"Are you crazy?" he growls at the Interpol agent currently aiming a semi-automatic at the attacking horde of dead guys. "Are you trying to bring more down on our asses?"

Emily gives him a hard glare, but an embarrassed flush spreads across her cheeks even as she snaps, "I don't have anything else."

Dean twists, bringing his blade up under the chin of the closest dead housewife as the sound of a car door shutting let's him know someone else has joined the fight. A quick glance shows both Aimee and Cas are out of the truck, the woman with a crowbar in one hand.

Dean doesn't stop to protest before he's moves towards the house, pulling another blade from the back of his jeans as he goes.

"Here," he calls, barely waiting for Emily to look at him to shove the bowie knife into her free hand and moving back towards the quickly advancing crowds of zombies. "Get in the house," he snaps at her as he takes out another of the dead. He doesn't see her go, focusing on the small horde and keeping them in his sights.

It's only as he hears the low click of an opening car door when he spares a glance back at the gold four-door. Olivia, weapon in hand, is stepping from the vehicle and taking advantage of the relative safety Sam has created on that side of the driveway to head for the house.

"Olivia," his brother calls in what Dean mentally refers to his Bitch Voice. If he calls it that out loud, he get's Sam's Bitch Face 3.0 and he doesn't think he can take his brother seriously when he get's like that.

She ignores him, heading straight for the front door Emily disappeared behind at a run.

Sam starts to go after her, pausing to take out a too close dead man in a golf shirt reaching for him.

"Some help," calls Aimee, drawing Dean's attention to the three zombies surrounding her.

Cursing harshly to himself, Dean quickly heads towards her, leaving his brother to go after the girl.

Reaching the first walking corpse, he shoves his blade upwards in to the back of the skull before quickly pulling the knife out to stab another in the cheek. Aimee smashes her crowbar into the head of the last zombie near her.

"Behind you," she says with a nod and Dean turns to find four more that have made their way into the yard, and at least ten more in the next one over.

Behind him, standing in the street, is Castiel. Their heavenly companion has a splintered off mailbox in one hand, swinging the wooden end at the heads of two approaching dead men. A faint frown mars his features, eyes flicking from the ones approaching to the surrounding houses.

"I can't pinpoint the exact number," Cas says, smashing the end of his make-shift weapon into the head of an approaching zombie hard enough to knock the head clean off. "But there are more on their way."

"Just great," Dean grumbles as his knife hits home through the top of a dirty blonde's head.

A few minutes, and a sizeable number of now unmoving corpses on the ground, later and his brother comes out of the house, Olivia and Emily following close behind. Sam immediately goes back to hunting, feet swift and sure on the ground as he makes his way to aid a now panting Aimee.

"Get what you need?" Dean calls as Olivia and Emily head for the car, the agent holding Dean's knife as opposed to her gun. She fumbles as a dead guy approaches her, moving between the girl and the zombie and holding up the weapon. Her stab is awkward and Dean is already taking half a step towards her before she manages to twist her wrist in the right direction.

Emily turns back to the car, pausing as her eyes catch on the bodies surrounding him before shaking her head.

"They're in Pennsylvania. Found a note." She reaches the car, free hand coming out to grab the handle as he buries his knife into the right eye socket of a pajama clad zombie.

"Great," he snarks, and Emily shoots him an unhappy look before holding out his knife.

Dean shakes his head, tensing in preparation for the next well dressed zombie approaching. "You hold onto that, sweetheart. Might need it."

"Don't call me that," she snaps as she jerks the driver's side door open and gets in.

Dean just rolls his eyes, waiting until his brother, whose waiting on Aimee to get back to her vehicle, is back at the Impala. The road is clear. Cas is already climbing into Aimee's truck next to a pale Anthony, and Dean shoves his blade into the forehead of a middle aged, balding man as he steps towards his baby. He opens the driver's side door, staring disgruntledly at the remaining lumbering dead. They can't kill them all, he knows this, but it still doesn't sit right with him.

The Impala starts up with a deep rumble, and Dean waits for Emily to pull onto the road before following, wondering absently where it is they are headed too now.

-

They pull over a few miles outside of town, all three vehicles easing onto the shoulder once they are a safe distances from the majority of the wandering dead.

Dean gets out of his car, heading towards the Interpol agent currently waiting by her own driver's side door. He can hear Sam following a few steps behind, along with three more pairs of even footfalls behind him.

One the other side of the gold car Olivia stands, seemingly unfazed as she stares with stoic eyes at the gathering group.

"Next time we're surrounded," he directs at the teenager, waiting for her gaze to settle on him, "wait for back up before runnin' off."

He turns back to Emily, who is also watching at the girl with faint disapproval, before she turns dark eyes to look at him.

"Well?" Dean snaps in impatience, "You all heading to Pennsylvania?" He can feel the subtle shift of his brother at his back, almost hear the rustle behind him at the implication of his words, but he ignores them, focusing on the agent before him. But Emily is already shaking her head.

"My old team is there, on a case," she says, dark eyes darting behind him before focusing on Dean once more. "But their families are here. Or at least close to here. Will, the husband of one on my team, and his the neighbors ran into some trouble with the risen. He evacuated with their son, Henry. Left her a note telling his wife where she could find them."

"You're going after the family," he surmises, leaning back on his heels slightly.

Emily nods softly, eyes distant as she thinks it through. "I'm going to check on the other's first. Garcia is tech, she usually stays behind. And Hotch has a son who stays with his aunt while his dad's away. But after..." There's a soft noise of protest behind him, but Emily's already pulling out a torn slip of paper from her back pocket. "I made a copy, so JJ can find it when they get back. They went to a boat dock just east of here-"

"First we go to Quantico," cuts in Cas before Emily can say more. "Reunite Anthony with his son Junior." The angel hardly seems to notice the attention suddenly focused on him, or how beside him, the old man is looking startling heartbroken, even as he grins at them all.

"I didn't-" begins Emily, before she pauses and takes a breath and looks at Anthony earnestly. "I didn't mean to imply we weren't going to Quantico." He nods lightly, still not looking at anyone in particular as Aimee places one hand on his shoulder. "Quantico is on the way. We'll look for Tony before going to the dock."

"Junior probably doesn't have any need for an old man like me," Anthony plays it off, grin widening even as his eyes still shine slightly. "He's a federal agent, you know. But I'd like, or rather, I need to see him." He chuckles good naturedly, finally looking at Emily, "A father worries."

"Alright," says Dean, clapping loudly to break out the emotion-fest this whole thing has turned into. "A quick drive around Stafford then Quantico it is. C'mon," he turns, heading back to his car and watching as the group slowly disperses. "Let's hit the road."

Chapter Text

Friday

May 24th, 2013

Northern Illinois

Noon

The kid, who has yet to give them his name, is from Virginia. It gives them a goal. They need that, Nate thinks. He needs that. He'd been planning on making survival their temporary goal, but they need something to work towards. The kid gives them that. Helping people is a cause they're all passionate about, even if it's for less than pure reasons. Or maybe it's the ultimate pure reason, given that's not born out of any moral compass they may possess.

The kid's up front next to Eliot, who’s navigating Hardison's van – are they calling this one Lucille 4.0? Or are they on the fifth one now? – through the back roads of Illinois, while Parker stretches out long ways across the back floor board in front of Nate and Sophie, feet facing the doors. Hardison, seemingly having put his disgruntlement at having his toys thrown out aside, is behind them in a sensible four door they'd traded the sports car for since it’s better for storing their extra supplies.

"How is she comfortable?" whispers Sophie, whose curled into Nate's side as they sit on the side-ways facing bench seat.

"It's in case the doors open," he says back absently, playing with some of her dark strands. "She can prepare to roll better if her feet hit first."

He feels more than sees Sophie's surprised expression, thoughtful eyes turning to gaze at their odd thief. Finding the method in the madness.

The kid's voice filters back to them, drawing the woman at his side's attention. Eliot responds to him in a low rumble, causing Sophie to smile in fond amusement. Children love Eliot. They are drawn to him, have probably been since the man was a teenager. It's one of the reasons Nate keeps leaving the boy with him. Eliot will get more out of him just by being near than the rest of their efforts combined.

The mastermind tunes in, catching the low murmur of the kid's voice and enough words to get the gist of the conversation. Family, and how he was away at camp – not the one they found him in – when his father pulled him out early. Or was planning to anyways, before the "flu" that was going around turned out to be a bit more deadly than first expected. The kid was trying to get home, sounds like. Probably went the wrong way.

Without meaning to, his thoughts go back to Sam. He'd be older than the kid now, if he'd survived, almost fifteen and far more capable of making it in this world than he was when he died. Nate tells himself it's better this way; better that Sam didn't survive to see this, but he can't bring himself to be thankful his son is gone. Can't stop wishing he could bring him back.

Sophie shifts, moving her pack around before pulling out a couple single serve bottles of Jack. Not his drink of choice, but he takes it without a word when she hands him one.

-

Being a functioning alcoholic in a global changing event (as long as there are still human life it's not an apocalypse) has many downsides. And Nate is perfectly aware that he either needs to learn how to distill his own liquor, stock pile enough to get him through his remaining years, or detox himself into sobriety...again. He's chosen the second option. He can even make a logical argument about how they don't have the time or place for him to dry out. It's an excuse, he knows that too. Maybe he'll be the example they use to teach the next generation why substance dependence is a bad idea.

Outside in the parking lot they've stopped at, Eliot's filling up the vehicles and their gas reserves while Hardison is on his smart phone looking for what remains of the internet and Parker salvages through the vehicles.

The kid, who was watching Parker with fascination as she systematically breaks into each car, is now standing by Nate as the older man sits on the back bumper of the van.

"Aren't you going to stretch your legs?" the kid asks after a moment.

"No," says Nate, eyes still on the west side of the lot for movement. "I'm going to watch a bit longer than I'm going to go to sleep so I can take over for Eliot in a few hours."

The kid just blinks at him behind his smudged glasses, before nodding his head. Parker found him some cleaner clothes that fit, and Eliot actually talked him into wearing them. None of them have convinced the boy to bathe, but he still looks better. Less like a poster child for a charity scam.

"So who is it?" Nate finally asks, "Your mom or dad who’s the cop."

The kid freezes, and Nate takes a drink from his water bottle. He doesn't say anything, just squints at the sunset while the boy gets his emotions under control, tears leaving thin, wet lines down his cheeks before he swallows the rest back. He nods approvingly as the boy looks back at him, handing the bottle to him.

"Thanks," the kid says as he takes it, taking a swallow before holding it in front of him. "Jared," he says with conviction, letting out a breath through his nose. "That's my name; Jared Vance. And it's my dad, he works at NCIS."

Nate absorbs the information, expression unchanging as he watches the parking lot for the dead. Federal then, not state police.

"You'll take me home?" Jared asks.

"We're going to try," Nate replies, looking at the kid. "That's still mine," he adds, pointing to the bottle clutched in Jared's hand, one side of his mouth turning up as the boy looks down at the container in surprise. Jared hands it over, his own grin not quite forming but almost, before he hops up to sit by Nate. They go back to watching the parking lot.

-

Nate wakes in the passenger seat as the van comes to a rough stop with Eliot suddenly going still as he looks down the empty street ahead of them. The mastermind sits up, moving so he's eye level with the ex-mercenary. In the back, Jared and Hardison are asleep. Sophie is stopped behind them in the other car with Parker.

"What's happening?" the grifter asks over the comms.

"Give us a minute," he replies softly. "What do you see?" he asks after a moment, his own sharp eyes not able to find what's caught the other man's attention.

"I don't know," Eliot replies after a pause of his own, intense gaze sliding over the trees around them and voice a low rasp. "Somethin' don't seem right."

"Should we backtrack?" This the hitter's area. Hell, the whole damn world is practically within Eliot's expertise at this point. Or at least how to survive it, get through until they can find a way to do more than just survive.

The other man is silent, still studying the surroundings. "If we do," he says slowly, "we'll lose half a day's travel time."

"We can make it up," Sophie says insistently, her voice taking on that slightly pleading quality it gets when she's worried.

Nate studies Eliot a moment, calculating the risks before he orders, "Kill the lights. Turn around. Sophie, you first."

He can practically hear Sophie's relief, even as she doesn't say a word. Eliot waiting only a moment to follow.

-

When midnight hits, they are still in Illinois, cutting through back woods towns in an effort to get south enough of Chicago to cross into Indiana.

The road he's on isn't a good one, not really. Barely enough room for two small cars to pass, let alone Hardison's mammoth of a van. Too many chances, too many risks. A small cluster of abandoned vehicles, or even a small pile up, are high. But they've already lost so much time just trying to cross the river into Indiana and now using back roads to go out of their way.

Nate tries to shake it off, the memories of what worry is like as a parent. The faceless image of Jared's father waiting for the son he doesn't even know is still alive – probably thinks the boy's dead. The fact that the kid lived long enough for them to find him was a minor miracle in and of itself.

"So," speaks up Parker over the comms, tearing Nate from his thoughts, "what's the plan? Once Jared's back with his family."

Leave it to their blunt, ever thinking thief to look for the next phase. Leave it to fate to have the only one whose reaction he can't predict ask him the question he doesn't exactly want to answer.

"What are you thinking?" he asks instead. She's good at this, big picture thinking. It's why he picked her to take over. One of the reasons.

She pauses, and he can almost see her driving the car with intense eyes and a little unfocused as she works her way through the various choices and their possible consequences.

Her voice is deliberately detached when she answers, "The right thing would be to stay. See if the family knows of a camp we can set up. Make sure they're alright."

"The right thing," he repeats. He doesn't have to see her to know the corners of her mouth have tightened. He hums softly, taking a left at a fork that appears in the road. "We don't always do the right thing, Parker."

She's silent for a long time, a quick glance in the driver's side mirror showing her still behind him, keeping pace with him as opposed to her usual getaway driver driving.

"But we try to," she says finally, failing at casual.

"Sometimes."

Chapter Text

Saturday

May 25, 2013

8:17pm

Possibly lost

"This was not how I planned to spend my wedding night," Kate muttered to herself, tucking a blanket around the corner of one window. It's a stupid thing to complain about, all things considered, but even with the world ending (or just pausing, as her struggling to stay optimistic fiancé likes to say) and their missing friends and family (dear god, if her own worry about Alexis is this bad she can't even begin to imagine what Castle is going through) the countdown to the Big Day has been running in the back of her head.

Breathing in a steadying breath, the agent looks over at her increasingly despondent fiancé. Rick has an unfolded map in front of him, trying to get a fix on their exact location. The absent way his thumb caresses the dark screen of his phone and the harsh lines bracketing his mouth make her chest ache for him.

Fourteen days since the cell signal was lost. Thirteen days and twenty-one hours since Rick has heard from his mother or daughter.

"We aren't actually married yet," Rick with a pale imitation of his usual grin. "I thought you changed your mind on a May wedding?" He arches one eyebrow as she grins at him, letting herself get pulled into his playful banter, even if it's subpar to his usual self.

"Spring weddings are overrated," she jokes. They've barely been engaged a year, the wedding barely an idea, but today's the day they'd discussed, the one time it was brought up by a co-worker.

"You'd think the universe could have waited on the whole zombie apocalypse," he quips back, and Kate grins far bigger than the occasion calls for, but god she needed this. Castle's good at this, cracking jokes and shining a light on all that's dark and bleak, a much needed trait for the one time homicide detective, but he's had other things on his mind.

His smile turns soft and warm as he raises one arm and beckons her closer. She walks to him, tucking herself under his arm on the couch of the home they are squatting in. He rubs at her upper arm in soothing circles, cheek pressed against the crown of her head. She gives half a thought to how greasy her hair must be, at the body order surely permeating her clothes, before she shakes it off. Castle's seen her bloody and sweaty and at her lowest long before the world ended. And it's not like he's any better off at this point.

"We'll leave at first light," she says after taking one more minute of peace against Rick's side. She can almost feel the tension seeping into him, the relaxed atmosphere chased away by the worry ever present just below the surface.

His arm subtly tightens as she moves to get up, his body forcibly relaxing. He presses his nose against the top of her head, muttering, "Just a few more minutes," into her hair.

Kate nods softly, wrapping one arm around his waist and buries in deeper.

-

Kate moves carefully, removing Rick's arm and looking along the living room floor for her pants before quietly standing. She dresses with soft movements, forgoing her boots in an effort not to wake a still sleeping Rick. She makes her way into the small kitchen on socked feet, opening the cheap cabinet doors and looking over the dry goods within. They should probably take some with them. She picks up a bottle of vegetable oil, looking around to see what they have as far as flour and other baking goods.

Half an hour later, a stack of slightly burnt (this is why Castle always does the cooking) pancakes are sitting on the table and a sleepy Rick is coming into the kitchen.

"There's coffee. No creamer," she says by way of greeting, spooning a heaping teaspoon of sugar into her own cup. Rick grimaces but still pours himself some coffee.

"No bacon?" he lightly jokes, giving her a tired smile as he sits, taking some of the blackened flapjacks onto his plate.

She settles in with her own breakfast, using sugar in place of syrup.

After breakfast they pack up their meager belongings, taking some of the more perishable items from the cabinets and loading up the car. It's well into the morning by the time they get back on the road, Kate behind the wheel while Castle looks over the map again.

-

It's almost ten when the car rolls to a stop with an angry clank and hiss. There's no smoke, which is probably a good thing, although Kate's knowledge about cars is limited. Throwing the vehicle into park with an angry noise, Kate mutters unhappily under her breathe while beside her Rick let's out his own string of angry curses at the dash.

"Now what?" he asks her, tone tight with frustration. "We don't have another car."

"I know."

"We're on a back road in the middle of nowhere."

"I know."

"We haven't even seen another car for miles."

"Castle," she says firmly, "I know."

He looks at her, frustration and desperation mixing in with the slowly growing despair she can see behind his eyes.

"I know," she adds softly. Taking a deep breath, she turns to look out the windshield. "OK," she says with purpose, deciding to tackle one problem at a time. "I'll check the engine. See if it's anything I can fix." Of the two of them, she's more versed in the mechanics of a vehicle.

"And if that doesn't work?" he asks, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

She takes a moment to look at him, giving into the urge to lean forward and press her lips against his. One hand comes up to cup her cheek, fingers tangling in her hair as he opens his mouth with a hint of desperation, the slick slide of tongues and the barest brush of teeth before she's pulling away, fighting the desire to distract them both from the despair rising up with desperate touches and bare skin.

"Then we'll walk. Until we find something."

He doesn't say anything, jaw tight and eyes raw as she untangles herself from his hands and gets out of the car. Kate goes around the vehicle, not looking at Rick still in the passenger seat as she opens the hood, staring down at the mass of rubber and metal and trying to remember what little her father taught her.

Careful not to touch the hot engine, Kate examines what looks to be a torn hose, when she hears the passenger side door open and close. Rick comes around to the front of the car, determination having hardened his features, squaring his shoulders and leaving him steely eyed.

"I might be able to fix it if we can find a part," she tells him. It's a long shot, she only thinks she might know what the problem is, and is willing to jump in to try, but it's all they got at the moment.

Rick just nods, already looking towards the horizon.

-

Kate doesn't know how far they've gone, what they could carry stuffed into packs on their backs, but the sun is high in the sky and beating down on them at an angle impossible to escape, and her upper back gave up on relief long ago.

They haven't seen any of the dead walking about (Kate can't quite bring herself to call them zombies, no matter what obscure film Castle quotes), which is a minor miracle, but Kate is more concerned than she'd like to admit. She has her service pistol, Castle has a revolver he can barely shoot, and a couple of baseball bats that Agent Gibbs had given them before they left. It doesn't feel like enough.

She doesn't see the sign until they're on it. They're walking and then it's there, big and blue and announcing they are entering Delaware. She can hear the rustle of paper as Castle pulls out the map, trying to glean from this new information where they might be.

"Any luck?" she asks, pausing before the sign to give him a chance to look.

"Maybe," he says after a moment, squinting at the worn paper. "At least this narrows it down some."

She nods, biting back the futile questions about possible nearby towns.

"We should keep moving," she says instead, waiting as he absently nods and begins walking again, eyes still glued to the map before him.

It's another couple of miles before they see another sign – this one announcing an upcoming historic center – and Kate feels something in her relax. There's a building. Possibly with cars or people.

"Kate?"

"I see it," she replies, Castle's tone more hopeful than she's heard it since they left the retirement center and Gibbs' people. "How much further?"

He already has the map out, looking over it in quick, darting glances before folding it back away. "Doesn't have any building on it."

"Maybe they'll have something inside that'll show us where we're at," she suggests, not really caring at the moment beyond getting to the man made structure.

They pick up their pace.

-

There's a long driveway going up an otherwise open area, an outcrop of trees behind the squat brown building, and grass that is just getting too long coming all the way up to the road. Kate thinks it might be a side entrance, the part of the building visible to them flat and dull, with two small windows and a metal door tucked just off center. Her feet ache as she walks up to the poorly paved road with Castle just a step behind her, but still they keep moving, relieved to have found any sign of civilization after days on back roads and small, no-name towns.

A parking lot, gray and worn, becomes visible as they near the building. Another, wider, driveway connects to it from what looks to be a main road curving off into the distance.

"Probably leads back to the highway," she says, breath coming in small pants as the hike catches up to her. "Might give us an idea of where we're at."

He makes a noise of agreement, his own breath coming harsher than her own as he stays one step behind.

She looks over her shoulder, smile in place and a happy remark on her lips when-

"Castle!"

She all but tackles Rick to the ground, flipping off of him in time to pull her gun on the advancing dead woman. The first shot hit the creature's jaw, jerking her half around with a dark spray of fluids before she turns back to her prey, chin now at an odd angle before the second hits home through one discolored eye.

They get up in time to see more coming around the side of the building and through the trees.

"Inside," Kate gasps, already pulling on Rick's arm. They stumble towards the door, Kate firing at the dead coming steadily closer and taking two more out before they reach the side entrance.

Rick yanks on the door handle, the smooth surface refusing to budge.

"Move," she commands, waiting until her fiancé has taken a few steps back before firing at the dead bolt above the knob. Grabbing the handle with every intention of ushering them both inside, Kate is forced back a step as the door opens and three more dead creatures start clamoring through the doorway. Behind her Rick is firing at the zombies outside. She doesn't have time to look and see if he's hitting his targets, her own weapon up and firing in three quick shots at the one-time center employees. The bodies barely hit the ground before her hand is around Rick's arm, dragging him through the doorway. He quickly yanks the door behind him, holding it shut while Kate's hands scramble along the inner surface for an undamaged lock.

She can feel the vibrations of the slapping hands but can't hear the banging, her ears still full of gunfire.

She turns as Rick's hand replaces hers, eyes scanning the dark room for something to put in front of the door. She's pulls a flashlight out of the front pouch on her backpack, turning it on and flicking the beam around what appears to be a short hall, a couple of vending machines at one end and to the left, and an open doorway across from it.

"I don't think they can pull the door open." Rick's voice is muffled by her still ringing ears, but his words offer a small measure of comfort. They still need to bar the door, but maybe she has time to find something.

"You go. I got this."

She looks back at him, his hands wrapped around the door handle and braced slightly back.

"I'm not leaving you," she says determinedly.

"I'll be fine. And if they get through, if, I'll be right behind you." He gives her his most charming grin, voice trying for light. Kate's thoughts race, desperate to think of an alternate option.

She's swings her backpack around as he opens his mouth to tell her to go again, dropping it to the ground and unzipping the main compartment and shinning her light inside. She pulls out a couple of bright yellow bungee cords.

She wraps the cord around the handle twice, Rick letting go as she does so, before stretching it towards the vending machines at the end of the hall.

"Remind me to send whoever gave us those a fruit basket," Rick says with a grin as he searches his own pack.

"Gibbs," Kate replies as she hooks the second cord to the first. A little over halfway to her destination the cords go taut, Kate giving a frustrated tug before Rick is by her side, two more cords in his hand. They attach one to the end, stretching it until it's just a foot from the machine and using the last cord to connect their make-shift rope to the retrieving compartment of the snack filled container.

They both stare at the cord a moment, watching it vibrate softly with the pounding on the door, before glancing at each other with a grin. It fades as they both turn to look in the dark room behind them.

Chapter Text

Saturday

May 25th, 2013

2:43 am

Rest stop at mile marker 122, 6 miles outside of Quantico city limits

There has been many times Spencer has resented his eidetic memory - 163 times since reaching his country's standard of adulthood to be exact - and several where he's been thankful. Up until joining the FBI, the moments of resentment outweighed the thankful moments, but after they had balanced out fairly well. He doesn't know what to do with this event and the imbalance it's created.

He can't forget - it's a mental improbability barring head trauma or some sort of sci-fi invention (and he's not foolish enough to try either.) It's with perfect clarity that he recalls the crowd of dead and living alike overtake Rossi, the grisly mess on Blake's shoulder blade with distinctive teeth marks, and the seemingly endless number of bodies, moving and unmoving that they've stumbled across.

How much more will he see?

"You're in your head again, kid."

Morgan's voice breaks through the cycle of faces, bringing him crashing back to the here and now. Off in the distance Javier and JJ are siphoning gasoline from two stranded vehicles, talking quietly to each other. Reid's suddenly, unbelievably grateful that he never learned to read lips.

Turning back to his teammate and making brief eye contact in response to the other man's inquiry, Spencer settles into his skin, forcing his mind away from the constant noise in his head to focus on his physical presence. Focusing on his feet on the ground, his hands at the end of his arms, and the brush of hair against his ears. He leans one side against the car, watching the senior agent do the same. He wants to ask if Derek thinks this world is worth it, if this environment is worth it. Or if he ever thinks that maybe the dead are better off. The words take too much effort to get out, so he doesn't.

"Talk to me," Derek says, studying him with too much understanding.

Spencer doesn't know what to say. He glances back at the parking lot, gaze snagging on their blonde teammate for a moment.

"We're only sixty-five minutes from JJ's house. And that's with conditions being what they are." Morgan watches him. "Before, if taking I-95, it's twenty-one minutes from Dale City to Stafford without traffic. The fact that it's taken us six hours and thirteen minutes to get to this point..." he pauses, watching his shoes, flexing his toes with careful thought. He hadn't realized he'd dropped his gaze. "The drive from Emmaus, Pennsylvania to Stafford is three hours and forty-nine minutes without traffic."

They left for home on the sixteenth (9 days ago. 216 hours. 12,960 minutes. 777,600 seconds). The average human male in the USA lives for 34, 164,000 minutes. On average 33,979,200 of those are spent awake. Already the journey home has taken ninety-six times as long as it should and if-

"I can practically see you thinking," Derek says, bringing Spencer's attention back to him, "and it ain't helping." Reid doesn't respond, studying the senior agent's tired eyes and wondering suddenly how much sleep Derek's been getting. "We're getting there," Derek adds, "that's the important part. Don't forget that."

That's exactly the problem.

-

The clock says two minutes past 3am when they see the signs for Quantico. They should stop here. They need to stop. Dawn is still hours away and Spencer is tired, hot and sticky with humidity. It'll take time to go around the risen infested city in the dark. It's a thought that seems to come from far away, settling in his churning head after the first sign has passed. If they wait until light they can go through, pick their way along the outer edges and ultimately save time.

"We should stop," speaks up JJ from the driver's seat, not slowing down as they come closer to the exit. He looks at her, sees how much she doesn't want to be saying the words. "You won't say it. Derek's probably thinking it and Javier..." she pauses, takes a breath as her foot finally begins letting off the gas.

"It's not safe. Not at night." She signals with her blinker as she pulls over, hands methodical on the wheel. "Maybe I can go on by myself-"

"No," Spencer says with the force he's been missing these late few weeks, heart pounding hard at her words. "It's too dangerous for any of us to go at night." There's more, about how they shouldn't be separated and he doesn't want to lose her too, but they don't make it to his lips.

JJ looks at him for a moment, eyes raw and pain-filled, before she finally puts the vehicle in park, blinking hard twice before very deliberately turning off the engine. Spencer turns to get out, stopping as she touches his arm and turns back to look at her.

She doesn't say anything, just watches him with wide, desperate eyes that he doesn't know what to do with, asking silent questions he doesn't know how to answer. He covers her hand with his own, offering what comfort her can, as useless as it is at the moment.

Taking a deep breath, JJ slides her fingers from under his and exits the vehicle, Spencer following after.

-

Morgan and Javier agree with a type of weary, reluctant tinged relief, and Spencer feels a heaviness settle into the pit of his stomach, a twisting that leaves him anxious.

"We'll sleep in shifts," says Morgan, and Spencer already knows he's planning to take first watch, "Dawn's not too far off."

"I'll take the first one," Javier says before anyone else can offer, bouncing Sara. "She'll be up for a while anyways." The baby wiggles chubby arms, fingers grasping uselessly at the man's jawline while unhappy, wordless whines issue from her toothless mouth. Not even the now soggy frog the detective dangles over her face is enough to distract her from her unhappiness or from letting her guardian know.

After a brief pause, Morgan nods, asking the other man if he wants company, before telling them all to get some sleep when Javier declines.

"Especially you," he directs towards JJ, effectively cutting off whatever the anxious woman was about to say. "You don't wanna see that husband of yours with bags under your eyes." The joke should have fallen flat, it certainly didn't inspire the brittle smile it would have before, but it seems to lighten the tense air a touch. A desperate cling to normalcy when life is anything but that somehow works.

Spencer turns back to the SUV, for once not withdrawing from the touch of Derek's hand across his arm and even managing a nod towards Javier. It's not a 'good night,' not when his stomach twists and his fingers twitch, torn between rushing forwards and running back, anything but stasis, but there's a restlessness to being this close. It's strange, even unpleasant, like the blood rushing into a limb when it's long been asleep (parenthesis), only it's spreading through his whole body.

He climbs into the back of the vehicle he and JJ had ridden in, noting the way he can't force his body into stillness now that they are here, leg jumping or hands jerking in aborted gestures. Not even when JJ gets into the front seat can he rest, and they both lay awake in the dark with harsh breaths and the nocturnal nature sounds filling the air.

Spencer shuts his eyes against the grayness of the roof of the car, shadows waving over it slightly in the wind, and suddenly his mind rebels. He sees Blake in the darkness behind his lids, her body hot and feverish. He sees Rossi, crooked mouth moving as he yells at them to keep moving even as he falls. The images are slowly replaced with Hotch and Garcia, wide-eyed Jack and little Henry. All dead or dying. JJ weeping over a lifeless Will. His own mother turning blind eyes as her delusions come to life.

Maeve is suddenly before him. Her dark hair still gleaming even in death, but eyes now clouded as she grasps at him with cool hands. He never told her he loved her.

He tries to turn away. He doesn't want to see this, not again. But the scene plays out, false details filling in as his ever precise mind finishes the picture.

This isn't how she dies, he thinks desperately, trying to recall those final moments as a mad woman stole her from him. But for once his memory fails him, flimsy wisps of smoke that slip away leaving a new portrait of Maeve's eyes open and unrecognizing. A creature of instinct and hunger. She reaches for him, grasping hands latching onto him, pulling him towards broken teeth. His hands push at her shoulders, sliding against shifting cloth, but he can't dislodge her. One hand looses purchase, Maeve's entire body jerking forward before he can get it back up, a hairs breath from a bite. His gun is in his holster, but he doesn't want to shoot her. He has to keep her from being shot, keep the bullet from her head, from destroying the woman he loves.

"Spence."

He can't-

"Hey, Spencer."

His own breath feeling hot on his face where it's pressed against the seat, the feeling of his clenched jaw and tightly squeezed eyes becoming prominent as the images fall back into his subconscious. His head is pounding in time with his heart, pain blooming at his temples as he forces the muscles in his jaw to relax.

"It's dawn. You ready?" JJ asks, voice almost gentle as she reaches back to shake him awake. He just remembers not to stiffen at her touch before she makes contact. Unrolling himself from the ball he'd curled into, shoes hitting the door as he stretches his long frame, Spencer makes an effort to respond.

"Yeah," he says, voice sleep rough.

Her gaze glances over him and he wonders what she sees, what she doesn't. How much does she miss in her worry for her family? How much does he in his grief?

Sitting up as Morgan taps on his window, Spencer exits the car and accepts his tooth brush from the senior field agent. On the SUV just behind leans a sleepily blinking Javier and a now happily gurgling three month old in a baby carrier at his feet.

To his right he can hear Morgan chastising JJ for not sleeping, her own admonishment on him not doing the same joining. It feels almost normal, in an abnormal way. Spencer frowns at them, spitting out the minty foam building up before taking a swig of water and swirling it about.

"We'll have breakfast on the road," Derek announces suddenly, swinging his pack up and pulling a couple of bruised apples and a bag of croissants out. He passes them out, Spencer taking his share with reluctant fingers. He feels too anxious to eat, his head still pounding and stomach making its wait to full nausea, but still he takes the food knowing he'll get it down somehow.

Beside him JJ is pale but her eyes blaze with determination. Even Javier seems to pick up on the tension strumming through the blonde, eyes going more alert and feet moving with careful, sure steps as he picks up his charge and gets in the SUV.

It shouldn't surprise him when Morgan takes point, climbing into the driver's seat of the vehicle in front. JJ doesn't look happy about it, but she climbs in beside him without a word.

Spencer doesn't realize they've left Javier alone in the following car until he's already buckled in. He can't bring himself to change vehicles though.

-

He sees it first, bright orange spray paint standing out against the blue background. The words don't register at first, they've seen signs like these before. But suddenly the letters are clear, they make sense in a way things haven't been since they left Pennsylvania.

"JJ," he says suddenly, his voice loud as it breaks through the silence.

She looks back at him before turning to follow his gaze.

"Stop the car," she demands as they pass the old, local political ad.

The SUV has barely rolled to a stop before she's out of the car, running back to get a better look at the message on the sign – Derek and him not far behind.

"They're alive," she says almost breathless as they come up on her. On the road, Javier is gathering up Sara, having stopped abruptly just behind.

Reading the painted message that JJ's gaze is fixated on, Spencer feels a surge of hope. The top of it is for people they don't know, a Gibbs and Tony and others, instructing them to go to "Ducky's house." Under that, in the same hand, is a message for JJ, telling her that Will and Henry are there, are safe, with a quick set of directions underneath. The directions are probably incomplete, unless this Ducky lives on just the next turn, but it's a start.

Chapter Text

May, 2013

11:52 am

Seaside Hills Bed & Breakfast

The little breakfast table is set; it's now shining white surface covered in white bowls, little tulips painted along the edges in what Alexis thinks is meant to make them look delicate. Beside each bowl is a spoon with a slender handle and short, cut, glass cups. In the center is a box of individually wrapped pouches of instant oatmeal with various food items surrounding it, breaking the theme the former owners were going for.

The studious former college student had never had instant oatmeal, her dad having always been one to cook breakfast from scratch. She'd come down in the morning to find the counters covered in still steaming omelets with sizzling sausages, homemade whipped cream atop hot crepes, buttered French toast and freshly cut fruit, or whatever entered the eccentric writer's mind upon waking. Even after moving in with Pi and the disaster that turned out to be their first apartment, Alexis still found herself unable to settle for the quick breakfasts of her boyfriend, choosing instead to get up early every morning to make a fresh meal. It was never the same as her dad's cooking, but it was close.

The shrill whistle of the tea kettle can be heard moments later, befor Sherlock enters the breakfast nook, white swinging door giving a peek at the cottage like kitchen as the consulting detective enters the room. Alexis quickly grabs a packet marked Apples & Cinnamon and Sherlock waits until she's ripped open the package and dumped the content into her bowl before pouring the hot water over it.

"I hear it helps to use various add-ins," he says with a small flourish at the items surrounding the box of instant oatmeal. She just nods, stirring her oats and water to mix them. "I suspect Watson and Mr. Hotchner shall be finishing up soon," he continues as he’s preparing tea for himself and Joan as Alexis selects a mini box of raisins, sliding her thumb under the tab to break the glue.

"Do you think the lessons are helping?" she asks shaking the dehydrated grapes over her oatmeal.

"Hmm. Yes, I'd say they are. Not as much as would be ideal, but given the allotted time you both have improved sufficiently with blunt instruments."

The fighting lessons, which were the primary reason they had stuck around Glennview the past couple of days, had started the night they'd arrived and consisted primarily of the best ways to hit the infected without getting bitten. A much trickier task than Alexis had first thought, especially when she realized exactly how much a single infected could distract her enough that she didn't notice another coming up behind her.

The front door opens and closes, the other two members of their traveling party – their footsteps already familiar to her – coming and heading towards them.

Sweat dampens their clothes – Joan having scrounged up some boys' gym shorts and an old college shirt for herself, while Sean opted from a pair of ratty sweats and worn top Alexis had been planning on cutting into rags. Dark, uneven patches of damp material lightly hints at muscle definition on a lean frame, the dark fabric pulling as the blonde lightly stretches.

She frowns as she looks back at her bowl of oatmeal, taking a bite as Joan talks about the progress they've made, and not looking up until Sean excuses himself to have a shower. They don't have hot water, but it's running, as the pipes pump it up from a well nearby.

The rest are tempted to stay. They won't. For all its pros, this place isn't as defensible as the place Sherlock talks about, but after weeks of staying just one step ahead, it's nice to catch a breather. But they-she can't. Manhattan is gone, herself beyond lucky to have already been off the island when the military closed the bridges. But her dad, he doesn't know where she is. And every day here is another day of him not knowing.

She trusts Beckett to keep her dad from doing anything too irresponsible, but her father can be especially stubborn, and she has no illusions that he won't move heaven and hell to get to her. She just has to find him first.

"It's better hot," says Joan, breaking Alexis out of her thoughts and drawing her attention to where her spoon is paused in her half-empty bowl. "At least for most people," she adds with a fondly exasperated look at Sherlock, who seems to both preen under and ignore Joan's affection.

"Sorry," she replies automatically, "got lost in thought." She takes another bite, noting the over sweetness of flavored oats on her tongue. She can't say she particularly likes oatmeal, although the raisins add a nice salty contrast, but the meal leaves her full.

-

"We're leaving in the morning," announces Sherlock without preamble. He and Joan had gone into town after lunch, leaving Alexis and Sean to their own devices. The redhead had chosen to practice with the tire iron on the humanoid shape Sherlock had pieced together out of various pillows, while a freshly washed and shaved Sean had cleaned up.

A weight seems to lift from Alexis' shoulders, a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, releasing her to slump back against the couch. Neither of the two consulting detectives miss her reaction, but they don't comment.

"Big day tomorrow. I suggest a good night's rest is in order," continues Sherlock. "And I do mean all of us. I myself have not slept in nearly fifty hours and will need a solid ten to be in working order for tomorrow." He rocks slightly on his heels, arms straight at his sides as he delivers his matter-of-fact statements. With a nod he turns toward the stairs, tossing a "sleep well" over his shoulder as he goes.

Joan stands, offering her own "good night" as she follows her partner, calling to him to remember to feed Clyde before bed.

Alexis is not ready to go to bed just yet, but there's no point staying up either. She read in a text book once about how darkness triggers the body's production of melatonin, causing humans to become tired faster. After weeks without artificial lights she's experienced this first hand, it won't be long before the sun starts to set this evening.

"You don't like it here?" asks Sean suddenly, coming around to sit adjacent to her on the matching sofa to the loveseat she's in.

Alexis looks at him in surprise, not having realized he had noticed her reaction. Her cheeks warm under his scrutiny, undoubtedly noticeable under her pale complexion. His hair looks lighter without the beard, his jaw line longer, sharper, and she notes the dip in his chin before she breaks away to look at the pale, wooden coffee table.

"It's not that," she says after a moment, the words pulled from her with reluctance. "I just need to get to DC sooner rather than later." She glances back at him, notices him still staring at her with his head cocked to one side, eyebrows lightly drawn together. "I have a plan," she continues, subconsciously squaring her shoulders. "My dad's in DC. With Kate, his fiancé," she adds, feeling a brush of guilt at nearly forgetting the woman.

"So you're going to leave?" Sean sounds incredulous, eyes narrowing and arms crossed like he can protect himself from her poor decisions.

"No," she says quickly. She's not stupid, it's suicide to strike out on her own. At least for her. She doesn't have the skills needed to survive by herself out there. "But Sherlock keeps talking about a safe place. A camp, with walls and land and... It'll be like," she shrugs, trying to hide her onset of nerves, "a home base. And they're sure to have supplies and stuff. And I looked," her voice picking up speed as she sits forward, "and Dale City isn't far from Washington. I'm sure dad and Beckett would have gotten out of the city. My dad's always talking about where he'd go to survive a zombie outbreak, it's what they called flesh eating corpses in the 1930's film White Zombie," she adds at his questioning look. "Anyways, I know where he'd go. Maybe not the specific spot, but ones he'd be drawn too." She pauses, watching as Sean watches her, his expression boarding on sorrow and she finishes in a small, soft voice. "He's my dad."

Slowly he nods, glancing down with a frown. "You're going alone? Of course you are," he says before she can answer, dropping his hands to his sides and looking away. "I have a brother in Stafford," he says slowly after the silence has stretched in minutes and the shadows have grown. "Just a little south of Dale City." He looks at her again, thoughts ticking behind his eyes, and she briefly wonders if he's going to ask her to look for this brother before dismissing the thought. "Aaron's always been able to take care of himself." He opens his mouth, closes it and looks away with a sigh before finally turning and pinning her with a determined stare. "I'm going with you."

Chapter Text

Probably late May, 2013

Night

Retirement Community, Quantico, Virginia

There were many things Breena did not expect to survive – did not expect to have to survive. Her husband's death, for one, always just a vague notion of something that would happen in the future, when they had great-grandbabies running around and faces full of wrinkles.

Watching him die in one of Ducky's rooms, the one put aside specifically for Jimmy, delirious with a fever had been beyond words.

As she stands in the gravel parking lot of their newest safe haven, Breena doesn't know if she'll survive this. It's a strangely peaceful thought.

The metal handle of the kitchen knife feels hot in her grip. Part of her wishes she'd asked Ziva for shooting lessons, but she didn't, and there's no use crying over it now.

The blade is half tucked behind her leg, a green gaze locked on the figures exiting the four-door. They're male. The older one in his forties, average height with a strong jaw and long, sharp nose, a pair of large lens glasses adorning his traditionally handsome features. The man's slightly smaller companion is closer, trimmed beard covering rounded cheeks and a pair of small, dark eyes flickering between the three woman standing in front of the building. A seemingly permanent, triumphant smirk twists one side of his mouth up, ticking up a notch as his gaze settles on Breena.

"Well hell-o, ladies," he calls in a well oiled sales man's voice, and up close he looks young, maybe late twenties. He and his companion pause a few feet away. "This is quite the welcome wagon."

Just ahead of her, Abby seems to relax and stiffen simultaneously.

"Is that how you typically greet those you pay unexpected visits too in the middle of the night?" Abby responds in a mockingly polite tone, arms crossing over her chest as she straightens to her full impressive height.

The man's smile seems to grow, a gleeful gleam entering his beady gaze before his companion steps forward, cutting him off before he can reply.

"Colin." He says the name like a warning, something almost parental in the exasperated and long suffering look that crosses his features before he turns his attention to the three of them standing before him. "My apologies for showing up like this. We didn't realize there'd be anyone here. I'm Jake, by the way." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "And that's Colin. He's annoying, but harmless."

"Hey!" Colin protests.

"What are you doing here?" Abby asks, arms still crossed over her chest, but the bite has left her tone.

"We were out getting supplies. I'm afraid we lost track of time and well, traveling in the dark..." he pauses to grimace, face twisting in distaste. "Look," he pleads, "we just need a place to stay for the night. At least until it's light out."

"Of course," says Savannah, stepping forward and causing Breena to flinch. "You'll have to share a room," the doctor adds, "but we've got the space." She smiles and introduces the three of them, while Breena just stares at her in disbelief. Beside the doctor, Abby looks slightly disappointed, but doesn't protest as the other woman turns to lead them inside.

-

Savannah shows them to Blue Jay, still sitting empty since the cop and her fiancé left.

"They should go in Mockingbird," Breena says, suddenly not wanting them in a room so close to the others. "It's unused." And down the other hall where Gibbs and Tony used to stay. Where she still does.

With an odd look from Savannah, the doctor turns around, heading back to the front of the building and down the other hall passing Cardinal, Canary, and Mourning Dove before they reach the unoccupied room. Breena comes along in an effort to keep an eye on the men, with Abby following close behind for her own reasons.

"Here we go," Savannah says a couple of steps ahead of where Abby and Breena have paused.

"I don't like this," Breena says quietly.

"We can't just abandon them out there," replies the bleeding heart scientist. "Not while it's still dark." Breena doesn't reply, eyes narrowing slightly as she watches the two men enter the room and the doctor turn back to them.

"They shouldn't be here," she finally says once Savannah is within earshot.

"We can't just kick them out," counters the doctor.

"Says who?" It's harsh, she knows that, but they are down their three best fighters. Now's not the time to be inviting strangers into their home.

Savannah looks taken aback, mouth opening for a moment before she closes it again. When she replies her voice is careful, almost soothing and it only succeeds in making Breena angrier. "Gibbs and Tony go out and bring people back here, to where it's safe. We nee-"

"They're not here," cuts in Breena, eyes fierce as she stares down the taller woman. "And we can't afford to take risks right now."

"What risk?" Savannah says, the careful quality to her tone wearing a bit at the edges. "They need a place to stay, we have the room."

"We don't know them."

"Just like we didn't know Will. Or Rick or Kate. Or hell, even you."

"They knew me," Breena says harshly, jerking her head at the frozen Abby, "and Rick and Kate was before-"

"You weren't even here then," hisses Savannah.

"C'mon, guys," tries to cut in Abby.

"No," snarls Breena, "I was at Ducky's. Watching my husband die." She's suddenly blinking back unexpected tears, anger threatening to turn into grief.

Shying away from the memories threatening to be brought up, Breena clenches her teeth and focuses on the now sympathetic woman before her. But the hard edge of her anger is gone, leaving her off-footed.

Her view of Savannah is suddenly cut off as a set of arms wrap around her. Flashes of black hair and the scent of synthetic fibers filling her nose as the scientist holds her tight. Abby releases her after a moment, gripping her by both shoulders and speaking decisively.

"We'll take turns keeping watch tonight. They won't leave the room without one of us knowing about it." She smiles reassuringly at Breena, and abruptly the younger woman is tired, anger bleeding away until she's left feeling hallow and apathetic. She manages to nod at Abby, taking a deep breath and stepping away from the two women.

"Alright. Call me when it's my turn." She turns, leaving them to their naive fantasies and heading towards the other hall. "I'll be at Will's."

-

Breena's steps feel heavy the next morning. She had been given second watch, a measly two and a half hours before Abby came to shoo her back to bed. Not that she slept, curled up on Will's couch (he'd tried to insist she take the bed, but with his foot and Henry, she denied it.)

She hears muffled voices filtering from the rec room before she enters. It's not uncommon for a couple of people to gather there for a meal, but this morning it seems everyone is out to see the two guests, who are seated at the table with plates before them.

Leyla is making tea using one of Abby's homemade burners with Henry watching her stir in honey to one of the cups with all the focus a five year old can possess. The scientist isn't there yet, but Savannah is, eating a bowl of canned fruit while her and Will talk to the men who showed up last night.

"It started out as my hacker handle, but quickly everyone started calling me 'Chaos,'" Colin is saying.

"I know a hacker," replies Will. "She works for the BAU. Made a deal with 'em when she got caught. She's good too. Has to be for the government to wan' her."

Colin smirks smugly and says with no small amount of arrogance, "She can't be that good if she got caught. The best don't get caught."

"Hardly matters now," says Leyla with a smile, greeting Breena and handing her a cup of tea as they reach the table. "Internet's gone."

"Oh, please," says Colin with a sneer, "the internet's hardly 'gone.' Just because you can't access-"

"So what did you do?" Savannah suddenly cuts in, turning to Jake who’s subtly glaring at Colin.

"I work-worked- for the NSA," he says with a polite smile, ignoring Colin's muttered "boring." Abby enters as Jake continues, already dressed in black jeans and top, hair pulled up in two high ponytails. Greetings are exchanged as she settles herself at the table.

"Really?" asked Savannah, perking up, or perhaps she was just trying to keep the conversation off of Colin's hacking. "Will's wife is FBI."

Jake grins at that, looking at her. "Another government employee, huh? My wife also works for the NSA. She's back at camp," he adds, his grin fading. "Probably worried sick."

Breena can practically feel the waves of sympathy and understanding rolling off those around her, her stomach dropping before Abby even opens her mouth.

"Where is she? Is she OK?"

"She should be," Jake says with a drop of his gaze, worry etching lines into his forehead. "We're just outside of town in a couple of tents. She's not alone," he adds quickly. "There's a small group of us."

"How many?" asks Breena, attention sharply on the man sitting at the table.

"Five," he replies, giving her an unreadable look.

"You should go get them," insists Abby intensely, ignoring Breena's glare and kick to her shin.

Colin is already nodding when Jake speaks, "No, we couldn't impose-"

"You're not," says Savannah, but there's an underlining reluctance in her voice. "We only have three free rooms, but we can make it work. And extra hands are always needed."

"Sounds good to me," pipes up Colin before Jake can say anything else. "It's a couple miles outside of the city, shouldn't take long." He gives what Breena is pretty sure is supposed to be a charming grin, but only manages to make her feel like she just bought snake oil from a traveling sales man.

"Great," says Abby, smiling widely at the table.

Chapter Text

Friday

May 24th, 2013

Early Evening

Dale City, Virginia

"Think you can give us a hand?" calls Casey from the front gate. Hannah's already there, unlocking the chain for her sister, Quinn, and Ian.

"What'd'ja get?" Hannah asks, still wearing her uniform like it means something, while pulling the gate open to allow the small gathering party in.

Casey, a woman of the same small stature and pointed jaw of her sister, comes through with both arms laden down with bags like she's coming in from a shopping trip as opposed to hunting up supplies for them to survive on. Behind her comes himself and Ian, each carrying more sensible cardboard boxes, while Casey lists off meager items they found.

"Anything in the car?" Hannah asks them, frowning at the lack of food stuff.

"Sorry, no," Casey replies.

Ian bends his large frame down to let his wife Sarah, a round faced woman with curly, dark hair, kiss him, while Quinn hikes the box he's carrying onto one hip so he can close the gate.

The broad chested gun-for-hire is not exactly sure what he was expecting when he took this job, although one does not exactly say no to the sort of people who contacted him, even he hadn't heard of this Moriarty until her capture. In his line of work, contracts from an unrecognized name either means someone dangerously powerful, or crazily wealthy. Just his luck that his new boss turned out to be both. The job, when it came through, was vague enough to give him pause. And he once was hired to retrieve a taxidermied hedgehog for an anonymous employer.

When Quinn first heard that he was to fetch a child, instructions clear on what to do with the girl's mother, he almost regretted agreeing. He wasn't Spencer, wasn't at the point of casually handing over children to monsters for the right price. But the world was going to hell, riots breaking out in the streets. Quinn was without a plan, and Moriarty offered a safe place in exchange for the girl.

Allison Fuller was probably a good mother. She was certainly protective of the daughter her and her late husband adopted in infancy, but she had no defenses for the mercenary sent to retrieve Kayden and return her to the woman who birthed her arms. He won't deny the relief he felt when that tidbit was revealed.

-

Dinner here is an oddity for him, all nine bodies crowding around the long table in the front hall of the bunker, reminding him a bit of summer camp and mess halls.

Kayden crawls into his lap with a gleeful "Mr. Quinn," demanding he take his hair down from its bun so she can play with the blond ringlets – what his mother used to call his "cherub curls," – while the new guy watches with laughing eyes.

The cops, who make Quinn's hands itch with tensions, always act like they're playing host, organizing everything and acting as if they're running this thing. His employer watches on like it's all some amusing show for her benefit, with a too knowing crooked grin in place. At the end of the table sits Ian and Sarah, the newlyweds usually lost in their own conversations, occasionally including Casey, who is just a few years younger than Sarah's twenty-six years. Today they've picked the new guy to be their third in their conversation.

"Our food supply is not looking good," Hannah says, speaking up to get everyone's attention and drowning out the softly talking couple. Nathan stands beside her, a silent supporter. "Despite the best efforts of Casey, Quinn, and Ian, we only have a few days worth of food left. Tomorrow I will be joining the gathering party to provide what help I can." She pauses to allow them to silently awe over her generous offer and Quinn barely refrains from rolling his eyes. In his lap, Kayden fights not to fidget.

It doesn't take long, a few more minutes about teamwork and how they can "really make this place work" and then they're free to eat.

Bowls are passed around to be filled with the thick chowder, a side of slightly stale rolls that have been carefully kept in air tight containers are broken into pieces and distributed while empty glasses are filled with either wine or tea.

"So, Mr. Llamosa," Nathan speaks up as dishes are settled, "what is it you did? Before all this."

Alfredo takes a moment to sip his tea before answering.

"I worked for car companies testing alarms."

"Really?" Nathan says with interest. "How did you stumble into that job?"

"I used to steal cars," Alfredo answers bluntly. "That got me into narcotics, which led to me getting caught. When I got out, got sober and wanted to go legit, but boostin' cars was all I really knew so..." He shrugs, elbows coming up to rest on the table.

Alfredo’s confession is met with awkward silence from the more law-abiding members of their camp, but Quinn and surprisingly Sarah look at him with interest.

"I used to sell art," Sarah adds conversationally, leaning forward a bit over her own bowl. "Not nearly as exciting as car stealing, but one particular painting nearly got me killed." She laughs in nostalgia, a flash of white teeth, and Quinn find his interest piqued despite his efforts. "I quit selling after that. Got into private collections. Less unexpected surprises."

Casey speaks up next, talking about her degree in sociology and part-time job at a high-end clothing store Quinn's never been too. Soon everyone's chiming in on their previous occupations.

When expectant faces turn to him, it takes a moment to contemplate how truthful he wants to be. There are so many ways to spin it, if he wanted to go there, but in the end he opts for a lighter approach. "Ex-military. Currently on baby-sitter duty." He gives them a grin that invites the others to laugh at his joke, bouncing Kayden on his knee a moment and taking the opportunity to adjust her. She a little too old for lap sitting.

"I'm not a baby," the girl protests with what he must feel is a reproachful look.

"My apologies, ma'am."

She studies his face with her too blue eyes before deciding he is forgiven and going back to her meal.

-

There's not a lot of secrets when you live in the same space as someone else. Not unless you know how to hide them. Hannah tries, but to those who can spot these things, it's clear she's not the leader here. She lacks the instinct for it. Not that Nathan's any better of one, but the man does know how to work the politics to keep his girlfriend in charge and his words spilling from her lips.

The next evening, after Casey, Ian, and Hannah have gone out to find food and leaving Nathan in charge, the officer finds Quinn watching over his charge kicking a basketball back and forth with Alfredo.

"Mr. Quinn," he calls to him, "a word."

Quinn stifles the urge to ignore the other man, opting instead to stand at casual parade rest and offering a closed-lip grin that he knows leave his eyes cold.

"Mr. Llamosa and I were discussing how he can contribute. With his particular skill set, we thought it best that-"

"Somebody open the gate!" a shrill voice all but screams.

Everything freezes, eyes turned towards the gate across the yard. Nathan is the first to move, Alfredo a moment behind. Quinn follows at a steady pace, one hand reaching for his holster and withdrawing his gun and one eye kept on Kayden. Hannah doesn't like him carrying inside the walls, but Moriarty has never said a word.

Nathan is fumbling with the padlock but he gets the key in when he approaches, pulling the chain roughly from its loops and yanking open the door in time for Casey to stumble in, a pale Hannah all but laying against her side.

"There was a group of them," Casey gasps. "We were that grocery store, the one on 32nd and-" She's nearly to the point of tears as Quinn and Alfredo take Hannah from her. "She insisted we go in. Hannah insisted. Ian said it looked too dangerous, but she said it'd be alright." Her words stumble over each other, catching on her tongue in her effort.

"Where's Ian?" Sarah asks, coming up to the gate with Moriarty.

"He-he." A sob catches in Casey's throat. "He tried to get us out. We were surrounded and he-oh god." Nathan puts his arm around her.

Quinn pushes past the others, holding Hannah's upper body while Alfredo carries her feet. They bring the half-unconscious officer to the bunk, heading inside to lay her on the long table. There's blood on her shoulder, darkening the blackness of her uniform and smearing his hand where he held her.

He can hear others following as he rips the seam at the shoulder, peeling the material back to reveal the ragged wound in her trapezius. It's high and back a bit, but deep. A few more inches forward and it would have cut into her carotid.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Nathan says.

"Won't work," Quinn says, eyeing the wound, "it's a bite."

"No," Casey denies, "no. It can't be. She-I got her back! She's here now. Sh-she's...."

"I'm sorry."

"Did you say 'a bite?'" Hannah asks weakly, eyes half lidded as she looks towards him. Quinn nods, standing calmly as Casey vehemently denies her sister's death sentence.

"You sure?" Nathan asks, coming onto Hannah's other side. She reaches for him and he takes her hand.

"I'm sure."

The other officer still looks for himself, shutting his eyes in resignation. Quinn steps back, letting Casey come up to her sister's other side and makes eye contact with Alfredo, the other man having taken a step back to let Hannah's loved ones be near her.

"Let me know when you need me," Quinn says. He and Alfredo leave the others to their grief.

-

They bury Hannah in the field, away from the small pond and against the wall. They don't have Ian's body, but they write his name one of the pieces of plywood Nathan brings out from their supplies. Sarah was holding up remarkably well, and Quinn takes note of the woman he had originally written off as another soon-to-be dead body.

"You missed the ceremony," Quinn calls to his boss as he makes his way over to where she's lounging in a plastic chair by the lake, watching Kayden trying to catch a toad in the reeds.

"Didn’t think it was appropriate."

Quinn doesn't say anything to that. His own presence there had been brought about by the fact that it had been his hand that had driven the blade into the base of Hannah's skull – something neither Casey nor Nathan had had the stomach for.

"What now?"

Moriarty turns her calculating gaze on him. He can practically see her thoughts in their depths. He suppresses a shiver.

"There's more to Sarah Blake than I originally thought," she says, speaking of the recently widowed young woman. "I'll have to keep my eye on her. As for Mr. Mansfield," she adds referring to their new leader Nathan, "he stays. For now."

"Look," Kayden calls, running forward to show her mother and Quinn the brown toad she'd finally caught.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart. Very clever."

"Are we going to eat him?"

Kayden wrinkles her face up at Quinn’s suggestion. Ew-ing as she holds the toad closer and hurries back towards the lake.

"I need you to protect her."

"That's my job," Quinn replies simply.

Moriarty pauses, head tilting before she looks at him again. "Yes, it is." She studies him a moment before crossing her legs primly at the ankles. "Tell me, do you know why I gave up my daughter?"

He hides the surprise the question brings.

"The job."

"Yes, that is the sum of it. She was a weakness."

"I understand," he says, having seen it in those in his line of work before.

"No, I don't think you do," she says with a smile. "I didn't fear I'd pick her over my life's work." She stares at the girl, softly smiling as Kayden laughs while splashing in the shallow pool. "I knew myself too well for that. I was never going to leave my empire behind." She pauses once more to let her meaning sink it. "Do your job, Mr. Quinn."

Chapter Text

Spring 2013

0950

25.7 miles NE of Belleview Retirement Center

Footsteps are what wake him from his light doze. Too heavy to be Ziva's, but with the surefooted stride of a member of his team; Tony.

He opens his eyes to watch his senior field agent coming up the road towards him, the usually carefully groomed agent's clothes rumpled from being slept in the last two nights and his dirty hair a sporadic mess despite Tony's attempts to finger comb it into submission. His jaw holds what will be a full beard if they don't get back to base soon, lengths unseen since Tony's stent as a prisoner in Africa. But it's the added furrows in his brow, the freshly uncovered gray sprouting at his temples, and the bags growing beneath once easy smiling eyes that catches Gibbs' attention.

It's taking its toll, this new way of life, and his people are adapting. Makes him feel proud. It shouldn't.

"Ziva's not back yet?" Tony asks, squinting into the sun as he scans their surroundings, the abandoned street next to a falling apart millhouse. He thinks it was painted blue Before.

Gibbs shakes his head, his own gaze looking down the road for signs of life, or rather death as the case may be. Tony leans beside him against the pick-up, a sigh escaping as he looks up at the bright, white-washed sky.

"They'll be worried," he says quietly.

"Yep."

"Think we'll make it back today?"

He thinks about it, rolling the notion around his head. They weren't supposed to be gone this long, had never been away more than a night and those behind... with a shrug he looks at Tony, watching the other man as his face drops slightly.

"We're going back, DiNozzo," he says at last, unable to not offer some words of reassurance. Neither mention the large pack of eaters that have steadily pushed them north these last couple of days, or how they are going to get around them. Gibbs frequently demands the impossible from his team and they always deliver, even when he expects them to fail. Especially then.

"Show me what you found," he says, pushing off the truck to face his agent.

Tony swings around his pack, an accessory that at one time held the equipment needed to process a crime scene but now has the most basic needs for survival, and starts showing his boss what he's managed to dig up.

-
When Ziva shows up sweaty and dirt smudged with her own pack – slightly deflated compared to her companion's – Gibbs gives her a quick visual once over to check for injuries before nodding in greeting.

He doesn't have to look at DiNozzo to know the man is doing his much more thorough visual investigation. His senior agent takes a step towards the woman before pausing, seemingly caught in the relief at having her back with them.

She's harder, this Ziva. Her demeanor more akin to how she was when they met her. A mental shift that's put her back into the mindset of the deadly soldier she left behind when she joined his team for good. He wonders what it says about him that he approves, that he can't quite bring himself to mourn the loss of the finally healing woman.

"What you got, David?" Gibbs calls to break the silent watching between the pair.

Ziva looks at him smoothly, Tony nearly imperceptive twitching at his boss's words, before she replies.

"There's a road about three miles south that the pack is headed towards. If we act quickly we could beat them to it. And perhaps get past them."

"Let's move," he says, already heading around to the back of the pick-up. "You're driving," he adds to the hard eyed woman, causing Tony to sputter.

-
David's driving is too unpredictable for him to get off a proper headshot, a testament to her driving skills over his sharpshooting abilities if he does say so himself.

Gibbs is bracing himself against the truck bed's side as she takes a particularly sharp curve without slowing when he sees a flash of movement in the backwoods neighborhood they are driving through. He can't be sure, but still he focuses on their surroundings. A few moments later another bit of movement, a smudge of neon pink and orange, catches his eye.

He raps his knuckles against the divider glass, calling a "heads up" over the rush of air in his ears and indicating with a nod towards the surrounding houses and foliage.

Gibbs sees two more possible eaters before the last building of the sparse town passes and they enter a lightly wooded area.

A sudden jerk of the wheel nearly sends him off his seat. Gibbs looks around in time to see the figure of an overweight farmer reaching with his remaining arm for the vehicle. He can practically hear Tony's smartass remark at the close call, and Gibbs is already frowning at the image before he shakes it off.

It's only as they reach a straight stretch of smooth road with a surrounding field that the former Marine pulls out his rifle, propping it against his forearm as he scans the open area.

The moments stretch molasses thick, the world sharp and real in a way it only is through a lens, while the count between breaths feeling endless and everything around him slows down to give him the time he needs. There's no rush, the body moving sluggishly through the trees, sliding in and out of view, drawing ever closer to the moving object. The engine rumbles its low purr under him, coming up and into his limbs until he feels a part of the vehicle. He breathes in, counting out as two more bodies join the first, disjointed gaits coming together in a mini pack of eaters spotting their would-be prey. The pad of his pointer finger brushes the trigger, debates and then lifts off. Not yet.

He drops the weapon back down to his side, time rushing to catch up now that he's not holding it in his sights. It's the opposite of waking up.

Chapter Text

May-ish, 2013

Early Evening

Leaving Stafford

The outside of the apartment complex is surprisingly clear. Only a couple of straggling tainted who felt the need to try and turn them into a meal wandered around the front courtyard, but the vast majority, Aimee thought, were on the inside. The boys took care of them.

The fact that they didn't find this Garcia woman Agent Prentiss was looking for didn't seem to dampen the agent's determination. She seemed more upset about leaving behind the three survivors huddled in one of the vacant apartments, but they had been adamant about staying put and that the group trudging down the halls were not welcome.

Now they’re back in their vehicles, heading towards another member of the Federal agent's ex-team's homes. This one has a son she is hoping to find.

The ranch-reared woman is surprised at how many types of homes the cities hold; apartment complexes and closely compacted suburban neighborhoods. It's all rather...stifling. Or perhaps that's just the days spent on the road, sharing her space -and truck- with other bodies. Her father's land was small for the area they lived in, primarily consisting of the stables and the training fields. Wasn't a need for much else, even after Eliot and his team came and won them Kentucky Thunder, her father's first officially owned race horse. Then again, having to rebuild their reputation after that bastard Foss set fire to their stables hadn't exactly helped grow their business either.

Dad had poured his life into that stable, those horses. And when things had gotten bad, the radios nothing but static and their small town feeling half abandoned as more and more fell ill, her father had still refused to leave behind the business he'd fought so hard to create.

Aimee brings her full attention back to the road, blinking back tears as she rips her thoughts away from her father's unknown fate.

In the passenger seat, unusually quiet since the roadside near-confrontation, Anthony is gazing out the window. His reflection reveals a slight pinching at the corner of his wide set mouth, hooded eyes downcast, reminding her of a mournful puppy despite his advanced age.

"How you holdin' up?"

He looks up quickly, catching her gaze in the window before she brings her eyes back to the road.

"Me?" he chuckles, an easy grin falling back into place, "Oh, I don't think you need to worry too much about me. I'm tougher than I look." He gives her a wink.

Anthony is nothing like her father. From the easy smiles to his expensive leather shoes that have never seen real dirt, let alone the manure speckled ground back home, he couldn't be further from Willie Martin if he tried. But still she thinks of him. Can't quiet explain how a suit wearing jet setter with the charming smile brings to mind so easily her serious, Kentucky bred father.

Up ahead, the dark four-door takes a turn onto another street of tall apartments. She doesn't know what the plan is, where they are going or if there's even any sort of ultimate destination in mind. It should terrify her, and when she let's herself think too deeply on it, it does, but she doesn't have a better option than to keep moving forward and pray the pieces land where they should.

They pull into the front parking of a building that looks like every other one on the block.

Here they go again.

-

The next dawn comes too early, the group having pulled over at the brothers' suggestion when the evening shadows grew long.

The morning sun bounces against the passenger side mirror to shine hotly on her face is what wake Aimee from her sleep. An unusual feeling when the damp air is so cool, even inside the closed off interior of her truck. Even Agent Prentiss had been ready to stop, each empty home dragging at the Fed's confidence at find her old team.

It has taken its toll on Aimee as well, the one-time wrangler finding herself dejected as home after home turned up empty.

Turning to glance in the backseat at the still sleeping Anthony, she'd feel bad waking him if it wasn't for a few of the others she can see already up and moving. It’s best to wake him now, she figures, and give him a chance to work out the kinks from sleeping slouched against the window in the tiny back seat.

"Hey," she croaks, her voice morning rough, "Anthony."

He awakens with a small jerk, wincing as he straightens. He cracks his neck with a grimace before focusing on her.

"Morning," she greets. He nods, attention shifting to those moving outside.

Aimee exits the truck, stretching her back and taking in their surroundings. It was dark when they pulled over last night, Agent Prentiss suggesting they find someplace to sleep for the night before Sam managed to convince her they could rest in their vehicles. Dean gave Castiel first watch, the angel apparently not needing to sleep. A fact Aimee has a hard time swallowing, even with the apocalypse.

The land is a vivid, lush green. The field to the right is smattered with lilacs and pink and white wild flowers. It's a beautiful sight after the constant grays of the city.

Father Paul leans against one of the cars, a Bible open in his hands. Castiel stands near him, nearly boring a hole in the Father's head with his unwavering stare. The angel's gaze can be unsettling; the thought no sooner crosses her mind than Castiel wrenches his attention to her. Aimee gives a small start, heart in her throat, before she manages to give a small wave and sends a silent apology up to God in case such thoughts are blasphemous.

She turns her attention to the others, seeing Dean brushing his teeth, water bottle clutched in his free hand, while Sam talks to Olivia in the street, a long wooden bat clutched casually in one hand while the other gestures across the pavement. On the opposite side of the street, where gentle rolling hills blanked by tall grass disappear into the horizon, a tainted comes closer. Aimee tenses, eyes locking on the dead creature and feet shifting into a more balanced stance.

It comes closer, picking up speed into a kind of loping half-run before it slips, tumbling down in an ungraceful fall into the sharp angled ditch on that side of the road.

She stares at the spot where it disappeared, heart still racing as Sam crosses the road and looks down into the ditch. His brother joins him after a few moments.

"It's silent."

Aimee jumps as Castiel speaks, having not noticed the angel coming up. Cocking her head slightly, Aimee listens, but the sounds of birds and insects and the low murmur of the Winchesters discussing plans with the newly awakened Agent Prentiss all sound loud to her.

"I suppose nature has its own way of being quiet."

"No," Castiel says, looking into the middle distance, "my home." He pauses, staring at something she can't see. "My brothers and sisters cut ties with Earth. They decided to let the plague spread and eradicate the humans." He looks at her, expression shifting in some way that she can't read. "The communication network has been severed. I do not believe my father can hear you."

She can feel her jaw drop, focus set on the angel before her. She doesn't know what to ask, how to comment. Doesn't know if she wants to know.

"Emily's passing out breakfast," cuts in Olivia, the solemn girl looking pretty put together considering none of them have had a proper shower in almost a week.

"Uh-thanks," Aimee responds absently, turning back to Castiel, but the angel has already moved on, listening as Anthony launches into another story.

-

They are half-way to Quantico when they stop. A truck with a RV camper and a small, dark blue four door are on the side of the road at an intersection, the two vehicles having collided together.

They hop out, spreading around the wreckage with careful steps and weapons in hand. Even Agent Prentiss moves with caution, staying in step with the brothers on the opposite of Aimee and Anthony, the three members of their group more equipped with being armed moving to check out the overturned vehicles.

"Cas?" Dean calls.

"I... there's no one living," he replies haltingly.

"Anyone dead?"

"I," he pauses, coming up on the other side of Olivia. "Yes. And they are close."

"How close?"

A tainted with discolored skin and a patchy scalp of the long dead comes around the RV. It's jarring and surreal, looking more like a corpse than any tainted ones they've come across yet.

"Oh, that close."

Three more tainted appear, coming around the edges of the wreck. Aimee can taste metal behind her teeth as the two closest to her focus on her and Anthony.

"There's more," Castiel says as Sam moves forward to take out the first tainted. The angel indicates to the curved road disappearing in the hills.

"Any chance you can tell us how many?" asks Sam.

Behind her, Anthony moves back towards the truck while the two tainted on their side of the wreckage get within swinging distance of Aimee's bat.

"Four. Maybe more."

She raises her bat, taking aim and knocking one to the side with a shot to the neck. She pauses on a moment before moving in for a downswing. She hits the skull this time, the crack one that she feels into her shoulders.

Anthony's sudden shout has her turning, catching sight of more of the dead coming around the turn in the road. The older man is holding one back by its shoulders, its dead fingers clinging to his expensive suit as it tries to get closer.

She moves towards them, shoving the tainted away with one hand while wrenching her other around to try and drive her baseball bat into its jaw. She misses by inches, but Anthony is free, stumbling back with a labored gasp.

Someone runs into her back, grappling for purchase on her still spinning arm. She just has time to register the cool hands and smell of decay, panic rising up into a scream caught at the base of her throat, while the tainted who attacked Anthony regains its footing and sets milky eyes on her.

She twists to her left, her clothing pulling and tugging in the too tight grasp. She wrenches free in time for a spray of something dark and thick to splatter across her right side. Congealed blood and bits of what she hopes is bone sticking to her jaw as the tainted in front of her freezes, one arm still swinging listlessly at its abrupt stop. It crumples to the ground with a jerk, revealing Father Paul with a dripping crowbar in hand.

Aimee barely pauses to give him a nod in thanks before she's spinning back around, the fabric of her shirt sleeve catching on grabby hands and giving with a rip she can feel along her arm. Her bat hits home with a solid thunk. A dead pre-teen falls to the ground.

She looks up in time to see Dean drive his blade into the heads of two tainted, somehow making both strikes seem like two parts of one move, graceful and deadly. She knew another man who could move like that once upon a time.

Just a bit behind Dean is Sam, large frame hunched over one of the corpses, running his blade on the creature's shirt to clean it. Castiel, Olivia, and Prentiss are taking out the last three, the fed keeping her body ahead of the other two.

A startled gasp behind her has her turning back to the priest.

"You're shirt," he says.

She looks down, notices the dark blue patches interspersed with the crisscrossing splatter of near black. The frayed edges of her shirt sleeve catch uncomfortably against her skin. It's funny, the wound doesn't hurt until she looks at it, the jagged edges of skin seeping a brighter red tone. It's only visible in between the rough edges of her torn sleeve, the compromised fabric allowing a tainted's perfect opening.

"She's been bit," Father Paul calls to the others, moving towards her to grasp at the open air above the exposed bite.

Aimee can't stop staring, gaze sharply focused on the vivid edges of the ripped off skin in sharp edged glory.

Her ears feel hot, her fingertips numb, and the bite hurts, a steady throbbing in time with her pounding pulse.

There's a blur of movement, a rush of sound, and hands touching her. It's almost comforting. But the wound - bite - aches and she can't get enough air and the world has darkened at the edges until all she can see is the bloody, torn skin of her arm.

Dirt-stained fingers enter her field of vision, followed by the rough palm of a hand covering her bite. It burns, hot and searing, and Aimee thinks she might scream, she may have, before it all cuts off abruptly.

There's a small series of gasps around her, calloused hand moving back, red and dripping, and revealing unbroken skin.

"Is it...?" Sam asks, and Aimee can hardly stand to breath let alone tear her gaze from her unblemished arm.

"Did it work?" Dean asks, and Aimee wants to laugh because her arm is streaked with her blood but it’s whole and there's no sign of the bite and doesn't he see?

"I'm not sure," Castiel says after a long moment, and finally, finally she can look up and study the angel that's studying her in a way that makes her feel naked, like all of her insides laid bare.

"What do you mean 'not sure?' Is she infected or not?"

Castiel switches his gaze to Dean, something all too old in his eyes.

"Everyone is infected," he replies simply.

There's a moment of dead silence before chaos erupts, a chorus of voices demanding an explanation, while Aimee stares at the angel and wonders if she's going to die.

Chapter Text

End of May, 2013

Somewhere between Indiana and Ohio

Early Evening

Logically, Sophie is perfectly aware they are making good time, for the way traffic is now at least, but by god does she miss her private planes, or even a commercial plane. Hell, at this point she'd settle for business class with a crying two-year-old in the seat next to her. Cross country road trips were not meant to be done in a collapsed society.

She sniffs delicately to herself as she turns her head towards the window. They won't let her drive. Oh, they're being very discreet about it, one of the others conveniently volunteering whenever she so much as breathes in the direction of the driver's side door, but you can't con a con-artist. And she's the best. She'd be more annoyed by it if even thinking of being in the driver's seat didn't stroke her anxiety in just the right unignorable way.

"We settin' up camp for the night?" Eliot drawls from the back, voice low. Besides him, Hardison is sound out, drooling sticky lines onto the upholstery in a very unattractive manner. He should probably be taking over for Nate soon, their mastermind having hardly slept a wink since they started traveling uninterrupted.

"Your call, Eliot," her fiancé says through the earpiece.

Parker snorts, bobbing along to music only she can hear in the driver's seat. "Com'on, we can totally get to Quantico before morning. Sooner if you guys would put the pedal to the metal." She lets out a happy whoop. In the back Hardison mumbles something in his sleep and shifts.

"Eliot?" Nate asks again, putting the choice in their hitter's hands.

"If we keep going it'll cut our trip shorter by a whole day," Eliot says. "We may even be able to get to Quantico before tomorrow evening. We'll still need to stop," he says and Parker lets out a noise of protest, "and I don't trust these roads to not have blockades."

Sophie tries not to wince, remembering the men they'd come across shortly after the phone lines fell. The stab of terror she'd felt when Hardison's comm suddenly went silent, and those long agonizing minutes where no one could tell her what had happened.

Sophie bites her tongue before she can give her opinion - not while she's being driven by her emotions, not when the taste for metal lays constant on the back of her tongue and her hands fight to tremble.

"Keep going," Eliot says after a pregnant pause. "For now at least."

Sophie takes as subtle of a deep breath as she can, turning to face the window and tries to get some sleep.

-

Sophie awakens to hand on her shoulder and a voice low in her ear, a breath brushing it as Eliot leans in close.

"Easy now," he's saying, and she blinks her eyes open to see that they've stopped. Bright headlights shine into their windshield before cutting off and Sophie has a moment of panic before she shoves it down.

"They're military," Eliot continues, "US. Probably part of some kind of containment group."

"Alright," Nate says over their comms, "here's how we're going to play this. If you have ID on you, use that one. No doubt they'll search us. Otherwise, let's stick to a basic cover story." Some of the military men have started coming closer, and Sophie lets some of her anxiety bleed through to her expression. "Sophie and I are the Bakers. Parker,-"

"I'm Alice White," Parker says before he has a chance to assign her an alias.

"Good. Eliot, Hardison, think you two can cover-"

"We got it," Eliot replies. The sounds of Hardison being forcibly woken reaches the front seat just as one of the military men get to the driver's side window where Parker is waiting. The other waits back a few feet, just far enough that Sophie can't get a good look at the details of their face. They are holding an automatic rifle across their chest, pointed down at the ground, in full gear, and Sophie doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The man at the driver's side door taps the window before Parker rolls it down, her face starting to break into a manic grin before Nate says over the comms, "No smiling, Parker, let them see you nervous." Her face falls into stony blankness before she turns back to the uniformed man.

"Evening, Officer. Soldier?" Parker asks in a deadpan voice, Sophie suppresses a flinch and gives her own anxious gaze, mixing it with a touch of relief.

"Sorry to frighten you, ma'am," he greets back in the slight drawl of the midwest. He smiles at the both of them, and Sophie gives her own back, no more real than his but far more convincing.

Behind them Nate is explaining to Jared their fake names. She hopes the boy plays along.

-

A calm settles over the grifter as they are lead into the compound. This is something she's good at, being in the midst of the enemy with nothing but her words as weapons. Even that ever-present worry for the others is fading into the background; there's not a cage that's been invented that can hold Parker, and Eliot's black ops training would have more than given him the tools to handle this. The boy may prove an issue getting out, but Nate won't leave him behind and she trusts their mastermind to get them out of this. The man had a plan for a government destroying disease, so she has complete faith in his ability to get them all through this. And Hardison, well he's got the rest of them.

Sophie doesn't even need to tell the others she's taking point as they park and she steps out of the van, shoulders hunched a calculated amount and steps purposely unsure. She thinks she'll be a Kentucky house-wife, not Kitty with her loads of money and love of horse racing, but maybe Margaret with her failed marriage to her high school sweetheart and collection of Audrey Hepburn movies.

"Welcome," a man greets, all smiles and false charm, dirty blond hair over deeply lined eyes. He offers a hand, tanned ruddy by the sun, "James Daniel. Glad we found you folks."

"Peggy," she replies, extending her hand to let him shake even as she positions herself closer to Nate, who’s rocking back and forth on his feet, fingers in his pockets as is the way of his peaked-in-high-school persona. "This is my husband Tommy."

She leans into Nate's side, half hiding behind him even as she darts her gaze around the place. Let Daniel read into it, let him write her off as a frightened woman who needs to cower by her useless husband when nervous. "And these are our-" she pauses, painting her features with uncertainty, "-friends."

"Martin," Eliot says extending his hand to Daniels, "and this is Alice." He takes Parker's hand with his left, bringing their laced fingers up to kiss the back of her palm. Parker taking a beat too long to respond, her smile tight but she lets Eliot tuck her under his side without pulling away. She's still playing nervous though, a feature that can cover a plethora of missteps.

"We were on our way to visit my cousin Ellie in Iowa when-" Sophie chokes up, blinking back tears and breathing deeply once before turning to Hardison and Jared. "Alex and Jake, we met near St. Louis."

The Heartland accent is subtle, and the city's culture is mixed enough that Hardison shouldn't have to fake much. Maybe some knowledge of the city that Sophie will be happy to provide should he need it.

"I'm glad to see you folks made it safely this far. It's dangerous, out on the road," Daniel says, indicating that they should follow him.

"Don't we know it," Nate replies with a bit of a strained laugh. "Especially when you're stuck in the car with the ol' ball and chain, amirite?" Sophie gives him a glare, scolding him with just enough reluctance to play up the unhappy marriage vibe Nate has picked up on.

"Oh, I'm just kiddin', hun, you know that."

"You're a lucky man," Daniels continues, giving Sophie the once over, "most people lost their families when the plague hits."

"Well, yeah, yeah," Nate replies quickly, looking appropriately put out for having his fun cut off. "I've just been in the car a long time, y'know? I'm tired and-and stressed. I love ya," he turns to Sophie, his other arm joining the first around her waist. "You know I love ya, Pegs. Have since school, babe."

She smiles, just enough strain around the edges for Daniel to pick up on. "I know. We're all just tired." She turns back to Daniel. "It's not been... easy. As I'm sure you can imagine."

He nods, his sympathies as real as her name, but his eyes still flicker over her in interest. Good, this will go easier if she and Eliot are the only ones grifting the guards.

-

Sophie awakes with a headache the next morning, dull and hinting at a long stay at the back her skull.

Nate shifts behind her as she removes his arm to get out of the blow up mattress they are sharing. Across the room, Eliot cracks an eye open to look at her, shutting them again when he sees it's just her, the back of Parker's arm half smacked over his face.

Hardison and Jared are each in a single sleeping bag over their assigned cots, their hacker having nearly tried to climb in next to his girlfriend and Eliot before Nate had given him a look in reminder. They are lucky to be in the same room, but feeling this vulnerable makes them all want to stay together. Except maybe Parker, their thief has a habit of seeking isolation when threatened.

Sophie pads her way towards the so-called bathrooms. They are more of a port-a-potty next to a wash up area, adjacent to the temporary housing they'd placed their team in. Peeing outdoors has never looked more appealing to her.

It's as she's finishing her "shower," scrubbing the important areas with a baby wipe, that she hears someone approach behind her.

They are quieter than they should be so she gives a little jump as she turns, stepping back with a small laugh as she smiles at Daniel.

"You startled me," she scolds playfully.

"Sorry, ma'am." He grins back at her, all sweet southern charm and concealed interest.

"I was just cleaning up." Sophie indicates behind her at the make-shift sink. "There wouldn't happen to be some kind of Tylenol around here?" she asks. "I woke up with a bit of a headache."

"We've got an infirmary," Daniels replies, "may not be that fancy, but should have something."

He puts a hand on the small of her back as he leads her towards another of the make-shift buildings across the compound.

-

Breakfast is held outdoors at a set of picnic tables set near the center of the compound. Sophie sitting next to Jared and Nate, with the other three across from them. They're given a set of instant meals in a can, some kind of weight loss drink in a variety of three flavors. The fake chocolate taste sticks harshly to the back of her tongue.

"These are disgusting, man," Hardison says with a grimace. "Diet drinks? Does it look like I need to go on a diet?"

"It's a meal replacement," Nate replies, looking down at his own can with an unhappy scowl.

"What's wrong with the food we brought?" Hardison says with a grumble. "I have an unopened bag of gummy frogs in Lucille's glove compartment. And at least a baker's dozen orange soda."

"My guess," Nate continues, eyes on Parker chugging her own drink down before she eyes Hardison's barely touched can. "They'll 'confiscate' our supplies for the soldiers."

"Confiscate? Confi- they can't just confiscate my gummy frogs! I brought those from home!-"

"They're taking care of their own," Parker cuts in. Eliot slides his drink in front of the thief. "And that's not us." She leans over Eliot to direct the last part at Hardison, whose still grumbling about government stoogies getting fingerprints on his laptop.

"No," Nate agrees, "it's not. There's no one higher than a Private Second Class here. They aren't following any orders but their own."

"Look at them," Eliot mutters, tapping his fingers against the table. "Only a third of them were even in the army. If that. The rest? My guess would be survivors they found. Put a gun in their hands and told them they are soldiers now."

"You don't approve?" Sophie tilts her head at their hitter. She's not surprised, of all of them he's always been the easiest to understand, to predict, and even manipulate, but there's something in his voice she can't quite put her finger on. Dark eyes flicker over him, trying to pick up what's got their hitter on a sharper edge than normal.

"And you do? They are taking untrained, untested men and giving them a dangerous amount of power. The structure of the US military exists for a reason. The tests are there for a reason. Physical, psychological, all of them are designed to protect those who want to serve their country. Take that away and it's askin' for disaster."

His gaze jerks around at the men and women in uniform. Scanning each one out of the corner of his eye, tension running around his faux-relaxed stance.

"Finish your drink," Nate says to Jared on the other side of him. The boy hasn't touched his drink after the first swallow.

"It's gross," he complains.

"It'll help you keep your strength up."

"For what?"

Nate doesn't reply, but the others share a look.

Chapter Text

Sunday

May 26th 2016

Early Afternoon

Historic center just inside Delaware

Kate is sick. Not quite feverish, but pale and sluggish. She woke that morning and barely kept down her breakfast (a can of creamed corn and some graham crackers), nauseated and taking small sips of water to keep herself from puking.

She doesn't say anything, but Rick learned early in their partnership the signs of Kate not feeling well. The first day of her monthly cycle always hit her hard and he learned rather quickly what days to have extra coffee and painkillers on hand. The death of electricity killed his online calendar so he can't be sure, but that's quite possible that's what's happening here. Still Rick worries. By god does he worry.

"We should see if there's any first aid kits around here," he says after their third check through the building. Kate's convinced the zombies are getting in somehow, demanding they sleep in shifts through out the night. Rick's not as sure on the matter. The ones they've come across could just as easily have already been inside before they sealed the doors. He really should look into getting Gibbs something for all the supplies in their packs, although he's yet to find a real use for the four inch flip blade he found in a side pocket, but he's been consulting with the police long enough to think of several uses for the miniature bolt cutters.

"I'm fine," Kate says with a dismissive wave. White lines bracket her mouth, her eyes appear dull.

He's so very proud of her. Her unwavering dedication and the way she's kept him sane. She's always been determined, detrimentally so at times, and her strength of will has left him humbled and awed more instances than he can count, but it's at these moments when he curses her stubborn cop mentality.

"You're no good to anyone if you're not better," he counters. She gives him a mulish look, mouth opening before he rushes to continue. "You're no good to me if you’re sick. What am I going to do if you get worse?"

She flushes, the sickly red striking against her currently colorless pallor, but she nods.

"I'm not sick," she says with a stubborn reluctance, "but maybe I can use some Aleve."

Something near his heart relaxes a bit, the ever-present worry pulsing through his veins ebbing just enough to allow a full breath to enter his lungs and leaving him on a gasp for more. His entire body feels on razor’s edge, seconds away from plummeting him into unknown depths of darkness while adrenaline cycles through his system demanding he find his daughter, his mother, his life. He just wants confirmation they're alive, wants to know that they're OK, and then maybe he won't feel like he's about to fall to pieces just from daring to exist.

"Of course not," he says, ripping his thoughts back to the present and his fiance. "Big bad Beckett never gets sick."

She mock glares at him, and he manages a smile, feeling lighter in these moments. Selfishly he clings to them, to the distraction she willingly provides with her barbs and insight, her love and touch and presence. He couldn't love her more.

She stands from her chair, movements slightly slower, and he can't help but touch the back of his hand against her forehead.

"No fever," he informs her, hiding the swell of relief at the lack of that particular symptom. Fever means death, means zombie infection, and he can't put a bullet in Kate's brain. He's not strong enough for that. He's leaning his all on her at the moment, selfishly taking every drop she's willing to give just to keep moving forward.

"I'm fine, Castle." But she's smiling as she says it, small and weak, pace a step slower than normal beside him and her service gun in hand an inch lower than standard.

"Not saying you’re not," he replies simply, turning into what looks to be some kind of staff breakroom. "Ah-ha," he calls as he squats by an open sink and fishing a tell-tale cross covered box from beneath. "Whatever happened to the days of the fancy metal ones?"

He sets the large, plastic case on the table, pausing only for a moment when he thinks he hears something scrap against the floor. Outside the wind buffers the side of the building.

"They got rid of them in favor of the much more practical and cheaper, plastic ones."

"But the metal ones were classic."

He unlocks the sides, opening the lid and digs in to see what it contains. Gauze and creams are ignored in favor of the small individual packages of various name-brand pain relievers. He hands her a couple before leaving the rest of the box for Kate to look through. There's a set of lockers against the wall, twelve in total, two rows of six stacked atop one another. Eight of them have locks, but Gibbs' bolt cutters will take care of those easily enough.

The first locker has a set of dress clothes and a lunch box – moldy, leftover pizza and a bottle of water packed inside - and the second has nothing but some hand-warmers and pictures of someone's kids, but the third has a small zipped beaded bag with tampons and panty liners inside and some loose change. He hands the bag and the hand warmers to Kate, putting aside the water for later. Two of the last five are empty, the final three containing a jacket, a woman's purse – which he sets aside to go through later with a twinge of guilt he’ll have to shake – and another lunch box smelling so strongly of rot that he tosses it without bothering to look inside.

Kate is sitting at the table, head propped on one hand as she stares down at the items laid before her.

"Anything good?" he asks taking the seat across from her.

She nods before adding, "We should probably take the whole thing."

"Kind of hard to carry," he says reluctantly. She makes a frustrated noise of agreement, looking up at the bounty he’s scavenged. "I don't want to go through it." Rick indicates the purse sitting beside him. "Doesn't feel right." He can almost remember the faces to the people – zombies, he reminds himself – that they shot on the way in. Was one a woman? Did they kill the people these items belonged to? Did he?

Without a word and only a small pause, Beckett pulls the purse towards her, opening it with the focus and detachment she uses when examining evidence. She pulls items from within one by one, carefully setting them in the middle of the table. He wonders if she realizes she's slipped into detective mode, or if it's done on purpose to help take the grimness from the task.

Some crumpled paper, a wallet – opened only a moment to insure nothing of immediate value to them was inside – and a small paperback book by some author Rick doesn't know before the chunky tinkle of metal against metal reaches his ears. His gaze snags on the keys set on the table before him, lined up neatly next to the paperback.

"Beckett," he says, one hand already coming out to point at the bundle. He locks eyes with hers, sees the slow turning of wheels as her mind struggles to gather his meaning before brightening.

"A car!" they say together, wide matching grins spreading across their faces as they both gather the implications.

"I bet the zombies we – well, you – took out before we came in had vehicles too," Rick adds with excitement, the reality less harsh with the spark of excitement. "The bodies are just outside. And the rest are probably gone by now."

"I don't know, Castle," Kate replies, worry creeping into her voice. "The door swings outward and there's no way to tell what's on the other side."

"Come on," Rick counters, giddy now that there's a possibility of moving onward, to finding Alexis. "Anything could be in those vehicles and we won't know unless we get in. Plus, this," he holds up the keys from the purse, "is probably some cutsy mini-cooper that doesn't even get to sixty. Let's at least explore our options here."

Kate bites the inside of her lip and Rick knows he's won. She may demand a compromise, but she's at least seeing the wisdom of his words.

"We'll check the parking lot first. See what's out there, but," she holds up one finger, a healthy color beginning to awaken in her cheeks, faint but present, "we didn't see anything when we got here-"

"We couldn’t see the whole lot."

"-so don’t get your hopes up. If those," she indicates to the keys still resting in Rick's hand, "are to a perfectly capable vehicle, we are taking that one. No matter what else you find."

He nods rapidly, eager to get started. Standing and grabbing both their packs, Rick barely waits for Kate to push up from the table and unholster her weapon before he's leading the way towards the front of the building.

There's one semi-large window covered in broken blinds at the main entrance, set in a large room with maps and pictures on it. Bits of Delaware's history on the walls and pedestals. A small brown receptionist's desk had been within sight of a single swinging door, but they'd pushed it against the lobby's entrance the first time they were in the room. The window had been covered with one of their sleeping bags, corners tucked with tacks found in a back office, the rest already shoved into a side pocket of Rick's bag. Now that same sleeping bag is tugged back at the side enough to allow the two of them a limited view of the parking lot.

A spring wind rattles against the sides of the building, whistling past the window and seeping through gaps to add an edge of chill to the lobby.

"They really should have designed this building better," Rick says with a raise of his eyebrows at Kate. She smiles at him, stifling the laugh he knows wants to come up. It's amazing what a little hope and some ibuprofen can do.

"I can see the edge of a car from here," Kate says. Rick makes his way to her side, glancing over her shoulder to see what she sees.

"Looks like a SUV maybe? A van?" It's on the smaller end if it is, and he can't make out distinct through the warped and dirty glass.

"Possibly."

"Only one way to find out." Ricks heads towards the desk blocking the front door, bracing his hands against it to move it out of the way. He waits long enough for Kate to get on the other side, each of them grabbing an edge and lifting.

Kate checks the window, frowning for just a moment before glancing back at him.

"Stay close," she says in a low voice, raising her gun and indicating to him to pull out his own.

"Wait," Rick hisses, causing Kate to freeze for a moment before noticing him hooking the arms of his pack onto both shoulders and twisting hers to rest on his chest. His own is starting to feel like a part of him, but Kate needs room to move.

"OK, ready." He nods, firm and determined, his weapon in one hand the other on the door knob. Normally there'd be another homicide detective there, one to bracket his fiance while he stayed a safe distance back, for her sake as much as his, but different times.
He opens it and steps back quickly, letting Beckett take the lead. This is her area, even when she's not feeling well, this is what she excels at.

"Clear," she calls, and he follows her into the afternoon sun. The parking lot is old but clean. Small starter shoots of grass between the cracks that spread like a giant spider web over half the surface. Three vehicles occupy the lot; a small gold SUV – the modern day minivan - a green Escort, and a dark blue, late-80's Toyota.

Kate pushes one of the buttons on the key fob, watching as the green Escort front lights blink at them.

"Oh, come on," Rick complains, "that thing barley has any horse power."

-

The first aid kit had to practically be brought out on its own trip, Rick lugging it behind Kate while she carries the found purse refilled with various items scrounged from the historic center.

He's sweating under the early afternoon sun, his dirty shirt sticking to him in damp, slightly uncomfortable patches that grow suddenly cold each time a gust of rowdy wind attempts to shove against him. It had taken the two of them more trips than he'd thought to get everything into the small, green car.

She reaches the back passenger door ahead of him, her gaze doing sweeps along the half-hidden curve of the connecting street. The green of the trees – lush and full with spring – and rustling through the brisk breeze cutting through are lovely to look at, but Rick has hung around enough law enforcement to catch the hidden shadows and blind curve of the road, perfect for concealing all sorts of dangers.

The plastic handle slides against his sweaty palm as he adjusts his grip, following Kate's gaze for a few seconds before moving forward, one leg rising to balance the kit against his thigh as his left hand reaches for the edge of the car door.

Kate turns towards him, mouth curved slightly in comment when her eyes widen in horror. Something hits his back and she screams.

Chapter Text

Sunday

May, 2013

Not quite afternoon

Quantico, Virgina

They're fraying. It's subtle but happening. Sometimes Javier thinks they can see it, others he wonders if being a team for so long has dulled them to each other in this regard. But it's there, in Morgan's darkly circled eyes and JJ's blind focus, in the way the young doctor seems to already be one of the walking dead, blindly following his team to whatever destruction they are leading them to.

Sometimes, when Javier's leaning against his car and watching as the three of them discuss the next step, he thinks about leaving. Taking Sara Grace and trying to head back towards Dale City. Then he'll see the spark behind JJ's eyes flare to life as she looks at her team, catch a glimpse Dr. Ried breaking through his hollow shell to peek out at the world, or see the steely compassion in Morgan's few softer moments, and Javier knows he's made the right decision to stay.

"We're entering a neighborhood now," he says, trying to fill the silence in the car. Dr. Ried doesn't answer him, but Sara let's out a happy gurgle.

The houses on either side of him are expensive, far out of anything he'd ever be able to afford in his lifetime. Gated monstrosities with sweeping gardens and long driveways. Not quite mansions, but close.

Ahead of them, Morgan is turning the large SUV down the driveway of the Mallard residence, and hopefully the location of JJ's husband and child.

His stomach plummets as they drive up the gravel lane. The lawn is crawling with risen, shambling bodies slowly being drawn to their moving vehicles. The front porch, bracketed by a pair of tall pillars, frames the open front door. There are corpses, the kind that don't move, lying before the steps.

He pulls up to a stop behind Agent Morgan, unfastening his seatbelt as he turns to Dr. Reid.

"Watch Sara a moment, would you?"

Focus sharpens the younger man's features, his nod firm as he unhooks his own seatbelt and twists sideways in his seat. It flickers a moment at the dead coming closer, but it passes, and Javier let's out a breath.

He screws the silencers onto the end of his service pistol. The area is too populated, already there's a small group of risen that are making their way down the street towards them, and while the three dozen or so that are outside are cause for some worry, the amount that would be brought with gunfire would be detrimental.

He takes a breath, pushes open the driver's side door enough to step out and stand, arm up and squeezing once, twice, five times before he finishes exiting the vehicle.

He presses his back against the door, shutting it with a soft click as he sights the closest risen and squeezes. He skips over the next closest one, shuffling his feet towards where Morgan and JJ are exiting their own SUV. Javier moves his aim at those still concentrating on the car, a flash of dark red to the temple as the corpse falls and he's moving on.

He keeps moving, dirty boots over gravel somehow still pristine white as he sights and shoots. Most are drawn to him, moving target equaling fresh prey as he makes his way away from the vehicle currently holding his kid. But some aren't. He keeps squeezing.

A risen, much closer than he realized, jerks as it drops. A splattering of red so dark it's near black catching his gaze and he increases his speed.

"Thanks," Javier grunts. He doesn't turn, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Morgan pop off another round into the next closest risen.

They fall into a pattern – Javier taking out those that are closest to the vehicles (the ones who see the life inside and those that haven't yet), JJ clearing them a straight path to the door, and Morgan focusing on those that are closing in on the sides.

It feels like miles, it feels like seconds, and then they are on the front porch, through the open door.

The smell hits him first. Death, even in its new form, is never something you get used to smelling, but Javier almost had after weeks spent surrounded by the stench of risen. But this is different; this isn't that kind of dead. This is the kind that coats the back of your throat, that invades your pores and fires all the synapses in your brain with wrong because people aren't supposed to smell this.

There are corpses under their feet, rotting dry flesh that gives under the heels of his boots where Javier can't avoid stepping on them. But they all used to be cloudy-eyed and moving, giving off the dry, infectious rotting smell of those who got back up from their death beds.

He pauses inside the threshold, squatting into position almost without thought as he breathes through his mouth in an effort to curb the cloying scent of day-old bodies.

"Oh my god." The words are a deep moan, bringing Javier's attention over his shoulder long enough to see JJ staring with a sickening expression at the stairs.

There's a corpse, possibly two, and not the kind that he's taking out for getting too close to the SUVs. Flies buzz around the half-eaten bodies sprawled across the base of the stairs. Bits of clothes stick to flesh and hair so matted with half-dried fluids it's become impossible to distinguish color; he can't even tell gender or race of the victim without getting closer.

The rest of the foyer is littered with risen, both moving and not, Morgan keeping their numbers to a minimum. Javier takes aim at those outside once more.

"JJ," the FBI agent calls as he takes out another corpse.

"I need to know," she says desperately, almost shrill, "Morgan, I have to know."

Footsteps rush up the steps, and for one blistering moment he fears she's going to shout, call out for her missing husband and bring everything down around their heads, but no call comes.

Three more risen fall, each one carefully selected as they get too close to either the front porch or the SUVs. He can't afford to waste a shot.

Behind him the soft pops of a silenced semi-automatic touch his ear in a continuous string.

"You got a minute?" Morgan says steadily. "Could use a hand."

Javier is already turning, calling out "left," as he aims towards an open doorway where a small trickle of risen are filing through, all discolored eyes and hard steps. Squeeze, pop, fall, squeeze, pop, fall. It's almost soothing.

His stomach is sour by the time JJ comes back, his gun clicking on empty and the last few magazines counting at less than five.

There's more risen on the lawn, small groups of three and four finding their way towards the house every few minutes and he's going to run out of bullets.

He frowns at the thought, pausing as he takes out another walking corpse that had gotten too close for comfort to the passenger side of his SUV. These things need the brain to be damaged to take them out, and distance is nice but perhaps shouldn't be his fall back method of disposal.

Morgan comes up next to him, his own gun up and aiming, back pressed against the door jamb to give him sightlines both indoor and out.

"Place is clear as it's going to be without going further in," he says in a low voice.

Javier nods once, resolve coming in as he straightens from his crouch.

"You got this?" He jerks his head towards the front lawn. Morgan nods. "I'll be back."

-

It doesn't take him long to find the kitchen, blood splattered and covered in various bits of dry goods. He picks up a couple of dented cans, shaking out a dirty plastic shopping bag before putting them inside. Stepping over a fallen chair, he works his way towards the counters and drawers, pulling them open one by one.

In one he finds a metal strip against a classic backsplash, the traditional set of cooking knives sticking against it. They aren't perfect - he'll need to go to a shop that specializes in tactile knives for that – but they'll do for now.

-

"Find anything?" Javier asks when he catches sight of JJ. Bloodshot eyes look at him, cheeks flushed and still damp, and he feels his heart thump loud and painfully in his chest. Echos of grief that isn't even his vibrating against his ribs.

She shakes her head slightly, gaze dropping, and it should be alright, but his sight snags on her hand and the toy car clutched in it, and he finds the air in the room too difficult to breathe in for a moment. He wants to be outside, needs to have his little girl heavy and solid in his arms so badly it's choking him.

"It's Henry's."

There's a waver in her voice, almost but not quite breaking. Like the woman before him, but not him. He's cracked open inside over a child he doesn't know, and it should be OK to feel like this, only he never has before, and his kid is outside, out of sight and away from him where the dead eat anything that can't get away.

Javier forces himself to take a breath, to pull the air into his lungs and hold it there to the count of five, releasing it slowly on the same. Rinse and repeat.

"That just means they were here."

"I know that. I keep telling myself not to give up hope. But god, Javi, I don't know how much longer-" The back of her hand comes up to press against her lips, eyes squeezed shut as fresh tears escape and dribble off the edge of her jaw.

Hands come out, automatic and steady, wrapping around her shoulders to pull her into his chest. She shatters, just for a moment, just long enough to press damply into the front of his shirt, grief spilling out all over the floor and releasing the constant pressure, before she straightens. She steps back and puts space between them, covering the cracks and pulling it all back into her until her trembling is barely noticeable.

"Here." Javier holds out the thick carving knife to her after she's gathered herself. "We can't rely on bullets forever."

JJ nods, taking the blade without comment, but her gaze doesn't leave it, and a fraction of a moment Javier feels a shot of fear course through his veins and settle like ice in the tips of his fingers.

"We should probably search the rest of the house."

Javier nods.

-

Whoever was in the house left quickly, and there's enough evidence to point to more than just JJ's family leaving behind personal items and food.

Javier found a descent tactile knife in one of the bedrooms, without a case but sharp and clean and laid out on an expensive dresser with various similar items.

"There's clothes in the dresser," he says with a jerk of his head towards the open drawer. They're closer to JJ's size than the other room’s – dark and practical – and all four of them are sweaty and dirty from the weeks on the road.

The sweeps are done quickly, the two of them meeting back in the upper level's hallway before making their way back to the foyer.

JJ's steps slow, hesitating and heavy. Bruised eyes watch him without seeing and Javier fights the urge to take her arm and lead her the long way down, back to the narrow steps at the back of the house. But she's not a witness, not some traumatized housewife having found her husband's mutilated corpse in their living room.

Without his permission his gaze drops to the bottom of the stairs. The bodies have been moved, shoved to the side and half-hidden in the shadow of the drawing room's doorway. A brush at his shoulders, along his shoulder blade, and so fleeting he'd almost think he conjured it if JJ's form wasn't a blurred bit of shadow at the corner of his eye, and he can't help but touch her, stopping her from looking with a light pressing of his fingertips over her right wrist.

His fingers curl around, holding low on her forearm as he steps forward, tight enough that she can't pull free without trying but loose enough to let her go if she does.

She's tucked half behind him, her view hopefully blocked, as his foot touches the top step. His own gaze attempts to stay steady ahead, but something inevitably pulls it to the bodies. Over and over, dragging his attention, trying to piece together the people they once were. Hair looks long, stringy in dirt and blood, but coming down past slim appearing shoulders. Was Will a slight man? A chewed-up wrist barely holds a surprisingly intact hand on the other body, tendons holding the pieces together like tough string. Wrinkles of age decorate the back. How old was JJ's husband? Old enough to have developed age spots?

"They're not here," Morgan says as he catches sight of them. "JJ, it's not him. An old man and a teenager, but not Will. Not Henry."

The agent behind him doesn't react, but under his fingers the skin trembles, a pulse pounds insistent and strong.

"We're not going to stop," he finds himself saying, and Morgan looks at him, sharp and pointing and so full of cautious approval that he feels taken aback.

Morgan turns his attention back to his teammate and Javier lets her go feeling oddly like he's part of the team. It's funny, he hadn't realized he wasn't.

Chapter Text

Late May, 2013

Mid-Morning

Retirement Community, Quantico, Virginia

Colin is supposed to be back with his and Jake's group by lunch and Breena is still sulking. At least according to Savannah, but Leyla is keeping her mouth shut and her opinion of the newcomers to herself.

The doctor is sitting on the end of Leyla's couch, cup of tea curled protectively in her palm but only a single sip taken and Leyla fights the upward tug at the corner of her lips. She makes it strong and bitter, the way her father used to.

Her mother, always so tall and proud, enters at near silence. Disapproval paints itself in heavy lines along her jaw and in the hardness of her eyes and Leyla stiffens. Conflicting instincts erupt, urging her to drop her gaze and to clench her jaw. To stand in proud defiance and plead for a forgiveness, approval. She'll never had either, she long ago accepted that.

She can't cower and can't defy and so she does nothing, fingers twitching in time with the pounding of her heart as he mother’s gaze flickers to Savannah and the rest of the childless room, a subtle tightening at the edges of her mouth, before she turns and disappears back the way she came.

“She doesn’t approve,” Leyla says quietly, “of Amira’s… association with Henry.” She doesn’t owe Savannah the excuse, doesn’t need to justify her mother’s actions, but old habits die hard. “She loves her. Enough to ignore what her father was. That’s more than I expected.”

“She didn’t approve of the marriage?”

Something in her shoulders unknots at Savannah’s tone, at the lack of judgment or pity. The open curiosity mixed with the careful kindness of new friendship. But a sourness curls in her stomach, tightening painfully in her throat as Liam’s face flashes through her memories.

“She would not have, no.” She takes a moment, breathes heavily, cautiously, through her nose as her chest aches with old wounds that still bleed at the smallest prod. “Liam was an American soldier stationed near my village. That’s how we met. We were going to be married when I came to the states, but he was killed trying to smuggle me in."

And her almost-father-in-law was murdered a few short years later trying to keep her alive when her mother’s men came for her.

He had always been so kind, taking her in when she had no money, no name, no legal means to stay, and gave her a home. She was an unwed mother in a foreign country, whose family would kill her on sight for the disgrace she brought them. Frank had barely gotten a whisper of her existence, the pregnant fiancé of his dead son, and moved heaven and hell to free her.

"I'm sorry.”

She tears her thoughts away from that bloody night, the knowledge that Liam had been killed trying to drag her down, that there was no one else who even knew where she was, locked alone in that metal container with labor pains coursing through her while the voices of men argued about how to dispose of her.

“I understand Breena’s anger,” Leyla continues, forcing herself back to the present. “After Liam, I was angry for a long time. It didn’t seem fair, to have him taken from me after everything we’d- This disease has taken her husband from her.”

“I see that with patients’ families. That’s the hardest part of my job. Or it was. Before.”

The thought of reaching out, of touching Savannah's hand in a shared bit of comfort, seeps through her, but her arms feel heavy, weighed down from her shoulders and spreading through to the tips of numb fingers, seeping coldly into her chest.

She takes a breath, holding it for a count before letting it out, pushing the grief from her body with the exhale. She shuts her eyes, feeling dampness wet her lashes before she opens them again to look at Savannah.

"She's strong. And it'll get better."

-

It is nearly lunch when Leyla leaves to fetch Amira. It's become almost routine by now, Will watching over her and little Henry in the mornings while Leyla takes them for the afternoon. Perfect for giving the parents a much-needed break and providing companionship for the little ones.

There's a gentle wind in the hall, sweeping in and nearly cool, no doubt brought about by Abby opening doors to create a cross breeze. It's pleasant against her skin, tingling in a way that borders on too cold - she's always preferred warmer climates.

Leyla's bare feet make soft sounds against the carpeted halls, cheap fabric nearly abrasive against the underside of her toes, but not too much. A soft buzz floats by her, growing in volume as she moves closer.

Words begin to form, muffled by space and layers of walls, and Leyla nearly pauses in confusion. Savannah and herself have been the primary ones to visit with Will, the former to treat his ankle. Although, she supposes Breena may as well given their history.

Her ears strain without her command to do so, trying to catch the muffled flow of voices as she continues on her way, smile tugging the corners of her lips as she plays a little game with herself to guess who's visiting.

A low, growling hiss reaches her ears, layered under the buzz of people talking, freezing the blood in her veins and her heart in her chest. It starts up again with a hard thump, galloping away and burning her lungs in its wake. Icy pinpricks dance painfully down her arms, her feet take root into the carpet.

The hissing grows louder, developing a cadence and layers. Shadows along the wall ahead of her are what finally unglue her feet, and she's off like a shot towards Will's room. It's a race, against the eaters on their way towards her, towards Amira, and Leyla all but slams her body against the shut door.

She's twisting the knob before she has a chance to register its presence under her palm, falling into the room with a gasped, "eaters."

"Well isn't this just fantastic?" drawls a familiar voice.

The door closes on its own with a hard click behind her, and Leyla turns to find Colin leaning against the front wall. There's a knee-length jacket covered in shiny, red-brown streaks over his shoulders and annoyance in every line of his body. He smells like the dead.

"You weren't supposed to be here, missy."

He waves the barrel of a gun at her like a finger at a naughty child, tsking slightly even as he chuckles.

"There are eaters," Leyla replies weakly, her thoughts caught in a loop even as her body's flooded with waves of ice anew.

"'Umi"

Her head whips around, her gaze snagging on Amira. She's struggling in Will's grasp, the detective holding her tight by the arm as he forcibly keeps her and Henry behind him. Breena is on the couch, angry and glaring, and a little mental voice pipes up, detached and echoing through the chaos of her thoughts that she won her bet.

"Stay there, baby,” she says with a forced smile. Amira's face is streaked with tears, great, heaving sobs that break through the thick air like rolling waves to crash against her.

"She's been whining like that since I got here," Colin gripes. "Go shut up your brat."

She moves then, stumbling steps towards a barely standing Will, hands coming out to scoop up her daughter and hold her close, head tucked under her chin, warm face pressed above her heart with one hand buried in her hair.

"Will we be expecting any more visitors?" Colin asks with a sneer.

"No, sir, we are not," Will answers with careful politeness.

"Let's get this show on the road then."

Colin is almost cheerful as he saunters to the front door, steps light. He opens it with a gleeful little smile. Groans and hisses spill into the room, nearly drowning out the choked noise that catches in Leyla's throat.

Colin whistles, like a master calling his dog. He pulls his hood up, a sickly satisfied grin twisting his lips as the first of the eaters comes into the apartment.

-

She has the kids, clinging to her side and in her arms as she rushes into the short hall that leads to the single bedroom. She nearly stumbles over a little side table covered in the knick-knacks of the former owner.

She tries to drop Amira on the unmade bed, but her daughter clings to her, crying harshly into her neck.

"Listen to me, listen," she hisses, prying her daughter's fingers from around her neck. It feels more like carving out her heart. "I need you to stay here. And stay quiet. I'll be right back." She kisses the crown of her head, eyes suddenly damp as the absolute certainty that she's never going to see her again seeps in. "Stay here."

The bed dips as Henry climbs up next to a still sobbing Amira, eyes wide but unflinching. He's quiet, movements deliberate, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it.

She runs back into the hall, pausing only long enough to shove the tiny side table in front of the door. It won't stop a person, but the dead aren't people and she needs to believe her daughter will make it through this.

The living room is a mess. Will is barely keeping two eaters at bay with a crutch, Breena fending off another with something glinting in her hands, and Chaos by the door, smug and gloating.

"Sorry about this, Leyla," he says when he sees her. "It was really only supposed to be the bitch and the cop. But," he shrugs with a casual air, "best laid plans, y'know?"

Three new dead come in, unsteady gaits and rotting features bringing a metallic coating on her tongue.

Her gaze darts around the room, looking for something, anything, that can be used as a weapon against the dead. A short, frustrated cry rips her focus back to the room, landing on Breena who's barely holding back a blonde-haired eater by the shoulders, another grasping onto her shoulder as it fights to get closer.

Leyla moves forward in three steps, fingers grasping at stiff, stained cloth and ripping the dead man away from Breena. It stumbles to the ground, green marbled eye locking on her, the other long torn out over a missing left cheek. Breena's free arm swings around, side of her fist connecting with temple of the blonde eater. It crumbles to the floor as she moves back, dripping blade still in her fist, a third already closing in.

Leyla backs away as the eater she pulled off Breena reaches for her. Snapping teeth clack in the air, lips peeled back like a wolf's, and she knows, knows that these things don't think, can't reason, but her heart leaps in her chest and something akin to a whimper catches in her throat, and the damn thing isn't even trying to inject fear into her veins in coldly burning lines, but it is.

Someone calls her name, drawing her attention but not her gaze.

"Here," Will says with a grunt, and something touches her arm, brushes her elbow. She grabs it, clutches it tightly in her hands, registering warm metal before she swings one of his crutches at the eater's head. It smacks with a wet crunch, the skull cracking like an egg. The eater falls, Leyla bringing her make-shift weapon down once more to make sure the job is done before turning back to Will.

He's leaning heavily against the wall, features screwed up in exertion and pain. His remaining crutch is swinging without finesse at an eater and another lays unmoving by his feet.

Leyla spins around, crutch up and swinging before her mind has time to process her actions. It hits with a hard smack, but doesn't break bone. The eater falls, landing half on its thighs before starting to right itself. The crutch swings again, landing with another thunk. She swings again and again and again until wet splats reach her ears and voices cut through the red haze.

"Well this is disappointing," Colin says snidely. "Good thing I always have more."

There's a flash of blonde out of the corner of her eye, a streak of blue and pink, and Colin raises his gun but Breena is on him, shoving him back as she bodily tackles him with a wordless, rage-filled cry.

"The door," Will gasps as he tries to maneuver his crutch so he can fully stand, but Leyla beats him to it, already heading towards where the front door is left open and the disturbing echoes of predatory moans can be heard.

She doesn't realize she left her own crutch behind until the first of the dead shamble through, focusing its hazy gaze on where Breena is wrestling with Colin, both trying to grasp the other's weapon.

Leyla turned, intending to head back when a hollow bang tears through the place.

It wasn't as loud as she thought it would be. That was her first thought as she stopped, feet rooting themselves to the floor as her entire body goes suddenly numb, as if she'd been dropped into a vat of Novocain. Time has slowed, pulled like taffy between one moment and the next, and she can’t move to take advantage.

It jerks back into place, skipping ahead in the process and her breath punches out of her in a gasp, one hand going to her stomach. Her fingers knot in the fabric of her shirt but nothing else. No blood, no pain. Just the sweat against her skin and the cotton blended cover of her top. Her gaze gets drawn exorbitantly upwards.

Leyla means to look at his face, to see his eyes, but her own don't obey as they focus on the blooming red spot on his chest.

"Will." The name is a hiss between her lips, sliding from her tongue too easily. Her legs jerk towards him, but he reaches the ground before she gets to his side.

She reaches for him, grasping for that bloom of red and presses on it, against it. There's blood under her hands, seeping up and through her fingers, and by god, she doesn't know what to do. Will's wheezing bubbles up in his throat, and her gaze is drawn there before she can catch it. She won't look further, she won't look further, she won't- a trail of red, bright and crimson and speaking only of bad things dripples into view around the curve of his Adam's apple and Leyla's gaze shoots up to Will's mouth.

Red foam, accusatory and too telling, paints his lips, and suddenly she's sobbing. Fully bodied and unstoppable. No beginning, no build-up, large and choking and clogging her throat as her shoulders jerk with unmistakable knowledge.

He's dying.

There's no Dr. Haynes, no Abby with her quick ideas. Just her and the angry blonde woman who's fighting with a man who calls himself Chaos.

More pops, more muffled bangs, but she can't stop to see or move. This is the man her daughter played with, who opened his home and his heart like so few before him. And just like them, he's going to die protecting her.

Something grasps her hair and she screams. The cool hands of the dead pulling sharply at her scalp and Leyla swings out blindly. Her back hits the floor hard, one hand going to grope along the carpet while the other reaches for the hand in her hair.

Her knee connects with a stomach, soft and too giving, death coiling rotten-sweet in her nose. There's a ripping near her ear - sharp, burning pain as her hair gives way under the unbreakable grip. Her groping hand touches something cool and slick and she grasps it, swinging upward and through the eye of the dead woman above her. The porcelain ballerina slides in until it hits home and the eater goes limp.

Leyla pushes her off, standing up in a mad scramble to her feet. Colin and Breena are gone, the door having shut automatically once the man propping it open was gone, and Will... she forces herself to look down at him, at his too still chest and sightless gaze.
He's dead, and the thought comes unbidden to her numb mind, that his brain is intact.

-

She doesn't see Will rise. Her mother and Savannah found them before that. Drawn by the gun shots and the eaters.

"He can't see," she'd said to Savannah as the other woman had knelt to check her for injuries. Behind her, the body lays unmoving but it won't stay that way. "Henry's in the bedroom. I don't want him to see."

"It'll be better if he does," Savannah says gently.

Leyla shakes her head, feels the strands brush her cheeks.

"I don't want him to see."

"Get up," her mother barks at her in Arabic, she flinches without knowing why. "We must go."

"We should go," Savannah says in an unknowing echo. "Go get Amira." Savannah hesitates, looking towards Will. "And Henry. I'll take care of the body."

She pushes herself to standing, her hands leaving smudges of red against the carpet. The trip to the bedroom is long, so much longer than she remembers it being, but the table is still laying on its side and the door is still firmly shut.

Leyla says nothing as she picks up her little girl, while she takes the hand of the now fatherless boy. Savannah meets them in the living room, eyes compassionate but firm as she kneels down and speaks to Henry.

Shada is waiting by the front door, and she meets her mother's gaze. Her eyes go soft and hard at the sight of Amira, a fierce determination reminiscent of when the older woman had first shown up in Mexico to warn her daughter of the bounty she’s inadvertently put on Leyla's head.

"You are my daughter. Whatever else you are, you are my blood."

Just like that day with the salty ocean air in her nose and knowledge that someone wanted her dead, Leyla looks to her mother to guide her.

Chapter Text

May? 2013

Afternoon

Driving south

Sherlock is driving and Joan is directing him and Sean is watching it all with a fascination he can't quite name. He feels like an observer, a member of an audience getting to witness a private viewing of a show.

He doesn't know how he got here, the screwed-up bartender-and-sometimes-bouncer from a New York club whose longest stint at a job lasted three months, nothing to show for his thirty-two years of life but a criminal record and past drug habit, and he's riding in a stolen car with a couple of genius detectives and a young woman who could have been president if the world hadn't gone to shit.

The three of them have probably accomplished more in a month that Sean has in his entire life and now he gets to sit back and watch as they try and keep him alive and moving towards safety, feeling every inch the failure he is.

"The highways are faster," Joan argues. And Sherlock doesn't quite give in, but he's patient with her. Or perhaps that's not quite it. Their relationship has been a difficult one for him to define; too close to be colleagues, too reliant to be traditional friends. He's seen something similar in his brother's team, the bonds created as close as family but woven more intricately. Bone deep and rooted in choice and circumstance.

"The current state of things, I'd say they're far more likely to have massive pile-ups. And that's not including the vehicles that run out of fuel along the way."

"The highway has more lanes," Joan counters, eyes still glued to the map. "And wreck on the side-roads would force us to backtrack."

"As would the highway."

"But not as far."

Sean's mouth ticks up as the two continue their gentle bickering, comforted by familiarity of the back and forth. In the end, they stick to the back roads.

-

He doesn't doze, can't seem to make himself, despite the pleasant heat seeping into his skin and the silence and the way his legs are actually not as cramped as they could be, spread out along the edge of the seat and down into the floorboard, back pressed into the space where the door meets seat and cushioned by a stolen pillow embroidered with yellow and pink roses.

Alexis had removed his boots when one had dug into her thigh, pushing his ankle until she could trap it behind her knee. Sean only had to twist his hips a bit in order to settle comfortably into place after that. He has the perfect view of the Joan's profile, scenery passing by in a blur just behind. All in all, not a bad position for a good nap, but sleep is allusive.

He's too wired, too aware of where he is and what's out there. And what's not. And the people around him, so utterly fascinating even when still and quiet.

Alexis bends forward, the pressure against his ankle increasing for the barest moments as she rummages through the bag at her feet, before she straightens with a paperback in her hands.

"Here," she says holding it out to him. "It's not the greatest novel ever written, but it's not bad for some mindless entertainment."

"Can't. Get car sick." He pauses, watching as she nods and puts it back in her bag. "Thanks though." The words are awkward and clunky, feeling too small and yet too formal. Sean reaches up and scratches at the fresh growth along his jaw, feeling the coarse stubble under his nails.

One side of her lips curls up but doesn't reach the blue of her distant eyes. "My dad and I always used to play car games on long trips. Even when I was older he still insisted we play 'I Spy' or the Alphabet game."

"Yeah," he replies after a soft pause, "me and my brother would play car games too. But it usually dissolved into wrestling in the back seat until Dad would bark at us to cut it out."

In the front seat Sherlock murmured something to Joan but if she responded it's too low to catch.

"That sounds like fun. I'm an only child." The smile that ticks up at the corners of her lips is smaller this time, but more genuine. "At least for now. Dad's engaged, and Kate wants kids."

"That'll be cool." He licks his lips, thoughts straying to his own childhood memories. Her's'll be different. Even without the world being the way it is, she's much too old to have the kind of a sibling relationships he experienced. "You'll be like a cool aunt, only without all the pressure."

She barks out a laugh, body jerking like she hadn't expected to. It's ends too quick, as fast as it began, but Sean feels his own cheeks crease in response and he wants to suggest they play one of those car games she did as a kid. He can't though, the window for that has long passed and he won't taint what's there by suggesting it.

-

They stop to switch drivers and to pull out premade sandwiches for lunch, Sean sliding in behind the wheel while Joan takes her previous place in the passenger seat as the navigator.

He can see Alexis stretching out in the back, Sherlock having contorted himself into a twisted ball that doesn't look comfortable to Sean, but the man has been odd since the moment he met him.

"You're gunna have to tell me where to turn," he says lightly, gaze flicking towards Joan as he eases around a small wreck.

"We have some ways to go." But she nearly smiles when she says it, eyes not leaving her map except to turn and check on her partner in the back. She grows quiet, thoughts turning inward and forehead marred by puckered lines even as the rest of her remains steady. "I'm hoping we get there before night fall."

Sean hmm's but doesn't comment.

-

"Shit!" Sean hisses.

The wheel jerks to the left under his hands, swerving around a rather large group of infected clogging up the road. Tires bump heavily over clods of dirt and grass and low hanging branches from a too close tree whap against the windshield before he manages to pull half onto the shoulder.

A body thumps loudly against the front end, sparse splatters of black and red spraying up along the passenger window, but Sean can only spare a brief moment of worry about damaging the car before he's jerking the wheel once more.

He looks ahead, trying to see past infected to find an opening. There's nothing. No clear path, just more of the dead spotted throughout the road, the space between their moving bodies rapidly declining as they catch sight of movement.

A body folds in half over the nose of the vehicle, disappearing under in a series of rough bumps. Another twists up and over the windshield leaving a rust and dirt smear in his sightline. But no cracks. Thank god for no cracks.

Sean yanks the wheel around two more, feeling the thump of yet another infected bounces against the side of the car.

Joan gestures frantically. "There's a turn up ahead."

"What if it's a dead end?" Alexis says, voice rising high and barely trembling.

"Unlikely," Sherlock comments.

"Am I turning or not?"

"Yes!" multiple voices shout before Joan gives a frantic, "there," one hand up and pointing.

Tires skid, rocks spitting up into the air and onto underside of the car, but he makes the turn. The road is thankfully clear ahead of him, but bodies are following behind.

"We just need to out run them." He mentally curses himself for stating the obvious.

His foot slams on the gas, the car lurching forward and his stomach swoops, heart pounding, and thrilling chills shooting through his veins. It tastes like metal and salt, like jumping from a cliff and not knowing what's down below. Almost better than a chemical high.

The road is cursedly straight, lacking even the cover of trees, the sparse ones along the edges providing too little cover.

He speeds up.

-

There's a barn up ahead and very few of the infected behind and Sean has no idea if he should stop. It looks stable enough, but he's been a city-boy all his life.

"This is as good as any place," Sherlock speaks up from the backseat.

He turns onto the grass, watching carefully for signs of trouble. The wheels haven't even stopped turning when the back door opens.

Joan calls out for Sherlock in agitation, seatbelt already undone. She mutters a curse under her breath, shoving open the passenger side door, singlestick in hand. Sean throws the vehicle into park, ignition still running as he hurries follows.

He has no weapon, no real plan, but he can't stay in the car. Not when everyone else is moving towards a baker's dozen infected shambling towards them.

"Where's the tire-iron?" Alexis asks.

"Should be in the trunk somewhere," Sean says, coming around to where she's already trying to pop the back open. Before them Joan and Sherlock are taking out infected one by one with methodical swings.

A dead man slips in the gap between the detectives, heading towards where Sean is standing by a still rummaging Alexis.

"You might want to hurry," he murmurs over his shoulder. His stomach crawls up the back of his throat as he plants his feet more firmly into the dirt.

"Where is it?" she hisses as something pink and soft goes flying past his elbow and onto the ground.

The dead man, wearing a dirty jogging suit and only one shoe, reaches for them with grasping fingers and yellowed teeth.

Sean's hands come up. He plants his palms against the infected's shoulders. Broken nails dig into the edges of short-sleeves, scrabbling against the skin of his arms. He left his protective jacket in the car. A stupid, foolish mistake that seems so glaringly obvious now.

There's a cracking pop, the infected's head jerking backwards before it drops like a puppet with its strings cut. Legs crumpling under him and body landing with a heavy thump. Sean stumbles forward before he catches his balance. A pair of hands, small and warm with life, twist into the back of his shirt.

Sean stares at the hole in the middle of the creature's forehead.

"What was that?" Alexis whispers from behind him. She disentangles one hand from his shirt as he twists to look at her over his shoulder.

"I-" he begins with caution. He pauses to lick his lips, "I think someone shot him."

Another cracking pop and Sean looks up but all the infected are unmoving on the ground, Sherlock and Joan looking around in wide-eyed surprise and singlesticks up and ready.

"Relax," a voice calls out. All four of them whip around to look at the barn. "We were just being friendly." A man appears, in his thirties with disheveled clothes and overgrown facial hair, but sporting a wide, mischievous grin. He's unarmed, but his blue eyes are sharp and predatory.

Alexis takes a half-step closer to Sean, brushing his back with a light pressure. The man's gaze flick over to her, taking her in with a measuring glance before doing the same to Sean.

"Our apologizes," Sherlock says. Nobody moves. "We were unaware the building was occupied."

"No worries," the man says with a shrug. "We weren't staying." He pauses, smile fading at the edges as he takes in their little group. His shoulders loosen as he watches them, tension flowing away like water from a smooth rock. "Name's Tony." He nods his head back towards the barn and the half-open door where the shadow figure of a man can be seen. "That's Gibbs. He's the one who took out your eaters."

Gibbs says nothing.

"Ziva's inside." He gives a shrug, half-quirk of his lips like he's sharing a secret. "She's a little socially awkward."

"Sherlock," the detective calls. "This is Joan. That's Sean and Alexis."

From the shadow of the barndoors Gibbs emerges, white haired and sporting his own bushy facial hair. His eyes are lined but keen in a way Sean feels intimately familiar with. There's a sniper rifle held across his body, nose downward. Behind him Alexis stiffens once more.

Joan had given them all a shooting lesson, or at least the beginning of one having not come across a gun in Glennview, but Sean grew up with a brother in law enforcement and he knows that Gibbs is holding his weapon in the most unthreatening way he can. He relaxes at that, watching the men with new insight.

"Where you guys headed?" Sean asks. Several sets of eyes swing towards him and he feels himself begin to flush under a wave of uncertainty. But Tony just smiles and Gibbs stops next to his partner while Joan and Sherlock let him take the lead and with the slow rise of support he begins to feel like maybe he's got this.

"Back to Virginia," Tony replies. "You?"

"Same."

Tony and Gibbs exchange looks before Tony steps forward, grinning at Sean as he does so.

"You guys want some company?"

Chapter Text

May, 2013

Late afternoon

Anna's Diner somewhere in Virginia

Aimee's burning up and they all know what that means. Only Dean seems willing to say it, voice low and for his brother's ears only, but Olivia is sitting in a booth nearby. Quiet and unnoticed.

The disease has taken its course until they were forced to find a place to stop. The diner off the main road was a find, one the brothers seemed to sniff out like professional bloodhounds.

Emily stands a few feet away, leaning against the halfwall separating the eating area from the hall leading to the bathrooms, face tight and eyes hard as Anthony presses a damp rag to Aimee's head. Their resident angel stands the furthest back, near the glass front doors, staring out into the horizon and away from the others, head cocked to one side like he's listening to the non-existent wind. Father Paul is a few feet past him, sitting in one of the old-fashioned chairs, head bowed and eyes closed in silent prayer.

She wants to fear Castiel, wants to be wary and angry at the man who would judge her father for the choices he made with open eyes, but instead she finds her gaze drawn to him in constant succession for a different reason. He knows, in a way that's different from the experience of the hunters or the newborn knowledge of the people around them. More than just having been dragged into the world of demons and monsters by circumstances, he belongs to it. And now so does she, she thinks. Daughter of a demon and man combined, given lessons by a black-eyed hellspawn on days when her daddy was too tired to notice the creature inside taking a peek at his little girl.

Monsters come in all forms though, and Olivia would choose a demon riding sidecar in a man she calls Dad over the criminal her mother married in a fit of loneliness any day. Robert Livingston was far crueler than the creature who occasionally wore her daddy's face had ever been

Jim Sterling would roll over in his grave, or rather on the motel bed he'd chosen to die in, if he knew Crowley had ever spoken to her (she swore she'd never tell a soul, twisted or otherwise, and is unwilling to risk breaking an agreement with a demon even now). They had a deal, her dad would say. Dictating when each of them got to sit in the driver's seat and Olivia was clearly marked as being part of Jim's world, strictly off limits to demonic forces. But all deals have loopholes, if one knows where to look, even if it took years. Crowley taught her that.

Aimee lets out a pain filled moan; she’s laying on a set of tables pressed together, the hard surface softened by a couple layers of blankets. Olivia finds herself trying to stand, wanting to offer comfort.

"Ah don't want ta rise," Aimee rasps. Shivers wrack her fragile frame, and Anthony takes one of her hands in his.

"Now, there's no need to talk like that," he says with a kind smile creasing his cheeks and deepening the lines around his eyes.

"Don't want ta rise," Aimee reiterates, lacking the strength but none of the conviction of her previous statement.

"We won't let you," Sam says, speaking over Anthony's no doubt well-meaning but useless platitudes. He reaches into the waistband of his jeans, pulling out his gun and holds it by his leg. His hand trembles a moment before he gains control, she doesn't think anyone else notices.

Aimee sees the gun though, sees it and seems to go blank for a moment before a sigh escapes and her eyes raise to lock with Sam's.

"Thank you," she breathes out through chapped lips. She looks gray, one-foot already so far in the grave, under the waning sunlight.

A humorless bark of laughter breaks through the silence. Emily has a hand to her mouth, eyes blinking once or twice before she takes a breath, jaw clenching and hands falling to her side. "This is such a... a fucked-up world," she spits.

It always was, Olivia thinks, but she doesn't say it. Almost expects Dean will voice the thought, staring at Emily with a mixture of pity and relief, but he drops his gaze instead. His brother looks away as well, before turning back and taking a breath.

"Yeah," Sam says on a sigh, heavy and world-weary, and Olivia wonders then how much he's seen. Because the shadows in his eyes speak of heavier things than the end of the world. Her father spoke of them like assets, and Crowley spit their name like it was venom, but there was respect there too, and fear. What kind of men make demons tremble?

"I need to leave," Castiel says suddenly, having shown up beside Dean when no one was paying attention.

"Wha-" Dean sputters. "What do you mean 'leave'?"

"I heard whispers," the angel says, not reacting to Dean's hard jaw stare.

"Whispers? You wanna bail on us for some damn whispers?"

Castiel stares at Dean stone-faced and unflinching.

Sam slowly leans towards his brother. "I don't think he means people, Dean."

Dean copies Sam seemingly without thought, the two of them creating their own world between them, effectively cutting the rest of them. His voice drops, but Olivia looks at the angel, watching the way he breaks his gaze to stare off into the far nothingness once more, ear cocked towards the ceiling.

"What are they saying?" she finds herself asking.

"I'm not sure," he replies, "but it's more than what has been said in some time."

"How are you getting there?" Dean asks, tuning back into the world and snagging Castiel's attention once more. "I mean, your little zappy thing's on the fritz and you still can't drive for shit." He cuts one hand upward in a sharp gesture, the other resting on his hip, gaze stubborn.

"I can move faster alone on foot." He pauses, turning his head to the side once more. "This vessel does not tire the way your body does."

"Can you at least wait until after Aimee's...?" Sam makes a gesture towards where the young woman is laying, eyes closed and pale face damp with sweat.

"Yes," Cas agrees, staring at the space just above the prone woman. "I will bear witness."

-

"OK," Father Paul says as he stands, having been kneeling down in prayer over the near unconscious Aimee. For the last half an hour she's been calling out incoherently and staring at things only she can see. "She's ready."

Olivia's heart thumps hard and painful, a single beat before it sets off pulsing in a harsh rhythm through her ears and pounding against her ribs. She hasn't seen this part before. Her dad had hid himself in another room and everyone else was already gone by the time she got her feet under her.

The sun has set, moonlight casting its glow upon their little group inside the diner. They gathered around for Aimee's last goodbye, before they moved away one by one. The last beside her is Anthony, face ashen and eyes puffy. Her hand is limp in his, and Olivia stares at him. She should be feeling bad for Aimee. Mourn for the woman about to lose her life, and yet it's the old man beside her that has captured the majority of her grief, and pity.

Sam crosses in front of her, gun large and dark in his hand, and Olivia can't look at it. Can't look at him. She stands, pulling Anthony with her with a couple of slow measured steps before they reach a booth. She tries to time her breathing to each footfall, keeping up a steady breath in and out.

"Come on," Olivia says, soft and low, one hand reaching out to touch Anthony's shoulder, to guide him into the seat. You don't want to see this, she thinks of saying but she can't believe that it would go over well and so she says nothing.

He looks at her for a split second, eyes red and face sad, but he sits with a gentle pressure against his shoulder.

She doesn't try and move him further, letting him choose if he faces away or towards Aimee.

Olivia doesn't watch. She can hear the pull back of the barrel, the settling of the bullet into the camber. She hears Sam breathe out, slow and measured, and the sharp pop. She watches Anthony instead, sees the flinch in his face as he never breaks his gaze, the shattering of his grief across his features. It feels more real somehow.

-

Castiel leaves while Sam and Emily dig Aimee's grave, in the small patch of thin gravel and grass just past the parking lot. Dean tries to convince him to stay until after, but the angel is softly stubborn.

"I cannot tell you it was right to love him," Castiel says as he passes her on his way out. He gives her a long, measuring look. "I cannot say it was wrong either."

She looks into his eyes that see more than they should, nods once firmly in both anger and gratitude, and tries not to resent him. She didn't ask. She wanted to know. It doesn't change anything. And then he's gone, and she doesn't know if Dean is wrong and the angel can still teleport or if it's something else. But he slips away while Father Paul says a prayer and Sam and Dean carry the body outside.

She should get used to this, Olivia decides. She's sure she'll see more.

Suddenly her eyes well up, overflowing down her cheeks in hot lines to drip off her chin and settle in the crease of her lips. She blinks rapidly, something cracking and resealing in her chest in an overwhelming rise of emotions.

She didn't love Aimee, barely knew the woman, but something about this feels too much like a beginning, and she suddenly, unexpectedly, doesn't know if she wants to know how it ends.

"Olivia," Emily calls, and she quickly wipes at her cheeks, attempts to swallow back her tears, but they keep coming.

The former agent wraps an arm around her shoulders, thin and awkward, and Olivia thinks she could hate her for it, just a little.

She doesn't stop crying until Father Paul has begun speaking, a feeble attempt at mimicking the funerals from before. There's no room for them here, not when they aren't for the woman whose life was cut short by a virus that they all carry.

"We should stay the night," Emily says once they begin to walk away. "Leave out first thing in the morning."

For once, no one argues.

-

They make good time, when she considers their past travel record. Leaving out as the sun is peaking over the horizon.

They have to ditch the gold four door on the side of the road when it runs out of fuel and they don’t have enough to cover both the Impala and the truck. It's the first time Olivia's seen the brothers separate, Sam riding in the bed of Aimee’s truck with Emily and Anthony in the cab.

She doesn't know how long they've been driving, stopping only to let people stretch their legs and for bathroom breaks, but Olivia's stomach has started the beginnings of a growl. She opens her mouth to suggest pulling out lunch soon when a car comes around the corner several feet ahead of them.

Her breath catches, because they haven't seen another moving car on the road in so long, and the dark SUV ahead of them has multiplied into two.

"Should we wave them down?" she asks, looking first at Dean then at Father Paul in the passenger seat.

"Won't have too," Father Paul replies, and Olivia watches as both vehicles pull over.

"What the-" Dean begins as Emily flashes the trucks lights at them.

Dean passes the SUVs at a slow pace, pulling over ahead of them so his car is in front. Like some macho display of one-up manship. Or perhaps it's for a quick escape.

Olivia gets out quickly, needing to stretch her legs and body twisting to look back as Emily throws the truck into park. Two people have emerged from the SUVs, a blonde woman in jeans and a dirty button up, standing with a tense caution next to a tall, thin man with a mass of frizzy curls falling in his eyes. From the second SUV exits a well-built man in a dark tee, watching the Impala with a steely gaze.

There's another figure in the second SUV, fuzzy features difficult to make out, and Olivia dismisses him as Emily all but jumps from the truck.

"JJ!"

The blonde freezes for only a moment before taking off in a sprint towards the Interpol agent, the two of the men following right on her heels. Emily looks close to tears as she throws her arms around the blonde and then the skinny man moments after. The final man is the last to hug her, the four of them huddled in a little group, relief and happiness bleeding off them in waves.

"Well I'll be damned," Dean mutters, and Olivia starts to smile - a different, lighter emotion welling inside of her for the first time in days, when all of a sudden the tall, frizzy haired man suddenly freezes, pulls out a gun and aims it at Sam.