Look What Happened (5/?)
Title: Look What Happened
Author: iamsamflynn
Rating: R. I am going to say R.
Length: 3000+
Spoilers: A Very Glee Christmas.
Summary: The end of the world is a funny thing. Zombie!fic
Warning: There will be blood and guts. And gore. And probably a lot of swearing. Also, violence, guns, and gross zombie creatures. Cool. Story. Bro.
A/N: Pretty much done with the hardcore school stuff until mid-October and my family issues are clearing up, so, sorry for the long wait, but it shouldn't be so long after this.
Look What Happened
Keys To The City
--
The question came, in the wake of the outbreak, "if TVXK was created for the purpose of super soldiers, why weren't the super soldiers sent to battle the outbreak?"
This was a collection of stupid assumptions, made en masse and left unverified by a government that had already failed to protect its citizens.
People were quick to believe that these super soldiers - Virus Positive Carriers, they were called - were a part of the military already. This was untrue - the few who had been drafted were young, and new, and by majority out of the country at the time. Further, the bulk of successful TVXK implants were much younger than that - ranging from the bare early twenties backwards, hardly trained at all. A lot of them still wasted thirty-plus hours every week caged into bland centres of worthless education, using only their Summers and the sporadic weekend to attend their training sessions. While they may have had senses beyond the norm, they were hardly more equipped to deal with a zombie outbreak than the rest of the population.
Enough? No.
People thought "these people volunteered to be soldiers, surely they'll fight the good fight, save the country, save the world". Untrue. TVXK was not a fun thing to be infected by, not even the SS strain present in said recruits. It was a painful process, dangerous in different degrees to the different subjects, and in many cases the Virus Positive Carriers were originally, and consistently, unwilling participants of the programme, who had been bullied, extorted, or deceived into signing away their lives. Some unfortunate souls had even been born into the world for the sake of the programme, science projects from the womb to the laboratory table. Hence, more often than not, VPS Soldiers were hardly sympathetic towards the military, the government, or the United States.
In reality, the general public could sit in their homes in fear of infection and moan and gripe about how the SS-soldiers should save them as if it was their sole purpose in life, but the likelihood of their calls being answered wasn't terribly high. Because, really, 'soldiers' was a broad term. These were not members of some kind of advanced tactical rapid response black ops team, as intended and advertised. These were unhappy youths, spread all over the country, who had suffered years of clinical experimentation and abuse at the hands of a programme and a government that had, in more ways than one, forced their participation. And really, if you have been bullied and pushed around and forced into action, cut open and stitched back together, had chemicals pumped into your body by the gallon, spasmed until your muscles seized and your screaming tapered out to raspy breathing, conditioned and drilled in boot camps and training centres until you could recall every last military procedure and then some, withstand any and every physical obstacle thrown your way, despite pain, and blood, and exhaustion, and broken bones, and then been forced to repeat it all from the beginning time and time again - if you have been through all of this, for years, without escape - then really, why the fuck would you turn around in the world's time of need and help the assuming masses?
You wouldn't. Not without a gigantic, fantastic, important fucking reason.
And so what did the world learn when the people called for super soldiers to save the day? Assumptions were a bullshit move.
/-\
Quinn watches as the two kids zip up their bags, almost completely in sync, and turn back to her with matching smiles. Smiles at them gently even though she wants to cry a little inside.
The thuds downstairs stopped pretty soon after they started - and that was a little while ago now. And yet, Sam hasn't come upstairs yet. She worries for a moment - what if he's been bitten? What if he's turned? What if he's dead on the ground and his dad's skulking around the house waiting for his next meal?
But she doesn't say anything - tries to push the thought from her mind and helps the kids with their things instead - because thoughts like that don't help anything and she's probably wrong anyway. Has to be wrong, because there's two young blonde kids staring up at her and waiting for her direction when she doesn't have any, and she doesn't know what to do, and she's not sure she could overpower Sam, or Sam's dad, let alone kill either of them, and even if she could Rachel would shoot her for driving her car.
Assuming she got to the car.
But then there's a scuffle outside and the door opens to Sam with a duffle over his shoulder and a denim jacket over his dress shirt and dead eyes. He tries for a smile, but it's empty and it wavers, and then he jerks his head a little and turns to leave and she gets the point. Hushes the two kids and prompts them to follow him - out of the room, down the stairs, out of the house, into the car. They shove their bags in the trunk with Rachel's stuff - Quinn wonders what's in those black duffel bags, what secrets Rachel's been hiding from them all, but then she remembers the blonde boy beside her and the thing he just had to do and ignores any thought of Rachel, because Sam needs her right now.
But he shakes his head when she reaches out a hand for his shoulder, grits his jaw and hands her his bat, and the next thing she knows they're both in the car with an ETA for McKinley and no sound between them. The kids ask questions from the backseat, but she cringes away with non-answers because she doesn't know anything more than they do, and Sam keeps his eyes locked on the road and his jaw clenched and his hands twisted tight around the steering wheel until his knuckles are white with the pressure. She watches him - vows to keep an eye on him - asks him if he needs anything.
He doesn't speak.
/-\
Puck pulls up and the house is dark.
Absolutely all lights out. He feels sick - nausea roiling in his gut, bile in the back of his throat, light-headed and gross. Doesn't think he'll actually vomit until he's four steps closer to his front door and falling sidewards off the footpath, his throat burning and his eyes watering and a disgusting taste in his mouth while he sprays it over the grass. Reminds him of some of his not-so-successful party nights, but it's not the same, because he's not drunk, he's terrified. What if his mother's dead? What if his sister is in there with murky, glazed yellow eyes and blood at her collar and a break in her skin? What if he has to kill her?
But he picks himself up despite the dizziness and the fear, because on his knees in the middle of his lawn is not the best place to be during the zombie apocalypse. Pushes towards the front door because he needs to know.
And before he knows it, he is inside, in the dark hall, listening for sound and hearing none, surrounded by emptiness. The shadows echo the nothingness back at him, and he swallows thickly, reaching for the light switch. And when his small house is lit, and he's walked the length of it twice, checking every room with his bat in hand and coming up short both times, he gets it. He really does.
Because his mother's drawers are empty and his sister has clothes strewn all over her usually spotless floor, and he stops for a moment in front of his own door and the note pinned up on the wood.
"Evacuated by JSJ, couldn't reach you. Stay with Rachel."
And he doesn't know who or what JSJ is, or where his mom or his sister are, but he does know they aren't here, in this house - hopefully, in this town, or this state, or even this country - and that Rachel is the only one in this entire gone-to-shit cow town that can help him find out. So he swallows thickly and flicks out the lights in his mother's room, and packs all of his own shit, chucks it in the truck, and speeds off to McKinley - meets up with a couple of parked cars, even Rachel's, but then there's that sick feeling in his gut again that might be concern, maybe. Possibly. If he admits it.
He's out of his truck, shotgun in hand, and striding over to the collection of wary gleeks standing cautiously around the doors to the school before he really registers it. All of the glee club are there - even Schuester, who looks like he's shit himself, and Miss Pillsbury, both of whom have apparently been called to assemble. Coach Sylvester is standing in the shadows, away from the group, observing with a sneer but not really contributing anything, a rifle held comfortably in her arms. Puck's not sure if that makes him feel relieved or scared. He's not even sure why she's there, really.
He picks Quinn out of the group, two blonde midgets hugging her sides and her worried eyes on a blank-faced Sam. She looks at him, though, and notices his scowl, and shakes her, biting her lip, understanding and pale-faced before he even speaks.
"Where the fuck is Rachel?"
/-\
She nearly makes it to the truck. But not quite.
Like all things, it seems pretty fucking simple in theory, but never in practice. Rachel takes up a place at the barred window and slides open the glass, waits until one of the poor sods outside approaches, and then she levels her handgun and lets out a single shot, straight into his forehead. One down, and the other keeps bashing at the door, but then she makes her way over to it and raises her arm and fires three rounds in quick succession, and when the rattling stops and she hears a thud against the ground outside she cracks it open, aims for the fallen head and fires again.
Then she goes for the truck. Gets to it, unlocks the door, and steps up to reach the cabin. And typically enough, that's when it all goes wrong, and there's the heavy trampling of feet from the other side of the lot, and she doesn't think about it - just slams the door behind her, hits the lock, and stuffs the key into the ignition. Her hands shake when she turns the engine over, but it doesn't roar to life until one of the zombies has already leapt up onto the driver's side of the cab, thudding it's fist against the window and howling up a storm on the other side of the glass.
She jams her foot on the accelerator before she can really think too much about it, and the truck tears away through the dusty lot, underneath white lights. She doesn't think to flick the headlights on until she's out of the lot and onto the darker Lima streets, the howling zombie still clinging dutifully to her door and rattling away at the handle whenever she isn't swerving dangerously around a corner or a stray car on the road.
Rachel scowls, trying not to veer onto the sidewalk even as she grabs her Colt from where she's chucked it on the passenger's seat and purses her lips, one hand on the steering wheel, even as she raises her arm across her body to press the barrel against the glass. Tries to lean as far away from the weapon as she can while maintaining some kind of handle on the direction she drives in and grits her teeth when she pulls the trigger. She doesn't turn to see if her shot is successful - the rattling of the door stops, and she almost feels the crunch of human bones beneath the tyres when the back of the truck jolts over the dropped body, and that's enough of a confirmation for her while her ears ring from the gunshot. Instead, she drops her pistol into her denim-clad lap and spins the steering wheel to cut another corner. Soon enough she's coming up on the home stretch.
She floors it when she catches sight of the school and the large group at the front door, huddled together in the winter air. Naturally, with such a group standing at a doorway out in the cold, she thinks the worst. Until she gets close enough to make out individual figures, anyway. From behind the wheel and the windscreen Rachel can see all of the Gleeks doing exactly what they do best - screaming at each other and shit all else. Considers ramming them beneath the front of the truck, but thinks better of it as she swerves widely into the parking lot. Roars up to the building, and slams on the brake, skidding to a halt some metres away from the group at the front door, silencing the lot of them with the rapid approach of her behemoth of a vehicle and the screeching of the brakes.
She grabs up her pistol again before pushing the door open with a jerking motion that successfully removes the majority of the glass in the window, cracked and jagged from her gun minutes beforehand. Then she hops easily out of the cab, Colt in hand, and stalks her way towards the amassed Gleeks with a glare on her face and the bitter taste of blood in her mouth - a split lip from her fun back in the construction lot to accompany the other aches she'll have in the morning, just her luck.
Puck calls out to her before she can ask why they're standing around outside, in open space.
"There's a lock on the door."
It doesn't stop her from scowling, not even with the obviously relieved expression on his face when he sees her, and especially not with the follow-up concern when he noticed the bloody lip, the scratched hands, the dusty clothes, the faint limp in her step. Instead, her finger twitches on the trigger of her gun, and she traipses through the silent gleek crowd, watches them part before her like the Red Sea for the first time in living memory. Thinks, idly, that she must be looking positively murderous for that to happen.
She's almost to the door when she hears it - Santana, of course, because really, who else would ever pick right then to say something.
"Better have a good fucking reason for calling us here, Streisand!"
Rachel doesn't even bother responding, but that's what starts the rest of them up, because whenever it comes to Rachel Berry one single doubt, one single demeaning statement, is never enough, and even a temporary peace is too much to ask for.
"Yeah, what the hell, Rachel! I could be driving out of state with my parents right now, if they'd been home, but instead I got taken here because your white ass ordered it."
She doesn't turn around, just keeps walking towards the school doors with a stiff stride and a locked jaw, her trigger finger just itching to pull. She grits her teeth and bares it.
"Oh tell us, all-knowing one, what the fuck you wanted us here for, 'cause my family's out there right now!"
"Do you even know what's going on right now!"
"She's probably just being a selfish bitch - her dads are out of town, probably knows that she'll get killed by a zombie, all alone, and decided to take us down with her."
"As your teacher, Rachel, I'm demanding that you explain yourself right now! You can't just demand attendance in a time of national crisis!"
"Why should we listen to her anyway, it's not like she has any idea what to do right now any-"
There is a single gunshot, cutting off all conversation between the few loud souls who bothered to open their mouths at all. Then, complete silence, all eyes on the short girl by the door while she pulls the chain from the door handles, the lock shot through, and chucks it to the ground. She turns around slowly, her gaze cool, calculating, but with an undertone of fury chilling enough to maintain the hush of all assembled.
"Let me clear this up for you, before you waste your breath on trivial things that I don't care about," she says icily. "I'm not white, Mercedes, I'm from a mixed ethnicity family of Jews and Nigros so stop playing the fucking race card - it's not a good enough fucking excuse any of the other times you've used it and it sure as hell isn't now. Yes, you could be driving out of state, but you would be caught up in mass traffic, backed up at quarantine, and swarmed by a zombie hoarde in less time than you could hold a high note. Lauren, if you don't know where your family is, then I'd say they're either dead already or they got out of state on a ViPo evacuation earlier this evening. Hope for the latter, but get the fuck over it."
She glowers at the two girls, who are too shaken to glare back, and then turns her icy stare on Finn.
"If I were the selfish bitch you say I am, Finn Hudson, I'd have abandoned you on the highway three hours ago, instead of letting you in the truck bed. In fact, if I was a fucking selfish person, I would have run you over with the pickup and made sure that your over-inflated head was properly crushed beneath the front tyres. So shut the fuck up, because my dads are no fucking business of yours, and if I was selfish I would have left you all here on your own and been out of the state yesterday." The lack of comprehension makes the statement totally worth it. She knows they don't understand. She doesn't look forward to the time that they do. She turns her glare to her failure of a teacher and stares at him with enough intensity to make him shake at the knees. "Right now, Mister Schuester, you're not my teacher - you are a scared, little man trying not to soil his panties in the school parking lot, and you are in no position to make demands. So shut your mouth before I take my pretty, custom M1911 here," she tells him quickly, lifting the gun still in her hand and giving it a shake for emphasis, "and blow your fucking brains out. Comprende?"
She waits pointedly for a nod from the visibly chastened man before continuing again.
"Fantastic!" it's heavy laden with sarcasm, and the group before her flinches. "And now to you, Santana. I asked you to come here because, so far as your chances of survival go? This is probably the best bet. And - I'm not going to sugar coat it for you here - it's not even a high one. Now, I'm going to turn around, and open the doors, and then I'm going to unload all the construction materials from the back of my truck, and I am going to start boarding up as many windows in this school as I can before the infected portion of bumfuck Lima, Ohio, comes calling. I am going to wait here, and hold out, until the right opportunity for escape actually presents itself to me. Whether or not you want to stay here? I don't really fucking care. But if you're not with me, you're against me, and you can get off school grounds, drive as far as your car can take you, and do what you please. You want to stay, you keep your bitching to yourself, and you do what I say, because you all might think you're king shit in comparison to little old me, but I absolutely promise you - every one of you - that no one in the world knows as much about what the fuck is going on than I do."
There's silence for a good long moment before Artie pipes himself up, hesitant and glowering out from the backseat of Kurt's truck.
"So, what, we're supposed to follow you because you say so? Just trust that you'll do the right thing."
Rachel just scoffs and rolls her eyes.
"I'm not asking you to trust me, for god's sake. I'm not even asking you to agree with me. But I am telling you that you'll do what I say if you want to live."
There isn't even time to blink before Sue Sylvester emerges from her spot in the shadows, strolls to the truck, and starts unloading. Puck follows her, just as wordlessly, Sam on his heels. Kurt and Blaine exchange a silent glance before turning to follow and assist. Those with their pride wounded - Lauren, Mercedes, Mister Schue, and Finn, most obviously - sulk for a long moment. But eventually they're spurred into motion, moving towards the cars to grabs some of the things that the others have packed. When they've all turned away and started co-ordinating, Rachel allows herself the tiniest sigh of relief, but doesn't relax the rest of herself for even a fraction of a second.
In fact, she tenses further when a hand lands down on her shoulder, turning to find herself face to face with Quinn Fabray, two short blonde things clinging to the girl's jacket with wide eyes, fearful and confused. Quinn herself just stands there, eyes roaming critically over Rachel's face, a frown on her own lips before she lifts a hand and wipes idly at the brunette's bloody lip. She doesn't speak about her concern, but it's just as obvious to Rachel as the unspoken question behind those hazel eyes - why do you know what to do? - that wasn't answered at the Fabray household and isn't being answered now. Rachel just shakes her head - not yet - her reply in their silent exchange, and turns to push the school doors open, unholstering her second pistol to safely lead her pseudo troops into their new base of operations.
/-\
Puck knocks another nail into the wall, pinning the board up over the window, even as Kurt whacks some concrete onto the next window sill over and stacking on bricks. They're working in small groups, per Rachel's orders - Blaine and Kurt are with him, boarding up the front rooms in the dark. The of the school is suffering at the hands of Finn, with Mike knocking his skills back in line, fixing his mistakes, Sam with them but probably doing a well enough job on his own. Santana and Lauren are wherever Rachel sent them, and Tina and Mercedes were left to patrol the halls, just in case Rachel's original excursion missed a zombie, or one of them snuck in past Sue Sylvester's rooftop sentry watch.
Miss Pillsbury was sent off to account for all the stock in the cafeteria, and then the meds in the nurse's office, with Schuester as her personal whiney bodyguard. Quinn and Brittany were left to look after the siblings Evans and set up some kind of living space in the choir room, or the auditorium - wherever they decided.
And Rachel, well - Puck watches out the window like a hawk, every time she emerges out under the wash of the streetlights, ferrying bags from their assembled car fleet to somewhere inside. She has more trouble every time she makes the trip - he can see it. She sets her shoulders a little more, moves a little slower, limps a little more with every step. One of her knees quivers, and she coaxes it back in line, forces it to keep her upright, strong, moving.
This time - he's lost count of the number of times the brunette's gone back and forth now - he watches her make the line to her own car, popping the boot, already emptied of the properties of Quinn and the three Evans'. Puck watches as Rachel reaches in for her own black duffel bags - there's two, and he doesn't know what's in them, but she yanks them out of the car and on to the ground in a flash, slams the trunk shut only to stumble and fall back against the car, wincing, hands clenching into fists. Puck drops his hammer without a second thought and makes a rush for the door of the classroom, through the hall and then outside, to the car, to Rachel, while she supports herself against the car and tries to shift her shaky left leg.
"You alright, my Jewish princess? Want some help?" he asks as he comes upon her, reaching for her bags. He sees her flinch forward the slightest amount - she wants to stop him, to take them herself, he knows it, he can see it in her. She doesn't want to be weak. But he hoists both bags up - he's tired, and they're heavy, but he can do it. He will. Touches her gently on the shoulder when one of his hands is free and whispers to her softly. "Don't push it too hard, babe."
He watches as her lips purse and she shakes her head, pushing her weight back onto her bad leg and trying to get herself back up and off the car. Puck frowns to himself even as he falls in step beside her, back towards the building - knows he'll have to force her to the girl's locker rooms, to wash up a little and get her head back in the game. He wishes he could put her to bed, make her sleep, let her rest, but he knows better. They have a bunch of windows to board up, a stack of furniture to push in front of the school doors. And after that she needs to snap a box on everyone's fingers to make sure they're not infected, time bombs ticking on down. They have a long night ahead of them, and no one gets to sleep tonight.
"It's beating me tonight, Puck. It shouldn't, but it is, and we're not even in it yet," she says quietly - so much so that he hardly hears it. But he knows it's only meant for him. "You don't get it though - this is my thing, my city, now. I'm meant to own this shit."
He doesn't get it, and he's caught between wanting her to explain and wanting her to shove it away in the dark corners it belongs in, never bring it up again. He needs to know but he doesn't want to, or he wants to but he doesn't need to, or maybe he's just scared. He thinks, when she speaks, underneath the determination there is fear, there is hopelessness, there is everything in her that there is in him, and she just masks it better. They hide it behind false bravado, behind instinct and desperation, but they're both afraid. Everything's going to shit, who wouldn't be?
"I need to be in control."
--
Give me the keys to the city
Give me the keys to your soul, yeah
Give me the keys to the moment when
the whole city loses control
- Keys To The City, Skybombers
Author: iamsamflynn
Rating: R. I am going to say R.
Length: 3000+
Spoilers: A Very Glee Christmas.
Summary: The end of the world is a funny thing. Zombie!fic
Warning: There will be blood and guts. And gore. And probably a lot of swearing. Also, violence, guns, and gross zombie creatures. Cool. Story. Bro.
A/N: Pretty much done with the hardcore school stuff until mid-October and my family issues are clearing up, so, sorry for the long wait, but it shouldn't be so long after this.
Look What Happened
Keys To The City
--
The question came, in the wake of the outbreak, "if TVXK was created for the purpose of super soldiers, why weren't the super soldiers sent to battle the outbreak?"
This was a collection of stupid assumptions, made en masse and left unverified by a government that had already failed to protect its citizens.
People were quick to believe that these super soldiers - Virus Positive Carriers, they were called - were a part of the military already. This was untrue - the few who had been drafted were young, and new, and by majority out of the country at the time. Further, the bulk of successful TVXK implants were much younger than that - ranging from the bare early twenties backwards, hardly trained at all. A lot of them still wasted thirty-plus hours every week caged into bland centres of worthless education, using only their Summers and the sporadic weekend to attend their training sessions. While they may have had senses beyond the norm, they were hardly more equipped to deal with a zombie outbreak than the rest of the population.
Enough? No.
People thought "these people volunteered to be soldiers, surely they'll fight the good fight, save the country, save the world". Untrue. TVXK was not a fun thing to be infected by, not even the SS strain present in said recruits. It was a painful process, dangerous in different degrees to the different subjects, and in many cases the Virus Positive Carriers were originally, and consistently, unwilling participants of the programme, who had been bullied, extorted, or deceived into signing away their lives. Some unfortunate souls had even been born into the world for the sake of the programme, science projects from the womb to the laboratory table. Hence, more often than not, VPS Soldiers were hardly sympathetic towards the military, the government, or the United States.
In reality, the general public could sit in their homes in fear of infection and moan and gripe about how the SS-soldiers should save them as if it was their sole purpose in life, but the likelihood of their calls being answered wasn't terribly high. Because, really, 'soldiers' was a broad term. These were not members of some kind of advanced tactical rapid response black ops team, as intended and advertised. These were unhappy youths, spread all over the country, who had suffered years of clinical experimentation and abuse at the hands of a programme and a government that had, in more ways than one, forced their participation. And really, if you have been bullied and pushed around and forced into action, cut open and stitched back together, had chemicals pumped into your body by the gallon, spasmed until your muscles seized and your screaming tapered out to raspy breathing, conditioned and drilled in boot camps and training centres until you could recall every last military procedure and then some, withstand any and every physical obstacle thrown your way, despite pain, and blood, and exhaustion, and broken bones, and then been forced to repeat it all from the beginning time and time again - if you have been through all of this, for years, without escape - then really, why the fuck would you turn around in the world's time of need and help the assuming masses?
You wouldn't. Not without a gigantic, fantastic, important fucking reason.
And so what did the world learn when the people called for super soldiers to save the day? Assumptions were a bullshit move.
/-\
Quinn watches as the two kids zip up their bags, almost completely in sync, and turn back to her with matching smiles. Smiles at them gently even though she wants to cry a little inside.
The thuds downstairs stopped pretty soon after they started - and that was a little while ago now. And yet, Sam hasn't come upstairs yet. She worries for a moment - what if he's been bitten? What if he's turned? What if he's dead on the ground and his dad's skulking around the house waiting for his next meal?
But she doesn't say anything - tries to push the thought from her mind and helps the kids with their things instead - because thoughts like that don't help anything and she's probably wrong anyway. Has to be wrong, because there's two young blonde kids staring up at her and waiting for her direction when she doesn't have any, and she doesn't know what to do, and she's not sure she could overpower Sam, or Sam's dad, let alone kill either of them, and even if she could Rachel would shoot her for driving her car.
Assuming she got to the car.
But then there's a scuffle outside and the door opens to Sam with a duffle over his shoulder and a denim jacket over his dress shirt and dead eyes. He tries for a smile, but it's empty and it wavers, and then he jerks his head a little and turns to leave and she gets the point. Hushes the two kids and prompts them to follow him - out of the room, down the stairs, out of the house, into the car. They shove their bags in the trunk with Rachel's stuff - Quinn wonders what's in those black duffel bags, what secrets Rachel's been hiding from them all, but then she remembers the blonde boy beside her and the thing he just had to do and ignores any thought of Rachel, because Sam needs her right now.
But he shakes his head when she reaches out a hand for his shoulder, grits his jaw and hands her his bat, and the next thing she knows they're both in the car with an ETA for McKinley and no sound between them. The kids ask questions from the backseat, but she cringes away with non-answers because she doesn't know anything more than they do, and Sam keeps his eyes locked on the road and his jaw clenched and his hands twisted tight around the steering wheel until his knuckles are white with the pressure. She watches him - vows to keep an eye on him - asks him if he needs anything.
He doesn't speak.
/-\
Puck pulls up and the house is dark.
Absolutely all lights out. He feels sick - nausea roiling in his gut, bile in the back of his throat, light-headed and gross. Doesn't think he'll actually vomit until he's four steps closer to his front door and falling sidewards off the footpath, his throat burning and his eyes watering and a disgusting taste in his mouth while he sprays it over the grass. Reminds him of some of his not-so-successful party nights, but it's not the same, because he's not drunk, he's terrified. What if his mother's dead? What if his sister is in there with murky, glazed yellow eyes and blood at her collar and a break in her skin? What if he has to kill her?
But he picks himself up despite the dizziness and the fear, because on his knees in the middle of his lawn is not the best place to be during the zombie apocalypse. Pushes towards the front door because he needs to know.
And before he knows it, he is inside, in the dark hall, listening for sound and hearing none, surrounded by emptiness. The shadows echo the nothingness back at him, and he swallows thickly, reaching for the light switch. And when his small house is lit, and he's walked the length of it twice, checking every room with his bat in hand and coming up short both times, he gets it. He really does.
Because his mother's drawers are empty and his sister has clothes strewn all over her usually spotless floor, and he stops for a moment in front of his own door and the note pinned up on the wood.
"Evacuated by JSJ, couldn't reach you. Stay with Rachel."
And he doesn't know who or what JSJ is, or where his mom or his sister are, but he does know they aren't here, in this house - hopefully, in this town, or this state, or even this country - and that Rachel is the only one in this entire gone-to-shit cow town that can help him find out. So he swallows thickly and flicks out the lights in his mother's room, and packs all of his own shit, chucks it in the truck, and speeds off to McKinley - meets up with a couple of parked cars, even Rachel's, but then there's that sick feeling in his gut again that might be concern, maybe. Possibly. If he admits it.
He's out of his truck, shotgun in hand, and striding over to the collection of wary gleeks standing cautiously around the doors to the school before he really registers it. All of the glee club are there - even Schuester, who looks like he's shit himself, and Miss Pillsbury, both of whom have apparently been called to assemble. Coach Sylvester is standing in the shadows, away from the group, observing with a sneer but not really contributing anything, a rifle held comfortably in her arms. Puck's not sure if that makes him feel relieved or scared. He's not even sure why she's there, really.
He picks Quinn out of the group, two blonde midgets hugging her sides and her worried eyes on a blank-faced Sam. She looks at him, though, and notices his scowl, and shakes her, biting her lip, understanding and pale-faced before he even speaks.
"Where the fuck is Rachel?"
/-\
She nearly makes it to the truck. But not quite.
Like all things, it seems pretty fucking simple in theory, but never in practice. Rachel takes up a place at the barred window and slides open the glass, waits until one of the poor sods outside approaches, and then she levels her handgun and lets out a single shot, straight into his forehead. One down, and the other keeps bashing at the door, but then she makes her way over to it and raises her arm and fires three rounds in quick succession, and when the rattling stops and she hears a thud against the ground outside she cracks it open, aims for the fallen head and fires again.
Then she goes for the truck. Gets to it, unlocks the door, and steps up to reach the cabin. And typically enough, that's when it all goes wrong, and there's the heavy trampling of feet from the other side of the lot, and she doesn't think about it - just slams the door behind her, hits the lock, and stuffs the key into the ignition. Her hands shake when she turns the engine over, but it doesn't roar to life until one of the zombies has already leapt up onto the driver's side of the cab, thudding it's fist against the window and howling up a storm on the other side of the glass.
She jams her foot on the accelerator before she can really think too much about it, and the truck tears away through the dusty lot, underneath white lights. She doesn't think to flick the headlights on until she's out of the lot and onto the darker Lima streets, the howling zombie still clinging dutifully to her door and rattling away at the handle whenever she isn't swerving dangerously around a corner or a stray car on the road.
Rachel scowls, trying not to veer onto the sidewalk even as she grabs her Colt from where she's chucked it on the passenger's seat and purses her lips, one hand on the steering wheel, even as she raises her arm across her body to press the barrel against the glass. Tries to lean as far away from the weapon as she can while maintaining some kind of handle on the direction she drives in and grits her teeth when she pulls the trigger. She doesn't turn to see if her shot is successful - the rattling of the door stops, and she almost feels the crunch of human bones beneath the tyres when the back of the truck jolts over the dropped body, and that's enough of a confirmation for her while her ears ring from the gunshot. Instead, she drops her pistol into her denim-clad lap and spins the steering wheel to cut another corner. Soon enough she's coming up on the home stretch.
She floors it when she catches sight of the school and the large group at the front door, huddled together in the winter air. Naturally, with such a group standing at a doorway out in the cold, she thinks the worst. Until she gets close enough to make out individual figures, anyway. From behind the wheel and the windscreen Rachel can see all of the Gleeks doing exactly what they do best - screaming at each other and shit all else. Considers ramming them beneath the front of the truck, but thinks better of it as she swerves widely into the parking lot. Roars up to the building, and slams on the brake, skidding to a halt some metres away from the group at the front door, silencing the lot of them with the rapid approach of her behemoth of a vehicle and the screeching of the brakes.
She grabs up her pistol again before pushing the door open with a jerking motion that successfully removes the majority of the glass in the window, cracked and jagged from her gun minutes beforehand. Then she hops easily out of the cab, Colt in hand, and stalks her way towards the amassed Gleeks with a glare on her face and the bitter taste of blood in her mouth - a split lip from her fun back in the construction lot to accompany the other aches she'll have in the morning, just her luck.
Puck calls out to her before she can ask why they're standing around outside, in open space.
"There's a lock on the door."
It doesn't stop her from scowling, not even with the obviously relieved expression on his face when he sees her, and especially not with the follow-up concern when he noticed the bloody lip, the scratched hands, the dusty clothes, the faint limp in her step. Instead, her finger twitches on the trigger of her gun, and she traipses through the silent gleek crowd, watches them part before her like the Red Sea for the first time in living memory. Thinks, idly, that she must be looking positively murderous for that to happen.
She's almost to the door when she hears it - Santana, of course, because really, who else would ever pick right then to say something.
"Better have a good fucking reason for calling us here, Streisand!"
Rachel doesn't even bother responding, but that's what starts the rest of them up, because whenever it comes to Rachel Berry one single doubt, one single demeaning statement, is never enough, and even a temporary peace is too much to ask for.
"Yeah, what the hell, Rachel! I could be driving out of state with my parents right now, if they'd been home, but instead I got taken here because your white ass ordered it."
She doesn't turn around, just keeps walking towards the school doors with a stiff stride and a locked jaw, her trigger finger just itching to pull. She grits her teeth and bares it.
"Oh tell us, all-knowing one, what the fuck you wanted us here for, 'cause my family's out there right now!"
"Do you even know what's going on right now!"
"She's probably just being a selfish bitch - her dads are out of town, probably knows that she'll get killed by a zombie, all alone, and decided to take us down with her."
"As your teacher, Rachel, I'm demanding that you explain yourself right now! You can't just demand attendance in a time of national crisis!"
"Why should we listen to her anyway, it's not like she has any idea what to do right now any-"
There is a single gunshot, cutting off all conversation between the few loud souls who bothered to open their mouths at all. Then, complete silence, all eyes on the short girl by the door while she pulls the chain from the door handles, the lock shot through, and chucks it to the ground. She turns around slowly, her gaze cool, calculating, but with an undertone of fury chilling enough to maintain the hush of all assembled.
"Let me clear this up for you, before you waste your breath on trivial things that I don't care about," she says icily. "I'm not white, Mercedes, I'm from a mixed ethnicity family of Jews and Nigros so stop playing the fucking race card - it's not a good enough fucking excuse any of the other times you've used it and it sure as hell isn't now. Yes, you could be driving out of state, but you would be caught up in mass traffic, backed up at quarantine, and swarmed by a zombie hoarde in less time than you could hold a high note. Lauren, if you don't know where your family is, then I'd say they're either dead already or they got out of state on a ViPo evacuation earlier this evening. Hope for the latter, but get the fuck over it."
She glowers at the two girls, who are too shaken to glare back, and then turns her icy stare on Finn.
"If I were the selfish bitch you say I am, Finn Hudson, I'd have abandoned you on the highway three hours ago, instead of letting you in the truck bed. In fact, if I was a fucking selfish person, I would have run you over with the pickup and made sure that your over-inflated head was properly crushed beneath the front tyres. So shut the fuck up, because my dads are no fucking business of yours, and if I was selfish I would have left you all here on your own and been out of the state yesterday." The lack of comprehension makes the statement totally worth it. She knows they don't understand. She doesn't look forward to the time that they do. She turns her glare to her failure of a teacher and stares at him with enough intensity to make him shake at the knees. "Right now, Mister Schuester, you're not my teacher - you are a scared, little man trying not to soil his panties in the school parking lot, and you are in no position to make demands. So shut your mouth before I take my pretty, custom M1911 here," she tells him quickly, lifting the gun still in her hand and giving it a shake for emphasis, "and blow your fucking brains out. Comprende?"
She waits pointedly for a nod from the visibly chastened man before continuing again.
"Fantastic!" it's heavy laden with sarcasm, and the group before her flinches. "And now to you, Santana. I asked you to come here because, so far as your chances of survival go? This is probably the best bet. And - I'm not going to sugar coat it for you here - it's not even a high one. Now, I'm going to turn around, and open the doors, and then I'm going to unload all the construction materials from the back of my truck, and I am going to start boarding up as many windows in this school as I can before the infected portion of bumfuck Lima, Ohio, comes calling. I am going to wait here, and hold out, until the right opportunity for escape actually presents itself to me. Whether or not you want to stay here? I don't really fucking care. But if you're not with me, you're against me, and you can get off school grounds, drive as far as your car can take you, and do what you please. You want to stay, you keep your bitching to yourself, and you do what I say, because you all might think you're king shit in comparison to little old me, but I absolutely promise you - every one of you - that no one in the world knows as much about what the fuck is going on than I do."
There's silence for a good long moment before Artie pipes himself up, hesitant and glowering out from the backseat of Kurt's truck.
"So, what, we're supposed to follow you because you say so? Just trust that you'll do the right thing."
Rachel just scoffs and rolls her eyes.
"I'm not asking you to trust me, for god's sake. I'm not even asking you to agree with me. But I am telling you that you'll do what I say if you want to live."
There isn't even time to blink before Sue Sylvester emerges from her spot in the shadows, strolls to the truck, and starts unloading. Puck follows her, just as wordlessly, Sam on his heels. Kurt and Blaine exchange a silent glance before turning to follow and assist. Those with their pride wounded - Lauren, Mercedes, Mister Schue, and Finn, most obviously - sulk for a long moment. But eventually they're spurred into motion, moving towards the cars to grabs some of the things that the others have packed. When they've all turned away and started co-ordinating, Rachel allows herself the tiniest sigh of relief, but doesn't relax the rest of herself for even a fraction of a second.
In fact, she tenses further when a hand lands down on her shoulder, turning to find herself face to face with Quinn Fabray, two short blonde things clinging to the girl's jacket with wide eyes, fearful and confused. Quinn herself just stands there, eyes roaming critically over Rachel's face, a frown on her own lips before she lifts a hand and wipes idly at the brunette's bloody lip. She doesn't speak about her concern, but it's just as obvious to Rachel as the unspoken question behind those hazel eyes - why do you know what to do? - that wasn't answered at the Fabray household and isn't being answered now. Rachel just shakes her head - not yet - her reply in their silent exchange, and turns to push the school doors open, unholstering her second pistol to safely lead her pseudo troops into their new base of operations.
/-\
Puck knocks another nail into the wall, pinning the board up over the window, even as Kurt whacks some concrete onto the next window sill over and stacking on bricks. They're working in small groups, per Rachel's orders - Blaine and Kurt are with him, boarding up the front rooms in the dark. The of the school is suffering at the hands of Finn, with Mike knocking his skills back in line, fixing his mistakes, Sam with them but probably doing a well enough job on his own. Santana and Lauren are wherever Rachel sent them, and Tina and Mercedes were left to patrol the halls, just in case Rachel's original excursion missed a zombie, or one of them snuck in past Sue Sylvester's rooftop sentry watch.
Miss Pillsbury was sent off to account for all the stock in the cafeteria, and then the meds in the nurse's office, with Schuester as her personal whiney bodyguard. Quinn and Brittany were left to look after the siblings Evans and set up some kind of living space in the choir room, or the auditorium - wherever they decided.
And Rachel, well - Puck watches out the window like a hawk, every time she emerges out under the wash of the streetlights, ferrying bags from their assembled car fleet to somewhere inside. She has more trouble every time she makes the trip - he can see it. She sets her shoulders a little more, moves a little slower, limps a little more with every step. One of her knees quivers, and she coaxes it back in line, forces it to keep her upright, strong, moving.
This time - he's lost count of the number of times the brunette's gone back and forth now - he watches her make the line to her own car, popping the boot, already emptied of the properties of Quinn and the three Evans'. Puck watches as Rachel reaches in for her own black duffel bags - there's two, and he doesn't know what's in them, but she yanks them out of the car and on to the ground in a flash, slams the trunk shut only to stumble and fall back against the car, wincing, hands clenching into fists. Puck drops his hammer without a second thought and makes a rush for the door of the classroom, through the hall and then outside, to the car, to Rachel, while she supports herself against the car and tries to shift her shaky left leg.
"You alright, my Jewish princess? Want some help?" he asks as he comes upon her, reaching for her bags. He sees her flinch forward the slightest amount - she wants to stop him, to take them herself, he knows it, he can see it in her. She doesn't want to be weak. But he hoists both bags up - he's tired, and they're heavy, but he can do it. He will. Touches her gently on the shoulder when one of his hands is free and whispers to her softly. "Don't push it too hard, babe."
He watches as her lips purse and she shakes her head, pushing her weight back onto her bad leg and trying to get herself back up and off the car. Puck frowns to himself even as he falls in step beside her, back towards the building - knows he'll have to force her to the girl's locker rooms, to wash up a little and get her head back in the game. He wishes he could put her to bed, make her sleep, let her rest, but he knows better. They have a bunch of windows to board up, a stack of furniture to push in front of the school doors. And after that she needs to snap a box on everyone's fingers to make sure they're not infected, time bombs ticking on down. They have a long night ahead of them, and no one gets to sleep tonight.
"It's beating me tonight, Puck. It shouldn't, but it is, and we're not even in it yet," she says quietly - so much so that he hardly hears it. But he knows it's only meant for him. "You don't get it though - this is my thing, my city, now. I'm meant to own this shit."
He doesn't get it, and he's caught between wanting her to explain and wanting her to shove it away in the dark corners it belongs in, never bring it up again. He needs to know but he doesn't want to, or he wants to but he doesn't need to, or maybe he's just scared. He thinks, when she speaks, underneath the determination there is fear, there is hopelessness, there is everything in her that there is in him, and she just masks it better. They hide it behind false bravado, behind instinct and desperation, but they're both afraid. Everything's going to shit, who wouldn't be?
"I need to be in control."
--
Give me the keys to the city
Give me the keys to your soul, yeah
Give me the keys to the moment when
the whole city loses control
- Keys To The City, Skybombers