fic: this is how an angel dies III
Title: this is how an angel dies
Rating: M
Length: 4500
Spoilers: 4x08
Summary: A gift for the Quinntana fic exchange. Prompt: Quinntana in a zombie apocalypse.
Part I Part II
July 14, 2015
If I'm being completely honest with myself, I feel like shit. I'm all over the place, losing things, forgetting what I'm about to say just as I open my mouth. My wife thinks I should stay in the hotel and sleep, but that's not going to happen. I'm here to see her in the city where we met. Where an awkward researcher somehow convinced a vivacious young doctor that since she'd stolen his heart at first glance, she should keep it and him as well. Grace and I went back to Equus Ethiopia. She was a marvelous equestrienne as usual. I managed not to fall off. Barely. She managed not to laugh. Grace leaves the city in a few days to head back to her assignment with MSF and I'll return home to prepare for the new semester, but for now we're together and everything is perfect.
-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D.
_____
Santana is a heavy sleeper. When she’s out, she’s out and doesn’t really notice things that go on around her. Likewise, it always takes her a while to fully wake up. Which is why she doesn’t realize she’s in someone else’s bed until she reaches for the glasses on her nightstand and knocks a stack of books off Rachel’s desk. Cringing at the noise, she takes in the hideous sheets and the overabundance of decorative pillows and remembers where she is. She also remembers that she was a bit of a mess the night before.
The exact words escape her, but she recalls the gist of what came out when she exploded at Quinn. Knowing her, she probably cried, which is the absolute worst. She would just love to finally grow out of that. Drunk crying is way too angsty teen melodrama and Santana i so one with that stage of her life. She’s not even that mad at Quinn. Not really. When she first got to New York, she had a rough time. She’d managed to singe a few bridges with Brittany and Sam when she first found out they were dating. At that time, she’d been unwilling to confide in Rachel Berry of all people. Instead, she reached out to Quinn who, despite endless high school drama, was the next closest in her trust circle. It’s embarrassing to accept exactly how butt-hurt she’d been when Quinn dropped off the face of the earth. Drunk Santana is right; Quinn does kind of suck. But sober Santana is rational and recognizes this isn’t something she can legitimately hold a grudge over. Not now, when she’s supposedly all well adjusted and shit. It’s just really hard not to revert to her default bitch setting when Quinn shows up out of the blue like that. Some adjustments take longer than others.
Groaning, she stands up. Checking the clock, she’s at least grateful she won’t have to deal with Rachel in addition to the inevitable awkwardness between her and Quinn. Rachel is rarely at home on Saturday mornings. That girl has too much fucking energy, like all the time, and that naturally translates into spinning or yoga or Pilates or some other complicated shit that isn’t the simple running and weightlifting Santana forces herself to do. She’d tagged along once, after being brow beaten into it, but it’d had only taken the dudebro instructor “adjusting her stance” one time too many for her to make a scene that embarrassed Rachel so much she never broached the subject of working out together again. Santana counts that as one of her proudest achievements to date.
The bathroom is super close so she sneaks in and immediately jumps into the shower. The water pressure is so much better here than at her place and is at least fifty percent of the reason she stays over so often. The other is fifty is a combination of casual drunkenness and mild paranoia about taking the subway at night. Clearly secondary concerns. The water beats down on her head and clears out the remaining drowsiness. She’s going to smell like Rachel’s fruity shower gel but whatever, beggars can’t be choosers. Santana takes her time, mainly to avoid the impending conversation but also yes, epic water pressure. The water is tepid by the time she gets out.
She is rubbing a towel over her hair when she steps into the living room debating whether she wants to actually touch Rachel’s bedazzled blow dryer long enough to do anything with it. Quinn is awake. Her golden hair is still damp and plaited to hang along the side of her neck. Of course she’s awake. She’s always been a morning person and Rachel would have made sure to play the gracious hostess and see that she knew where everything was.
It’s time to bite the bullet.
“Hey” she says, dropping the towel across her shoulders and coming to stand at the foot of the couch.
Santana is worried that Quinn is going to want to have it out over last night but she just looks up and tilts her chin as if to acknowledge Santana’s presence before turning back to the news. It’s comforting to know some things don’t change. Quinn loves to force a fight, but she still has even bigger avoidance issues than Santana.
“Hey.”
Quinn is just sitting there watching the weather report like it has the answers to all the universe’s problems. It’s a little weird. There isn’t even something exciting like a hurricane coming. It’s just going to be cold and cloudy with a high probability of freezing your ass off. Santana is from Ohio, so she can do cold, but something about New York makes it worse. She thinks it's the wind tunnels from all the skyscrapers.
“Anything exciting?” Santana makes another stab at conversation because it feels like something she should do.
Quinn shakes her head and settles back against the cushions. “No. Everything is normal.”
The way she says it sounds frustrated and really odd considering the weather report just ended in favor of a story about a deadly convenience store robbery in the Bronx. If this is normal for Quinn, New Haven must be just as bad as Santana thought. Quinn’s not done though.
“I called my roommate. They found Mark. He’s dead.” She shifts a little and turns to face Santana. “It apparently looks like a suicide and they think he just went crazy and killed Dr. Phillips before…”
Quinn looks really broken up about it and Santana is tempted to ask whether she was banging him too. But that's a too much of a low blow even by her standards. it's also probably rude to the dead guy’s memory or something. They’ve never been exceptionally good at comforting each other, which is probably good. Neither of them likes a big fuss when they’re upset. They're more prone to lick their wounds in private. Santana is comfortable with settling a hand between Quinn’s shoulder blades and alternating rubs and pats for a few moments.
“I’m sorry.”
Quinn leans into her hand for a second or two before pulling away.
“No. I mean. Mark was great and I’m not really surprised considering the way he was acting. But it’s odd that this is so open and shut.”
“But you’re off the hook right? You can go in and make a statement and get back to your regularly scheduled life?” Quinn should be thanking God for small favors. Santana is most definitely grateful because Quinn will be out of her hair in a few hours and she can curl up in her own bed and waste the rest the day in a near comatose state.
Quinn is not so sure though. She shrugs. “I guess. But after all of that, I expected more to happen. This is a bit anticlimactic.”
There were times, Thursday and the day before, when she’d been scared out of her mind. The idea this could all be chalked up to an unbalanced lab assistant and an experiment gone wrong seems too easy. Either she can imagine messed up scenarios in her head or she can carry on with her day.
“How about some breakfast?”
They’re in a small restaurant, one Santana obviously knows well because she led them straight to it. They both get pancake because after surviving Sue Sylvester, they don’t give a damn about diets. Quinn gets extra bacon because she wants to. Santana laughs when she orders it, but gives her a smirk that is only slightly mocking and vaguely approving so Quinn thinks it might be a good sign. The meal is pretty quiet. Food is a pretty good way to shut both of them up. Unlike yesterday, it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s a neutral one, punctuated by the clinking of forks and knives and the background noise of other conversations.
Quinn wants them to talk though. Santana was likely upset about more than just her not keeping in touch, but Quinn hasn’t been the best of friends. She casts around for something to say that won’t sound dumb. She’s got the Fabray charm that makes her an expert at small talk, but inane chatter doesn’t work with Santana so she settles on the question she’s had since last night.
“So. You and Rachel.”
Santana is busy sneering out the window at a woman walking a dog in a sweater, but her head whips around at the sound of Quinn’s voice.
“Me and Rachel what?”
“Is that a thing now?”
“Ew no. Where would you even get an idea like that?”
Quinn’s not sure if Santana’s deflecting, still she’s definitely uncomfortable and this just became fun.
“You slept in her bed last night. With her.”
“So. I was drunk. And I shared a bed with Brittany all the time.”
"Exactly my point."
Santana soon realizes that isn’t the convincing argument she thinks it is. She crosses are arms and leans forward
“I also shared a bed with you several times between Cheerios and Glee. And you were supposedly, how do I put it, not that into that. From my extensive observations Quinn, if anyone secretly wants to bone Berry it’s you.”
Santana emphasizes her point with a wink. She sees what Quinn is trying to do. She hates her a little bit for it, but they’re back on comfortable ground. A rousing game of ‘who can irritate the other more’ is much better than alternating between panic attacks and drunk crying. The way Quinn’s face turns red is the funniest shit to happen to her all week. That’s not to say Santana hasn’t seen Rachel in a new light since moving to New York; she’d be lying if she says she hasn’t thought about it. But it’s still Rachel Berry. That wouldn’t be a one-night stand or a friends-with-benefits situation. There weren’t just strings attached, it would be like having the whole violin section of an orchestra.
They manage to get through breakfast civilly. Neither will admit how much they missed the low level bitchery allowed in each other’s company. Afterward Santana lights up a cigarette while they take the short walk to the subway station.
“You know that’ll kill you right?”
“So will that slab of fried pork fat you just inhaled. And?”
Quinn laughs. This is something that has definitely been missing in her life. When the boring, pretentious people at Yale are mean, it’s not a convoluted way of expressing affection, it’s because they actually dislike you. Quinn reaches out to catch the sleeve of Santana’s jacket.
“Look. I’m sorry you felt like I abandoned you. I was busy with school and maintaining my GPA and it wasn’t like I actively ignored you, but I do want to keep in touch now.”
Santana huffs out a plume of smoke. "You know Q, that was the worst excuse for an apology I’ve ever heard in my life." She pulls back her arm and hooks it through Quinn’s as they cross the street. “But if it means your sorry ass won’t go MIA again, I’ll take it.”
At Grand Central they exchange a hug, a real one and it feels pretty good. They don’t get a chance to attempt actually saying goodbye though; because at that moment Quinn remembers that her train pass is in her bag at Santana’s. It’s funny really, because she always keeps close track of her belongings. They could go all the way to get it, but then it would be really late by the time she got back to New Haven.
“Looks like I’m stuck with you.” Santana’s words say she’s pissed but the hint of a smile around the edges of her mouth say she’s joking. She says Quinn can stay over again as long as she’s gotten her outrageous snoring under control. She snickers as she says it and really, there’s a reason why they always end up slapping each other. Though Quinn is happy she’s got her best friend back, there’s still a niggling suspicion that she’s missing something.
Back at Santana’s, she checks the news on her phone. There’s nothing on the New Haven Register or Hartford Courant websites aside from of a string of violent and seemingly random crimes in southern Connecticut. Some of them are really out there, but she can’t dwell on it because Santana is yelling at her to pay attention to the movie. Santana got home and immediately pulled out her collector’s edition of Child’s Play. Quinn is starting to think she’d rather be arrested for murder than have to deal with that creepy doll. Santana knows she hates scary movies. Her ‘friend’ is definitely making her watch these as revenge. The way Santana cackles and mouths along all of Chucky’s vulgar quips makes her wonder how she ever passed herself off as sane, let alone the coolest girl in school. It’s mildly endearing, so when the movie is over and Santana pulls out the rest of the boxed set, she just settles back in for a few more hours of screaming and cringing and a sleepless night full of bad dreams.
Quinn has no idea that the impromptu movie night might be good preparation for the foreseeable future.
____
Late that night, she gets an email from the Yale automated safety alert service notifying her of several cases of an as yet unidentified infection. Patients are being kept in isolation at select medical centers. Students are advised against any non-essential travel in the general New Haven-Milford area until the Department of Public Health releases more information. It reads like a standard email, similar to the warnings about the flu, meningitis, bedbugs, and several other ailments that seem endemic to college campuses.
The next morning, Quinn gathers her things and heads back to downtown only to find that all northbound trains are cancelled. She stands amongst other disgruntled passengers trying to figure out what’s going on. They can’t get any information from the ticket window. The teller just got a call from the main office to stop selling tickets. It’s not until she gets a similar answer at the Megabus stop and the Greyhound station that she calls Santana who tells her to just make a weekend of it. That night on the news, buried behind a few random public interest stories is a story of a critically ill patient going missing from a hospital in the Bronx. The attending nurse’s description of his irritability, fever, headache, disorientation and loss of motor coordination sound relatively tame. But Quinn knows better.
Hours later, the Commissioner of Health issues a press release that states there is a virus affecting New England and a large part of the New York Metropolitan area. It appears to be transmitted via bodily fluids. An incubation period of approximately twelve is followed by a rapid onset of symptoms. Tests are still being run to determine the full implications, but neurologists confirm massive brain damage and psychotic behavior in advanced stages.
Santana insists on going out for groceries so they can just chill until everything is back under control. They aren’t the only ones with that similar idea. Tension is high at the grocery store. The cashiers wear facemasks in addition to gloves and everyone takes special care to stay out of each other’s personal space. It’s strange to see in Manhattan where continuously jostling others and being jostled in return is part of the daily experience.
Many general practitioners close their offices until there’s more information on treatment and prevention. Patients are directed to rapidly filling hospitals, in which the number of false alarms far outnumbers legitimate infections. The travel advisories come next, including recommendations against elective travel and a notification that I-95 will be shut down. The Met and the New York Public Library are closed. The Knicks game is canceled and all professional sporting events are postponed until further notice. There are a lot of complaints from disgruntled fans, but the undercurrent of unease is palpable.
Rachel and Kurt come over just before everyone is told to stay inside. The four of them sit together waiting, valiantly pretending that they aren’t freaking out and each failing dramatically in their own way. Quinn paces by the window. Kurt and Santana snipe at each other while Rachel pretty much annoys them both, but it’s clear they’re glad to be together.
It’s not until the mayor stands, sweating in his tailored suit, during rapidly assembled press conference that they know it will definitely get worse before it gets better.
He stares straight into the camera and speaks, “Pursuant to the powers vested in me by the laws of the State of New York and the City of New York -“,
The city has been put under a State of Emergency. Quinn takes that as her cue to fill Rachel and Kurt in. They don’t believe her at first, but when the mayor essentially confirms what she’s saying, Rachel gasps loudly and Kurt goes even paler than usual. Quinn knows more details than are being revealed to the public, but enough of it matches up that everyone in the room knows how serious this is. Quinn looks to where Santana is perched on the couch twisting her fingers together. Neither of them really knows what to do or to say to calm their friends. Everyone remains calm for the most part. Between the three major news affiliates, there’s always some kind of update. Not that the updates are good news. They’re filled with reports of looting, failing hospitals and gruesome assaults that are multiplying faster than the NYPD and the National Guard are able to manage. But it’s still better than nothing.
Until the lights go out.
Manhattan, or as much of it as they can see from Santana’s window, goes dark on Monday night. More striking than the darkness is the silence. The subway stopped running with the State of Emergency so there is no distant rattling from underground. Without the gentle vibrations of generators or the hum of refrigerators and microwaves, the city is quiet in a way it shouldn’t be.
Santana’s neighbor has a battery-powered radio and they all take the calculated risk to stand in the hallway to hear what happened. Somehow a passenger vehicle lost control and crashed in Midtown, damaging a key Con Ed transformer. Large parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan are without power and it’s unclear when crews will get out for repairs. After that, the heavy silence really isn’t a problem. Everyone in the building is in a rush to get out of town. Apparently, that applies to everyone in the neighborhood. The few who own cars are willing to gives rides and those without vehicles or friends decide it’s better to leave than just stay put. Kurt agrees.
“How is all of this even happening?” Quinn sits on the coffee table with her head cradled in her hands. Even though she knows more than anyone, she keeps shaking her head back and forth like she can’t believe it.
Santana pipes up, hoping some mundane information will help her keep it together. “It’s that damn AC grid system. Manhattan was literally asking for a blackout.”
Kurt, Quinn and Rachel stop to look at her so she continues. “For shit to run, a specific voltage needs to be maintained. If it’s not, the system crashes.“
They are literally gaping at her now and it’s irritating. “Whatever, I saw it on Modern Marvels. The History Channel is quality programming.”
“Oh my god. We have to get out of here.” Kurt is about a second away from hyperventilating.
“And do what? Take the subway downtown?” Santana rolls her eyes at him, but she’s having the same knee jerk reaction. She knows better than to act on it though. Panicking gets people killed.
“Kurt’s right. We can’t just stay here.” Rachel’s a shade calmer than Kurt but not by much. “At some point we’re going to run out of food and since I’m vegetarian I won’t be able to properly participate in any cannibalistic death matches when we eventually go insane.”
“Rachel, please. You’d be the first to go anyway,” before Kurt and Rachel can really get into who would get eaten first, Santana turns to Quinn.
“I think we should stay. But these idiots want to go. Since I generally prefer to count their lame ass ideas as a single opinion, you're the tie breaker.”
“I think we should go. Or find a better place. There’s no electricity or water here. Eventually we’re going to run out of peanut butter and then our biggest issue will be your attitude.” Quinn’s trying to lighten the mood but it’s not working. Probably because her face has never looked more serious. And that’s saying a lot for Quinn “I’ve never met a joke I liked” Fabray.
“We should at least wait until the sun’s up and not go running around like these assholes.”
“I’m willing to concede that point.” Rachel says, peering out of the window like she can actually see anything from the tenth floor in pitch darkness.
____
It’s just past five am and the four of them are standing in the lobby of Santana’s building. She still doesn’t really want to leave, but she can’t fully articulate exactly why she wants to say. The street outside is empty. There are no parked cars, no bike messengers, no annoying old ladies going for their early morning power walks. It reminds Santana of the emptiness right before a showdown in those old spaghetti westerns that come on AMC every few months. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but minus the usual bustle of Monday morning in Manhattan, nothing really seems out of the ordinary. They make it to Times Square before the eeriness really sinks in. The huge screens, the flashing lights are all completely out. The sun is rising and reflecting off of blank panels that without their advertisements are just looming shadows flanking what used to be a thriving intersection. If any of them notice how they subconsciously speed up their pace, none of them mentions it.
An hour passes before they encounter anyone else.
It looks like a couple, a man and a woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus. But then Santana remembers; no bus is coming. She looks closer and sees the way the man is backed up against the post of the bus stop and the woman is pressing closer to him regardless of his objections. Santana is all for proactive ladies, but this guy looks scared as fuck. She’s just opened her mouth to call over to them when three people round the corner. They aren’t people randomly wondering like them. They’re all moving in the same stilted way with their heads tilted at odd angles. They either don’t comprehend or ignore the man when he yells at them to back away.
“Shit”, Quinn comes to the same conclusion as Santana and they pull back under the awning and out of sight.
The man is yelling now, fighting against the hands pulling at his clothes and hair. Quinn steps forward like she wants to help. It seems involuntary, almost like the whimper that slips out of her mouth. Santana stops her with an arm thrown across her stomach. The group has fully closed in and the screams have dwindled to low moans as the original woman straddles his chest and bangs his head into the pavement.
“We have to help him.”
Santana shakes her head sharply and motions for Rachel to stay quiet. Rachel looks like she’s about to argue but Kurt just wraps an arm around her waist and closes his hand over her mouth. He’s not the biggest guy, but he’s more than strong enough to pin her to him and drags her around the corner when she starts struggling. Quinn’s frozen, still staring across the street. Santana pulls her into a tight embrace and backs away before they can be seen.
They continue very slowly, choosing smaller side streets and waiting in nooks before advancing. They stick as close to the building fronts as possible, eyes peeled to spot any potential threats. Rachel’s eyes are wet with tears and she doesn’t say another word for the rest of the day. Much like when the power went out, her silence is unnerving and serves as another indication of how wrong everything is.
____
It’s decided that they’ll head for the Lincoln Tunnel. None of them drive and all “pedestrian” paths off the island require ferries. The last thing they see of Manhattan is a crashed fire truck. It’s still smoking a little from where the front end smashed into a metal pole. There are several bodies near it: some firemen, some civilians. Santana makes an effort not to look too closely at them. The kid in the driver’s seat is young. At most a few years older than them. The blood from his temple indicates that he died in the crash. Santana can’t decide if he was lucky or not. Something catches her eye and she climbs up into the truck and grabs an axe that’s jammed behind the seat. She steps back down and the other three are waiting, eyeing her and the axe cautiously. She looks back at the dead driver and mutters a quick, “Sorry,” before catching up.
The entrance to the tunnel is lined with barricades and safety cones. A few police cars are parked in a perimeter but there’s an obvious break where the cordon sanitaire clearly failed. The lights running along the sides of the tunnel are still on. That’s good. But it’s still dark as fuck. They need a flashlight. Quinn’s phone came with one and Santana is for once grateful that Quinn is the one person she knows who refuses to get an iPhone. She says as much and Kurt bursts out in nervous giggles. Objectively, it is funny but his laughter is too high and it just hangs in the air for a few uncomfortable minutes as they stand peering into the cavernous mouth of the tunnel.
Rating: M
Length: 4500
Spoilers: 4x08
Summary: A gift for the Quinntana fic exchange. Prompt: Quinntana in a zombie apocalypse.
Part I Part II
July 14, 2015
If I'm being completely honest with myself, I feel like shit. I'm all over the place, losing things, forgetting what I'm about to say just as I open my mouth. My wife thinks I should stay in the hotel and sleep, but that's not going to happen. I'm here to see her in the city where we met. Where an awkward researcher somehow convinced a vivacious young doctor that since she'd stolen his heart at first glance, she should keep it and him as well. Grace and I went back to Equus Ethiopia. She was a marvelous equestrienne as usual. I managed not to fall off. Barely. She managed not to laugh. Grace leaves the city in a few days to head back to her assignment with MSF and I'll return home to prepare for the new semester, but for now we're together and everything is perfect.
-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D.
_____
Santana is a heavy sleeper. When she’s out, she’s out and doesn’t really notice things that go on around her. Likewise, it always takes her a while to fully wake up. Which is why she doesn’t realize she’s in someone else’s bed until she reaches for the glasses on her nightstand and knocks a stack of books off Rachel’s desk. Cringing at the noise, she takes in the hideous sheets and the overabundance of decorative pillows and remembers where she is. She also remembers that she was a bit of a mess the night before.
The exact words escape her, but she recalls the gist of what came out when she exploded at Quinn. Knowing her, she probably cried, which is the absolute worst. She would just love to finally grow out of that. Drunk crying is way too angsty teen melodrama and Santana i so one with that stage of her life. She’s not even that mad at Quinn. Not really. When she first got to New York, she had a rough time. She’d managed to singe a few bridges with Brittany and Sam when she first found out they were dating. At that time, she’d been unwilling to confide in Rachel Berry of all people. Instead, she reached out to Quinn who, despite endless high school drama, was the next closest in her trust circle. It’s embarrassing to accept exactly how butt-hurt she’d been when Quinn dropped off the face of the earth. Drunk Santana is right; Quinn does kind of suck. But sober Santana is rational and recognizes this isn’t something she can legitimately hold a grudge over. Not now, when she’s supposedly all well adjusted and shit. It’s just really hard not to revert to her default bitch setting when Quinn shows up out of the blue like that. Some adjustments take longer than others.
Groaning, she stands up. Checking the clock, she’s at least grateful she won’t have to deal with Rachel in addition to the inevitable awkwardness between her and Quinn. Rachel is rarely at home on Saturday mornings. That girl has too much fucking energy, like all the time, and that naturally translates into spinning or yoga or Pilates or some other complicated shit that isn’t the simple running and weightlifting Santana forces herself to do. She’d tagged along once, after being brow beaten into it, but it’d had only taken the dudebro instructor “adjusting her stance” one time too many for her to make a scene that embarrassed Rachel so much she never broached the subject of working out together again. Santana counts that as one of her proudest achievements to date.
The bathroom is super close so she sneaks in and immediately jumps into the shower. The water pressure is so much better here than at her place and is at least fifty percent of the reason she stays over so often. The other is fifty is a combination of casual drunkenness and mild paranoia about taking the subway at night. Clearly secondary concerns. The water beats down on her head and clears out the remaining drowsiness. She’s going to smell like Rachel’s fruity shower gel but whatever, beggars can’t be choosers. Santana takes her time, mainly to avoid the impending conversation but also yes, epic water pressure. The water is tepid by the time she gets out.
She is rubbing a towel over her hair when she steps into the living room debating whether she wants to actually touch Rachel’s bedazzled blow dryer long enough to do anything with it. Quinn is awake. Her golden hair is still damp and plaited to hang along the side of her neck. Of course she’s awake. She’s always been a morning person and Rachel would have made sure to play the gracious hostess and see that she knew where everything was.
It’s time to bite the bullet.
“Hey” she says, dropping the towel across her shoulders and coming to stand at the foot of the couch.
Santana is worried that Quinn is going to want to have it out over last night but she just looks up and tilts her chin as if to acknowledge Santana’s presence before turning back to the news. It’s comforting to know some things don’t change. Quinn loves to force a fight, but she still has even bigger avoidance issues than Santana.
“Hey.”
Quinn is just sitting there watching the weather report like it has the answers to all the universe’s problems. It’s a little weird. There isn’t even something exciting like a hurricane coming. It’s just going to be cold and cloudy with a high probability of freezing your ass off. Santana is from Ohio, so she can do cold, but something about New York makes it worse. She thinks it's the wind tunnels from all the skyscrapers.
“Anything exciting?” Santana makes another stab at conversation because it feels like something she should do.
Quinn shakes her head and settles back against the cushions. “No. Everything is normal.”
The way she says it sounds frustrated and really odd considering the weather report just ended in favor of a story about a deadly convenience store robbery in the Bronx. If this is normal for Quinn, New Haven must be just as bad as Santana thought. Quinn’s not done though.
“I called my roommate. They found Mark. He’s dead.” She shifts a little and turns to face Santana. “It apparently looks like a suicide and they think he just went crazy and killed Dr. Phillips before…”
Quinn looks really broken up about it and Santana is tempted to ask whether she was banging him too. But that's a too much of a low blow even by her standards. it's also probably rude to the dead guy’s memory or something. They’ve never been exceptionally good at comforting each other, which is probably good. Neither of them likes a big fuss when they’re upset. They're more prone to lick their wounds in private. Santana is comfortable with settling a hand between Quinn’s shoulder blades and alternating rubs and pats for a few moments.
“I’m sorry.”
Quinn leans into her hand for a second or two before pulling away.
“No. I mean. Mark was great and I’m not really surprised considering the way he was acting. But it’s odd that this is so open and shut.”
“But you’re off the hook right? You can go in and make a statement and get back to your regularly scheduled life?” Quinn should be thanking God for small favors. Santana is most definitely grateful because Quinn will be out of her hair in a few hours and she can curl up in her own bed and waste the rest the day in a near comatose state.
Quinn is not so sure though. She shrugs. “I guess. But after all of that, I expected more to happen. This is a bit anticlimactic.”
There were times, Thursday and the day before, when she’d been scared out of her mind. The idea this could all be chalked up to an unbalanced lab assistant and an experiment gone wrong seems too easy. Either she can imagine messed up scenarios in her head or she can carry on with her day.
“How about some breakfast?”
They’re in a small restaurant, one Santana obviously knows well because she led them straight to it. They both get pancake because after surviving Sue Sylvester, they don’t give a damn about diets. Quinn gets extra bacon because she wants to. Santana laughs when she orders it, but gives her a smirk that is only slightly mocking and vaguely approving so Quinn thinks it might be a good sign. The meal is pretty quiet. Food is a pretty good way to shut both of them up. Unlike yesterday, it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s a neutral one, punctuated by the clinking of forks and knives and the background noise of other conversations.
Quinn wants them to talk though. Santana was likely upset about more than just her not keeping in touch, but Quinn hasn’t been the best of friends. She casts around for something to say that won’t sound dumb. She’s got the Fabray charm that makes her an expert at small talk, but inane chatter doesn’t work with Santana so she settles on the question she’s had since last night.
“So. You and Rachel.”
Santana is busy sneering out the window at a woman walking a dog in a sweater, but her head whips around at the sound of Quinn’s voice.
“Me and Rachel what?”
“Is that a thing now?”
“Ew no. Where would you even get an idea like that?”
Quinn’s not sure if Santana’s deflecting, still she’s definitely uncomfortable and this just became fun.
“You slept in her bed last night. With her.”
“So. I was drunk. And I shared a bed with Brittany all the time.”
"Exactly my point."
Santana soon realizes that isn’t the convincing argument she thinks it is. She crosses are arms and leans forward
“I also shared a bed with you several times between Cheerios and Glee. And you were supposedly, how do I put it, not that into that. From my extensive observations Quinn, if anyone secretly wants to bone Berry it’s you.”
Santana emphasizes her point with a wink. She sees what Quinn is trying to do. She hates her a little bit for it, but they’re back on comfortable ground. A rousing game of ‘who can irritate the other more’ is much better than alternating between panic attacks and drunk crying. The way Quinn’s face turns red is the funniest shit to happen to her all week. That’s not to say Santana hasn’t seen Rachel in a new light since moving to New York; she’d be lying if she says she hasn’t thought about it. But it’s still Rachel Berry. That wouldn’t be a one-night stand or a friends-with-benefits situation. There weren’t just strings attached, it would be like having the whole violin section of an orchestra.
They manage to get through breakfast civilly. Neither will admit how much they missed the low level bitchery allowed in each other’s company. Afterward Santana lights up a cigarette while they take the short walk to the subway station.
“You know that’ll kill you right?”
“So will that slab of fried pork fat you just inhaled. And?”
Quinn laughs. This is something that has definitely been missing in her life. When the boring, pretentious people at Yale are mean, it’s not a convoluted way of expressing affection, it’s because they actually dislike you. Quinn reaches out to catch the sleeve of Santana’s jacket.
“Look. I’m sorry you felt like I abandoned you. I was busy with school and maintaining my GPA and it wasn’t like I actively ignored you, but I do want to keep in touch now.”
Santana huffs out a plume of smoke. "You know Q, that was the worst excuse for an apology I’ve ever heard in my life." She pulls back her arm and hooks it through Quinn’s as they cross the street. “But if it means your sorry ass won’t go MIA again, I’ll take it.”
At Grand Central they exchange a hug, a real one and it feels pretty good. They don’t get a chance to attempt actually saying goodbye though; because at that moment Quinn remembers that her train pass is in her bag at Santana’s. It’s funny really, because she always keeps close track of her belongings. They could go all the way to get it, but then it would be really late by the time she got back to New Haven.
“Looks like I’m stuck with you.” Santana’s words say she’s pissed but the hint of a smile around the edges of her mouth say she’s joking. She says Quinn can stay over again as long as she’s gotten her outrageous snoring under control. She snickers as she says it and really, there’s a reason why they always end up slapping each other. Though Quinn is happy she’s got her best friend back, there’s still a niggling suspicion that she’s missing something.
Back at Santana’s, she checks the news on her phone. There’s nothing on the New Haven Register or Hartford Courant websites aside from of a string of violent and seemingly random crimes in southern Connecticut. Some of them are really out there, but she can’t dwell on it because Santana is yelling at her to pay attention to the movie. Santana got home and immediately pulled out her collector’s edition of Child’s Play. Quinn is starting to think she’d rather be arrested for murder than have to deal with that creepy doll. Santana knows she hates scary movies. Her ‘friend’ is definitely making her watch these as revenge. The way Santana cackles and mouths along all of Chucky’s vulgar quips makes her wonder how she ever passed herself off as sane, let alone the coolest girl in school. It’s mildly endearing, so when the movie is over and Santana pulls out the rest of the boxed set, she just settles back in for a few more hours of screaming and cringing and a sleepless night full of bad dreams.
Quinn has no idea that the impromptu movie night might be good preparation for the foreseeable future.
____
Late that night, she gets an email from the Yale automated safety alert service notifying her of several cases of an as yet unidentified infection. Patients are being kept in isolation at select medical centers. Students are advised against any non-essential travel in the general New Haven-Milford area until the Department of Public Health releases more information. It reads like a standard email, similar to the warnings about the flu, meningitis, bedbugs, and several other ailments that seem endemic to college campuses.
The next morning, Quinn gathers her things and heads back to downtown only to find that all northbound trains are cancelled. She stands amongst other disgruntled passengers trying to figure out what’s going on. They can’t get any information from the ticket window. The teller just got a call from the main office to stop selling tickets. It’s not until she gets a similar answer at the Megabus stop and the Greyhound station that she calls Santana who tells her to just make a weekend of it. That night on the news, buried behind a few random public interest stories is a story of a critically ill patient going missing from a hospital in the Bronx. The attending nurse’s description of his irritability, fever, headache, disorientation and loss of motor coordination sound relatively tame. But Quinn knows better.
Hours later, the Commissioner of Health issues a press release that states there is a virus affecting New England and a large part of the New York Metropolitan area. It appears to be transmitted via bodily fluids. An incubation period of approximately twelve is followed by a rapid onset of symptoms. Tests are still being run to determine the full implications, but neurologists confirm massive brain damage and psychotic behavior in advanced stages.
Santana insists on going out for groceries so they can just chill until everything is back under control. They aren’t the only ones with that similar idea. Tension is high at the grocery store. The cashiers wear facemasks in addition to gloves and everyone takes special care to stay out of each other’s personal space. It’s strange to see in Manhattan where continuously jostling others and being jostled in return is part of the daily experience.
Many general practitioners close their offices until there’s more information on treatment and prevention. Patients are directed to rapidly filling hospitals, in which the number of false alarms far outnumbers legitimate infections. The travel advisories come next, including recommendations against elective travel and a notification that I-95 will be shut down. The Met and the New York Public Library are closed. The Knicks game is canceled and all professional sporting events are postponed until further notice. There are a lot of complaints from disgruntled fans, but the undercurrent of unease is palpable.
Rachel and Kurt come over just before everyone is told to stay inside. The four of them sit together waiting, valiantly pretending that they aren’t freaking out and each failing dramatically in their own way. Quinn paces by the window. Kurt and Santana snipe at each other while Rachel pretty much annoys them both, but it’s clear they’re glad to be together.
It’s not until the mayor stands, sweating in his tailored suit, during rapidly assembled press conference that they know it will definitely get worse before it gets better.
He stares straight into the camera and speaks, “Pursuant to the powers vested in me by the laws of the State of New York and the City of New York -“,
The city has been put under a State of Emergency. Quinn takes that as her cue to fill Rachel and Kurt in. They don’t believe her at first, but when the mayor essentially confirms what she’s saying, Rachel gasps loudly and Kurt goes even paler than usual. Quinn knows more details than are being revealed to the public, but enough of it matches up that everyone in the room knows how serious this is. Quinn looks to where Santana is perched on the couch twisting her fingers together. Neither of them really knows what to do or to say to calm their friends. Everyone remains calm for the most part. Between the three major news affiliates, there’s always some kind of update. Not that the updates are good news. They’re filled with reports of looting, failing hospitals and gruesome assaults that are multiplying faster than the NYPD and the National Guard are able to manage. But it’s still better than nothing.
Until the lights go out.
Manhattan, or as much of it as they can see from Santana’s window, goes dark on Monday night. More striking than the darkness is the silence. The subway stopped running with the State of Emergency so there is no distant rattling from underground. Without the gentle vibrations of generators or the hum of refrigerators and microwaves, the city is quiet in a way it shouldn’t be.
Santana’s neighbor has a battery-powered radio and they all take the calculated risk to stand in the hallway to hear what happened. Somehow a passenger vehicle lost control and crashed in Midtown, damaging a key Con Ed transformer. Large parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan are without power and it’s unclear when crews will get out for repairs. After that, the heavy silence really isn’t a problem. Everyone in the building is in a rush to get out of town. Apparently, that applies to everyone in the neighborhood. The few who own cars are willing to gives rides and those without vehicles or friends decide it’s better to leave than just stay put. Kurt agrees.
“How is all of this even happening?” Quinn sits on the coffee table with her head cradled in her hands. Even though she knows more than anyone, she keeps shaking her head back and forth like she can’t believe it.
Santana pipes up, hoping some mundane information will help her keep it together. “It’s that damn AC grid system. Manhattan was literally asking for a blackout.”
Kurt, Quinn and Rachel stop to look at her so she continues. “For shit to run, a specific voltage needs to be maintained. If it’s not, the system crashes.“
They are literally gaping at her now and it’s irritating. “Whatever, I saw it on Modern Marvels. The History Channel is quality programming.”
“Oh my god. We have to get out of here.” Kurt is about a second away from hyperventilating.
“And do what? Take the subway downtown?” Santana rolls her eyes at him, but she’s having the same knee jerk reaction. She knows better than to act on it though. Panicking gets people killed.
“Kurt’s right. We can’t just stay here.” Rachel’s a shade calmer than Kurt but not by much. “At some point we’re going to run out of food and since I’m vegetarian I won’t be able to properly participate in any cannibalistic death matches when we eventually go insane.”
“Rachel, please. You’d be the first to go anyway,” before Kurt and Rachel can really get into who would get eaten first, Santana turns to Quinn.
“I think we should stay. But these idiots want to go. Since I generally prefer to count their lame ass ideas as a single opinion, you're the tie breaker.”
“I think we should go. Or find a better place. There’s no electricity or water here. Eventually we’re going to run out of peanut butter and then our biggest issue will be your attitude.” Quinn’s trying to lighten the mood but it’s not working. Probably because her face has never looked more serious. And that’s saying a lot for Quinn “I’ve never met a joke I liked” Fabray.
“We should at least wait until the sun’s up and not go running around like these assholes.”
“I’m willing to concede that point.” Rachel says, peering out of the window like she can actually see anything from the tenth floor in pitch darkness.
____
It’s just past five am and the four of them are standing in the lobby of Santana’s building. She still doesn’t really want to leave, but she can’t fully articulate exactly why she wants to say. The street outside is empty. There are no parked cars, no bike messengers, no annoying old ladies going for their early morning power walks. It reminds Santana of the emptiness right before a showdown in those old spaghetti westerns that come on AMC every few months. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but minus the usual bustle of Monday morning in Manhattan, nothing really seems out of the ordinary. They make it to Times Square before the eeriness really sinks in. The huge screens, the flashing lights are all completely out. The sun is rising and reflecting off of blank panels that without their advertisements are just looming shadows flanking what used to be a thriving intersection. If any of them notice how they subconsciously speed up their pace, none of them mentions it.
An hour passes before they encounter anyone else.
It looks like a couple, a man and a woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus. But then Santana remembers; no bus is coming. She looks closer and sees the way the man is backed up against the post of the bus stop and the woman is pressing closer to him regardless of his objections. Santana is all for proactive ladies, but this guy looks scared as fuck. She’s just opened her mouth to call over to them when three people round the corner. They aren’t people randomly wondering like them. They’re all moving in the same stilted way with their heads tilted at odd angles. They either don’t comprehend or ignore the man when he yells at them to back away.
“Shit”, Quinn comes to the same conclusion as Santana and they pull back under the awning and out of sight.
The man is yelling now, fighting against the hands pulling at his clothes and hair. Quinn steps forward like she wants to help. It seems involuntary, almost like the whimper that slips out of her mouth. Santana stops her with an arm thrown across her stomach. The group has fully closed in and the screams have dwindled to low moans as the original woman straddles his chest and bangs his head into the pavement.
“We have to help him.”
Santana shakes her head sharply and motions for Rachel to stay quiet. Rachel looks like she’s about to argue but Kurt just wraps an arm around her waist and closes his hand over her mouth. He’s not the biggest guy, but he’s more than strong enough to pin her to him and drags her around the corner when she starts struggling. Quinn’s frozen, still staring across the street. Santana pulls her into a tight embrace and backs away before they can be seen.
They continue very slowly, choosing smaller side streets and waiting in nooks before advancing. They stick as close to the building fronts as possible, eyes peeled to spot any potential threats. Rachel’s eyes are wet with tears and she doesn’t say another word for the rest of the day. Much like when the power went out, her silence is unnerving and serves as another indication of how wrong everything is.
____
It’s decided that they’ll head for the Lincoln Tunnel. None of them drive and all “pedestrian” paths off the island require ferries. The last thing they see of Manhattan is a crashed fire truck. It’s still smoking a little from where the front end smashed into a metal pole. There are several bodies near it: some firemen, some civilians. Santana makes an effort not to look too closely at them. The kid in the driver’s seat is young. At most a few years older than them. The blood from his temple indicates that he died in the crash. Santana can’t decide if he was lucky or not. Something catches her eye and she climbs up into the truck and grabs an axe that’s jammed behind the seat. She steps back down and the other three are waiting, eyeing her and the axe cautiously. She looks back at the dead driver and mutters a quick, “Sorry,” before catching up.
The entrance to the tunnel is lined with barricades and safety cones. A few police cars are parked in a perimeter but there’s an obvious break where the cordon sanitaire clearly failed. The lights running along the sides of the tunnel are still on. That’s good. But it’s still dark as fuck. They need a flashlight. Quinn’s phone came with one and Santana is for once grateful that Quinn is the one person she knows who refuses to get an iPhone. She says as much and Kurt bursts out in nervous giggles. Objectively, it is funny but his laughter is too high and it just hangs in the air for a few uncomfortable minutes as they stand peering into the cavernous mouth of the tunnel.