Chapter 1: Things Gone Wrong
N̗̬͕̟o͍̱͓̟͘,͔̦̩͕̪̠͟ ͉̳̩̪͠n̬͔͘o̖̰̫̻,͏̺̟̜̭̳̘ ̭̭͙̣no͙͉̜͓̝ͅ,͖͉̖͟ͅ ͎ņ͇̟̪̲ò̩͚̞͔̪̖̦!̳̖̱̞̲̜̦
R̰̙̹͍͔̓̒ͩͥ̈́ͅa͓̭̳͆͗͑c͈͕̲̩̦̈̾h̞̯͓̲ͦ͐͊͋̀e̝̿̃ͮ̾̏͑ḷ͓͇̟̜,͕͇̟̞͚̥̪ͯ ͊p̦̝͔̬͔͖̽͌̌͋͛ͮl͖̯̳͉͐ͦé̻̗̘̌̽̈̐a͕ͩ̓́ͪ̅ś͈̟̤̗̿͌̔ͅe̳͍̦̻̘̚!̠͕̱͍̈́ͮͣ̐̚
Pͬ̀ͯ̅̃̽̌̚l͊ͤ͛ě͆ͭ̊̇ä́sͭͨ́ͣ͌e̎ͥͮ,͑ͨͥ̌̒ͥ̚ ̓͐̃ͦ̽̆ͦd̐̀ỏͤ̒̎͛̿ǹ͒'͋̄̐t͆…͌̃̿ͮ̉̌
…͊ͥp̆ͥl̅͌ͫͣͥ̍ͧe͋͊͊ͪ̀àͫseͭͩ̃̌̿̚ ̎̄̐do͌̊ͭn͊͊̃͗̚'̊ͭ͐̓tͬ͗͋ ͆̋͗ͪ̿l͛e̓̋͋̏̊ȃ͒v̋̂̒ͬͦe̿ ͊͊ͮm͐̓̽e̐̉ͤ̓ͨͥ.̃ͭ͋ͩ̈͒ͮ.ͮ͒.́̇̃̈́̊
…plea͝se dǫn't͠ l̛eav̛e m̀e.̢.͏.͡
…̘͉͚͇p͈͇̖͇l̮͉e̞̫͚͔͓a̲̣̞̟͚s͓͕̹̖͖ͅe͇͚̲̫̹̞͍ ͙̳̬͇̪ͅḓ̬o̻͈͚̲ṉ̼'̫̖̭̳t̹̳̯̖͍̣ ̜͉̙̰͇̺le̻̱̲̰̻ḁ͕͇̲͉͎̺v̭̭͔e͓̗̱̦ ̺m͕͈̪͔͇e͚̙̞̥̳̜.̭͈̩̭̭̬.̜.̤
The haze lifts slowly. She feels like she's swimming to the surface from very deep and dark waters. Her mind is floating, drifting peacefully. There's light somewhere above her. But all is still murky around the edges. It moves and swells, but not like the tide. She slowly blinks. Once, twice.
Has she fallen asleep?
Her other senses gradually come back into focus again. She's lying, cocooned in something soft and warm on what she realizes is the backseat of a moving car. The motion nearly coaxes her back to sleep again. The low and steady hum of the engine is the only sound she hears and the light above comes through the window looking out onto an overcast sky.
The sun isn't shining.
But it's still bright, too bright even, and it hurts her eyes. So she closes them. Everything still feels hazy. And her cocoon is starting to feel a bit too warm. She stirs and tries to find a different, more comfortable position. Except she can't. The more she tugs, the more she notices the coarse material digging into her wrists. Her hands are tied. Her feet seem to be, too. The burst of adrenaline almost makes her nauseous and her eyes snap open. Her breathing increases as her panic rises. She's wrapped in a puffy sleeping bag, which makes it even harder to move, but she manages to roll herself over, so that she's facing the front of the vehicle and has a good view of the driv-
"Quinn?!"
She hears a long exhale. Rachel's panic is replaced by indignation.
"Quinn, what the hell?" the brunette asks in disbelief, "Untie me this second!"
She tugs at the restrains around her wrist to no avail.
"Welcome back, Rachel." Quinn's voice is soft, almost reverend, but the words don't register with Rachel, who is too busy trying to sit up. She succeeds as far as propping her back against the car door. Her eyes burn holes into the back of the driver's headrest.
"Quinn, stop the car," Rachel demands, firmly.
She doesn't expect her plea to work and she's ready to repeat herself more loudly when, much to her surprise, the car stops.
Oh. Well, good.
"Quinn, look at me."
There's a lull in which she sees the blonde's hands faintly wring the steering wheel. One inhale later she's met with hazel eyes. She cannot read what goes on behind them.
"Quinn, why are my hands tied," she shakes them for emphasis, "and-" it's then that she notices the scenery outside - the two-lane road, the sparse forests, the fields, the unfamiliar flat landscape. This isn't Ohio. "-where even are we?"
"Somewhere North-East of Fargo," comes the steady response.
"We're in MINNESOTA?!"
Quinn frowns at that. "Yes, we are still in Minnesota," she begins slowly, but then pauses. "Rachel, what's the last thing you remember?"
Good question. Because now that Rachel thinks about it, what does she remember? She mentally quickly flips through her memories. Something feels off. Her gaze leaves Quinn's and slides downward, not focused on anything in particular. Maybe if she goes over her memories out loud, the rest will fall in place. "Well...I remember it was spring and since my busy schedule allowed it, I thought it only sensible to go back to Lima to visit my dads. And then somebody suggested that we have a glee club reunion. At least the ones of us that were in town. And..." this is where she starts to realize her memory is getting fuzzy, "and then..." she can't quite recall, "And then we-" It's like a movie, but there are scenes obviously missing. Like someone edited them out. Or like when she had a hangover. But worse. Did she even drink? Did she do anything worse than drink? Something, that would have caused her to black out? Or did somebody cause her to black o-"ohmygodQuinnFabray, you kidnapped me, didn't you?!"
It isn't much of a question. Rachel is sure. Suddenly it all makes sense! The disorientation, the bound hands and feet, the unfamiliar car, the highway going through nowhere...
But Quinn's features are frozen in a mixture of an incredulous, almost horrified expression.
"I… what!?"
"I understand that we always had our differences and we didn't see eye-to-eye on a myriad of issues, moral or otherwise, but I was fairly certain we buried that antagonistic hatchet a long time ago. So I really see no reason to exhume that proverbial weapon now."
If Quinn thinks that she can tie her up and drag her across state lines, she has another thing coming. No siree. Rachel has this. She is on a roll and she will talk her way out of this mess.
"Really, this is just one big misunderstanding. If there's anything I said or did last night at the reunion that upset you, you will have to refresh my memory, so I can express my deep and profound apology to you, because since you drugged me-"
"Drugged you?"
"Yes, drugged me, Quinn, and since you did that I have trouble recollecting events neither chronologically, nor in their clarity. But I am sure we can reach a mutual understanding. Unless… Unless you had plotted this in advance and we are actually in Minnesota, because you plan to dispose of my lifeless and mutilated-beyond-recognition body in these parts, so that it will take the police months to discover, let alone identify my remains, but even so I would like you to reconsider for the following reasons: "
"Rachel."
"Quinn. You have such a bright future ahead of you. A criminal record-"
"Rachel."
"But seriously. And statistically speaking-"
"Rachel, STOP."
Rachel clamps down. Well. Either her litany had the desired effect on the blonde's conscience or Quinn will gag her now.
"Rachel, I don't plan to murder you."
"Oh?... good. In that case I suggest you turn this vehicle around as I have several important engagements lined up for this week and I still have to retrieve some personal items from Lima and I promise I won't press any charges, we can just play this off as an impromptu road trip-"
"Rachel, we cannot go back to Lima."
"Why not?"
"...because there is no Lima anymore."
Is Quinn speaking in some weird metaphors? What does she mean? "How can there be no Lima?"
Another pause. Rachel's not sure whether it is because Quinn's deliberating what to say next or how to say it or whether it is disbelief at Rachel's oblivion. Or all of the above.
Nevertheless, her answer comes with the same tone one uses for presenting hard-hitting facts: "Because the world as we know it ended."
"Ended? Ended how?"
Quinn takes a breath and looks up in exasperation, searching for the right words.
"The Undead."
"The Undead."
"Zombies."
Rachel is stunned into silence. She quickly snaps herself out of it.
"Quinn, my dad knows an excellent psychiatrist, I'm sure we can get you some help if only-"
She's interrupted by something between a choked out laugh and a sob. Quinn's looking up again, but now she's also blinking rapidly. She draws another deep breath, steadies herself.
"No." Quinn faintly shakes her head. But she's not replying to 's not replying to anyone in particular. She murmurs, forlornly, "This isn't happening," before she turns back in her seat facing front. Her voice sounds more nasal than usual. Rachel begrudgingly thinks that should have been her line.
The conversation is apparently over for the moment.
They ride in silence. Well, Rachel does. Quinn's driving. And safe for a few shuddering breaths she hasn't let out a single sound ever since Rachel so blatantly dismissed Quinn's sanity. Because she is. Really though, what sane person ties you up, drugs you, drives you up to Minnesota and then tries blaming it on zombies?! Not a mentally stable one, that's for sure. Which means Rachel will have to play her cards very carefully, because this is a whole different deck of crazy. How do you reason with a severely deranged person? Rachel needs to think.
Instead she wonders. She wonders what may have caused Quinn to flip. She wonders when did Quinn actually snap and how long did she have everybody around her fooled. How long had she been passing for normal? Cool, poised, always a little distant, -Quinn Fabray. Is Rachel her first victim? Is she her only victim? How long did she plan this? When did she drug her? How long was she drugging her, for Rachel to black out all the way from Ohio to Minnesota?
Rachel frowns at the sleeping bag covering her lap. She must've been out of it for a few days. No wonder her recollection is impaired. Rachel worries what impact this may have on her career. Oh god, she hopes she didn't suffer any permanent brain damage! She needs to be able to recall whole scripts! She needs to verify her capacities, she needs to be sure! She needs to find something to memorize and then see if she can remember it in 10 minutes, an hour, so forth. Yes, good, she pats herself on the back for the idea.
She scrutinizes her surroundings for something to memorize. Some text, anything really. On the back seat there's nothing but her and her lower half, still sheathed in a sleeping bag. Which is caked in dried up mud at the feet for some reason, she notes. The front of the car bares nothing of use to her either. So she looks outside. There's bound to be some signs along the road. Or she could memorize other cars' license plates, too.
But no other cars pass them. She's been looking out for one for a solid 10 minutes (she keeps checking the clock on the dashboard). Rachel should find this strange, but she figures this is Minnesota, after all. And the road stretches ahead of them and behind them in one dull, flat, line. The trees are also kind of odd. It's only spring and some have already turned yellow, orange or red... Must be some special Minnesota tree breeds. Do trees even have breeds-?
'Gas station. 10 miles ahead.'
The sign they pass is really just a picture and a number, but it effectively yanks Rachel out of her lethargy. If she's going to act, she better act fast. If she can somehow convince Quinn to untie her feet, she figures she'd be able to run the distance to the gas station and plead with them to hide her, call the police, something.
Right. Act. Rachel can do that. She just needs a clever ruse.
"Quinn...?"
No answer. Which is to be expected.
Rachel's not a quitter.
She regroups and flexes her feet. If she's supposed to run a few miles, better wake up the circulation and limber up a little.
Albeit her means are very limited considering her confines, Rachel stretches out her toes and feels a weird dull ache beneath her right knee. But as time is of the essence, she cannot wonder about its origin, especially, since it gives her a sudden idea.
Her features transform from determined to scrunched in discomfort as she fluently transitions into acting-mode.
"Quinn." she starts in a very concerned tone of voice, "Quinn, we really need to stop."
Unsurprisingly, there is yet again no response.
"I... I think there's something wrong with my leg."
Nothing. Well, Rachel isn't above staging a pained crying fit, would the situation demand it. Still, the build up to it is crucial and vital for its success.
"Quinn. Did you tie me up too tight or something? My leg's really throbbing and it's kind of starting to really hurt."
That isn't entirely a lie. Her leg does feel odd. But maybe it is also a tad over exaggerated.
And it seems to be working, because from where she is sitting, she sees the hands on the steering wheel wring it slightly.
"Quinn I'm serious! A disturbed blood flow can lead to thrombosis (also known as blood clot), which in turn can cause oxygen deprivation in my lower extremity resulting in tissue death and ultimately - necrosis. And while I don't suppose (or kind of hope, really) that you have the necessary tools for a spontaneous amputation at hand, it would still be the better case scenario, because the alternative to that is the blood clot traveling and causing pulmonary embolus. And Quinn Fabray, you cannot, in all good conscience, just leave me here to suffer through crushing chest pain and the consequences of mass oxygen deprivation!"
There. Although, on second thought, Quinn might not be the perfect candidate to who's conscience one should choose to appeal to. Which leaves Rachel with plan B-
"Quinn..." her voice adopts a decidedly weepy tone, "I don't want to lose my leg…" Cue lip slightly curling, corners of the mouth downcast, "How will I star on Broadway without a leg…?" Eyes welling up, "Peg-legged actresses don't get many leads…"
The exhale that follows in response is a long and scoffing one. Rachel strains her ears for something more, some acknowledgement, a gritted 'fine' in irritation, but she's only met with more of the same silent treatment.
Outside in the distance she spots the gas station and her heart starts sinking with disappointment. They will drive by and Rachel pictures her window of opportunity firmly slamming shut.
But her heart rate spikes right up again as she feels the vehicle slowing down. The car, however, doesn't turn to one of the parking spots, but rather comes to a halt by the side of the road a good fifty feet away.
Quinn shuts off the gas and remains seated, staring at the station for a moment. As if she were waiting. Or watching.
She then turns her whole body in her seat bracing herself with one hand against the opposite seat. She levels Rachel with a serious stare.
"Alright. I will check your feet. But, Rachel, whatever you do, you have to stay quiet," she slowly enunciates. "Do you understand?"
If Rachel's escape plan is to be successful, she needs to come across as cooperative. She nods, solemnly.
As Quinn gets out of the car and goes for the back door, Rachel mentally runs through all of her options and potential actions one more time. This is it. It's showtime.
The blonde opens the back door and Rachel wills her body to relax, but it's incredibly difficult not to tense up when Quinn reaches to her hip to pull the zipper down and untuck her from within the sleeping bag. She checks the restrains around both ankles and frowns. Rachel's breath catches a little, because the next thing she knows, Quinn's untying them and rubbing her calves in a soothing motion. At last she rolls the fabric on both of her legs up (and Rachel notes she doesn't remember putting on cargo pants. Ever.) and checks for discoloration or excessive bruising.
Satisfied with having found neither, she gently sets Rachel's leg down again and looks up at the brunette.
"There. Better, I hope?"
Soft hazel meets brown and the faintest, almost hopeful smile ghosts Quinn's lips.
It's a moment in time. And Rachel wishes she could stop and linger on it, because earning Quinn's smile always felt like an achievement, mostly because they were few and far between.
But time does not stop and wait for Rachel. It cannot. She cannot.
So she uses this moment to kick Quinn square in the face.
The blonde goes flying backwards, landing hard on her ass. Rachel scrambles, grasping at the door handle she's been leaning against. With her hands still tied it takes a bit of fumbling, but she is successful. She tumbles out on the other side of the car and she doesn't even wait till she's fully upright before she starts running toward the gas station.
"Help! Somebody help!" she yells, almost victoriously. "I've been kidnapped! Help!"
There's a smaller pickup parked by one of the pumps and much to Rachel's relief, when she nears it, she spots a male figure standing by its trunk. With relief, she comes to a halt, panting heavily from exertion and adrenaline.
"Oh my god, sir. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. Please, you have to help me. You see, I've been abducted against my will and my captor is right behind me. Please," she prattles on, "help me fend her off and call the authorities. My gratitude to you will definitely come with a heartfelt financial reimbursement for your troubles and kindn-" Rachel's smile and speech wavers.
Because the figure that at first glance looks as someone leaning against a small van, stirs and at the sound of Rachel's voice slowly starts turning. Rachel reasons with herself that it's just the angle, just the dimness of the gas station. Her serendipitous savior is not missing it, his arm is just outstretched somewhere in front of him. But the more he turns toward her, the more the daylight reveals in graphic detail just how wrong Rachel's assumption is.
Or how 'not right' he is.
A wheezy, yet gurgling moan escapes from his throat.
Or what's left of it.
And it's at that exact moment that Rachel's legs decide to give out.
A/N: Stay tuned. the next chapter should be up in a few days.