Santana used to think of the future. Get out of Lima. Take Brittany. Be free.
There's nothing more freeing than the whole world now, she thinks often. She chuckles bitterly—there's nothing more freeing than a population of next to none.
Santana used to think of the future. Now she thinks of one foot in front of the other. The skies seem darker, even though the climate hasn't changed. Smiles aren't happy things—they're simply reassurance for her companions. Yes, they say. Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I'm still human.
Still, sometimes she forgets what humanity means. Sometimes she feels like they've lost it completely.
Puck's eyes are duller, his jokes fewer. Kurt hardly talks, his hair messy and his clothing ignored. She's got more scars than she'd care for. Quinn and Rachel grip each other like there's nothing else keeping their hearts beating.
Even Brittany, once the light of her life, is barely enough to keep her going.
They drive slowly, a reserved silence constantly surrounding them.
Puck nearly hits a squirrel. Quinn yells at him to be more careful, what does he want to do, kill them?
Kurt is the first to grin, and every one starts laughing.
It's the most fun they've had in months.
She's gotten used to sleeping on the metal bed of Puck's truck. It's easier when she has Brit entwined with her, but it does little for warmth. The sun comes up too early—darkness has always been her friend—and everyone on the truck is still asleep. Santana lies in the stillness of that moment, imagining that time has stopped…that there's no more death or half-death or sickness. There's just the early morning quiet, the blankets, and the forever resting bodies of the people she cares about the most. But the moment ends as a soft voice starts singing, and the heartbeats return.
Her ears prick at the sound, and she knows immediately that it's Rachel. Rachel, who stopped singing for an audience that couldn't hear her properly anyways. It's still her turn for watch, and she's camped out somewhere next to the truck, singing like she can't.
Santana wants to stop her, to stop the world turning, but the song goes on.
She closes her eyes again, trying to grasp the notes that just seem to blow into the trees like ghosts and disappear for good.
The car breaks down. They have enough gas to keep going, but Puck swears there's no way to fix his truck.
They take only what they can carry, except for Puck, who insists that gasoline is useful and that they'll probably need it. Everyone else doesn't care, and he carries it all by himself anyways.
They don't have maps for this part of the country. Traveling on foot is excruciatingly slow, but they continue in the direction they think is the right one.
It was the wrong way. It's a grey afternoon, time for rest, and Quinn is on watch. Her cries are blood-curdling, and Santana's never woken from sleep so fast. She's up, her crowbar in hand, and she sees them.
Ten or so undead, three already surrounding Quinn.
Puck gets to Quinn first, his baseball bat crunching into zombie skull as he whips and spins.
The rest are left to her, and she rushes into it with a passion only singing could rouse and only zombie-killing could take from. Her crowbar seems lighter from repetitive use, and she swings it with a terrifying ease.
It's over almost as soon as it starts. Kurt collapses onto his knees next to her, his hatchet bloody and his expression blank. She begins to take stock of everyone else.
Puck seems fine, just winded and breathing heavily. She feels Brittany's hand on the small of her back, and her breath starts to become more regular.
But then she turns to Quinn, whose eyes lock on hers. Rachel is rushing over to her, but Quinn's pained eyes don't look away from Santana's.
She feels it in the pit of her stomach before her brain registers the torn fabric of Quinn's sleeve and the mangled flesh under it.
"No," Rachel says, "no."
But Quinn turns to look at her in a way that begs acceptance, dragging it out from her very essence. This time, the smile means it's over.
They lay her on they least ratty blanket they have. She shakes with fever, but the hand she has wrapped around Rachel's wrist is frozen to the touch.
Santana watches from a few feet away as the grey creeps up Quinn's neck. Quinn's spasms are torture to watch, but she can't look away. She feels the gun being slipped into her hand quietly. Puck, eyes rimmed red, kneels next to Rachel. His soft words do little to convince her to move, and her screams echo in Santana's ears as Puck scoops her up in his arms and carries her through the trees.
She knows it's time, but it's only a slight nod from Kurt that drives her numb feet forward. She's left alone; her friends absorbed into the trees like the shadows of Rachel's last song.
She kneels next to Quinn, her expression as hard as she can make it without cracking her jaw.
There's a flicker of recognition in Quinn's cloudy hazel eyes, her breathing sparse and heavy. Santana brushes the hair from her eyes, her other hand cocking the revolver as she brings it up to Quinn's temple.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
She feels the recoil go straight into her chest.
Puck digs the grave, using a piece of scrap metal for a shovel. It cuts into his hands, but he doesn't stop, digging with a furious conviction. Santana just watches the blood trickle down his fingers, but Kurt gently stops him. He ties each hand with pieces of a relatively clean shirt. A silent thanks passes between them, and Kurt goes back to sit by Rachel. Her tears have become silent…not even a whimper escapes her lips.
They lower her blanket wrapped body as slowly as they can, like it'll slow time too.
"We should say something," Santana says, her jaw still tense. No one volunteers.
"Quinn was… she was…"
"A bad-ass," Puck says.
"My friend," Kurt offers, ever so quietly.
"Yeah. And, um, since we're already living in hell, I'm pretty sure she's in hea—somewhere nice."
It's all she can manage to say.
They've packed their things, and one by one they walk away from the shallow grave.
Rachel never sings again.
They travel through the trees, the mossy side their compass. It's midday when Kurt picks up the sound of water. His arm flies in front of Santana as he presses a finger to his lips.
"What?" she grumbles.
He merely cups his ear. She hears it distantly—the splash of a creek over shallow rocks.
"We should stop," she calls out to the group. Puck turns.
"Why? We need to keep moving."
"Water," she says simply, dropping her bag and crouching beside it. She rummages through it for three dusty plastic bottles, two of them completely depleted. Her companions sit down beside her, Kurt graciously taking all their empty water containers. He and Santana set out towards the sound of running water. It's only about forty feet from the camp site; a mostly shallow creek a few meters wide. They strip off their shoes and socks and wade partway into the stream, the cold water lapping at their feet.
It's silent except for the bubbles of air escaping the bottles and the water splashing over the rocks. If it were sixteen months ago, Santana thinks Kurt would try and fill that silence, and she would get a chance to snark at him. But so much has changed; Kurt now revels in silence and Santana wallows in guilt. The bottles fill soon enough, and they slosh back towards the shore.
"I think I'm going to wash up," she states, and Kurt just nods as he puts his shoes back on. He carries armfuls of the bottles back silently from the stream.
Once he's gone, she strips off all her clothing. Parts of it are faded and yellowing, stains from sweat, blood, and dirt all blended together. She shivers slightly at the cool air, and wades, once again, into the stream. At the deepest part of the stream the water rises to just above her navel, and she stops.
She closes her eyes: partly against the cold and partly to reclaim the fantasy she had in the truck the week before they lost Quinn. But a gust of wind blows suddenly over the water, and she feels raw and ragged and she remembers the way Quinn's hollow eyes looked when she pulled the trigger. Her breathing becomes equated to hyperventilating, and she nearly collapses into the stream. Suddenly she feels two strong arms wrap around her, one warm palm on her stomach, the other right over her heart.
You're ok, she hears Brittany whisper into her ear, you're ok. Just breathe.
She chokes back her sobs, her breath slowing down as she leans into Brittany's chest. She's unaware of time passing, only of Brittany's warm palm reflecting her own heartbeat and the soothing words flowing into her ears. And for a while, she feels human again.