A/N: I purchased Cell by Stephen King sometime last week and just finished it today and I was not at all pleased by the vague ending but I enjoyed the story enough to be hit by inspiration to make my own little story of a zombie apocalypse or at least a short premise of it but as you have come to see, I haven't exactly been able to finish any of my stories I have posted up here...so far at least. I'm still working on them, don't worry.

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or the characters.

Warnings: A/U, contains supernatural elements, traces of OOC throughout the story, violence (certainly a lot of action), no/little hints of romance, grammar/spelling errors (because no one can escape typos), cursing, and possible deaths of cannon characters. This story will also contain some OCs if it does turn out to be an epic. You have been warned.

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If the World Ended Today

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Summary:

Zombie fiction: Hotch stood immobile; his face was pale and sweat dripped down his chin. Beside him, Reid stared bug-eyed at the man with the graying hair. The man moaned and started to limp forward, completely oblivious to his wounds. Team-centric.

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Preface

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Hotch peered over at the little group – his little group – huddled in the corner of the office. He counted the heads of four and realized, with plenty alarm, that there were still several agents missing. He rubbed absently at the bridge of his nose, feeling undesirable exhaustion kicking in, screaming at him to hurry and lie down (but he, of course, couldn't).

Then suddenly the soft pads of footsteps echoed in the hallway and Hotch spun back around so fast, he nearly stumbled forward and the grip on his gun loosened even more and he almost dropped it for a second time that day. Luckily, he was still in his right mind to hold it with both his hands – even if the said hands were shaking like a drug addict's and he had to double his focus to keep it together – and he heard someone from behind him take a few steps forward until his shoulder brushed lightly on the other's. Then the sound of Reid's voice cut sharply into the air like a saw and Hotch almost jumped in mild alarm. "We're going to make it out of here, Hotch." His tone was gentle – like a father addressing a child – and voice soft. "Relax. Remember what you told me before?"

Hotch tried to relax, tried to hold onto the gun and keep his eyes steady on the door but then there was a loud moan coming from behind it and his stoic façade was starting to crumble. It was quickly followed by a high-pitched (inhumane) shriek and it took all of Hotch to keep it under control. "What did I tell you?" he managed out.

He heard Reid take in a deep breath – a sharp, controlled breath. "Front sight, trigger press, follow through," he recited carefully, as if a student reminding a senile professor of the lecture they had the day before. "We'll find them, Hotch. We'll get out and find them."

The moans and wails and shrieks became louder and the pounding of feet (several pairs of feet, Hotch was positive) seemed to have gathered right behind the door. Oh God, their only barricade – the only entrance and exit to their little hideout – and now it was blocked by those things out there. Would they ever be able to leave this place (his fucking office!)? He bit the inside of his lip and watching the shadow of a head just behind the door, he aimed his gun dead center (or what he hoped was the center of it) and with the 'front sight – trigger press – follow through' chant on repeat in his head like a broken record player, he brought his fingers down on the trigger – stumbling slightly and wincing in his head when he did so – and pulled, hoping to God or whatever was out there that it would hit the intended target.

Immediately, the sounds of cracking glass filled the air, along with a terrified "Shit" from the group's little corner in the office. Hotch ducked behind his desk as hundreds of pieces of glass sprayed out every which way (most hurdling toward them) and he saw Reid leap down to the ground near him as well, hands going to cover his head as he landed at Hotch's feet. Both their guns were dropped to the floor between the desk and the corner, almost completely forgotten in the crossfire of the fragments of glass.

Breathing heavily, Hotch glanced back at the others still huddled together behind him, Reid and his desk. "Are you guys okay?"

He took a good look at the three agents and found Prentiss shuddering and shaking, as if she had just come back inside from a blizzard. Her face had only minor cuts on it but otherwise she seemed fine – shaken and bewildered but fine. Next to her sat Morgan looking equally horrified. On the outside, he harbored no marks on him and for that, Hotch was glad. JJ also seemed both physically and mentally in tact because she was the only one who answered him out loud. "We're okay, Hotch. How are you and Reid?"

It was then that Hotch turned back to Reid. He had been confident that he didn't startle the young man with his crazed shot and that Reid had managed to get out of the way just in time as the glass came flying at them like little grenades in a battlefield – he was right too because when he peered closely at him, Reid seemed perfectly in tact.

Still, he found himself asking on behalf of the rest of the team. "You okay, Reid?"

Reid nodded, taking back his gun he had abandoned on the floor. "I will be when we get out of here."

It was in that moment, when Reid had said 'when' – not if but when and he had said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hotch wondered if he just dreamed the whole thing up but he didn't – that he saw the genius in a whole new light, in a whole new respect. He had been so sure that it was Reid who wouldn't pull through in all of…this…ordeal…that he would be the first to fall or mess up because he was just a fucking kid but he surprised Hotch, he surprised all of them by keeping calm in this mess, keeping calm and acting as leader when needed – giving out orders or suggestions when Hotch seemed frozen stiff with silent horror and fear – and keeping faith because only God knew that if it was Hotch by himself he would have given up a long time ago and for that Hotch respected him. He respected him a lot – a whole lot. It was those few words that kept Hotch fueled with determination. It was that certain word that made him realize how much they really did need to get out of this horror-infested place that they used to call the BAU, home and look for the others and face the real world and just try to survive until they ran out of ammo or steam or whatever it was that kept them going in the first place.

We can't go out like this – undone not by an unsub but…brainless…zombies.

He tried not to shudder at the thought, grabbed his gun and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Reid was already on his feet, staring down at him in fascination – as if he was visiting some science fair and Hotch was some new, impressive invention – and Hotch suddenly wanted to smack him across the face and shake him and ask him why he was goddamn looking at him like that.

But he didn't. Instead, he got up and brushed off his pants and turned to help the others up as well, ignoring the teasing smile that formed on Prentiss' face when she had watched him dust his pants off, ignoring the frown JJ sent him and the raised eyebrow Morgan gave him – the silent look seeming to ask him, 'Trying to look good before we die?' He could feel Reid's eyes bore into his back, trying to burn into him like an exceptionally hot poker and he tried to ignore that uncomfortable feeling – the feeling that seemed to ask him, 'Now what do we do? Should we go looking for them and possibly die in the process or leave them here to rot and save our own skins? You're the leader so it's your choice. We'll follow you no matter what but if you choose the wrong one, my respect for you will drop.' He tried to ignore him and failed.

But thankfully the choices weren't that hard to choose from – at least not for Hotch.

He wasn't really a narcissist – he didn't care what people thought of him – and he wasn't exactly a hero. He wasn't the typical knight in shining armor that would face real monsters like dragons and witches in order to save lives (fighting unsubs was a completely different story because at least Hotch stood a chance, at least he could try and reason with them. But with these zombies? The words 'not a chance' floated in his head in bold letters like he was on Microsoft Word.). Hotch was positive, absolutely positive, had it not been his agents – his family – that was trapped somewhere else in the building with these zombies moving around relentlessly, he was sure he would have taken flight over fight. It was the most logical thing to do. It was instinct, the first rule of survival.

You don't go jumping into a burning building to save a stranger or a stranger's baby in nothing but the clothes on your back.

He didn't go trying to fight his way through a building infested with zombies – supernatural creatures that seemed invincible in every way – with only a handgun and four other agents that didn't have any training in this particular field (how the hell could they or me for that matter, a part of him hissed bitterly into his head) to save people he didn't even know at the high risk of losing his own. It may sound selfish, maybe even arrogant in the way 'I'm-God-and-I-have-the-power-to-choose-who-dies-and-who-lives' but it made goddamn sense.

Hotch stared at the glass-shattered door, his stoic mask coming to cover his face once more. He gestured for each of them to follow him, slowly and carefully guided them around the glass that lay in the middle of the floor, glinting in the artificial light like diamonds.

"Be careful," he hissed when the sound of breaking glass caught up to his ear.

There was a murmur of an apology that came from Morgan in the back. Hotch waved it away with a vague gesture of his left hand, creeping slowly up to the open door. He could see the bleeding hand of the man he had shot earlier through the glass. Cringing in his head, Hotch took in the steady flow of blood dripping from the forearm down in between his index and middle finger. There was a small gap from that finger and the pinky and Hotch knew at once that something had happened to him before he started to camp out at their door – maybe the man broke into a fight on his way here with someone or something else – that caused him to lose his ring finger. Whatever it was, it was certain (as Hotch unconsciously leaned forward for a closer look) that it was gone.

Then suddenly there was a flail of movement – the arm seemed to thrash around violently and Reid took hold of Hotch's shoulder and pulled him back none-too-gently just as the man howled – like a wolf or dog – and took hold of the door and flung it over the team's heads. Had Reid not been quick to push Hotch out of the way, the door would have hit him dead center in the chest and he would have been down for the count (maybe even killed, he though wearily).

The door crashed into the back of the room, causing the piles of papers on the desk and the ones hanging on the wall to fly around crazily. There was a loud and heavy thud as it hit the floor and the agents couldn't help but wince at the sound.

Hotch stood immobile; his face pale, sweat streaming down his chin. There was a low groan, an aching groan – one of those sounds that people made when they were dead exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie down in a bed and sleep the day away – and it took all of Hotch to not scream and run off like a coward with his tail between his legs. Beside him with his hand still gripping tightly to Hotch's shoulder in an iron grip, Reid stared bug-eyed at the man with the graying hair. He seemed unable to communicate anything through his mouth as he tried to make sense of the situation and Hotch knew why. He glanced back at the others, trying to gauge their reactions and they all seemed to be fixated by the man just as Reid.

They all knew why.

Then he looked back and watched in silent horror as the custodian, the man with the graying hair moaned again and limped over toward them with his teeth gnashing together like a dog with rabies, one arm extended and the other arm still flailing like a fish out of water on the floor beside his feet. His right eye seemed to stare right at Hotch, right through Hotch and he made his long, slow trek toward them. The left eye dangled from its eye-socket uselessly, his blue uniform in tatters and Hotch found himself immediately taking in the man's burned flesh, a hole imbedded into his chest where his heart had been, should have been.

Please let Garcia and Rossi be okay. Please let them be okay or so God help me and them…

Then he lifted his hands up – he had almost forgotten that he was still holding onto the gun – and trained it on the limping man's head. "I'm sorry," he whispered and before anyone in the room knew what happened, he pressed down on the trigger and the ever familiar deafening cry of the gun-shot rang out into the air and somewhere overhead, Hotch was sure he heard the cawing of crows as they rejoiced over the sound of death…