A/N: Hey y'all! Thanks to everyone who is checking out this story. It's definitely a different turn from some of the other fanfics out there. I was inspired by "Better Run, Outrun My Gun" when I read it, and who better to pair with Glee characters than Resident Evil people? Sorry if my portrayals of DC are inaccurate…I'm relying on old tourist memories and Google Maps to paint the layout for you.

Thanks for reading!

-Raggy


Dupont Circle, where these people were coming from, was only six or seven blocks from the White House.

But when there were zombies covering the streets, six or seven blocks could be an insurmountable distance.

Chris pulled his binoculars out and began scanning the streets as he walked. He was still north of the rendezvous point; American University, where he had picked up the chemistry supplies, was about five miles northwest of the White House. He could easily make it to the library if he didn't run into any snags.

Or zombies.

It was hard to tell where the hordes would be. The electrical security systems in the White House ensured that the zombies stayed off the gates and far away from the building. Besides, the smell of living flesh didn't carry from the house itself all the way across the lawn, so the living dead probably didn't even know anyone was in there.

Which, of course, was good. Until the power reserves ran out, they would be safe.

There wasn't much for the undead to eat in the areas surrounding the White House. Most of the zombies could be found wandering aimlessly, or congregating in areas that were usually well-populated, such as the National Mall or the universities. Chris's trip to American U was supposed to have been an easy one-man trip, but he had tripped a security system and alerted a group of zombies.

Hence all the running and roof-climbing.

He stood on the roof of the American Bar Association law library and surveyed the streets. Ten minutes until these young women would be meeting him, and he needed to make sure they all would be safe. A few of the undead were roaming the sidewalks. He could hear their low, toneless moans even from his perch on the yellow roof.

Theoretically, his four new companions could park by the library. They would simply have to run down I Street, and then to 15th Street until they reached Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House gate.

Theoretically.

"All right," he said into the radio. "I'm here on the roof of the ABA law library. I'm in green, so please don't shoot me."

Santana's voice came through again. "We found a few of the undead, so we're swinging around another way. Is the road clear to the right of the building?"

"Yeah, you're all set," Chris said.

Ten minutes later, the humming of a motor announced their presence. The grey Jeep pulled over to the side of the building and four people got out – two of them blonde, and two with a medium complexion and dark hair. The taller dark-haired woman raised the walkie-talkie to her lips.

"You're up there, right?" Okay, that woman was Santana.

"Yeah, I'm coming." He sprinted across the roof and began climbing down, using the window ledges as props to support his legs. But he was only halfway down when one of the girls screamed – the shorter, dark-haired one apparently looked like a tasty snack to a zombie that was hanging out in the shadows of the building, and now had her shoulders in its putrid hands.

Chris pressed himself against the side of the building for support and pulled out his handgun. "You other three! Don't move!" he roared, and expertly placed two bullets in the creature's head. It released the woman, but as it fell he saw three more sets of hands reaching from the alcove in the building. The one who had just been grabbed retreated, face pale, against the back of the car as she reached for a handgun at her side. Santana and the shorter blonde women had their weapons ready, and their guns echoed in the still air as they pounded bullets into the zombies.

"Nice shot, Q!" Santana yelled as she clapped her friend on the back.

The taller blonde woman shouted something, and they both turned – a group of about five zombies were lumbering slowly up to them, attracted by the noise of the car and now the shooting. Chris was almost to the ground, and fell the last ten feet. He rolled to a stop and sprang up, running over to the four of them.

"Hey!" he said. "We can take these five down but more are definitely going to come. Do you have everything you need out of your vehicle?"

"Yeah," the woman called Q said, brushing choppy blonde hair away from her eyes. "Santana may need help if we're making a run for it."

"Fuck off, I'm fine."

"She's got a sprained ankle," the taller blonde piped in, eyes still locked on the approaching creatures.

"We should start moving," Chris said. "Leave the car but take the keys. We never know when we'll need it."

As he glanced to the left and right, he saw a few more shuffling creatures approaching them. "We should go!" he said, more urgently, and began walking briskly towards the White House. The four women behind him followed his steps, with Santana leaning heavily on the taller blonde woman for support.

"Josh, we're coming in and we've got a few on our tail," he said into his radio as they ran along the gate outside the White House. "I'm taking them in the front entrance."

"Copy that," came the reply. "I'm on the lawn now and I'm searching the area. Watch out as you near 15th Street and G Street; it looks like there's quite a few over there."

"All right, we'll try not to attract too much attention," said Chris, right as a loud "FUCK!" came from behind him.

He whipped around, gun pointed - Santana was on the ground, swearing, as the tall blonde tried to help her back up.

"This fucking ankle! FUCK!"

"Keep your voice down!" Chris hissed, warily watching the small crowd of zombies behind them grow closer and closer. He could hear their ragged breathing. "Oh…come here!" He ran over to her, bent, and picked her up. "We can take care of the ankle at our base, but we need to go!" Ignoring her swearing, he moved her body so that she was clinging to his neck with her arms and had her legs wrapped around his waist – this way, both his hands were free.

"I feel like a toddler!" she complained, though she was holding on to him tightly, her head resting on his shoulder.

"I feel like a pack horse," Chris retorted as he took off towards Pennsylvania Avenue, the medical supplies in his backpack bouncing. The other women kept pace with him, guns drawn, as the moaning undead behind them shuffled as quickly as possible towards their prey. "Look out, we've got some company at the end of this block!"

About fifteen zombies were milling in the street in front of them. Fifteen wasn't anything that five of them couldn't manage, but they needed to dispatch this group quickly before the ones behind them caught up.

"Hold on, Santana," he said in her ear as he pulled out his Samurai Edge, holding it in both hands for extra support as he aimed. Even at fifty feet, his aim was almost perfect. Six shots, five zombies with bullets in their brains. The other ten slowly registered that living, breathing people were running at them and began shuffling down the street.

Gunshots rang out from behind him, and a few more fell as his new comrades took aim and fired.

The final zombie got five feet from Chris and took a bullet straight through the eyes.

Even with Santana on his front, Chris had enough muscle to jump over a few putrid bodies and continue his run to the White House.

"Come on, you're safe!" Josh said as he stood at the open gate, eyes locked on the still-walking zombies. Once the other three women were inside, Josh stepped onto the street and calmly blasted the creatures with his rifle from twenty-five yards out.

"We can burn the bodies later," Chris said. "I want to get these four settled, and get the supplies to Jeffrey." Santana thanked him gruffly as she detached herself from his front and stood. The taller blonde woman moved instantly to help her walk across the White House lawn.

The usually luscious grass was withered by the hot sun. The fountain had dried up, long ago, and the gardens that Michelle Obama once tended so carefully were overrun with weeds.

Inside, the house still remained austere and beautiful, though some portraits and pieces of furniture were collecting dust. Many offices had been converted into bedrooms or supply stations, and the library now had more medical and chemical supplies than books. Josh took Chris's backpack from and headed off in the direction of the library, and Chris led the way to the West Wing.

Where the Cabinet had once gathered around a large wooden table, Jill had set up a communications center and meeting place for their team, with an extensive collection of audio and video equipment that they had gathered. Several large maps of the DC area hung on the wall, and the team had carefully labeled important information onto them. On one map, the team had labeled stores that they searched through for food and ammunition – too many stores close by had been crossed out, labeled barren of anything usable. Another map listed routes around the city. Some roads were blocked off by wrecked cars, collapsed buildings, etc. and it was imperative to know the quickest and safest routes of the city. Yet another map marked where the team knew survivors were living. A fourth map was used for labeling buildings where the team had found weapons or radio supplies.

It was here that Chris led their new allies. Jill was checking the security cameras, and Sheva was cleaning her SIG-Sauer P226 handgun, boots propped up on the desk. Both rose to greet Chris as he entered.

"They're here safely," he said, motioning for the four young women to sit. They all took a chair across from Chris's two partners.

"Where's Josh?" asked Sheva.

"He took the equipment I found to the library so Jeff can start working on it." Chris took five bottles of water out of the mini-fridge and collapsed into one of the chairs as he rolled them across the table to the four strangers. "I got to the university without much of a problem, but I set off one of their security systems and got the attention of some of the undead."

"Are you hurt?" asked Jill, sizing him up with a glance.

"No, I'm fine." He had sustained a sizable cut on his leg from when he fell on some broken glass, but he'd patch that up later.

Jill rolled her eyes.

"He's good at bravado, ladies," she said to the four across the table. They smiled shyly. "Well, I'm Jill Valentine and this is Sheva Alomar. Josh Stone was the man who met you at the gate, and you met Chris already."

"Not by name," Santana said. "Though now we know. I was beginning to call you Indiana Jones in my head."

"I'm Chris Redfield." Josh appeared in the doorway. "And that's Josh."

"How's it going, ladies?" the dark-skinned man asked, a big grin on his face.

"Pleased to meet you," said the shorter dark-haired woman, who had not really spoken up much yet. As Chris studied them, he realized how odd of a group the eight of them were – three tall, blonde, pale women; three shorter, dark-haired, medium-complected women… and then the two guys. One white, with thick brown hair fading to grey. One with dark skin and a completely bald head. Chris and Josh were definitely the odd ones out.

"I'm sorry we didn't get a full introduction," Chris said darkly. "I just wanted to make sure we were all safe before I started the pleasantries."

"No worries," Santana said. "Well, I'm Santana Lopez. This lovely lady," she motioned to the taller, long-haired blonde next to her, "is Brittany Pierce. Quinn Fabray is that other blonde over there, and the Jewish midget's name is Rachel Berry."

"Pleased to finally meet you," Chris said, a touch of irony in his deep voice.

"How did you all end up here?" Sheva asked, the words laced with curiosity. Brittany leaned over to Santana and whispered something, and the dark-haired woman grinned.

"Brittany wants to know if you're from England."

Sheva laughed. "No, but my father was from South Africa, and they were colonized by the English. Explains how Josh and I are from the same region, but we have different accents."

"I like mine a lot better," Josh piped up.

Brittany smiled and nodded.

"All right," Santana said as she took a swig of water. "Well, we've all know each other for a long time. We went to school together in Ohio."

Chris frowned. "I wasn't aware there was any kind of training school in Ohio."

"No, not anything like that. Plain old civilian high school. We were all in Glee club together and graduated in 2012." She grinned. "Honestly, navigating the drama that we were all embroiled in seems to be a lot harder than fighting zombies." Quinn snorted at this.

"That's an understatement."

"But how did you end up in DC?" Sheva asked.

"Right," Santana continued. "Well, we all went separate places for college. Rachel in New York for musical theatre. Quinn at Yale for drama and political science. Brittany at Gallaudet here in DC for dance, and me at George Washington for law." She squeezed Brittany's hand. "The two of us had to go somewhere where we weren't treated like second-class citizens and could finally tie the knot." She inclined her head at Quinn and Rachel. "Those two haven't quite made it to the knot-tying, but they're into the sheet-tangling stage."

Both of them blushed furiously, but Chris could see they were holding hands under the table. Santana grinned impishly.

"They love me. But it was pure accident that we were all here at the same time. Quinn and Rach were here visiting, taking a mini-vacation before Rachel started on Broadway and Q was off to grad school. Britt was going to stay on as a dance instructor at Gallaudet, and I've been in police academy for a few months." She shrugged. "As far as the virus? Well, as a law student, I read a lot. Q and I have been keeping our eyes on this virus thing for a long time. We figured it was a matter of time…" she trailed off, brown eyes thoughtful. "Now we're here. Surviving. It's not like we can really get out of the city…"

Chris shook himself mentally. Damn. His four new comrades were a married couple and a not-quite-there couple. One Broadway star in the making, one grad school student, one dance instructor, one cop. Four women whose lives had been upset by the virus, but who were hell-bent on surviving.

"Well," he remarked. "I don't know about my three comrades here but I feel like I'm a boring old man compared to the four of you. But let me tell you a little bit about the BSAA…"