A/N: It's been a while, oops. There's more Brittana interaction, does that soothe you? (Honestly y'all, by the reviews you'd think I was depriving you. Everything in good time. A zombie apocalypse isn't a stellar environment for romances.) Thanks to LeMasquerade who got this to me despite being sick for the 500th time - maybe you should stop eating. That might help.

Chapter 10

eleven days since last feed

The ground rolls past your wheels, green and green again, coating the air you breathe in a strange thickness. You don't know how long you've spent tucked into the backseat of this SUV, raking your nails anxiously against the upholstery until they sting, trying not to breathe the inside air too deep lest you smell them all, cooped up and unwashed, their blood beating so close to the surface. It's been a long time since you've eaten and your teeth ache for something you know you can't have. That is the part that hurts above all else, the void never to be filled.

They say you're in Canada, passing the border thick with cars in a detour that took a whole day, but you don't see much difference. The country roads are still as jarring, the forests still as looming, and the dead still as shambling – though there are fewer. When your companions slumber for the night, the silence beats at your ears with no dead lungs to take up the familiar rattle.

You've taken up the first and sometimes second watch. The sharpness doesn't let you sleep and now you can sit outside and listen to the forest and the whispers that it brings – sometimes, you catch yourself seeking out Shadow's heartbeat before you can stop yourself. You find it every time.

The truck ahead of you trundles on, laden with supplies. Its flatbed is precariously strapped down and every movement jostles the axles, but Puck hunches over the wheel and forces it onwards. Between you, the radio crackles, the only means of communication between the two groups.

"It's getting dark out," Quinn's voice comes from the small speaker, rough on your ears. "We should probably bed down soon."

Artie picks it up, riding shotgun next to Mike. "We have any idea where we're stopping?"

"This map says that there is a gas station not too far from here—"

"Rachel, we don't even know if that map is the right one."

"Well... isn't it better than nothing?"

You can always tell when Rachel gets the best of Quinn because the irked silence seems to vibrate down the airwaves. Artie smirks.

"We'll see if it's there. If not, we're sleeping in the cars again."

A muffled groan comes up from the blanketed lump to your left, slumped against the window. Tina opens one bleary eye.

"I think we'll all be gassed out if we sleep in a small space again."

You offer her a deodorant stick, but she just smiles ruefully. "We're past that point, Britt."

Much to Quinn's irritation, there is a gas station close by. It's not the one on Rachel's map exactly, but twelve weary bodies pile out regardless, eager to rest for the night. Being cramped so close together for so long wears on tempers already stretched so thin they're close to breaking, and you fear one wrong footstep could break through the fraying strings that keep their sanity intact. You, of all people, know how fragile it can be.

"We need to do a perimeter check, of course, but I believe we should all make me the cartographer from now on." You hear Rachel's voice from afar and close your eyes, unwilling to tune into what she's saying quite yet. It must have been torture for Quinn and Shadow.

They go in slow, every muscle tense and nervous. The sun has crawled its way underneath the treeline and every shadow is longer, potentially hiding something that goes bump in the night. The gas station's faded facade looms, casting silhouettes wherever the light doesn't reach. Rust curls into the edges and half-stripped cars lay forgotten and scattered about the space, hoods still popped open as you weave your way around them. Quinn turns on the flashlight to peer into the windows, and through its halo you can see tacky linoleum tile and shelves stripped bare of supplies.

You don't hear anything, but you let them figure that out on their own.

A few minutes later the all clear comes, and your companions waste no time in barricading the windows and doors, cutting the lights on the vehicles and hiding them behind the building. All of you are starting to become seasoned survivors, taking shortcuts only people who have spent too long on the run would know. Finn had found a wind-up lantern and now it's often your only source of light, unwilling to waste batteries on something so temporary.

Everyone gathers around it like a campfire, huddled in their sleeping bags. There hasn't been enough to go around but the nights have been warm and muggy, sweat often sticking to the dip of your spine as you fight your way through an hour of restless sleep, and nobody objects when you opt to sleep with just a pillow to cushion your head. They've started to give up wondering why you do what you do, you think. Life's too short to wonder about things you'll never understand.

"Stock?" Quinn asks, munching on a can of peaches. Everyone's eating except you and it makes the thing inside you moan, howling for your own meal. You stamp it down.

"We got maybe a week's worth of food left," Artie says, reading through the list. "Four cans of gas, a handful of batteries – one for the car – a few survival knives, two handguns, a shotgun and a rifle. Barely any bullets, though."

"Water?"

"Never enough," Tina chimes in, "but probably a few days. It looks like it's going to rain, though, so I'll set something up outside before we go to sleep."

"Anyone feeling sick?"

Various negative answers.

"I got a crazy headache," Finn mumbles, and Rachel pats his hand.

"Probably lack of water. Dehydration is a horrible thing."

"We all feel like shit, Frankenteen," Shadow grumps, chewing on her canned beans. "Not much anyone can do."

"If there's a stream, we can purify it with some iodine before we leave," Artie remarks thoughtfully, rummaging through one of the backpacks. "We haven't used it yet. We got a filter, too."

"This place is as safe as anywhere else," Quinn muses. "Should we stop here for a day? We need a break."

"The more time we're on the road, the greater chance things can go wrong," Rachel protests, only to be cut off by Kurt's sigh.

"If you haven't noticed, Rachel, we don't really know where we're going. Maybe your mystery lab doesn't even exist. An extra day isn't going to kill anybody." He sucks his lips into his mouth and looks at Mercedes, whose chewing has slowed to a stop. Rachel touches her knee, and her jaw starts moving again.

"Then we're staying here," Quinn decides, leaving no room to argue. "We'll board up the windows more thoroughly in the morning."

Everyone disperses to their individual tasks and you feel Tina lean in beside you, pressing a small pack of chips into your hands. "You should eat something."

"I'm not hungry," you mumble, pushing them back.

She frowns and suddenly she's in your vision, tilting your chin up with her hands. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

"Britt, if you lose any more weight you wont have anything left. Just eat a few for me."

She pops the bag open and the smell of salt makes your mouth water, but you swallow it down. You don't need to eat their food, so why should you?

Still, Tina looks so worried that you reluctantly put a chip in your mouth, chewing slowly to savor the taste. She watches like a hawk until you finish half the bag, pressing it back into her hands.

"You won't eat any more?"

"Give them to Puck or something. He needs them more."

Something shuffles beside you.

"Blondie, have you seen yourself recently? You need them more than any of us."

You don't even bother to frown at Shadow, letting her sort-of-insult slide off your paper skin. "I told you it's okay. I'm not hungry."

She looks decidedly unimpressed. "I haven't seen you eat jack in three days."

"You've been watching me?"

Tina's perplexed stare mirrors yours, but Shadow has the strange knack of ignoring things that she doesn't want to acknowledge. It's almost as good as yours.

"Just eat the damn chips, Britt."

You clamp your teeth shut and she sighs, taking them from Tina. She leans in so close you can study the void of her irises, how they burst apart like black holes and come together again. Her breath fans across your face and it makes you dizzy.

"Eat them, or I'll ask what those scars are where everyone can hear."

Your wills battle for a moment, locked in her stare, before you grudgingly open your mouth. She smirks and pops a chip into it, watching you pointedly until you chew and swallow.

"You gonna be a big girl and finish your meal now?"

Stubbornly, you open your mouth for another chip. She raises an eyebrow but concedes, placing another one on your tongue. Ever so slowly the bag empties until she's reaching at crumbs and you have to resist the urge to lick the salt from her fingers – that resistance is weak and you claim your victory when your tongue swipes the last taste from her digits, never looking away even as your face flushes with heat. Her expression goes strange, strangled and confused all at once, and she abruptly jerks away.

You watch her stand up, shaking her head at some unknown thought, muttering something to Tina before stalking away. Both of you watch her go as she intentionally knocks Finn off balance, sprawling face first into the cold floor.

Tina blinks, looking back and forth like her eyes are unsure what to take in.

"I've never seen her do that before," she whispers, almost in awe, and you frown.

"Do what?"

"Isn't it a bit weird to you that Santana, near undisputed prime bitch material, would willingly feed you chips?"

"She's just being nice," you defend, but it sounds more like a question.

"Nice isn't in her vocabulary, Britt," Tina retorts, chuckling. "I've never seen her run like that, either. You're something else."

You're just crazy.

"Maybe."

None of you die in the night, and waking with your legs stretched out is a pleasant change. The ground is hard underneath you but your back only twinges a little as you stretch, rolling onto your stomach to look around. Finn sits, half-asleep on watch, sunlight beginning to creep in through the slats and illuminate the tired droop of his eyes. He sees you're awake and promptly stumbles from his seat to worm into a sleeping bag, determined to get at least another hour's rest before people begin the day. Apparently none of them (apart from Rachel) were morning people before the outbreak, but now they're hard-pressed to sleep in until the sun is fully in the sky. You hear a set of lungs and resign yourself to waking, grabbing your crowbar as you slip outside, your feet barely making any noise at all. You draw air through your nose, following the smell of decay.

It doesn't take long to find the sick man and he doesn't utter a sound as you strike him on the temple, knocking him off balance. It's like he doesn't realize you're there, entirely, head swiveling around for a few moments before seeing you. Sometimes you wonder if it's really worth killing them, but you remember how fast they ripped Sam to his bones – if something like that would happen to Tina, or Mercedes, or even Shadow...

Your next strike is firmer, ensuring he stays down for good. Still, it doesn't shake the unsettled feeling inside of you, and you move further into the brush in an effort to shake it off.

It's strange, being in a place so pristine. You're used to the grimy city, filth caked onto every corner, rot worming its way into the very foundations of a world that used to thrive off blood and tears. The leaves whisper and the animals call and you can imagine another life, thousands of years ago, where these were the only sounds you knew.

Halfway through your journey you come upon a stream that burbles up to your thighs, clear water slipping freezing through your fingers, and you almost cut your fingers in your haste to rip off your clothing and scramble in, yelping as the cold sets your teeth chattering. Still, you dive into the water the best you can, flattening your belly against the riverbed and letting it surround you so thoroughly it almost feels you've been absorbed into the mud beneath. After the initial shock it's soothing, unimaginably so, and you let yourself lie there in a bubble of watery bliss. The cold numbs your hunger and the pain that comes with it; your mind stops feeling everything like a knife wound, sharp and piercing, instead letting the silky soft river bottom run through your fingers in a cloud of ballooning dust.

The monster your famine always makes of you retreats, but you still feel it inside your skin, watching. It's so hard to ward it away and you grow so very tired, so desperately wanting for something that's always within reach. Your broken mind ceases to function the way it should, misplacing things and replacing others when it shouldn't. You only feel half like a person, missing the things that make you whole. You want it back, but know the price it takes.

You have to choose between being two types of monster, but you hate both of them (almost) equally. Your eyes open to the running water and you open your mouth to let it wash through you, to feel the cold flush through your belly and freeze out the heat that's always there, always wanting, but no matter how cold you get it will always be there to keep you warm. The only thing that stunts it is Shadow's touch, how her hand against your thigh brings another kind of fire to stamp out the dark one that swells and grows—

You wrench yourself out of the water with a gasp, heart hammering. Even the phantom memory is enough to stun you entirely, and you place your own hand in the place where hers had once been, wondering why you can't forget. When it's not the monster inside your head it's her, and you don't know which is worse.

(Sometimes, you want to reach inside your chest and rip your stomach out entirely to stop it from jumping like it does when her skin grazes her own. You almost did once, but Tina grabbed you and held you against her while you shook.

I don't know what's wrong with me, you whispered, but she didn't know either.)

Watching the forest and the wind that rustles the leaves, you almost don't notice the crunch of footsteps behind you, but you still stiffen as someone clears their throat. If you looked down you'd see every rib tremble as you held your breath, pressing through your skin like the warped wings of an angel.

"Uh... Britt? Are you okay?"

Ever so carefully you shuffle sideways, making sure to press your bad forearm against your body. Mercedes comes into view, her eyes tracking the way your spine creates notches as you curve, how it flexes with you as you twist. You try for a smile, but it feels jagged on your lips.

"I'm fine."

She touches the water, coiling back as the temperature reaches her. "Jesus, that's freezing."

"I like it. It helps me think."

You look at each other for a second; she's not sure what to say, and you have too many things that don't mean enough.

"I came to look for you. You've been gone a while."

The sun is beaming higher now, crept above the horizon. How long have you been underwater?

"Oh... I'm okay. Thanks."

Silence. You chew your tongue until it goes raw and swollen.

"I'm sorry."

You blurt it out so loudly she starts for a second, but you refuse to stop. "I tried. To save him, I mean. I really did. But he was really loud and they heard him, and it happened so fast..." You stare at the water, little patterns dripping from your fingertips. "He was mad at me."

"Why... why was he mad?"

You touch your wrists, pushing them under the water.

"I dropped my food."

Her face softens a little.

"Britt, I don't blame you... but I can't do this. Not right now. Okay?"

"Okay."

She gets off and dusts the twigs from her pants, glancing around. "Satan's waiting over there. Didn't wanna talk to you naked or somethin', I guess." Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Never had a problem with nudity before."

"Heard that, Wheezy," comes a faint voice from your left, and her lips twitch into a smile.

"C'mon, let's get you back. Lord knows how you haven't gotten hypothermia yet."

You look down at yourself, curling up a little further when you see the glossy pink lines etched into your skin. "I'm wet."

Mercedes hums, looking around for a moment. "Satan, Brittany needs your shirt."

A pause, followed with "what?"

"She's wet and needs a towel, dumbass."

A plaid overshirt flies into the space, only slightly bloodstained. Mercedes retreats into the brush to give you privacy and you quickly scramble onto the bank, squeezing your hair out into the stream and rubbing the worst of the water off with Shadow's shirt. It smells like her, and even though you're chilled through to the bone your stomach still clenches. You're dressed in record time, your clothing sticking to your fragile waist uncomfortably.

Shadow won't quite look you in the eye when you see her, but takes her damp shirt regardless. Questions lie on the tip of your tongue but now isn't the time, not when Mercedes watches the both of you so carefully it feels like you're being dissected from the outside. The three of you return to camp where the windows have been completely blocked off, Tina running around on the roof doing some sort of science-y thing... as usual. You wonder if she was a scientist before all of this happened. Or a hippie.

"Something to do with water," Shadow reveals, fiddling with her belt. "We've only got so much iodine."

Closer to the camp you can smell the distinct scent of cooking flesh – the three of you share a look as the thin column of smoke disappears into the sky behind the gas station, evidenced by Rachel and Mike hauling armfuls of wood around the corner. Upon further inspection you see Artie sitting on a log, holding a whittled spit in his hands which twirls a badly skinned carcass over the fire.

"Poor Flopsy," you mumble, and Artie's disgusted face seems to agree with you.

"Finn caught it while he was scavenging," the boy says, tilting it when one side starts to burn. "He didn't do a very good job of preparing it."

"Shit looks lethal," Shadow mutters, flinching back as the skin pops. "I'm not eating that."

"Don't tell me you've turned vegetarian, Santana," Quinn retorts from behind, dumping the last armful of firewood by Artie's feet.

"I love burgers as much as any girl, but I'm not eating that."

"You like hotdogs too, huh?" Puck grins, waggling his eyebrows. "Big, fat, meaty hotdogs."

"I've never had one. You should ask Mike to help you with that."

Mike stumbles a little, face red, while Puck sputters. Shadow smirks and you watch the twist of her lips with almost religious devotion.

Finn sits heavily on the log beside Artie, grabbing for the spit. "Is it done yet?" he asks excitedly, touching the hot, crispy flesh. "It smells amazing."

"It looks like roadkill," Quinn mutters, but Finn just peels off a strip of black meat and stuffs it in his mouth. The rest of you make varying faces of disgust but he seems content, picking his way through the carcass.

"It's a bit pink on the inside," he decides, "and kinda burnt outside, but it tastes like... cheap hotdog meat. It's good."

Puck subtly covers his junk and Mercedes pales a little, mumbling something about going to lie down before hastily shuffling away. Quinn watches her go with a frown.

"Ever since Sam, she's had a problem with, well..." she gestures to Finn's meal, pink and gleaming on the inside, evident where his knife slipped up and scored the flesh straight through to the cavity inside. It reminds you of the woman on the tracks, opened up and torn apart, and you press your tongue against your teeth in an effort to chase away the memory.

(You had tried to eat a squirrel once, but one look into its huge, terrified eyes made you drop it. It's just not the same.)

"It's been less than a week," Puck snaps bitterly, stalking away. "We all do."

The rest of you sit in an awkward silence, punctuated only by the ribbons of flesh that Finn peels from his meal. Artie twiddles his thumbs, wanting to be anywhere but there, and nearly jumps into Mike's arms as the boy crouches down to pick him up with the excuse that the radio's been malfunctioning again. Quinn sighs, the breath of a leader stretched too thin.

"Everyone needs to stop snapping at each other," she grouches, absently cleaning her blade on her shirt. "It's starting to get ridiculous."

"If I was Mr. Schue," Finn says with his mouth packed full, "I'd tell everyone to sing about it and sort it out."

"If you haven't noticed, Finnocence, nobody's been singing for a while," Shadow sneers.

"It used to solve other problems."

"That weren't corpses coming back to eat us."

"Why do you guys call him Mr. Schue?" you ask curiously, perching on the log. "Was he your boss or something?"

"He was our teacher," Quinn supplies, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Sort of."

"He taught Glee," Finn agrees, swallowing. "But... he didn't really teach much. Just let us sing."

"You had a singing class?"

"It was a club that we did after school. Most of us hated it, but then we started to like it. Even Santana."

"Watch it, Finnept."

"What? You did. We were on our way to a big competition when the outbreak got really bad."

Shadow sighs, poking a stick into the fire. "Before, it was only a few cases, y'know? Little towns mysteriously put under lockdown. People had started to take notice, parts of the city were quarantined, but they said it was under control. What a load of shit. Somehow everything went fucking crazy in just a few days."

"She'd know all this, Santana," Finn fills in patronizingly, "She was there way before us."

"I don't remember anything," you shrug. "Until you told me, I didn't know I was in New York."

"Where did you think you were?"

"I dunno. Hell, maybe. It felt like it."

Shadow scoffs, priming the fire rather violently. "At this point, I don't know if Hell would be much worse than this."

"We're alive," Quinn says firmly, "and others aren't. That's better than nothing."

"Whatever you say, Holy Roller," Shadow rolls her eyes. "Anyone know when we're supposed to go get water jugs?"

"Right now, according to the mad scientist. I didn't know Tina was so good with medicine."

"She's just a secret hippie. Plants and bio-whateverism and shit."

"Fascinating," Quinn deadpans. "Why don't you go do something useful like carry water back to camp."

"You see this shoulder, Fabray? I can't do shit right now."

"Then bring Brittany with you."

The two of you look at each other, and a phantom expression passes over her face before the forest winds blow it away. Evidently, she can't find a good enough reason to refuse, as she sighs and stands heavily with her trusty rifle slung over her back. She beckons you after retrieving the empty jugs, and like a lamb to slaughter you have no choice but to follow.

The silence is awkward only for a few minutes, but you soon settle into the familiar rhythm of feet on the ground. The three jugs you carry clank together with a dull plastic noise and you find yourself counting them in time to her heartbeat, as a boom-boom-clang before you catch yourself and manage to stop. But her heart always calls, and you inevitably restart.

You see her watching you out of the corner of her eye, jaw muscles rippling and tensing as she seeks words that continue to escape her. You understand and wait patiently, noting how she keeps palming the butt of her rifle, as if to reassure herself it's still there.

"You... you said you don't remember," she says finally, tentative. "Is it like, everything?"

"Yeah. Almost everything."

She glances at you, and you find yourself compelled to answer.

"I didn't know my name when I woke up. I didn't know anything. I was really sick. I'd sleep for days and wake up in different rooms."

"And... you still don't?"

"Not really. I think I had a sister. And a cat. He was nice." You lick your lips, rubbing gingerly at your bad arm that's no longer bad. "I don't really want to remember what happened. Every time I try it feels like someone is pushing a knife in my ear, and what if I was a bad person? I'd rather be crazy than mean."

"I don't think you could be mean, Britt."

Your smile makes her clear her throat and look away, once again touching the rifle.

"Who taught you to shoot?" You decide to rescue her from her own awkwardness and her relief is palpable, running her fingers along the wood grain.

"My dad," she replies, tapping the butt. "He was a big woodsy kinda guy. Took me and my mom camping every summer and showed us how to do all kinds of things. Mom wasn't really impressed, but I liked it."

("See, Britt, you loop it through like this and then you can make a bridge."

"That's so cool! Can you teach me?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets, sweetheart.")

"You're really good with it."

She frowns. "You've never seen me shoot."

"You shot the woman in front of me. Back in the compound."

Shadow bites on her lower lip and you see the guilt written in her expression, but you've long since gotten over it. She's lost the sharp, painful edge around you that she had in the bathroom, staring down while you plucked at your new stitches, and that's more than worth a week spent in the city losing your mind. Even if she still likes to act sometimes.

"It's okay. You were just trying to understand."

"I still don't."

"I don't think we're supposed to. It's one of those things that just is."

She stops you, a hand wrapped firmly around your elbow. It explodes things inside of you; fireworks you know you've seen in another life, the sloughed off surface of the sun.

"Don't you want to know why you're sort of nuts? Why you can do all this crazy shit and say these weird things and still be alive?"

"I don't say weird things."

"You know what I mean."

You chew your tongue thoughtfully for a moment. "Whatever's broken inside of me is broken for a reason. It's my head that's wrong. My head tells me that I should know, that I should look for whatever happened, but my head lies to me. It wants me to do things I shouldn't, and makes me think things I can't control. So I don't trust it."

She looks taken aback by the idea, her brows furrowing in a way that makes you want to smooth it away with your thumb (there goes your head again, but this time you agree).

"Well... if your brain's gone to shit, what can you trust?"

"My heart," you reply simply, gently moving from her grasp to squeeze at her hand for a moment. "That part of me never lies. It says to enjoy now, because I'll find out one day. That day just isn't today."

She looks at your joined hands, shaking your head.

"It's weird, you know," she chuckles quietly. "Some days I'm convinced you're absolutely insane, and others you say things that make total sense."

"You make my mouth listen to my body," you shrug. "It's nice."

Maybe she doesn't make it listen entirely, because nice doesn't begin to explain the way her hand feels in your own. You're starting to tire of resisting whatever this pull is, this magnetism that binds the two of you together. She pretends she can't feel it, but you know by the way her expression flickers that it runs through her as much as you.

You wonder the most about who is going to give up fighting it first.

"Well," she clears her throat, drawing away. "You're, uh, welcome? I guess? Let's keep going."

She storms away much in the same matter as last night and you grin, chasing after her. One of these days she'll stop running away, and the strangeness in her eyes when she watches you will finally come to light.

The two of you pass by a deer rotting in a stagnant pool and decide to move further upstream in hopes of avoiding the worst of the diseases. Tina will still insist on boiling it forever, but she knows better than any of you.

"You know," Shadow mutters, "if there's a zom in this water, one sip and we're all done."

You frown and dip the jug into the stream, letting it swell and fill. It may not last twelve of you very long, but it's certainly an improvement.

"I can try it," you offer, but she simply gives a humorless smile.

"I want Finnept to try it. If he dies, I won't have to look at his gassy baby face every day."

Every day comes a new story to unravel, a tangled web of friendships gone foul and years spent festering in the same space. There are so many things you want to know about where they grew up, but though it's been months, that wound is still fresh – at least you can't remember your family to mourn them. If you had one.

Finished capping your water, Shadow stretches out her bad arm and sighs, grumbling about hauling it back to camp. You go to agree, but a hush in the rhythm of the stream has you pausing, so still even your heartbeat slows to a crawl.

She touches your shoulder, but it's like touching stone.

"Britt, what—"

You smack the water jugs out of her hands and cover her mouth unceremoniously when she tries to complain, shoving her through the stream so that her loose cargo pants stick awkwardly to her skin. She follows, only because the glint of your eyes sets her own bells ringing.

Once you reach the other side, you herd her to a tree.

"Climb it," you tell her, looking back blankly as she stares at you.

"My shoulder won't let me— fuck!"

You wrap your arms around her waist instead and pull the both of you behind the tree, the rough bark scratching against your weak skin. Her mouth moves against your hand but you just press tighter, crushing her against you, your other hand gathering the material of her shirt into a tight clump in your fist. Her eyes watch you, narrowed and irritated, but you see the change as the bush on the other side of the stream rustles.

You hold your breath and can barely hear yourself think above the frenzied beat in your chest, so close together you share a syncopated heartbeat. Her spine presses down your belly and you slowly loosen the hand over her mouth, tilting your heads in unison to look around your hiding spot.

Bodies spill out of the other side, stumbling over themselves and the knots that litter the forest floor, the wheezing lungs you heard so faintly earlier overriding everything else. Shadow stiffens against you and her free hand, the one not clasping your wrist, digs into your thigh with enough pressure to wound. You let the pain ground you, swinging you both back around the trunk and out of sight.

You're not sure how long you stand there, pressed up together like two terrified children, the beat of her heart thudding straight through her back and into your ribs until it shakes you apart. Her hair runs down your shoulder and invades your nose until she's all you breathe, all you feel; your muscles tense and your jaw groans with how wound tight you feel, but you dare not make a sound. Her body, comprised of fragile flesh and blood, sings a different song than yours. Just like you, the sick ones would sense it, too.

Eventually they turn away, listlessly shuffling north. You uncover her mouth gingerly and rest it on her shoulder instead, your head lolling back to lean on the tree. She might still be shaking, but you aren't sure where she ends and you begin anymore.

"Holy shit," she breathes, and you mumble your agreement.

Shadow slowly peels herself from your front, scanning carefully to make sure they're gone. You feel exposed without her and swallow, pressing your hand to your stomach and the warmth that lingers still.

"We shouldn't go back the same way," you say hoarsely. "There might be more."

She nods, blowing out a breath.

"How did you know?"

"I heard them. I always do."

She doesn't have the energy to question further, shaking her head a little before recrossing the stream. The grass has been flattened where they've trampled and you pick up your jugs, knocked over on their sides in the scramble. They threaten to pull your arms clean out of your sockets.

"Where should we go?"

"Where they came from, I guess."

It's not hard to follow the path, winding ever deeper into the woods, and you wonder if you'll ever find your way back. Shadow seems to think the same thing if the knot in her brow is any indication, shoving the foliage aside with her free arm, always grazing the hunting knife strapped to her hip. You trail behind, your ears open to anything that lingers in the reaching underbrush.

Eventually you step out into a clearing, sun beating down on your faces, and your fingers lightly brush Shadow's wrist in warning as the two of you glance around. There's a little lopsided hut with blue tarp tied around the roof to keep out the rain, and a firepit that's been cold for a long time. Things have been scattered, and whoever they were obviously left in a hurry and never came back.

Shadow looks at you and you hold your breath, but all is still and silent. At your nod she crawls into the shelter and rummages around, dragging out various boxes kept safe by lock, much like a briefcase. There are also a few cans of syrupy peaches and the two of you share one, not even feeling guilty as the sweet sugar sticks all over your fingers and you have to lick them clean. Shadow licks her lips, and you can help but follow the motion.

"I wonder what's in the boxes?" she mumbles and you shrug, eyeing them. They're travel-worn and frayed, but the framing stays strong. Her smirk becomes devious as she pulls her hunting knife from her belt, just the bare hint of her teeth visible from the part of her lips. You wonder where you've seen that expression before.

Shadow makes you hold it as she pushes the knife into the seam between the pieces, hammering it in with a large rock. She rocks onto her haunches and presses down with all her might, face precariously close to yours, as you struggle to hold it in place. Her feet tip forward until her forehead rests on the crook of your neck, but you simply push forward until the locks give away with a snap and the both of you go sprawling into a heap.

You roll over and rummage through the box, raising a brow.

"What's this?" you ask, pulling a slender stick out of the depths. She frowns, turning it over and over in her hands.

"It looks like a... crossbow bolt? The hell would someone need with that? Those things are only useful on TV."

She ghosts her fingers along the tip, where a bulbous container is attached just before the point of the bolt. Liquid sloshes gently inside of it, brown and orange all at once.

"You have a good sense of smell, right? Smell it." She thrusts it under your nose and you hesitantly lean down to sniff, pulling away abruptly.

"Gas. That stinks."

Shadow sniffs it herself, raising her brows. "I don't smell anything."

"I do. I bet it could start fires."

"What about this one?"

The liquid is clear this time, thick and gel-like. Its artificial sweetness stings your nose.

"I dunno. It smells like those fake flowers people put in spray bottles."

"Hm, weird. There's one more."

She offers the last one to you, but you strike it from her hands as soon as you catch the scent. It's one that follows your existence, plaguing the ground wherever you go, the reason for the darkness and the rot. You shake your head, watching it like poison. Maybe it is.

"What the hell was that?"

"It smells like the zombies. Inside of them. It's what makes them sick."

Her eyebrows raise, and she gingerly holds the bolt with a new respect. "Are you sure?"

"You can't forget what that smells like. It stays in your head and makes you sick, too."

(You've smelled it once before, a long time ago. Memories gnaw at the back of your mind but you remember what you told her and shove them back down into the box with a lock that is loosening by the day.)

The both of you decide to put them back into the safe, padded box, unwilling to mess with things out of your control. The other boxes are less mysterious but just as exciting – ammo, food and batteries await you, as well as long coils of rope and what Shadow thinks to be plant seeds. She guesses Tina will froth at the mouth to plant them, and you're eager to see if she's right.

Bags overflowing with supplies, the both of you stand to begin the trek back to camp. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, and wherever her gaze touches, you burn. But you wait, as you always will, and your patience never ceases to bring forth beautiful things.

"Thanks, um," she mumbles, rubbing the back of her neck. "For saving me back there. I didn't even hear them coming."

"It's okay. I'm crazy, remember?"

She looks at you curiously, and you smile. "I don't think about the things I do, I just do them. You shouldn't either."

But the expression on her face says she'll be thinking about it for a long time, and you're more than happy to let her wonder.

Returning back you were welcomed like heroes, greedy hands throwing your supplies around with unfettered glee. Shadow recounts the incident with the zombies, pointedly leaving out your talk beforehand and the way she had melted into you when the threat was over, exhausted and limp in her relief. You certainly don't mention the curl of her spine pressing over your scars that cut you from chest to belly, and how if you press gently, you can still feel the imprint of her over your battered heart.

A day or two of rest left all of you refreshed and ready to move on. You left with more supplies than you arrived with, and Rachel's gloating has made Quinn crack a tooth or two. Still, six jugs of safe water is a boon not easily brushed away, and for that she doesn't cut off all of Rachel's hair as she sleeps. Finn finishes hauling the rest of your goods into the flatbed of the trunk, making sure the straps are secure, before giving Quinn a goofy thumbs-up. All of you sigh at the thought of spending half your day cramped up together.

"We might be almost there, and we might be weeks away," Quinn shrugs. "But at least we're moving."

At least, that was her view as you rumbled north, rocking harshly on the dirty country roads. You've only been in the car an hour and you're already going insane – they may be cleaner but they smell no less alive, and your heart has started beating so fast you fear it will tear the blood vessels in your head apart. Tina presses a hand to your forehead but you bat her away, mumbling something about being tired.

A great clunk from in front of you catches your attention, and you lurch forward as Mike slams on the brakes to avoid bumping into the truck in front that has skidded slightly off to the side. The radio crackles, and through Puck's swearing you can hear Shadow with her mouth nearly pressed to the speaker.

"We ran over something, I think we might have a flat."

Kurt groans from his spot beside you and lets his head thump back onto the headrest – you look away, swallowing as his throat flexes, delicate and porcelain white.

"Okay," Tina replies, nudging at Mike to pull over. He does, ever so gingerly, making sure to stop before he gets to where the truck started losing traction. You see Quinn hop out of the back, her brows furrowed into a tight line as she stoops down to inspect the loose, leafy ground. All of you get out, and you round the SUV in time to hear Puck curse like you'd never heard before and kick the side of the truck.

"Two fuckin' flats!" he complains bitterly, gesturing wildly to the front tires. "What the fuck made two goddamn tires pop at once?"

"These."

All of you turn to see Quinn holding a long track of spikes in her hand, camouflaged in the debris. They look old, but the ground debris is relatively new and it was buried only a little ways down.

"Can't be more than a few weeks old." Her shoulders are drawn tight, jaw clenched. "Someone put these here for a reason."

Puck runs his hand over his mohawk. "We got a spare?"

"Just one."

Shadow draws Quinn aside to mutter something in her ear, and your neck prickles hotly. You glance around, holding your breath, and even though you don't hear anything the wrongness still claws at you, whispering in words you can't understand. With an urge you can't comprehend, you take the silver briefcase and slip it quietly into your backpack when no one is looking.

Quinn sighs, squeezing Mike's arm. "Puck swears he saw a spare lying on the road about ten minutes back. I don't want to waste fuel, but we can't go anywhere until we have it."

He nods. "That should take me about a half hour to get there. It'll be okay."

"You aren't going alone... bring Tina and Britt with you."

She whispers something into his ear and he licks his lips hesitantly before nodding, beckoning to you. You and Tina approach warily, watching as Mike checks that his gun is loaded before pushing it into the waistband of his jeans.

"Just... get the tire and get back here, okay?" Quinn commands lowly, and her eyes betray a leader who knows she can't protect everyone. "We're sitting ducks out here."

"I don't see any ducks."

She ignores you, hugging Tina briefly.

"Don't let them do anything dumb."

"I got it, captain," she chuckles, saluting. "We'll be fine. Sit tight."

"Very funny."

The three of you begin a hasty walk back where you came from, trying to shake the prickly feeling from your skin. Tina notices, and you claw at your jaw so hard fine beads of blood seep from the skin.

"Shit, don't do that," she exclaims, pulling your hand away from your face. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," you mutter. "Something. I feel it here." You point to your chest, tapping it for emphasis. "It never lies."

A sound comes, almost like a car backfiring. The three of you scramble for cover, but all is calm on your patch of road.

"What was that?" Mike hisses, and Tina just shakes her head. "It came from back over there."

With a mutual glance of agreement, you slowly begin to slink your way back to the cars, every step careful in the foliage that hides you from sight. After a few agonizing minutes of near-crawling you make out the SUV around the bend, its doors all open and lights flashing. At first you don't see anyone, but as you come to a stop just behind the vehicle, you see a sneaker jutting out. It's Finn's, attached to his leg. Why is he sitting down?

Someone comes around and the three of you duck deeper, only your eyes peering out of the trees, watching as the back of the SUV is popped open and your supplies strewn onto the road. If you look carefully you can see the reflection of another pair of lights playing against the hood, blinking harshly, and it's not the truck.

"Who is that?" Tina whispers, and the two of you shake your heads. He's an adult, about as old as Mr. Schue, and the wicked shotgun he carries means business. Two other men pace about the front, and you see they've sat everyone down in a line in front of the cars.

Shotgun laughs.

"Look at all this shit! Were you kiddies planning a road trip?"

The truck, parked differently, lets you see everyone directly. Quinn snarls when one of them waves a pistol in their face, taken from the trunk.

"What do you want?"

A gnarled scar runs down the length of another's face, and it looks like a nightmare when he smiles. "Oh, no no no. It's not what we want. It's what you've taken from us."

Quinn furrows her brows, and he strikes her across the cheek. Shadow lunges up, screaming in another language, but he swipes her heavily on the legs with an object and she crumples back down, clutching her thigh.

"Don't fucking play dumb, bitch. We know you took our stuff from the scouting camp, and now we want it back."

Your breath hitches, and the briefcase feels heavy in your bag.

"Then take the fucking food! You've already busted our tires, what more do you want?"

"The case."

"The what?"

Scar makes to strike her again, but Shotgun pulls his hand back.

"Dude, they're just kids."

"Kids that stole from us! I wouldn't give a shit if they were toddlers."

He turns on Mr. Schue, scrutinizing his outfit. "You the leader of this sad little band of refugees?"

"Well, really, I—"

His eyes go wide as a gun is pressed to his forehead, trembling.

"Well?"

"N-no. I'm not."

"Huh, that's rich. Being bossed around by a bunch of teenagers."

"A bunch of teenagers who're gonna beat the fuckin' shit out of you!" Puck snarls, and the third one finally speaks up. His voice is older, more measured, and the other two listen when he speaks.

"Bring them back to camp. We'll show the others what happens when you try and steal from us."

"But... what about the case?"

"It'll be there somewhere. It's not safe right now, it's almost dark."

Your companions are herded back into the cars – as Artie is hoisted over someone's shoulder, his eyes manage to find yours. He swallows and presses a finger to his lips, glancing down the road where the other vehicle must have come from. Tina squeezes your hand so hard it crushes, and you squeeze back as they all peel out and disappear around the bend.

You sit in silence for a moment, the hum of crickets loud in your ears.

"What do we do now?" Mike whispers, eyes wide, fingers trembling ever so slightly. You take his hand just like you take Tina's, looking down the open road.

"We go after them."