Chapter 11 – Show Me Your Teeth

When the sun shines its first tentative rays over Lima the next morning, it illuminates the striking image of Sue Sylvester standing silhouetted against the gradually lightening sky on the roof of McKinley High School. AK-47 strapped to her back, machete hanging from the utility belt around her waist, and long-distance rifle held in her unwavering hands, she surveys the parking lot below with an expert eye. If the sun could feel fear, it would pull its head back below the horizon.

Sue narrows her eyes at the sight of movement through the trees that line the front driveway of the school. A zombie – its glassy eyed disdain for the very sight of the building mark it as a former student – is shuffling through the grass at an embarrassing pace. Sue almost wants to whip out her megaphone to spur the thing into action. Just because it's dead, that's no excuse for laziness. It's never going to catch a meal at that pace. And besides, as much as she enjoys the chance to put her combat training to good use, things were simpler when she could instill fear in the crawling underbelly of the earth just by existing and wearing tracksuits while prowling the halls of their school. But things are different now. These zombies don't fear. They don't think. They just senselessly wander until they catch a whiff of something juicy. And then they eat.

It would be frustrating if it wasn't such an invigorating challenge. They are the kind of prey she was born to hunt. And she's the kind of hunter they will learn to fear. If it's the last thing she does, they will fear her.

She smiles, raises the gun to her shoulder, and fires a shot through the center of the zombie's skull.

When Quinn was younger, she liked to spend the mornings lying awake in bed and waiting for her dad to get her for breakfast. It all started the morning of her sister's first cheerleading competition. Quinn heard her dad coming up the stairs to get her, and for some reason she decided to lay still and make him wake her up. She was mad at him for something that she didn't even remember at the time, and even though she was only eight years old she had this idea that she wanted to inconvenience him like he had inconvenienced her. Then the phone rang, and Quinn listened with a full-to-bursting heart while he discussed plans for a new house he was thinking of building in Florida. She stayed there silently, breathlessly, and listened to him say things like 'family game night' and 'barbeque with the girls'. She stayed there and dreamed about this perfect dream house. A home away from home. A family that did things together and a father who didn't love his money more than he loved his kids.

But then one of his stores went under, and he got wrapped up in work again, and they never did get that dream house. But that never stopped Quinn from lying there in the mornings. She'd pretend to forget to set her alarm, or hit 'sleep' until he finally had enough. She liked the quiet minutes that would pass before he'd shake her awake. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and watch her sleep (she tried to look extra adorable, especially if he'd gone to bed mad at her). Sometimes he'd sit on the bed beside her and stroke her hair. A month ago, he whispered that she would always be his little girl.

Today she isn't hoping for anything like that. She doesn't expect a Florida dream house, and she doesn't expect her father to whisper that he forgives her and that she's still his little girl even after what she did. This morning she lies there because she's just not ready to get up. She's not ready to start another one of these horrible days. She lies there because if she closes her eyes and stays perfectly still, she can almost pretend that she's back in her room with her dad getting ready for work down the hall. She can almost pretend that she's not pregnant during the apocalypse.

She curls on her side and listens to Finn getting dressed while she hugs a pillow to her stomach. His youthful naivety lends itself well to this kind of situation, she thinks. He's humming. As long as he has people to guide him like Coach Sylvester and Puck, he'll be okay. He's so optimistic about everything. She loves him for it, and for many other things. He just needs some guidance because he's too pleasant to survive on his own.

Before he leaves the room, he bends down and kisses her on the lips. And he'll always remember the way that she smiles in her sleep when he does it.

Rachel has been up since the sunrise, sitting at the window with her elbows on the sill and her eyes straining for every sign of movement. But each time she spots a zombie, Coach Sylvester annihilates it a moment later from her perch on the rooftop. It has become something of a personal quest for Rachel to shoot one that Coach Sylvester hasn't seen, although she's beginning to realize the impossibility of this particular dream. She may have most of the school beat when it comes to singing and dancing, but she's just not good enough to beat Coach Sylvester in the area of ferocity and determination to kill.

Of course, that doesn't mean she's going to stop trying.

She hears Puck rousing from his surprisingly deep sleep and steels herself for the inevitable awkwardness that she expects will follow. Most of her time waiting for Coach Sylvester to slip up has been spent analyzing various avenues that the "morning after" conversation with Puck could take. Having imagined no desirable outcome, she is left only with complete avoidance. Mostly because she knows it's what he would prefer.

"What the hell are you doing up?" he asks with surprise when he squints at the clock on the wall. He flinches as if he's just been struck when he works out the time. "It's seven in the fucking morning."

"Yes? And?"

"We're already at school, and I'm pretty sure zombie Figgins will forgive us for skipping class. So why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep. Jacob wandered in here a few hours ago and acted as if it was an accident once he noticed you, but I've been understandably restless ever since. Why are you?"

Her voice is natural, breezy, and completely without any hints of the awkwardness she is feeling. She hopes.

"I don't know. The gunshots coming from the roof are sort of annoying. And it still smells like ass in here. We're gonna need to dig out some of those super-strength fans we saw when we were getting out the parking lot lights, or we'll never get this fucking smell out."

"I agree. That can be the first joint task of the day."

She smiles brightly and tries not to look at any part of his body that will bring about memories of last night. No easy feat. Especially not when he props himself up on his elbows so the sheet slides further down to expose more of his bare torso.

"Dude, what's wrong with you? You got that crazy eye thing going on right now. Like when you're trying not to freak the fuck out after you get slushied. You're not gonna go apeshit about last night, are you? Because you were totally down with it at the time."

"Oh, of course I was. Yes. It was lovely."

She turns back around at a speed that possibly causes whiplash, and she prays that he doesn't bring it up again. And he doesn't, because he's a little too confused to even try.

Kurt leaves his place at the front door (where he has just spent the better part of the night trying to ignore Mike's rambling musings on the ethics of killing zombies and whether or not the survivors will feel guilty about the zombies they killed in the event of a cure being found) once Mercedes and Matt show up to replace him. Mercedes gives him a dirty look when he walks by her without saying anything, but she has her phone in her hands and he can practically see her fingers shaking with the effort of trying not to flip it open and check for messages that she knows aren't there. He just doesn't have the strength to talk to her about her dead parents. Not when he's so busy trying to pretend to be strong about his own. Anyway, he has something to do before everyone else wakes up.

During his night of ignoring Mike's philosophizing, Kurt formed something of a plan. It wasn't exactly anything concrete, but he wrote it down on his mental list of things to do and underlined it twice so he wouldn't forget. Because even though it isn't essential to their survival, it is essential to his long term goals.

Kurt has always been the kind of person who plans ahead for contingencies that most people wouldn't even consider. Back when fashion was an option and not an already-distant memory, he organized his wardrobe every Sunday for the entire following week. When he was eight, he forced his father to make investments so that they would be able to start a modest college fund. At thirteen, he decided that he'd never be attracted to a man named Jeff, because seeing Jurassic Park and Independence Day both in one night and being terrified equally by each film had instilled in him a somewhat irrational fear of Jeff Goldblum (Jeffs still repulsed him).

So once the panic died down after the initial revelation that they were on the menu for their former friends and neighbors, Kurt knew that they would need a plan. It isn't just about survival, no matter what Coach Sylvester says. It's about giving everyone something to live for. So Kurt started collecting data. Figuring out what made everyone tick. And he did that by remaining as invisible as ever. He just listened to people as they talked. Actually listened. He knows that Mercedes needs someone to take care of, so he plans on breaking down about his dad a little bit later. But first comes Rachel, because he's proud of his idea (and a little excited to see her head explode with indignant annoyance). He heard Rachel say that she needed an audience, that she needed a flock of loyal fans. And so after some deliberation, he knew exactly what to do to help his first fairy goddaughter.

He heads immediately for the art room. He's honestly surprised when Rachel isn't there, but it makes things that much easier. He takes her zombie killing poster and brings it right back to the front hallway where he tapes it up, ignores Matt's confused questions and the dubious look he's getting from Mercedes, and marks down the fifteen zombies he killed during the night. Then he writes with a red felt-tipped marker, right below Rachel's sequined "Zombie Killer Tally" title, that the contest officially began at midnight. Rachel will have no choice but to consider this arbitrary time as set in stone. Her perfectionist nature and the abnormal amount of pride she feels in everything she personally creates will not allow her to abandon this poster. She will have no choice but to respect the validity of Kurt's devious move.

Oh, of course he knows that Rachel is going to react to this obvious incitement with as much competitive spirit as is in her diminutive frame. And he has a feeling that he's going to regret it eventually. But Rachel needs something to work towards, and so does he. She needs to kill the most zombies and gain that adoring audience that she yearns for, and he needs to help people retain the will to live. He hopes that one day they appreciate it. Because he's far from done. This is far from the final step. If it's the last thing he does, Kurt Hummel is going to please everybody.

He puts a red star next to his name for good measure. It'll make Rachel die to get out there and start killing zombies, and it also fits because red is the color of blood, and Kurt intends to spill a lot of that.

And, okay, so maybe he's a little bit into the whole competition thing, too.

Will is used to waking up early, and apparently his body clock is so in tune that it has decided to override his more pressing biological needs. Every nerve in his body is wailing for sleep, but his brain refuses to turn back off and ignore the sunlight streaming in through the dusty broken shades.

He reluctantly cracks his eyes open and stares at Emma, stares at where her hair is falling over her face and her breath flutters it just a little. He wants to push it back. He wants to reach out and touch her skin. But there's a barrier there, no matter how much she says it's okay. Because part of her will always be afraid. And part of him will always feel guilty about how he felt back when his wife wasn't a casualty of this horrible and unexpected war. Even now he feels guilty, because losing Terri hasn't made him care for Emma any less. It just makes it hurt more.

He feels sick and torn between leaving the room and kissing her on the eyelids, but she opens her eyes before he can choose. All thoughts of moving go out the window. Because something about the way she looks at him just freezes him in his tracks. She's smiling at him, that sleepy smile that he recognizes as the one that Terri used to smile at him in the mornings before she'd remember all the various grievances he'd apparently accumulated through the course of the earlier day. It was the smile that said she didn't remember what had happened to their marriage after years of misuse. And for a moment all she knew was that she was lying beside him, and she was happy.

But that smile disappears so quickly from Emma's face that it's as if it had never been there at all. And something about that one tiny moment is so beautiful and poignant that he thinks it might make him fall in love with her if he doesn't watch out. Because there are a lot of things about the zombie apocalypse that are hard to swallow, and he knows that losing Emma will be one of those things that will be impossible if he lets himself care about her more than he already does.

So he stifles the words that want to burst forth from his mouth, and he quickly gets to his feet.

"So, uh," he starts, at the same time as she stammers something unintelligible. He quickly reaches for his nearby shirt and throws it on. "Sleep well?"

Emma freezes, her unintelligible stammer gone completely. She blinks her giant, bush baby eyes twice before tilting her head to one side like a dog that hears a high pitched noise. And Will just knows instinctively that he's said the wrong thing. And he doesn't want to say the wrong thing, because the time for saying the wrong thing is so over. Everything he says now has to be perfect. And he doesn't know how to explain it, but he feels more pressure than he ever did before with Terri. Even when he thought she was pregnant. Even when he thought that he had to provide for the love of his life.

"I'm sorry," he says before she can say anything. "I don't really know how to handle this, you know? I don't know what this means. What we're supposed to do."

"It's okay, Will," Emma says, sitting up and smiling at him with that damn angelic smile that always makes him feel like he couldn't do wrong if he tried. "You don't have to try and make me feel special. We didn't do anything. We just slept."

She sounds bitter.

"Did you want it to be anything more, Emma?"

And now she seems surprised by the quiet question, and Will's starting to wish that this whole Woman thing came with a manual. It was easy with Terri, because he'd been with Terri for forever. This is different. So different. Even without the zombies and the too-recent and too-fresh death of his wife, it would be different.

"I'm sorry? Do I want it to be anything more?" She pauses, and her tone is so much like the tone she uses with uncooperative students that he's almost a little offended. "Will, I've had you pegged as an observant and sensitive soul who understands the wants and needs of others, so why don't you tell me? Tell me if you think I want something more."

Will knows that this is the moment when it all comes together, so he takes a deep breath before he starts. And then he prays that he doesn't screw this up. And then he says, "Yes. I think you want this to be something more. Something that will sweep you off your feet. But I also think you're scared. I think you don't know how much you want, how far you want this thing to go. Terri and Ken are dead, Emma. And yes, maybe we do owe it to their memory to wear black and grieve and sulk, but I don't want to do that. I miss Terri already. I miss the hell out of her. But she's dead, and I'm not, and you're not. And why can't it just be that simple?"

Emma smiles and looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

"Will, I know you've liked me for a while. Or at least admired part of me in some way. I'm not suggesting that you were at all mentally unfaithful to your wife, but you at least had acknowledged my potential compatibility for romance and…stuff. And I'm glad, because I've always found you so attractive, and I like how you see things that I thought I was alone in seeing. And I like how you need pep talks and actually listen to my advice. And this is the end of the world, so I'm willing to concede to your ideas about grief. We may not be long for this world, and to grieve the people who have already left it seems almost selfish. We should use the short time we have left. I agree. But there are some things about me. About my aversion to messes. Things I haven't told anyone."

"What do you mean?" Will asks, and he's less-than-surprised to feel an actual physical chill snaking up his spine.

"Come on. I know you've noticed. I'm the girl who reads only romance novels but skips over the racy parts. I wear rubber gloves in the shower. I hate touching things. I hate smelling things. I even hate tasting most things, which is why I eat things that are very solid and nearly tasteless, like carrot sticks. Grapes are an exception, but sometimes I feel nauseas while eating them, and…oh, Will. I've never said this to anyone before. I'm not sure I can do it now."

"Something happened to you. Something other than your brother pushing you into the manure."

"That happened. It wasn't just a story. But…there's more, Will. I've never kissed a man since. Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"No," Will sighs, sinking slowly to a seated position against the wall.

"But you…you were different. You were so kind and gentle and slender, and I felt so unthreatened by you. Every nauseas feeling you gave me was a good kind. And I hoped that it could lead somewhere. But last night, even the thought of lying beside you was enough to fill me with fear. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that this has to be so confusing. But I wasn't lying when I said last night that I want to be in this mess with you. I want to feel nauseas. I want to feel scared. I want to feel all these things I'm feeling, because at least I'm feeling something at all. And that has to be good, right?"

Will knows he should say something, but he can't quite find the words.

Puck thinks about knocking on the door to Santana's room, but then decides to just walk in. If he knocks, she'll tell him to go away. And he already feels humiliated enough, carrying her breakfast on a cafeteria tray. It doesn't help that he has no idea what he's supposed to do to help her. What he's supposed to say. When he was making her bacon, he thought about opening with a joke, but even Finn told him he was an idiot for that one. So he's back to square one.

Square one, apparently, means winging it. So he pushes open the door and almost drops everything when Santana spins around from her place at the window and points a pistol right at his skull.

"Jesus!" he shouts, jumping back into the hallway and belatedly realizing that the doors don't close on their own so all he's really done is take a few steps back so it'll take the bullet another millisecond to reach him. But Santana just turns back to the window, and the pistol goes into the back of her pants. Her black tank top is riding up just far enough for that to be completely sexy.

"Thought you were a zombie. Or Sylvester. Would have shot at either."

"Okay. Fuck. Come on, San. Sit down and eat some breakfast. You look like shit."

"I can still shoot you, you know."

"You could, but would that really make you feel any better?"

Santana pulls her eyes away from the scope on her rifle and cracks a broken smile in his direction. He takes that as permission to enter the room, and he gently lays the tray on the floor next to her mattress. Once he sits down in front of it, she crosses the room to him with the lethal grace of a panther or tiger or some other really big, scary cat.

She was intimidating before she lost her girlfriend and got access to weapons, so Puck isn't at all ashamed to admit that he's a little afraid for his life.

But she just sits down cross-legged in front of him and starts eating, Like nothing has ever gone wrong in her life.

"So what's the status report? I caught a few hours right before dawn. Anything happen that I should know about?"

"All quiet on the zombie front, if that's what you mean."

He smiles, and it's a little nervous but mostly just concerned (because he really does care about her, no matter how much he's been trying to pretend to her face that he doesn't). He wants to hug her, but he has a feeling that won't go over too well. So instead he just sits dumbly in front of her and avoids eye contact.

She pauses mid-reach for some bacon. Tilts her head to one side. Like she's analyzing him.

"You totally fucked Rachel Berry."

He meets her empty eyes for the first time in this conversation. She's smiling, but it's a cold smile. A sarcastic smile. A smile that has so little humor in it that it might as well be a grimace. Like she forgot how to smile or something. Maybe it's a little dramatic, but Puck knows Santana. He knows every curve of her body. Every twinkle in her eye and every synapse firing in her brain. He knows her backwards and forwards, and this is a very different girl. His primeval instincts are kicking in, and his mind is flashing red-and-white Danger signs.

But this is Santana. And part of him will always love her a little. Because what's not to love?

"You're freaking me out," he says honestly. Partly because she is, and partly because he doesn't know how to address her comment.

"Yeah, well fucking Rachel Berry is pretty high on the list of things I never thought you'd stoop to, so safe to say you're freaking me out a little too."

"Knock it off. Stop taking this out on us."

"So there's an us now?"

"Jesus, San. I mean all of us. We're trying to help you out. I know that Brittany was…was important to you. But you can't just let this…"

"Let this what? Ruin my life? Run my personality? Too fucking late. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Pretend like nothing happened? Go back to fucking you and acting like we have anything in common other than the fact that we both like sex and are a teensy bit dead inside? No thanks."

"Well then what are you gonna do? Give up? Santana, you can't kill yourself over this. Brittany wouldn't have wanted it."

"Oh, don't you dare pull that drama club cliché bullshit on me, Puckerman. It doesn't matter what Brittany would have wanted. She's dead. She's dead, and her body is a shell, and I don't believe in God or anything else that would make things better."

Puck sighs and glances to the door to make sure that no one's coming. He doesn't usually like being honest with people about what he feels deep inside, but he wants to be honest with Santana. Because Santana is his friend, and she understands him, and he thinks that maybe he could have loved her if only the universe agreed. Just like Quinn. Just like Rachel. There are all these paths leading to all these different girls, and Santana's path was so easy and without blockage. Except now it's hazy, and he has no idea what to say to her. So he just says the first thing that comes to mind. The honest thing. If Quinn was there, she would have been proud. Rachel probably would have cried. Will definitely would have cried. Puck, though, doesn't even realize exactly what he's saying, or why it would be such a big step.

"I get it, you know. I'm right there with you. I remember one time when my dad was yelling at my mom, he said, 'life is a story without a meaning. Just pages filled with words that don't actually say anything'. And that totally stuck, because it's true. Life's a joke to people like us, San. People who don't believe in shit. But that doesn't mean it's a joke to everyone. I think we're all going to get eaten by zombies, and it'll be like our lives are just going to get blown out like candles or some shit. And sometimes I'll close my eyes, you know, like starting to go to sleep, and I'll try to think about what not existing anymore will feel like. It's like how other people imagine being in Heaven. I imagine not existing. And it's so weird and impossible that I always end up just imagining an endless universe of stars. That's as close as I can get. And sometimes it seems so easy, like I just want it to happen because none of it's going to matter. No one's life is really going to matter. But it matters to them. They think there's something worth fighting for. And I don't want Quinn to think about life the way I think about it. I don't want Rachel to think that dying is the best way to go. I don't want you to think that all this fucking suffering is for nothing. So I'd never do it. I'd never let myself just not exist anymore. Not if there was any hope left. When you care about someone, even a little, you gotta make them believe that their lives are worth something. Even if you believe that they're not. Because if no one believes they have anything to live for, we'd be just like those fucking zombies. And yeah, she's dead. But Brittany wouldn't have wanted you to give up. Because she believed in Heaven, and she'd want to see you there."

Before they leave the room, Santana will promise not to tell anyone what he said just as long as he promises not to tell anyone that she cried.

Quinn finds Rachel standing in the front hallway, motionless as she stares at the wall.

And it's not as if Quinn is looking for her. But it's been hard to avoid Rachel ever since she started mooning after Finn, and it's even harder now that they're locked in this school with much higher odds of running into her. Except now it's maybe not such a bad thing. Maybe.

"What are you doing?" she asks to get Rachel's attention. Rachel turns and backs out of the way so that Quinn can see the Zombie Kill scoreboard they started working on yesterday. Kurt has marked off fifteen zombies.

"Kurt has apparently decided to start the competition without informing any of the other players. I should have brought it up before the horde descended on us, but I think I can be excused for thinking only of our lives."

"I think if you didn't, we'd have thrown you out a window," Quinn agrees dryly. Rachel, according to custom, fails to hear the insult in the comment.

"I wish that there was some way to prove that he killed fifteen zombies. I'm not saying that I doubt it. I'm just saying that perhaps he played with the numbers a bit. I didn't hear many gunshots last night, and there's something about the number fifteen that just seems too coincidental and clean, right?"

"I really don't care. And I don't think you should, either," Quinn sighs.

"Well, that's always been the problem, hasn't it? You don't care about any of my lifetime goals, and you think that I shouldn't care, either. Which translates into you tormenting me for completely asinine reasons like how I wear my hair or my dedication to singing."

Quinn tilts her head to one side and smiles a little. She knows that this whole 'wise mother-to-be' routine annoys some people (Puck, Emma, probably Rachel, definitely Santana), but she can't help it. She sort of likes it. And if Rachel can just decide to be a kickass zombie slayer, then she can be a kickass dispenser of useful advice.

"I know that you're only talking like this because you're upset about something. And I'm not going to take any of it personally."

It works, like it always does. It's hard to stay pissed at someone when they're being calm and rational. It makes you look like an asshole. And if there's one thing that Rachel doesn't want to look like in her current bid for the High School Savior role, it's an asshole. Rachel deflates, the anger that had been building in her all morning just flying out of her like a popped balloon. She leans against the wall and stares at Quinn with a strange expression on her face. One that is something between reluctance and fear.

"I'm debating whether or not to tell you what is bothering me."

"If you want to, go ahead. It's not like I have anything better to do with my time."

Rachel nods and looks down at her hands.

"The problem is that I'm not at all certain how far our newly formed friendship extends. Of course I'm grateful for the way you stood up for me when Coach Sylvester was contemplating shooting me. And I truly do believe that we have more in common than our social statuses have allowed us to explore so far. But I haven't had many friends, especially not female friends. And I wish that I had, because I'd understand what protocol exists for this sort of situation."

"If you don't tell me, I can't tell you."

"I know, but I'm afraid that my revealing this information will make us less friendly than we have been, and I have to wonder if it would be worth unburdening myself. But at the same time, you trusted me with a much bigger secret, and I kept it. Fairness dictates that you should not be angry about this, but teen-themed movies and television shows have illustrated to me time and again that this is not always the case."

"Oh my God, Rachel. Just please say it before my child dies of old age."

"I slept with Noah."

The words come out as if they're run together as one giant, multisyllable word. Rachel is totally expecting a punch in the face. But the strange part is that Quinn can't even be mad. She's not even that jealous, which is truly bizarre. Because it's not as if Noah Puckerman is uncharted territory that she had hoped to keep pure and her own forever. She showed up a little late to the party for that. And of course it's a little disturbing that they slept together right after Rachel found out about the truth of Quinn's baby, but if Rachel was going to try and capitalize on that secret in any way, it would be in the direction of Finn. Not Puck. Quinn is sure of that.

Still, there is a tiny tug on her heart, like her child is pulling on something down there to remind her that Puck is the father of her child. And it was different when he was sleeping with Santana and other girls, because they were just girls. Quinn was different from them and they both knew it. But Rachel is different, too. Because Puck once said to Quinn that Rachel made him feel like less of a loser, and Quinn always knew that was something she'd never be able to do for him. Because no matter how sweet Puck is, and no matter how amazing a father he'd make (Quinn has a suspicion that he would make a fantastic one if she could bring herself to give him half a chance), she will always see him as the loser who got her knocked up and potentially ruined her life.

It's not fair, but it's true. And Quinn owes it to the both of them and their unborn child to at least be honest about it. And she owes it to Rachel to be honest, too. Because Rachel trusts her for some reason. And even though Quinn sort of wishes that they were back at school hating each other because that would be way, way better than dealing with zombies, she also doesn't want to lose what has happened between them. Because she's starting to feel like maybe this can be an actual friendship, and she needs all the friends she can get. Especially if her existing friends are just going to keep getting eaten by zombies.

"Okay," she says. Rachel blinks a few times and stops leaning against the wall, standing straight like she's ready for Quinn to pull out a gun and just blow her away.

"Okay?"

"Yes. Okay."

"So you're not mad?"

"I'd be lying if I said I felt nothing. But I'm not mad at you, and I'm not mad at him. I don't have any claim to him. Because he wanted me to give him a chance, and I didn't. I had my shot at Noah Puckerman, and I threw him back when I was done. I don't get to reel him back in just because some other girl wants him."

"Based on my admittedly rather sparse knowledge of teenage social situations involving ex-boyfriends…"

"Learned from what? Mean Girls showings on ABC Family? Look, Rachel, not to be a huge bitch, but it's not like you've ever actually dealt with this before. And anyway, Puck isn't my ex-boyfriend. Puck is a boy that I slept with, foolishly, and let myself get dragged into a disgustingly clichéd situation as a result. He's a nice boy, and I'm glad that I've gotten to know him better because he can actually be sort of sweet, but if anyone has claim on him, it's you. You dated him. He gave up football for you. And you both want things you can't have. And I guess it's sort of sweet that you can deal with it together."

And, okay, so maybe that was a little less honest than she'd intended. But it's the thought that counts.

Once everyone is awake, the group convenes in the science room upstairs where Santana spent the night. It's never explicitly stated that they're meeting there because it's where Brittany died, but everyone's pretty sure that's the reason. Especially since it's Sue who called the meeting, and especially since she's looking very serious.

"Apparently you all made it through the night. How fantastic. Since you're forcing me to babysit and risk my life just by continuing to breathe through your mouths around me, you're all going to listen very carefully when I tell you what to do. First of all, you all are pathetic, soft-bodied losers with absolutely no chance at beating even a legless zombie in a hand-to-hand combat situation. So what I'm going to do is set up a training area in my gym not unlike the one I set up for my Cheerios. Santana and Q should be fine, since I've been subliminally preparing them for this moment all their cheerleading careers. But the rest of you, you're going to take shifts and meet me down in the gym for practice. When you're not on guard, sleeping, or eating, I expect you down in that room, which will be hereby known as my office."

"Sue, that's not fair," Will protests.

"William, I never thought I'd have to stoop to saying this during a zombie apocalypse, but apparently the shellac you used on your hair is blocking out the sound of my voice along with common sense. Let me lay it down for you nice and loud: life is not fair. Especially not now. And I don't care if they want to sit around in a circle and harmonize about how zombies are scary and Sue Sylvester is the boogeywoman. If they want to survive, they're going to do what I say. And even though I wish a zombie would just eat you and get it over with, I'm extending my mandatory invitation to you. You want to protect these kids and cradle their feelings in your doughy, muscleless arms, then fine. Cradle all you want. But you'll need to be cradling them in the conditioned arms of a killer if you're going to last another day out here in the wild. Now, I'm going to take my car down the street to stock up on provisions. Alone. If anyone tries to follow me, I'll give them a first-hand demonstration of just how effective my combat training will be. And by no means should anyone consider that an invitation. That was a threat."

She storms out of the room before anyone has a chance to reply, leaving them all behind in stunned and confused silence.

"Do we really have to do that?" Emma asks. "I don't think I'm suited to rigorous training. All that sweat."

"Yeah, and I think I could take on a zombie just fine, Mr. Schue," Puck points out. Finn nods.

"Oh please," Santana sighs.

"What? Come on. You think I couldn't take it on?"

"No, I don't think you could." Santana spreads her arms apart like explaining this is the most difficult thing she's ever done in her life. "Look, conditioning for football and conditioning for close combat are two completely different things. You can't just tackle a zombie. You can't just steal his football and run away, or whatever. You have to neutralize him."

"What was she teaching you girls?" Emma asks disbelievingly.

"She was teaching us how to defend ourselves," Quinn puts in. "She told us that little boys grow up used to having everything they want handed to them on a silver platter."

"Yeah, and she said that our bodies shouldn't be on that platter. And we should use that platter to break their noses if they ever try to take it."

"It's true," Mercedes says.

"Right, like you'd know," Santana scoffs.

"When I tried out for Cheerios last year, Coach Sylvester told me there was no way I'd have the endurance required to kill a grown man, so there was no reason I should even bother trying out for Cheerios. She only picks Amazons for her team, and it's not just because they need to make a pyramid. Coach Sylvester is hands-down crazy as shit about her self-defense lessons. So yeah, I do know."

"Whatever. Coach Sylvester is a horrible human being, but what she was doing for us was the right thing, okay? Maybe it was unnecessary, but now I know how to take down a grown man who feels no remorse and for whom physical pain is not an issue. Which means that I'm fully prepared to take on a zombie at close range. None of you can say the same. No offense, Q, but your baby fat doesn't exactly make you the best zombie killer in the school, you know?"

"I don't even see why this is an issue!" Rachel exclaims, her panic obvious. "Clearly we have enough ammunition to last us a while. Shouldn't that be enough? And it's not as if there are no other weapons available!"

Finn shrugs, his natural optimism again shedding light on a rather gloomy situation when he says, "I don't know, maybe this isn't such a bad idea. If there are any other survivors out there, I'm sure they have weapons too. And they're going to need ammunition soon. There are a lot of gun stores here, sure, but how many of them are still going to actually have guns in them? I don't think there will be a lot. I think basically we're on our own. And there's no harm in all getting a little stronger. We're not going to survive by swinging baseball bats and axes and hoping for the best. We're going to survive by being prepared for every situation. It's just like Rachel says. We need to be prepared for apocalyptic talent when we're facing the competition. Only now we need to be prepared for the actual apocalypse, and zombies."

"I made lists," Emma offers, smiling brightly. Will puts his hand on her arm and forces his mouth to curve upward at the edges, although he's not too sure it qualifies as a smile. He's not sure anything he could manage at the moment would qualify as a proper smile. He can't actually imagine managing a real smile ever again. How can they smile, with everything that's going on around them. And he knows that before, before the world practically exploded with horror, that things weren't exactly perfect. There were people suffering in other countries, suffering even more than they're suffering right now. There were people dying for things like religion and money and pure human cruelty, and that was horrible. But it always seemed so distant. That was his privilege; his birthplace, his race, and his gender allowed him to feel distant from it. And he was always acutely aware of that. But that's the thing about zombies. They don't discriminate. They don't pick and choose who to kill based on what their skin looks like or what genitalia they're packing. Zombies only care about who's closest.

Kurt can see that Mr. Schue is feeling lost. And when he looks around the room, he can see that they're all looking a little lost. Santana is lost without Brittany to feel smug and superior with. Quinn is lost with the realization that her baby might be the death of her and not just in a social situation way. Finn and Puck are lost without the usefulness of their football-buff bodies because it's not like zombies care how big your biceps are. Rachel is lost because her skill at marksmanship might soon prove useless. And everyone else is lost because this is already overwhelming enough without the addition of another thing to feel overwhelmed by.

So Kurt steps up. It's kind of his thing in times of crisis. He knows that people don't really listen to him most of the time about important things. Everyone in the group has a niche of advice soundbytes (Quinn and sabotage, Rachel and the history of show business, Puck and the location of illicit substances for purchase). Kurt's thing is supposed to be fashion advice. He loves fashion, he loves taking care of himself, and he loves looking good. That's true. But that doesn't mean that's all there is to him. He also loves being in charge and giving orders. And he likes cheering people up. Putting smiles on the faces of people who fear they'll never smile again.

"Guys, come on," he says with a wry grin. "Coach Sylvester is giving us a way to make us less afraid. She's going to help us survive. There's nothing wrong with that, right? Think of this as like a weapon that'll never run out of bullets. I know I'd feel better if I thought I'd have a chance in hell at ripping a zombie's head off with my bare hands. I'll be in the first shift with her in the gym, if anyone wants to join me."

Mercedes smiles at him across the room, and Kurt smiles back.

Puck doesn't want to want to have alone time with Rachel. But he does want to have alone time with Rachel. He wants to talk to her. Not in a 'let's talk about our feelings way', but in a 'how are you feeling about this whole zombie thing' way. It's sort of impossible to think that he's learned anything in the day since the zombie thing started, but he has. And what he's learned is that it's way easier to listen to other people stress out than it is to have to sit alone by yourself and stress out. Because when he's listening to other people, their fears all sound so stupid. Something about saying things out loud always takes away some of its bite. So when Quinn says that maybe she could love him, it doesn't have the power it does when he thinks to himself that maybe he could love her.

So when he finds Rachel sitting forlornly in the front hallway, marking six zombies on her tally (she and Kurt are still the only people who have numbers up there, despite the fact that they've all been killing zombies all morning and it's almost noon now) he clears his throat in the most obvious way possible.

Rachel looks up and smiles with absolutely no sincerity behind it before going back to staring at the tallies and frowning. Puck sighs.

"What? Are you really that upset that Hummel has more kills than you?"

"There's no proof that he does!" Rachel exclaims, holding up her hands like she's trying to defend herself. "He's doing this to incite me to action and I know it. Although I'm offended by his assumption that his use of red stars will rile me more than simple tally marks would."

"But they are, aren't they?"

Rachel hangs her head and sighs before asking, "What do you want, Noah? If you want to talk about last night, I'm not feeling up to it at the moment, but I'm sure we can discuss it later. Sometime."

"Yeah? You saw how well avoidance worked out for Santana, didn't you? Telling Brit all that stuff on her deathbed? You sure you want me to go out without knowing how much you think I'm a stud?"

That gets a sad smile, and Rachel turns to look at him. For the first time, Puck can see how tired she is. There are rings under her eyes that look like something out of a nature documentary on rabid raccoons. Her hair is knotted and matted, and her skin is covered in sweat. She washed up last night, but there's still a smear of dried blood on the back of her neck. Puck sort of wants to get a wet cloth and wash it for her, but something about that feels really intimate and weird. Nevermind that they had sex last night. This would be different.

"I'm just…I'm running out of direction," Rachel says quietly. Her voice is soft and honest and has none of that brash, bossy quality it usually does. This is the Rachel who reminded him that he'd get a slushie in the face every day if he stayed in glee club. This is the Rachel who washed his hair and sat on his lap and took the news of his dumping her like a pro. This is the Rachel who told him that she wanted everything too much. And as much as the other Rachel amuses him with her loudness and her crazy, this is the Rachel he might be able to love one day. And it scares him how much his stomach hurts when he hears her talk like this.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I mean, look at me. Counting up zombies that I've killed. It's the only thing I can do. I need a goal. I need something to work towards. Before it was stardom. Tony. Oscar. Emmy. Grammy. The four goals I needed to reach before death. But now what? Survival? I need something a little better than just continuing to breathe. Playing video games, watching movies, reading books…that's good enough for now I suppose. I could make my goal a more passive one. Scour every piece of available media. Then perhaps I could write something of my own. Write a song, perfect a performance to give to the group. But what then? Sooner or later, I'll run out of reasons to keep fighting. And given how I'm feeling at this moment, I'd have to guess that the moment will come far sooner than not. And I don't know how I'm expected to live with that."

"I don't know. Killing zombies is a pretty fucking awesome goal."

"Yes. It is. But what if I can't beat Kurt?"

"The world isn't gonna run out of zombies, Rachel. You'll always have time to beat Kurt."

Rachel shrugs her consent at that, trying to act casual even though Puck can see the way her face lights up when she thinks about it.

"I guess it's a little ridiculous to be worrying about something like this. But that's never stopped me before, and I can't imagine where the logic would be in changing that now."

"That's the Rachel I know," Puck says with a smile.

"I mean, my default plan to fix things has always been to sing about it, or to sing to someone, or to in some way sing and make the world a better place. I literally have no other moves."

Puck sighs, and Puck knows that he's going to regret saying this in like ten minutes, but he says it anyway. Because he likes Rachel right now, and that makes him totally fucking powerless. He has no choice but to do whatever he thinks will make her happy. And in this case, he thinks that the only thing that can make her happy is saying something that he absolutely never thought he'd say before.

"You know, just because singing isn't going to help fix everything, that doesn't mean it won't help fix some things."

And he was right: he does regret it. Because then she starts talking, and then she won't stop talking, and then he starts feeling nostalgic for the awkward silence this morning when he first woke up. And then his neck starts hurting from disinterestedly nodding so much, so he just gives up and walks away.

Sue's trip to the outside world is a massive success. First, she gathers Intel on the state of things outside their pathetic little stronghold. And the status is, as expected, a complete shitstorm of unholy proportions. She's embarrassed to be a member of the human race. Bodies litter the street like it's the morning after Mardi Gras. Houses have been demolished by the hungry hordes trying and succeeding to reach the people inside. Even guns are just lying around, and Sue would probably be frustrated about that if it wasn't such a rewarding feeling to pick up a weapon and toss it in the back of the truck.

And even though the world outside is in a sad state, Sue gets to look forward to crushing Rachel Berry's ridiculous hippie commune optimism about the survival of some sort of government in Lima, and her various speeches about how togetherness and show-stopping talent are all they need to survive. And maybe then Q will stop acting like these mouth breathers have anything valid to offer.

Second on her checklist is gathering enough supplies to make their defendable position a veritable fortress. Luckily for Schuester and his gleeks, Sue was the kind of child who built her pillow forts with plywood bases and a smattering of booby traps just in case. Her house is loaded with the kind of theft-deterrents that would make King Tut weep with the frustration of inferiority. And she knows exactly what she needs to get to make the school a zombie's worst nightmare.

Once her recon is completed, she takes a few more spins around town to try and scout out any other survival strongholds. There are none.

Sue Sylvester doesn't like to feel things like negativity. She doesn't like to have reason to. Her life is categorized by successes and successes only. Winners don't have to feel bad things, because winners have life easy. It's always been that simple. But seeing all those empty houses is for some reason more horrifying to her than the zombie horde in all its glory. It's more frightening. Because those empty houses used to hold families. Families filled with saccharine-sweet families of four and their minivans and their ridiculous decisions to settle for everything that was average in life. Sue hated them. But now they're not there anymore. And for a full two seconds, Sue feels remorse.

"I think that we need to work on a musical number."

Quinn groans and tries to stand up, but her knees don't want to work and her back is killing her, so she ends up just plopping back down into her seat with an infuriated and disgusted expression on her face. Santana does get up, but Rachel scampers across the room to block the exit.

For some reason, Rachel decided only to let Quinn and Santana in on her stupid plan. And at first Quinn was a little excited, because it sounded like it was going to be something cool and secret and useful, and she was glad that someone was asking her to do something (because apparently being halfway to giving birth means you're like, worse than crippled or something). But of course it ends up just being about Rachel trying to get attention.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Berry? I will crush you. Get out of my way."

"Just listen, please! Everyone is terrified, and they're uncertain about what to do, and they don't have any source of inspiration. Only Coach Sylvester is unafraid, and she's hardly a good model. I was talking to Noah earlier, and he said that while singing can't fix everything, maybe it can fix some things. And morale is one of the things it can most definitely fix."

"Why would I care about the morale of the group?" Santana asks pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at Rachel defiantly.

"Well, because you don't want to die. Because you want to kill all those zombies out there. Because you don't want everyone to give up and let you down."

"Well yeah, obviously I think you're a bunch of spineless losers who seriously need to learn how to take care of yourselves. But singing isn't going to turn you idiots into warriors. Nothing is going to turn you idiots into warriors. Coach has had two years with Quinn and I. You don't even stand a chance."

"But that's the thing. I believe that singing can help boost morale. I've picked out a song that I heard on Kurt's iPod last week, and I think that if we perform this number in a satisfactory way, it will be at least moderately inspirational for the group."

"Is this really what we should be spending our time on?"

"As opposed to what? Sleeping? Watching the Family Guy DVDs that Noah gathered? Shooting zombies from the top windows and wasting bullets? Until Coach Sylvester comes back with her reinforcement materials, we have nothing important to be doing."

Quinn sighs and asks, "What's the song?" in a tone that reminds Santana of her old babysitter. It's almost a little sweet, how people have been indulging Rachel in all these crazy things instead of just flat out dismissing her like they would have yesterday. Except it makes it a lot harder for Santana to do the same, and she hates that.

"It's called Teeth, and it's sung by Lady Gaga. While there are other songs of hers that are more easily recognizable, I think that this song can capture our emotions if we infuse our performance with enough sensual power. For me, Lady Gaga's music represents taking control of yourself and becoming who you want to be. This is a message that cannot be ignored today. We all need to take control and be the people who can survive this horrible situation. And the three of us, I think, have managed to do that better than anyone else here. Quinn, you have always been strong. But you are facing more than any of us can even conceive of. Santana, you've lost so much and it has only made you more ferocious and determined to survive. And since my hand-eye coordination and Texan relations have made me something of a natural marksman, I've become a girl who I never thought I could. I've adopted the persona of a killer. A warrior. We're all warriors. And if we sing this song, and if we present it in a way that highlights this power that we have, then I think it will inspire others to harness their own inner warrior."

Santana sighs and asks, "Why couldn't you have just said something that would make it sound really boring? Now I sort of want to do it."

While Rachel, Santana, and Quinn begin choreographing their song and dance routine in the rehearsal room downstairs, the day continues on without incident. Sue, Jacob, Puck, Will, and Mercedes work to reinforce the doors with the steel beams that Sue picked up. Mike, Matt, Finn, Kurt, Tina, and Artie watch Family Guy on one of the large projectors in the science wing, laughing harder than they ever have watching the show, because now they have no reason to. Occasionally one will shoot out the window. But nothing interrupts the laughter, because they're so used to firing weapons already that it's become a minor irritation in the back of their minds.

Everyone is busy, whether doing something legitimately helpful or not.

No one is in Sue's office. No one is near the shortwave radio she set up.

No one hears the deep voice say, "Attention all survivors", and no one hears the instructions he delivers after.

Not yet.