Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. God Bass was tired of walking. 940 miles from Parris Island to Chicago. Under ideal conditions it would have taken less than a month. It had taken nine. They'd gone off course, been forced to stop due to injuries, and run into more than their fair share of skirmishes. They'd also been slowed down by the people they'd picked-up along the way. Eventually winter had come and they'd been forced hole up and ride out the cold. It had been easier at the beginning, when Bass had known where he was going and why.

He didn't regret going AWOL. Bass had loved his country, but Miles was his family. There was no competition. There was also the fact that Miles wasn't the only one who'd wanted to learn the fate of the Mathesons. He hadn't laid eyes on Rachel in over six years. Six years. Jesus. Charlotte has been just a baby then. Now she was school-aged, at least she would have been if schools still existed.

Bass knew from the pictures he'd taken from Matheson's abandoned house that the girl was the spitting image of her mother. He'd found a photo of just the pair of them, with their arm around each other grinning at the camera. He'd stuffed it inside his jacket along with a dozen others he'd found.

A few he'd chosen because they had the whole family and he figured he could show the picture to people he'd came across. The other pictures he'd taken just for himself: Bass and Miles as little boys; Marie, Bass, Miles, and Ben at Ben's graduation; Rachel, Ben, Bass, and Miles out at the bar they'd gone to that first Thanksgiving after the turkey-gorging had been completed. Bass smiled, remembering how Rachel had hustled him out of twenty bucks playing pool. It felt like a lifetime ago. What if she was dead?

Bass shook himself. No. NO. He could NOT think that way. Rachel was stronger and smarter than Bass had ever been. She was alive, and he would find her. He had to find her and not just for his own sake, for Miles' as well.

Miles had sent Bass on alone to find his family. He said he needed to stay to their men. Their men, he'd said, like the gang survivors that they'd slowly collected were soldiers under his and Miles command.

Bass and Miles had a huge fight over it, maybe the biggest they had in the history of their friendship. Bass had yelled that Miles had lost sight of what they traveled hundreds of miles for. Rachel, Ben, Charlotte and Danny were all that mattered now.

Miles had disagreed. He said they had a responsibly to help restore some kind of an order to the world. He said they had to protect the people who couldn't protect themselves. It all sounded great in theory, but in practice it was like living in a Western. 'Justice' was decided not by twelve people on a jury, but by one man holding a gun.

Bass knew why Miles was reacting this way. Between the two of them, Miles had always been the more compassionate. Bass felt for the people who'd fallen victim to the violence of this broken world, but he was able to separate himself from it. Life had taught him how to make himself numb. It was a skill Miles had never acquired. He couldn't ignore the bodies the way Bass could; he couldn't shield himself from the grief and anger. Bass understood Miles' need for retribution, but he was terrified of what Miles would do to satisfy that need.

The fact that people were listening to Miles only made matters worse. Jeremy had been the first to join them on the journey North, but he wasn't the last. Some had been rescued and others had just wanted the protection of former soldiers and superior numbers. By the time they'd reached Illinois, they had a camp of two dozen men and women. Miles had taken it upon himself to teach them basic weapons and hand to hand. He said he wanted them to be able to defend themselves, but Bass wasn't sure he was being completely honest. It was one of the reasons finding the Mathesons was so important. Bass didn't seem to be reaching him, but maybe Ben could.

Finding the address of the house in Chicago had been the easy part. The house was empty and mercifully there had been no bodies, so Bass had assumed the family had fled together. He found a map of Chicago and followed the quickest route out of the city. He'd kept moving in the same direction one he'd hit the city's limits. He'd been wandering for months, flashing the Matheson's photo to ever non-homicidal stranger he'd come across. He'd followed a half dozen false leads, more than one of which had turned out to be an ambush. A few weeks ago he'd come across a couple who said they'd seen a family of four from a distance. They'd been hadn't gotten close enough to be able to make out faces, but it had looked like a man, a woman, and a little girl and boy. It was probably another dead end, but Bass couldn't give up. If he stopped and went back he'd be admitting to himself that he would never see her again. That he would never see either of them again.

Bass suddenly stopped walking. He could see something in the forest clearing thirty yards in front of him. He drew his gun and approached as silently as he could manage. As he crept closer he could see that it was the body of a man. His eyes were wide open in shock. Bass was no doctor, but he guessed cause of death was the gaping bullet wound in his chest. There was a pile of dry sticks near the body. The poor guy had probably been gathering firewood when some lunatic came along and killed him. Bass patted down the body to make sure he didn't have anything useful on him. He felt a small lump in the inner jacket pocket. It turned out to be matches. Bass shoved them into his pants. It felt a little ghoulish, but the man wouldn't be using them anymore and in this brave new world, the squeamish didn't survive.

Bass heard a small noise. A whimper, coming from somewhere nearby. Someone was still here. He raised his gun and crept in the direction of the sound. There was a large log laying in his path. He stopped when he was ten feet away and listened. He heard it again, although this time it was softer, muffled.

"I know you're there, behind the log. Come out now." There was silence for a moment, then a rock came hurling toward him, hitting him in the gut. The wind was immediately knocked out of his stomach.

"Come on!" Two small blond figures burst out from behind the log and sprinted away from him. Without thinking, Bass gave chase. He caught them in about ten seconds. Grabbing their arms, he spun them around. His jaw dropped in shock. Charlotte. He'd found her. She swung her fists at him, violently beating on his arms. Danny was crying, but that didn't stop him from kicking at Bass' shins.

"Charlotte and Danny, stop!" The children stopped at hitting him.

"How do know our names?" Charlotte narrowed her bright blue eyes at him suspiciously.

"Because I'm your friend." It was lame, he knew, but the best he could think of, under the circumstances.

"You're not our friend. You're a STRANGER!" Charlotte's words hit him harder than her rock had. He had become a stranger to every Matheson, but Miles. He'd chosen to distance himself, and at the time it seemed like the right choice to make, but now he wasn't as sure.

"No, no I'm not a stranger. I know your Mommy and Daddy. Their names are Ben and Rachel Matheson. I'm really good friends with your Uncle Miles. Do you remember him?" He knew Miles had visited the Mathesons a few times since Charlotte's baptism, but she might have been too young to remember.

"He had the car with the funny music player." Bass laughed, remember how he used to tease Miles about his resistance to new technology. It was ironic, considering how everything had turned out.

"Yes, that's right. I can prove I'm not a stranger, but I need to let you go to do it. Do you promise not to run if I do?" Charlotte and Danny nodded in unison.

"We promise."

"Okay." Bass released their arms and stuck his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the photographs and flipped to the one that showed him, Miles, Ben, and Rachel all together. He handed it Charlotte. She squinted at it and looked back at him.

"You really know our Mommy and Daddy?"

"Yes, I do and I came here to find them. Do you know where they are?" Charlotte's lower lip began to tremble. It suddenly occurred to Bass how odd it was that Charlotte and Danny would be out here alone. Add the fact he'd found them hiding ten yards from a dead body and he didn't like what he'd come up with.

"Mommy told us to stay here and keep quiet, and we did. There was a lot off loud voices and a bang and when we peeked she was gone. I think it was bad men." Charlotte blinked and squeezed her brother's hand. Bass could tell she was trying hard not to cry. He knew how she felt. It sound like Rachel had been abducted and the dead body had likely been her handiwork. He doubted her kidnappers had anything good in store for her, especially if she's killed one of their own. The only encouraging thing was that they hadn't murdered her on the spot. That meant there was a chance she was still alive. Bass' first instinct was to start tracking her immediately, but he couldn't leave Rachel's kids here alone. He made a split second decision.

"We need to find your Daddy. Do you remember where you're camped?" Charlotte nodded, then bit her lip.

"Mommy told us to stay here." Rachel was in danger. He didn't have time to argue with a seven-year old. Bass struggled to keep his impatience out of his voice.

"Mommy would want you both to be safe. We're going to find your Daddy and then I'll go and you're your Mommy. Okay?" He held out his hand to Charlotte, but she looked unsure. Bass sighed. He squatted down so he was on eye level with the girl.

"Charlotte, listen to me. I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you safe." As he said the words, he knew he meant them. He would die for her if he had to.

"And Danny and Mommy and Daddy?" Bass hesitated. Giving his word to a child wasn't like giving his word to an adult. An adult might understanding extenuating circumstances, but a child would not. The promise had to be kept, no exceptions, no excuses, no matter what.

"I'll do my best." Charlotte gave him a small smile and put her hand in his. It was small, soft and warm.

"Charlie. Everybody calls me Charlie."