Liberty Times Fliers (a Patriot Group), Las Vegas, November 28, 2014: "THE END IS HERE. LEAVE THE CITIES WHILE YOU STILL CAN. JOIN THE RESISTANCE SURVIVORS CAMP. WE CAN WORK TOGETHER TO ENSURE SAFETY AND SURVIVAL."

To believe we were safer in the Crime Lab – a government building filled with police employees and military personnel – should have been a reasonable assumption. It was the wrong assumption, however, and in hindsight we should have known, but after you were taken and Grissom left, Sara and I got a little distracted when we should have been paying closer attention.

There were only a few of us left now in the lab, no more reinforcements arriving, no more new hires or volunteers. Sara and I probably should have left the city when everyone else did, but it was a new world out there, unfamiliar and unforgiving. There were no more laws, no more rules, and while there still should have been some kind of moral compass within each one of us – some kind of instinctive distinction between right and wrong – no one seemed to recollect it. And we were firsthand witnesses of the destruction and utter disregard for human life, the bodies in the morgue and the streets and the front steps of the Crime Lab were evidence of it. They all hadn't died from the virus.

While it might have been suffocating in here, stuck day in and day out in the same damn place, at the same time it was comforting knowing at least I had somewhere to go, something familiar in a world that had drastically changed from the one I once knew. It might have been tempting to leave, to break free of the same four walls and escape into the great, big world, but there was no guarantee of survival out there, no food rations or provisions or protection in the form of military fatigues and M16s.

There was a part of me too, deep down inside the most unreachable part of me, that worried if I left, you wouldn't be able to find me. No phones, no internet, I didn't even have a house anymore and your apartment complex existed in a part of town that was now labeled a dangerous warzone. This Crime Lab was the last link we had left. If you managed to survive and escape quarantine, to make your way back to Las Vegas…it broke my heart to imagine you thinking I was dead or – worse – had given up on you, abandoned you.

I didn't have much to offer you anymore. As I slowly awoke from another restless night's sleep, I glanced at the four walls surrounding me, at the upside down milk crate that held my toothbrush, comb, watch. In the corner was my backpack with a couple changes of clothes. I ran my hand over the sleeping bag, imagining having to share it with you. I'd never liked to cuddle, had often pushed you away when you'd wrapped around me like an octopus in the middle of the night; it always felt like you were smothering me with the insane heat you emanated. I scoffed bitterly, shaking my head. Now, I'd give anything to feel too hot and sticky against your skin in that tiny sleeping bag.

I sighed as I roughly rubbed my jaw, my beard scratching against my palm. I supposed I should probably wash up and see if I could find something to eat, but it was getting harder and harder to get up each morning when there was fast becoming no reasons left to. I didn't work anymore, just mostly wandered aimlessly through the Crime Lab. Sometimes I'd read, sometimes I'd help out the soldiers with daily chores like laundry or preparing meals. Sometimes I'd even go through old evidence, try to piece together unsolved puzzles long forgotten. I'd even solved one cold case, much to Sara's amusement. And even though the victim's family would never know, even though the killer would never be brought to justice (even if he was still alive), the smile on Sara's face when I'd shown her my new findings – the first genuine smile I'd seen her offer in months – was worth it.

I hadn't seen her in a few days, but then again, I hadn't really made an attempt to leave this tiny room and be sociable. Finally, I dragged myself out of my so-called bed, donning a sweater before pulling on my boots. I let out a yawn that shook my frame, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to loosen up my neck and back. Sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor of an old storage room was really wreaking havoc on my back. I placed my hand on the doorknob, slipping my other hand into my jeans' pocket, making sure to feel the familiar fold of a worn photograph before stepping outside.

I locked the door behind me, sniffing harshly against the stink of sweat and dust and stale air. At least the cooler weather meant we could open some windows and air out the place. Slowly, I made my way to the men's room, wondering if there would be any hot water today. Maybe I could even find a razor and –

Two shots resounded like a crack of lightening, startling me out of my reverie. Instinctively, I crouched down against the wall of the hallway and drew my service pistol. My heart hammered in my chest, breathing coming in short, quick bursts – the only sounds I could hear for a few seconds before another series of gunshots rang out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I remained still, glancing back and forth rapidly in an attempt to figure out where it had come from. The halls were empty, deafening silence ringing in my ears. I heard footsteps and turned quickly, sweeping my arms up and gripping my gun tightly as I braced myself and prepared to fire.

Two soldiers came creeping around the corner where the hallways intersected, guns drawn. I raised my hands but didn't drop my gun, instead shook my head and gave the tactical signal for shots heard. They shared a glance between each other before one nodded at me and indicated for me to continue forward, and then both of them continued down the hallway in the other direction.

I let out a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, mentally preparing myself as I continued to make my way down the hall with anticipation, unsure of what to expect as I came up on a corner. Whatever I could have imagined, it would have never been this.

She was crouched up against the wall in the hallway opposite a storage closet, her knees pulled up to her chest, hands hidden in her lap. She was covered in blood. On her face, her shirt, jacket. It was in her hair, on her mouth, then her tongue as she absently licked away stray droplets from her lips. I ran to her, sliding into a kneeling position in front of her as I holstered my gun.

"Sara," I breathed, my voice strained. One of her eyes was swollen, her cheek red and puffy; someone had slapped her – hard. Years of investigating drew my eyes right to the smaller details. Her shirt was buttoned incorrectly, two of them missing, tiny threads hanging where little clear buttons should have been. Her jeans were torn at the knee, a red scrape against pale skin peeking through the fabric. She didn't meet my eye, her expression blank, gaze fixed over my shoulder. "Sara, what happened?"

"Nothing happened," she murmured. Quickly, I looked around, but no one was within sight, and I couldn't see any immediate signs of a struggle in the hallway; nothing disturbed, no blood on the walls or floor.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, refocusing on her as I tentatively placed one hand on her uninjured knee, the other on her shoulder.

"No."

"Sara, you're covered in blood," I informed her quietly.

"I am?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly, but she still didn't meet my eye. She raised her hands, revealing her Glock 17, held it casually as she wiped the blood from her face and neck.

"Sara," I tried again, gently easing the gun out of her hand. I placed it in the waistband of my jeans at my lower back, covering it with my shirt. I cast another glance down the hall, but we were still alone. "Sara, did you shoot someone?"

She didn't answer me, but her stare shifted slightly. I followed her gaze, turning to see the storage closet behind me. There was blood on the doorknob. I kept one eye on her and the other on the door as I stood slowly. Hesitantly, I placed my hand on the knob, gripping it tightly as I withdrew my gun from its holster once more. One deep breath and I opened the door quickly, raising my weapon while simultaneously bursting into the room.

I slipped immediately, my boots squeaking as I slid on the cheap linoleum, my hand instinctively reaching out to gain some type of purchase and stay upright. Red. There was red on the floor, red that I was slipping in. Blood. God, everywhere. On the walls and the shelves and the supplies. The entire room was in disarray, supplies knocked over on shelves and onto the floor, glass shattered and the overhead light had been smashed.

The most glaring concern were the bodies of two male soldiers on the floor. I looked back at Sara with wide eyes, my heart beating between my ears, my stomach between my knees. My mouth was open but I couldn't find my voice. Finally, Sara raised her eyes to meet my gaze, and I knew.

I knew.

"Sara," I gasped, pulling the door closed. For a moment I just stood there, watching her watch me, my head spinning so fast I actually felt dizzy, nauseous, sick. I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. This wasn't…this wasn't….this wasn't supposed to happen. Sure, there had been theft and vandalism, and someone had broken into the food rations once or twice, but there had never been…this. There wasn't supposed to be this. Things like this weren't supposed to happen in here. This was a safe place, the only sanctuary we had left. Out there was where…was where…

"Nick." Whispered so quietly, I could've almost believed it was your voice. I blinked, snapping out of my reverie and springing into action. Quickly, I holstered my gun and reached down, pulling Sara to her feet. I removed her jacket and handed her mine. She pulled it on slowly, moving stiffly, and I felt my chest tightening. I wiped the blood from her face with her jacket, smearing it more than effectively removing it. She winced as I hastily rubbed at her skin but I didn't have time to be gentle. I tossed her jacket to the floor and grabbed her arm roughly, tightly. She made no attempt to pull away.

"Come on," I ordered. I maneuvered past soldiers and employees and volunteers, beyond the lost and the hopeless and the helpless, keeping Sara close by my side as we made our way to the parking garage. I kept my eyes peeled for immediate danger, but I could see it everywhere now that I was looking for it. It was right there, right in their eyes, on their faces – the hunger, the desperation, the potential. I wondered if they could see it on mine.

Once I had Sara buckled into the SUV, I came around to the driver's side and climbed inside. I slipped the key into the ignition, my fingers ready to turn the engine over, but for a moment I just sat there breathing hard, willing my heart to stop pounding.

I could see Sara out of the corner of my eye draped over the seat listlessly like a wet rag. It hurt too much to look at her. How I could've been so stupid, so naïve to ever let her out of my sight, especially after what had happened to you, was beyond me. But it was a mistake I wasn't going to make again.

I took a shaky breath, starting the truck and backing out of the parking space.

"Where are we going?" Sara asked, as I shifted into drive.

"Does it matter?"

She shook her head. "No."

And Sara and I left the Crime Lab for the last time.

You were born in a small, affluent town in Minnesota, and I wasn't entirely sure of the circumstances, but your grandfather had decided to leave due to of some kind of falling out with one of his brothers. So he left his entire family with your grandmother and relocated to the west coast. Your mother and father stayed behind, but only for a short while. Jan – your dad – couldn't stand to see his wife Annie so heartbroken without her beloved father, so he quit his job and scooped you both up, and that was how your family ended up in San Gabriel, California.

The house you grew up in – the same one your mother, father, and grandparents still resided in –was built by your Papa Olaf when you were just an infant. He drew up the plans with an architect and built your mother her dream home, which included a small detached apartment for him and Nana. It also included several bedrooms for the three siblings you were supposed to have, but the house would never be filled with the smiling faces of your brothers and sisters after your mother lost her ability to bear children following your birth.

It stood before Sara and me, appearing as empty as the rest of the houses in this neighborhood, in this town, this world. Windows had been boarded up with plywood from the inside, broken glass and debris littering the front porch and yard. Your childhood home, quietly decaying behind overgrown landscaping that hadn't been tended to in what looked like months, the once bright blue façade dull and faded on this dreary November day.

We both tensed as quick movement caught our eye, our hands hovering over our service pistols, but it was only a couple of deer sprinting across the street. More and more wild animals had been leaving the forests and heading into the abandoned towns and cities, and it was no longer out of the ordinary to spot them in the open.

"We shouldn't stay out in the street," Sara stated, her eyes nervously scanning the surrounding area. She wrapped my jacket tighter around herself, shifting from foot to foot in the chilly evening air.

"Yeah," I agreed, even though I wasn't entirely sure I was prepared to face whatever was inside. But you and I had planned to check on your family before you were taken away from me, and I wasn't going to go back on my promise just because you were gone, even if I was a few months late.

I cleared my throat, then swallowed hard as I approached the front door. The knob was broken, the frame splintered with newer wood nailed over it as if it had been repaired after someone had kicked it in. I tried turning the knob anyway, but it was bent and dented in and wouldn't budge. I didn't want to break it down and destroy what was left of your childhood home, and I wasn't sure how it had been secured from the inside. If it was boarded up or nailed shut, I could hurt myself trying to get in.

"Come on," I said, indicating for Sara to follow me. I led her to a window on the side of the house, wiping away dirt and grime from the glass with my shirtsleeve and peering inside. I saw the familiar full-sized bed, posters of punk bands and near pornographic photographs of Madonna and Sharon Stone taped to the walls, assuring me I was in the right place. I reached within the bushes beneath the window, rustling around rocks and dirt and dead leaves.

"What are you doing?" Sara asked, her brow furrowed. Her gaze kept shifting between me and our surroundings, continuing to keep a watchful eye over us.

"Greg used to sneak out of the house at night when he was a teenager," I told her. "He rigged the latch on the window to slide shut as soon as it closed, but he also rigged it to slide open. I just…need…to find…aha!"

I pulled the rusty old metal ruler out from the brush, slipping it between the window and the frame, grunting as I twisted and pushed to find the right angle to slide the latch open.

"He showed me how he did it," I continued. "Came in handy when we snuck out with his dad to get drunk on Christmas Eve three years ago."

Sara frowned, her expression displaying her puzzlement. "Three years ago? Why would three grown men have to sneak out of a house?"

"That was the year Greg's mom found Jesus and no one was allowed to drink anymore, including Jan, Greg's dad," I informed her. She pulled her gaze away from scanning our surroundings to cock an eyebrow at me. I grinned crookedly, shrugging. "It only lasted until she missed the buzz wine gave her when she took it with her Xanax."

Sara rolled her eyes. "I see."

"Got it!" I exclaimed triumphantly as I finally felt the latch unlock. I pushed up on the frame, the wood protesting noisily from disuse as I slid the window open. Tentatively, I peeked my head inside. The room was empty, and I listened for a few moments but could only hear silence beyond the open bedroom door. I glanced back at Sara. "Do you want to wait out here while I check the place out?"

She offered me a withering stare.

"I can handle it," she stated, pushing past me and hoisting herself up into the house. I sighed, recalling the many times we'd gone in together to clear a scene, how I'd always trusted her to have my back and never worried that she couldn't take care of herself. I trusted her still, but now, after what had happened at the Crime Lab, my stomach twisted at the thought of leaving her alone.

I followed her inside, leaving the window open in case we had to make a quick escape. Sara was at your old wooden desk examining a photograph in a battered frame. Her hard expression softened at the sight of you with your best friend in high school, a boy named David that you had loved deeper than a brother. Your gangly arm was slung over his shoulder, your body flush to his side, head leaning on his shoulder. Mischievous eyes peeked over a pair of wayfarers, a bright smile with just a hint of self-deprecation aimed right at the camera, and even at the age of fifteen you managed to make that messy, straight-out-of-bed look that took painstaking time to achieve seem so effortless.

She put the photograph down, delicate fingertips tracing over words and patterns and memories that had been etched into the desk long ago by once anxious hands. I wondered if she was imagining you as you appeared in that picture, sitting at this desk and pausing in your schoolwork to carve fleeting thoughts into wood.

I peered over her shoulder as her touch trailed down a line of initials. GS + DV AS JD RM CB AT + NS. All crossed out except for the first and last pair. She smiled knowingly as she found the last pair of initials, her gaze meeting mine. My chest tightened, ached, and I had to blink away the sudden stinging in my eyes.

Her gaze shifted to behind me, her eyes widening in fear. I startled at the sound of a rifle cocking, my entire body tensing.

"Do not move," a gruff and booming voice commanded over the pounding of my heart. "I am an excellent shot and will not hesitate to prove it."

I felt a smile tugging at my lips. Sara blinked with surprise at my reaction, her eyes bouncing between myself and the man behind me, confusion marring her expression.

"I'm sure you would be…" I retorted. "If you weren't as blind as a bat."

There was a pause. "Nick?"

"Olaf," I breathed with relief, turning to face the old man. His bright blue eyes sparkled even through his severe cataracts, his smile warm and inviting. He reached for me with his free hand, the other still holding his rifle at his side, and I slipped my fingers into his palm without hesitation. He pulled me bodily into a fierce hug, his grip much stronger than one would think to look at him, and I relished in the familiar and comforting embrace. "We didn't mean to scare you."

He pulled back suddenly, looking over my shoulder in Sara's general direction, unseeing eyes searching hopefully. "Hojem?"

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but I couldn't seem to find my voice. Couldn't seem to find the words, to break his heart, to tell him I'd so carelessly lost his only grandson. I only managed to shake my head, clenching my jaw, trapping the words in my mouth.

"No," I finally choked out, before clearing my throat and regaining my composure. I watched as Olaf's face fell, his shoulders slumping, and he sighed deeply as his bright eyes glittered with tears. "No, he's not…Greg's not here."

"Is he…?" Olaf asked, his voice breaking and he was unable continue.

"No," I quickly responded. "He was taken."

"Quarantine." The old man spat out the word as if it was the vilest cussword, making his feelings on the controversial practice obvious. Quickly, he recovered, turning towards what must've been Sara's shadowy form in his cloudy vision. "Tell me, who did you bring me the pleasure of meeting?"

"You remember hearing about Sara, Papa Olaf, Greg's – "

"Miss Sidle," Olaf said, hastily pushing me aside in his excitement. He smiled broadly, reaching for her and she swiftly moved forward to meet him. She gasped with surprise as he pulled her into a tight hug, the large man nearly enveloping her entire body in his embrace.

"It's…nice to meet you," she stammered uncertainly, as she awkwardly brought her arms around the old man.

"Let me get a good look at you," he insisted, placing his hands on her shoulders as he took a step back to study her. He brought one hand to the top of her head, trailing his hand down her hair to the side of her face, cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb gently across her skin. "My grandson, you are all he talks about when he isn't talking about Nick. You are just as beautiful as he described."

"I thought you couldn't see me," she blurted.

"My dear," he admonished softly, pulling her into another embrace. "One does not need to see to appreciate beauty. And you are the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time."

Her lips formed a tight line, her chin quavering as she struggled to maintain her composure. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, clutching his sweater tightly in her fists. Finally, she managed a smile, nodding into his neck, and I wondered if his words helped to soothe something deep inside of her, something those soldiers had tried to take from her.

"I see where Greg gets his charm," she murmured, sniffling and wiping her nose on her – my – jacket sleeve.

"You can also safely assume it is the same place he got his good looks," Olaf commented, mischief in his eyes. He turned towards the door, indicating for us to follow. "Come, come. I'm sure you're both hungry. Let's get you something to eat, I have some leftover chili. You can clean up while I heat it up."

"Is it vegetarian?" Sara asked, and I gaped at her rudeness. She shrugged at me, appearing sheepish. "What? Just asking."

Olaf's laugh was loud and hearty, the best sound I'd heard in a long time. "You would never make it in Norway, my dear."

Olaf graciously allowed us to shower, and thanks to natural gas, he still had hot water. I hadn't taken a hot shower in God knew how long, and maybe I spent longer in there than I should have, but the hot water running down my back, soothing my aching muscles, clearing my spinning head, felt so damn good I couldn't help but steal a few extra minutes.

Sara must have had the same notion. Twenty minutes later, damp hair resting in natural curls on her head, she joined me at the kitchen table eating a three-bean chili that was as delicious as it was animal free. Luckily for her, there was quite a shortage of packaged meat considering grocery stores and butchers no longer existed. The only steady food supplies now were located inside of military safe zones, and obviously to live in one of those was not an option anymore.

We were both wearing clothes borrowed from Greg's parents' closets. Olaf was washing mine in the sink, but Sara had carried hers downstairs after her shower and stuffed them right into the kitchen trash. Including my jacket, but I wasn't sure I would be able to wear it again without my skin crawling. Olaf didn't comment, only eyed the trash briefly before continuing about his business.

It was quiet in the house. Unnervingly quiet, but none of us were offering up much in terms of conversation. Olaf didn't ask about Greg. I didn't ask about Nana or Jan or Annie. I guess in the end it didn't really matter where they were, just that they weren't here.

"Do you have plans?" Olaf asked suddenly, wringing my shirt out of the soapy water. He hung it up on a makeshift clothesline hanging across the doorway to the dining room, then wiped his hands on his jeans before looking at us expectantly.

The question took me by surprise. I hadn't thought further than making it here. I shrugged, struggling to answer. I swallowed hard. "No. No, we don't have any plans."

"Then you will stay here," Olaf stated, smiling reassuringly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at his eyes. "Stay a while, okay? At least until Greg gets here."

I swallowed hard, my eyes burning at how casually he said those words, as if it were as good as fact. Grass was green and the sky was blue and you would arrive as soon as you could. I regarded Sara, who was frowning into her chili as she stirred it with her spoon. The metal of her spoon began clattering against the ceramic bowl, her trembling fingers quickly releasing it.

I reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing her slender fingers comfortingly. She looked up at me from beneath dark eyelashes, still frowning, and I could see the distress in her eyes, the sadness, the shame – shame I felt too, knowing Papa Olaf believed his grandson could return while the idea that you were gone forever had crept slowly into my heart and somehow secretly cemented itself into my soul over these past few months.

Finally, I nodded, my voice thick as I spoke. "Yeah, of course we'll stay. We wouldn't want to miss Greg."

"Good, good," Olaf agreed, smiling with obvious relief. "He would hate to be left behind."

I wondered how you would feel knowing you already had been.

To be continued...